{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_11549/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_11549","id":"gutenberg_11549","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11549","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Biographies","Category: History - American","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Novelists, American -- 19th century -- Biography","Prentiss, E. (Elizabeth), 1818-1878","Protestantism and literature","Women and literature -- United States -- History -- 19th century"],"text":"[Transcriber's Note: Footnotes have been numbered and relocated to the\nend of the chapter in which they occur. They are marked by [1], [2],\netc.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE LIFE AND LETTERS\n\nOF\n\nELIZABETH PRENTISS\n\nAUTHOR OF _STEPPING HEAVENWARD_\n\nBY GEORGE L. PRENTISS\n\n\n\n\nThis memoir was undertaken at the request of many of Mrs. Prentiss' old\nand most trusted friends, who felt that the story of her life should be\ngiven to the public. Much of it is in the nature of an autobiography.\nHer letters, which with extracts from her journals form the larger\nportion of its contents, begin when she was in her twentieth year, and\ncontinue almost to her last hour. They are full of details respecting\nherself, her home, her friends, and the books she wrote. A simple\nnarrative, interspersed with personal reminiscences, and varied by a\nsketch of her father, and passing notices of others, who exerted a\nmoulding influence upon her character, completes the story. A picture is\nthus presented of the life she lived and its changing scenes, both on\nthe natural and the spiritual side. While the work may fail to interest\nsome readers, the hope is cherished that, like STEPPING HEAVENWARD,\nit will be welcomed into Christian homes and prove a blessing to many\nhearts; thus realising the desire expressed in one of her last letters:\n_Much of my experience of life has cost me a great price and I wish to\nuse it for strengthening and comforting other souls._\n\nG. L. P.\n\nKAUINFELS, September 11, 1882.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nTHE CHILD AND THE GIRL.\n\n1818-1839.\n\nI.\n\nBirth-place and Ancestry. The Payson Family. Seth Payson. Edward Payson.\nHis Mother. A Sketch of his Life and Character. The Fervor of his Piety.\nDespondent Moods, and their Causes. His bright, natural Traits. How he\nprayed and preached. Conversational Gift. Love to Christ. Triumphant\nDeath.\n\nII.\n\nBirth and Childhood of Elizabeth Payson. Early Traits. Devotion to her\nFather. His Influence upon her. Letters to her Sister. Removal to New\nYork. Reminiscences of the Payson Family.\n\nIII.\n\nRecollections of Elizabeth's Girlhood by an early Friend and Schoolmate.\nHer own Picture of herself before her Father's Death. Favorite Resorts.\nWhy God permits so much Suffering. Literary Tastes. Letters. \"What are\nLittle Babies For?\" Opens a School. Religious Interest.\n\nIV.\n\nThe dominant Type of Religious Life and Thought in New England in the\nFirst Half of this Century. Literary Influences. Letter of Cyrus Hamlin.\nA strange Coincidence.\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nTHE NEW LIFE IN CHRIST.\n\n1840-1841.\n\nI.\n\nA memorable Experience. Letters to her Cousin. Goes to Richmond as a\nTeacher. Mr. Persico's School. Letters.\n\nII.\n\nHer Character as a Teacher. Letters. Incidents of School Life. Religious\nStruggles, Aims, and Hope. Oppressive Heat and Weariness.\n\nIII.\n\nExtracts from her Richmond Journal.\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nPASSING FROM GIRLHOOD INTO WOMANHOOD.\n\n1841-1845.\n\nI.\n\nAt Home Again. Marriage of her Sister. Ill-health. Letters. Spiritual\nAspiration and Conflict. Perfectionism. \"Very, Very Happy.\" Work for\nChrist what makes Life attractive. Passages from her Journal. A Point of\nDifficulty.\n\nII.\n\nReturns to Richmond. Trials There. Letters. Illness. School Experiences.\n\"To the Year 1843.\" Glimpses of her daily Life. Why her Scholars\nlove her So. Homesick. A Black Wedding. What a Wife should be. \"A\nPresentiment.\" Notes from her Diary.\n\nIII.\n\nHer Views of Love and Courtship. Visit of her Sister and Child. Letters.\nSickness and Death of Friends. Ill-health. Undergoes a surgical\nOperation. Her Fortitude. Study of German. Fenelon.\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nTHE YOUNG WIFE AND MOTHER.\n\n1845-1850.\n\nI.\n\nMarriage and Settlement in New Bedford. Reminiscences. Letters. Birth of\nher First Child. Death of her Mother-in-Law. Letters.\n\nII.\n\nBirth of a Son. Death of her Mother. Her Grief. Letters. Eddy's Illness\nand her own Cares. A Family Gathering at Newburyport. Extracts from\nEddy's Journal.\n\nIII.\n\nFurther Extracts from Eddy's Journal. Ill-Health. Visit to Newark. Death\nof her Brother-in-Law, S. S. Prentiss. His Character. Removal to Newark.\nLetters.\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nIN THE SCHOOL OF SUFFERING.\n\n1851-1858.\n\nI.\n\nRemoval to New York, and first Summer there. Letters. Loss of Sleep and\nAnxiety about Eddy. Extracts from Eddy's Journal, Describing his last\nIllness and Death. Lines entitled, \"To My Dying Eddy.\".\n\nII.\n\nBirth of her Third Child. Reminiscences of a Sabbath Evening Talk. Story\nof the Baby's Sudden Illness and Death. Summer of 1852. Lines entitled,\n\"My Nursery.\"\n\nIII.\n\nSummer at White Lake. Sudden Death of her Cousin, Miss Shipman.\nQuarantined. _Little Susy's Six Birthdays_. How she wrote it. _The\nFlower of the Family_. Her Motive in Writing it. Letter of Sympathy to a\nbereaved Mother. A Summer at the Seaside. _Henry and Bessie._\n\n\nIV.\n\nA memorable Year. Lines on the Anniversary of Eddy's Death. Extracts\nfrom her Journal. _Little Susy's Six Teachers_. The Teachers' Meeting.\nA New York Waif. Summer in the Country. Letters. _Little Susy's Little\nServants_. Extracts from her Journal. \"Alone with God.\"\n\nV.\n\nReady for new Trials. Dangerous Illness. Extracts from her Journal.\nVisit to Greenwood. Sabbath Meditations. Birth of another Son. Her\nHusband resigns his Pastoral Charge. Voyage to Europe.\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nIN RETREAT AMONG THE ALPS.\n\n1858-1860.\n\nI.\n\nLife Abroad. Letters about the Voyage, and the Journey from Havre to\nSwitzerland. Chateau d'Oex. Letters from there. The Ch\u00e2let Rosat. The\nFree Church of the Canton de Vaud. Pastor Panch\u00e0ud.\n\nII.\n\nMontreux. The Swiss Autumn. Castle of Chillon. Death and Sorrow of\nFriends at Home. Twilight Talks. Spring Flowers.\n\nIII.\n\nThe Campagne Genevrier. Vevay. Beauty of the Region. Birth of a Son.\nVisit from Professor Smith. Excursion to Chamouni. Whooping-cough and\nScarlet-fever among the Children. Doctor Curchod. Letters.\n\nIV.\n\nParis. Sight-seeing. A sick Friend. London and its Environs. The Queen\nand Prince Albert. The Isle of Wight. Homeward.\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nTHE STRUGGLE WITH ILL-HEALTH.\n\n1861-1865.\n\nI.\n\nAt Home again in New York. The Church of the Covenant. Increasing\nIll-health. The Summer of 1861. Death of Louisa Payson Hopkins. Extracts\nfrom her Journal. Summer of 1862. Letters. Despondency.\n\nII.\n\nAnother care-worn Summer. Letters from Williamstown and Rockaway. Hymn\non Laying the Corner-stone of the Church of the Covenant.\n\nIII.\n\nHappiness in her Children. The Summer of 1864. Letters from Hunter.\nAffliction among Friends.\n\nIV.\n\nDeath of President Lincoln. Dedication of the Church of the Covenant.\nGrowing Insomnia. Resolves to try the Water-cure. Its beneficial\nEffects. Summer at Newburgh. Reminiscences of an Excursion to Palz\nPoint. Death of her Husband's Mother. Funeral of her Nephew, Edward\nPayson Hopkins.\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nTHE PASTOR'S WIFE AND DAUGHTER OF CONSOLATION.\n\n1866-1868.\n\nI.\n\nHappiness as a Pastor's Wife. Visits to Newport and Williamstown.\nLetters. The Great Portland Fire. First Summer at Dorset. The new\nParsonage occupied. Second Summer at Dorset. _Little Lou's Sayings and\nDoings_. Project of a Cottage. Letters. _The Little Preacher_. Illness\nand Death of Mrs. Edward Payson and of Little Francis.\n\nII.\n\nLast Visit from Mrs. Stearns. Visits to old Friends at Newport and\nRochester. Letters. Goes to Dorset. _Fred and Maria and Me_. Letters.\n\nIII.\n\nReturn to Town. Death of an old Friend. Letters and Notes of Love and\nSympathy. An Old Ladies' Party. Scenes of Trouble and Dying Beds. Fifty\nYears Old. Letters.\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\nSTEPPING HEAVENWARD.\n\n1869.\n\nI.\n\nDeath of Mrs. Stearns. Her Character. Dangerous Illness of Prof. Smith.\nDeath at the Parsonage. Letters. A Visit to Vassar College. Letters.\nGetting ready for the General Assembly. \"Gates Ajar\".\n\nII.\n\nHow she earned her Sleep. Writing for young Converts about speaking the\nTruth. Meeting of the General Assembly in the Church of the Covenant.\nReunion, D.D.'s, and Strawberry Short-cake. \"Enacting the Tiger.\"\nGetting Ready for Dorset. Letters.\n\nIII.\n\nThe new Home in Dorset. What it became to her. Letters from there.\n\nIV.\n\nReturn to Town. Domestic Changes. Letters. \"My Heart sides with God in\neverything.\" Visiting among the Poor. \"Conflict isn't Sin.\" Publication\nof _Stepping Heavenward_. Her Misgivings about it. How it was received.\nReminiscences by Miss E. A. Warner. Letters. The Rev. Wheelock Craig.\n\nV.\n\nRecollections by Mrs. Henry B. Smith\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\nON THE MOUNT.\n\n1870.\n\nI.\n\nA happy Year. Madame Guyon. What sweetens the Cup of earthly Trials and\nthe Cup of earthly Joy. Death of Mrs. Julia B. Cady. Her Usefulness.\nSickness and Death of other Friends. \"My Cup runneth over.\" Letters.\n\"More Love to Thee, O Christ\".\n\nII.\n\nHer Silver Wedding. \"_I have lived, I have loved_.\" No Joy can put her\nout of Sympathy with the Trials of Friends. A Glance backward. Last\nInterview with a dying Friend. More Love and more Likeness to Christ.\nFuneral of a little Baby. Letters to Christian Friends.\n\nIII.\n\nLines on going to Dorset. A Cloud over her. Faber's Life. Loving Friends\nfor one's own sake and loving them for Christ's sake. The Bible and the\nChristian Life. Dorset Society and Occupations. Counsels to a young\nFriend in Trouble. \"Don't stop praying for your Life!\" Cure for the\nHeart-sickness caused by the Sight of human Imperfections. Fenelon's\nTeaching about Humiliation and being patient with Ourselves.\n\nIV.\n\n_The Story Lizzie Told_. Country and City. The Law of Christian\nProgress. Letters to a Friend bereft of three Children. Sudden Death of\nanother Friend. \"Go on; step faster.\" Fenelon and his Influence upon her\nreligious Life. Lines on her Indebtedness to him.\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\nIN HER HOME.\n\nI.\n\nHome-life in New York.\n\nII.\n\nHome-life in Dorset.\n\nIII.\n\nFurther Glimpses of her Dorset Life.\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\nTHE TRIAL OF FAITH.\n\n1871-1872.\n\nI.\n\nTwo Years of Suffering. Its Nature and Causes. Spiritual Conflicts.\nIll-health. Faith a Gift to be won by Prayer. Death-bed of Dr. Skinner.\nVisit to Philadelphia. \"Daily Food.\" How to read the Bible so as to love\nit more. Letters of Sympathy and Counsel. \"Prayer for Holiness brings\nSuffering.\" Perils of human Friendship.\n\nII.\n\nHer Husband called to Chicago. Lines on going to Dorset. Letters to\nyoung Friends on the Christian Life. Narrow Escape from Death. Feeling\non returning to Town. Her \"Praying Circle.\" The Chicago Fire. The true\nArt of Living. God our only safe Teacher. An easily-besetting Sin.\nCounsels to young Friends. Letters.\n\nIII.\n\n\"Holiness and Usefulness go hand-in-hand.\" No two Souls dealt with\nexactly alike. Visits to a stricken Home. Another Side of her Life.\nVisit to a Hospital. Christian Friendship. Letters to a bereaved Mother.\nSubmission not inconsistent with Suffering. Thoughts at the Funeral of\na little \"Wee Davie.\" Assurance of Faith. Funeral of Prof. Hopkins. His\nCharacter.\n\nIV.\n\nChristian Parents to expect Piety in their Children. Perfection. \"People\nmake too much Parade of their Troubles.\" \"Higher Life\" Doctrines. Letter\nto Mrs. Washburn. Last Visit to Williamstown.\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\nPEACEABLE FRUIT.\n\n1873-1874.\n\nI.\n\nEffect of spiritual Conflict upon her religious Life. Overflowing\nAffections. Her Husband called to Union Theological Seminary. Baptism of\nSuffering. The Character of her Friendships. No perfect Life. Prayer.\n\"Only God can satisfy a Woman.\" Why human Friendship is a Snare.\nLetters.\n\nII.\n\nGoes to Dorset. Christian Example. At Work among her Flowers. Dangerous\nIllness. Her Feeling about Dying. Death an \"Invitation\" from Christ.\n\"The Under-current bears _Home_.\" \"More Love, more Love!\" A Trait of\nCharacter. Special Mercies. What makes a sweet Home. Letters.\n\nIII.\n\nChange of Home and Life in New York. A Book about Robbie. Her Sympathy\nwith young People. \"I have in me two different Natures.\" What Dr. De\nWitt said at the Grave of his Wife. The Way to meet little Trials.\nFaults in Prayer-meetings. How special Theories of the Christian Life\nare formed. Sudden Illness of Prof. Smith. Publication of _Golden\nHours_. How it was received.\n\nIV.\n\nIncidents of the Year 1874. Starts a Bible-reading in Dorset. Begins\nto take Lessons in Painting. A Letter from her Teacher. Publication of\n_Urbane and His Friends_. Design of the Work. Her Views of the Christian\nLife. The Mystics. The Indwelling Christ. An Allegory.\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\nWORK AND PLAY.\n\n1875-1877.\n\nI.\n\nA Bible-reading in New York. Her Painting. \"Grace for Grace.\" Death of\na young Friend. The Summer at Dorset. Bible-readings there. Encompassed\nwith Kindred. Typhoid Fever in the House. Watching and Waiting. The\nReturn to Town. A Day of Family Rejoicing. Life a \"Battle-field.\"\n\nII.\n\nThe Moody and Sankey Meetings. Her Interest in them. Mr. Moody.\nPublication of _Griselda_. Goes to the Centennial. At Dorset again. Her\nBible-readings. A Moody-meeting Convert. Visit to Montreal. Publication\nof _The Home at Greylock_. Her Theory of a happy Home. Marrying for\nLove. Her Sympathy with young Mothers. Letters.\n\nIII.\n\nThe Year 1877. Death of her Cousin, the Rev. Charles H. Payson. Last\nIllness and Death of Prof. Smith. \"Let us take our Lot in Life just as\nit comes.\" Adorning one's Home. How much Time shall be given to it?\nGod's Delight in His beautiful Creations. Death of Dr. Buck. Visiting\nthe sick and bereaved. An Ill-turn. Goes to Dorset. The Strangeness of\nLife. Kauinfels. The Bible-reading. Letters.\n\nIV.\n\nReturn to Town. Recollections of this Period. \"Ordinary\" Christians and\nSpiritual Conflict. A tired Sunday Evening. \"We may make an Idol of our\nJoy.\" Publication of _Pemaquid_. Kezia Millet.\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\nFOREVER WITH THE LORD.\n\n1878.\n\nI.\n\nEnters upon her last Year on Earth. A Letter about The Home at Greylock.\nHer Motive in writing Books. Visit to the Aquarium. About \"Worry.\" Her\nPainting. Saturday Afternoons with her. What she was to her Friends.\nResemblance to Madame de Broglie. Recollections of a Visit to East\nRiver. A Picture of her by an old Friend. Goes to Dorset. Second Advent\nDoctrine. Last Letters.\n\nII.\n\nLittle Incidents and Details of her last Days on Earth. Last Visit to\nthe Woods. Sudden Illness. Last Bible-reading. Last Drive to Hager\nBrook. Reminiscence of a last Interview. Closing Scenes. Death. The\nBurial.\n\n\nAPPENDIX\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nTHE CHILD AND THE GIRL.\n\n1818-1839.\n\nI. Birth-place and Ancestry. Seth Payson. Edward Payson. His Mother. A\nSketch of his Life and Character. The Fervor of his Piety. Despondent\nMoods and their Cause. Bright, natural Traits. How he prayed and\npreached. Conversational Gift. Love to Christ. Triumphant Death.\n\n\nMrs. Prentiss was fortunate in the place of her birth. She first saw the\nlight at Portland, Maine. Maine was then a district of Massachusetts,\nand Portland was its chief town and seaport, distinguished for beauty of\nsituation, enterprise, intelligence, social refinement and all the best\nqualities of New England character. Not a few of the early settlers had\ncome from Cape Cod and other parts of the old Bay State, and the blood\nof the Pilgrim Fathers ran in their veins. Among its leading citizens at\nthat time were such men as Stephen Longfellow, Simon Greenleaf, Prentiss\nMellen, Samuel Fessenden, Ichabod Nichols, Edward Payson, and Asa\nCummings; men eminent for private and public virtue, and some of whom\nwere destined to become still more widely known, by their own growing\ninfluence, or by the genius of their children.\n\nBut while favored in the place of her birth, Mrs. Prentiss was more\nhighly favored still in her parentage. For more than half a century the\nname of her father has been a household word among the churches not of\nNew England only, but throughout the land and even beyond the sea. It is\namong the most beloved and honored in the annals of American piety. [1]\nHe belonged to a very old Puritan stock, and to a family noted during\ntwo centuries for the number of ministers of the Gospel who have sprung\nfrom it. The first in the line of his ancestry in this country was\nEdward, who came over in the brig Hopewell, William Burdeck, Master, in\n1635-6, and settled in the town of Roxbury. He was a native of Nasing,\nEssex Co., England. Among his fellow-passengers in the Hopewell was Mary\nEliot, then a young girl, sister of John Eliot, the illustrious \"Apostle\nto the Indians.\" Some years later she became his wife. Their youngest\nson, Samuel, was father of the Rev. Phillips Payson, who was born at\nDorchester, Massachusetts, 1705, and settled at Walpole, in the same\nState, in 1730. He had four sons in the ministry, all, like himself,\ngraduates of Harvard College. The youngest of these, the Rev. Seth\nPayson, D.D., Mrs. Prentiss' grandfather, was born September 30, 1758,\nwas ordained and settled at Rindge, New Hampshire, December 4, 1782, and\ndied there, after a pastorate of thirty-seven years, February 26, 1820.\nHis wife was Grata Payson, of Pomfret, Conn. He was a man widely known\nin his day and of much weight in the community, not only in his own\nprofession but in civil life, also, having several times filled the\noffice of State senator. When in 1819 a plan was formed to remove\nWilliams College to a more central location, and several towns competed\nfor the honor, Dr. Payson was associated with Chancellor Kent of New\nYork, and Governor John Cotton Smith of Connecticut, as a committee to\ndecide upon the rival claims. He is described as possessing a sharp,\nvigorous intellect, a lively imagination, a very retentive memory, and\nwas universally esteemed as an able and faithful minister of Christ. [2]\n\nEdward, the eldest son of Seth and Grata Payson, was born at Rindge,\nJuly 25, 1783. His mother was noted for her piety, her womanly\ndiscretion, and her personal and mental graces. Edward was her\nfirst-born, and from his infancy to the last year of his life she\nlavished upon him her love and her prayers. The relation between them\nwas very beautiful. His letters to her are models of filial devotion,\nand her letters to him are full of tenderness, good sense, and pious\nwisdom. He inherited some of her most striking traits, and through him\nthey passed on to his youngest daughter, who often said that she owed\nher passion for the use of the pen and her fondness for rhyming to her\ngrandmother Grata. [3]\n\nEdward Payson was in all respects a highly-gifted man. His genius was as\nmarked as his piety. There is a charm about his name and the story of\nhis life, that is not likely soon to pass away. He belonged to a class\nof men who seem to be chosen of Heaven to illustrate the sublime\npossibilities of Christian attainment--men of seraphic fervor of\ndevotion, and whose one overmastering passion is to win souls for Christ\nand to become wholly like Him themselves. Into this goodly fellowship\nhe was early initiated. There is something startling in the depth and\nintensity of his religious emotions, as recorded in his journal and\nletters. Nor is it to be denied that they are often marred by a very\nmorbid element. Like David Brainerd, the missionary saint of New\nEngland, to whom in certain features of his character he bore no little\nresemblance, Edward Payson was of a melancholy temperament and subject,\ntherefore, to sudden and sharp alternations of feeling. While he had\ngreat capacity for enjoyment, his capacity for suffering was equally\ngreat. Nor were these native traits suppressed, or always overruled, by\nhis religious faith; on the contrary, they affected and modified his\nwhole Christian life. In its earlier stages, he was apt to lay too much\nstress by far upon fugitive \"frames,\" and to mistake mere weariness,\ntorpor, and even diseased action of body or mind, for coldness toward\nhis Saviour. And almost to the end of his days he was, occasionally,\nvisited by seasons of spiritual gloom and depression, which, no doubt,\nwere chiefly, if not solely, the result of physical causes. It was\nan error that grew readily out of the brooding introspection and\nself-anatomy which marked the religious habit of the times. The close\nconnection between physical causes and morbid or abnormal conditions of\nthe spiritual life, was not as well understood then as it is now.\nMany things were ascribed to Satanic influence which should have been\nascribed rather to unstrung nerves and loss of sleep, or to a violation\nof the laws of health. [4] The disturbing influence of nervous and other\nbodily or mental disorders upon religious experience deserves a fuller\ndiscussion than it has yet received. It is a subject which both modern\nscience and modern thought, if guided by Christian wisdom, might help\ngreatly to elucidate.\n\nThe morbid and melancholy element, however, was only a painful incident\nof his character. It tinged his life with a vein of deep sadness and led\nto undue severity of self-discipline; but it did not seriously impair\nthe strength and beauty of his Christian manhood. It rather served to\nbring them into fuller relief, and even to render more striking those\nbright natural traits--the sportive humor, the ready mother wit, the\nfacetious pleasantry, the keen sense of the ridiculous, and the wondrous\nstory-telling gift--which made him a most delightful companion to young\nand old, to the wise and the unlettered alike. It served, moreover, to\nimpart peculiar tenderness to his pastoral intercourse, especially with\nmembers of his flock tried and tempted like as he was. He had learned\nhow to counsel and comfort them by the things which he also had\nsuffered. He may have been too exacting and harsh in dealing with\nhimself; but in dealing with other souls nothing could exceed the\ngentleness, wisdom, and soothing influence of his ministrations.\n\nAs a preacher he was the impersonation of simple, earnest, and\nimpassioned utterance. Although not an orator in the ordinary sense of\nthe term, he touched the hearts of his hearers with a power beyond the\nreach of any oratory. Some of his printed sermons are models in their\nkind; that _e.g._ on \"Sins estimated by the Light of Heaven,\" and that\naddressed to Seamen. His theology was a mild type of the old New England\nCalvinism, modified, on the one hand, by the influence of his favorite\nauthors--such as Thomas \u00e0 Kempis, and Fenelon, the Puritan divines of\nthe seventeenth century, John Newton and Richard Cecil--and on the\nother, by his own profound experience and seraphic love. Of his\ntheology, his preaching and his piety alike, Christ was the living\ncentre. His expressions of personal love to the Saviour are surpassed\nby nothing in the writings of the old mystics. Here is a passage from a\nletter to his mother, written while he was still a young pastor:\n\nI have sometimes heard of spells and charms to excite love, and have\nwished for them, when a boy, that I might cause others to love me. But\nhow much do I now wish for some charm which should lead men to love the\nSaviour!... Could I paint a true likeness of Him, methinks I should\nrejoice to hold it up to the view and admiration of all creation, and be\nhid behind it forever. It would be heaven enough to hear Him praised and\nadored. But I can not paint Him; I can not describe Him; I can not make\nothers love Him; nay, I can not love Him a thousandth part so much as\nI ought myself. O, for an angel's tongue! O, for the tongues of ten\nthousand angels, to sound His praises.\n\nHe had a remarkable familiarity with the word of God and his mind seemed\nsurcharged with its power. \"You could not, in conversation, mention\na passage of Scripture to him but you found his soul in harmony with\nit--the most apt illustrations would flow from his lips, the fire of\ndevotion would beam from his eye, and you saw at once that not only\ncould he deliver a sermon from it, but that the ordinary time allotted\nto a sermon would be exhausted before he could pour out the fullness of\nmeaning which a sentence from the word of God presented to his mind.\"\n[5]\n\nHe was wonderfully gifted in prayer. Here all his intellectual,\nimaginative, and spiritual powers were fused into one and poured\nthemselves forth in an unbroken stream of penitential and adoring\naffection. When he said, \"Let us pray,\" a divine influence seemed to\nrest upon all present. His prayers were not mere pious mental exercises,\nthey were devout inspirations.\n\nNo one can form an adequate conception of what Dr. Payson was from any\nof the productions of his pen. Admirable as his written sermons are, his\nextempore prayers and the gushings of his heart in familiar talk were\naltogether higher and more touching than anything he wrote. It was my\ncustom to close my eyes when he began to pray, and it was always a\nletting down, a sort of rude fall, to open them again, when he had\nconcluded, and find myself still on the earth. His prayers always took\nmy spirit into the immediate presence of Christ, amid the glories of\nthe spiritual world; and to look round again on this familiar and\ncomparatively misty earth was almost painful. At every prayer I heard\nhim offer, during the seven years in which he was my spiritual guide,\nI never ceased to feel new astonishment, at the wonderful variety and\ndepth and richness and even novelty of feeling and expression which were\npoured forth. This was a feeling with which every hearer sympathised,\nand it is a fact well-known, that Christians trained under his influence\nwere generally remarkable for their devotional habits. [6]\n\nDr. Payson possessed rare conversational powers and loved to wield\nthem in the service of his Master. When in a genial mood--and the mild\nexcitement of social intercourse generally put him in such a mood--his\nfamiliar talk was equally delightful and instructive. He was, in truth,\nan improvisatore. Quick perception, an almost intuitive insight into\ncharacter, an inexhaustible fund of fresh, original thought and\nincident, the happiest illustrations, and a memory that never faltered\nin recalling what he had once read or seen, easy self-control, and\nardent sympathies, all conspired to give him this preeminence. Without\neffort or any appearance of incongruity he could in turn be grave\nand gay, playful and serious. This came of the utter sincerity and\ngenuineness of his character. There was nothing artificial about him;\nnature and grace had full play and, so to say, constantly ran into\neach other. A keen observer, who knew him well, both in private and in\npublic, testifies: \"His facetiousness indeed was ever a near neighbor\nto his piety, if it was not a part of it; and his most cheerful\nconversations, so far from putting his mind out of tune for acts of\nreligious worship, seemed but a happy preparation for the exercise of\ndevotional feelings.\" [7] This coexistence of serious with playful\nelements is often found in natures of unusual depth and richness, just\nas tragic and comic powers sometimes co-exist in a great poet.\n\nThe same qualities that rendered him such a master of conversation, lent\na potent charm to his familiar religious talks in the prayer-meeting,\nat the fireside, or in the social circle. Always eager to speak for\nhis Master, he knew how to do it with a wise skill and a tenderness of\nfeeling that disarmed prejudice and sometimes won the most determined\nfoe. Even in administering reproof or rebuke there was the happiest\nunion of tact and gentleness. \"What makes you blush so?\" said a reckless\nfellow in the stage, to a plain country girl, who was receiving the\nmail-bag at a post office from the hand of the driver. \"What makes you\nblush so, my dear?\" \"Perhaps,\" said Dr. Payson, who sat near him and was\nunobserved till now, \"Perhaps it is because some one spoke rudely to her\nwhen the stage was along here the last time.\"\n\nEdward Payson was graduated at Harvard College in the class of 1803.\nIn the autumn of that year he took charge of an academy then recently\nestablished in Portland. Resigning this position in 1806, he returned\nhome and devoted himself to the study of divinity under his father's\ncare. He was licensed to preach in May, 1807, and a few months later\nreceived a unanimous call to Portland, where he was ordained in December\nof the same year. On the 8th of May, 1811, he was married to Ann Louisa\nShipman, of New Haven, Conn. An extract from a manly letter to Miss\nShipman, written a few weeks after their engagement, will show the\nspirit which inspired him both as a lover and a husband:\n\nWhen I wrote my first letter after my late visit, I felt almost angry\nwith you and quite so with myself. And why angry with you? Because I\nbegan to fear you would prove a dangerous rival to my Lord and Master,\nand draw away my heart from His service. My Louisa, should this be the\ncase, I should certainly hate you. I am Christ's; I must be Christ's; He\nhas purchased me dearly, and I should hate the mother who bore me, if\nshe proved even the _innocent_ occasion of drawing me from Him. I feared\nthat you would do this. For a little time the conflict of my feelings\nwas dreadful beyond description. For a few moments I wished I had never\nseen you. Had you been a right hand, or a right eye, had you been the\nlife-blood in my veins (and you are dear to me as either) I must have\ngiven you up, had I continued to feel as I did. But blessed be God,\nHe has shown me my weakness only to strengthen me. I now feel very\ndifferently. I still love you dearly as ever, but my love leads me _to_\nChrist and not _from_ Him.\n\nDr. Payson received repeated invitations to important churches in\nBoston and New York, but declining them all, continued in the Portland\npastorate until his death, which occurred October 22, 1827, in the\nforty-fifth year of his age. The closing months of his life were\nrendered memorable by an extraordinary triumph of Christian faith and\npatience, as well as of the power of mind over matter. His bodily\nsuffering and agonies were indescribable, but, like one of the old\nmartyrs in the midst of the flames, he seemed to forget them all in the\ngreatness of his spiritual joy. In a letter written shortly after his\ndeath, Mrs. Payson gives a touching account of the tender and thoughtful\nconcern for her happiness which marked his last illness. Knowing, for\nexample, that she would be compelled to part with her house, he was\nanxious to have a smaller one purchased and occupied at once, so that\nhis presence in it for a little while might make it seem more home-like\nto her and to her children after he was gone. \"To tell you (she adds)\nwhat he was the last six memorable weeks would be altogether beyond my\nskill. All who beheld him called his countenance angelic.\" She then\nrepeats some of his farewell words to her. Begging that, she would \"not\ndwell upon his poor, shattered frame, but follow his blessed spirit to\nthe realms of glory,\" he burst forth into an exultant song of delight,\nas if already he saw the King in His beauty! The well-known letter to\nhis sister Eliza, dated a few weeks before his departure, breathes the\nsame spirit. Here is an extract from it:\n\nWere I to adopt the figurative language of Bunyan, I might date this\nletter from the land of Beulah, of which I have been for some weeks a\nhappy inhabitant. The celestial city is full in my view. Its glories\nbeam upon me, its breezes fan me, its odors are wafted to me, its sounds\nstrike upon my ear, and its spirit is breathed into my heart. Nothing\nseparates me from it but the river of death, which now appears but as an\ninsignificant rill, that may be crossed at a single step, whenever God\nshall give permission. The Sun of Righteousness has been gradually\ndrawing nearer and nearer, appearing larger and brighter as He\napproached, and now He fills the whole hemisphere, pouring forth a flood\nof glory, in which I seem to float like an insect in the beams of the\nsun, exulting yet almost trembling while I gaze on this excessive\nbrightness, and wondering, with unutterable wonder, why God should deign\nthus to shine upon a sinful worm. A single heart and a single tongue\nseem altogether inadequate to my wants; I want a whole heart for every\nseparate emotion, and a whole tongue to express that emotion. But why do\nI speak thus of myself and my feelings? why not speak only of our God\nand Redeemer? It is because I know not what to say--when I would speak\nof them my words are all swallowed up.\n\nAnd thus, gazing already upon the Beatific Vision, he passed on into\nglory. What is written concerning his Lord and Master might with almost\nliteral truth have been inscribed over his grave: _The zeal of Thy house\nhath eaten me up._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nII.\n\nBirth and Childhood of Elizabeth Payson. Early Traits. Devotion to her\nFather. His Influence upon her. Letters to her Sister. Removal to New\nYork. Reminiscences of the Payson Family.\n\n\nElizabeth Payson was born \"about three o'clock\"--so her father records\nit--on Tuesday afternoon, October 26, 1818. She was the fifth of eight\nchildren, two of whom died in infancy. All good influences seem to have\nencircled her natal hour. In a letter to his mother, dated October 27,\nDr Payson enumerates six special mercies, by which the happy event had\nbeen crowned. One of them was the gratification of the mother's \"wish\nfor a daughter rather than a son.\" Another was God's goodness to him\nin sparing both the mother and the child in spite of his fear that he\nshould lose them. This fear, strangely enough, was occasioned by the\nunusual religious peace and comfort which he had been enjoying. He had\na presentiment that in this way God was forearming him for some\nextraordinary trial; and the loss of his wife seemed to him most likely\nto be that trial. \"God has been so gracious to me in spiritual things,\nthat I thought He was preparing me for Louisa's death. Indeed it may be\nso still, and if so His will be done. Let Him take all--and if He leaves\nus Himself we still have all and abound.\" The next day he writes:\n\nStill God is kind to us. Louisa and the babe continue as well as we\ncould desire. Truly, my cup runs over with blessings. I can still\nscarcely help thinking that God is preparing me for some severe trial;\nbut if He will grant me His presence as He does now, no trial can seem\nsevere. Oh, could I now drop the body, I would stand and cry to all\neternity without being weary: God is holy, God is just, God is good;\nGod is wise and faithful and true. Either of His perfections alone is\nsufficient to furnish matter for an eternal, unwearied song. Could I\nsing upon paper I should break forth into singing, for day and night I\ncan do nothing but sing \"Let the saints be joyful,\" etc., etc. But I\nmust close. I can not send so much love and thankfulness to my parents\nas they deserve. My present happiness, all my happiness I ascribe under\nGod to them and their prayers.\n\nSurely, a home inspired and ruled by such a spirit was a sweet home to\nbe born into!\n\nThe notices of Elizabeth's childhood depict her as a dark-eyed, delicate\nlittle creature, of sylph-like form, reserved and shy in the presence of\nstrangers, of a sweet disposition, and very intense in her sympathies.\n\"Until I was three years old mother says I was a little angel,\" she once\nwrote to a friend. Her constitution was feeble, and she inherited from\nher father his high-strung nervous temperament. \"I never knew what it\nwas to feel well,\" she wrote in 1840. Severe pain in the side, fainting\nturns, the sick headache, and other ailments troubled her, more or less,\nfrom infancy. She had an eye wide open to the world about her, and quick\nto catch its varying aspects of light and beauty, whether on land\nor sea. The ships and wharves not far from her father's house, the\nobservatory and fort on the hill overlooking Casco Bay, the White\nMountains far away in the distance, Deering's oaks, the rope-walk, and\nthe ancient burying-ground--these and other familiar objects of \"the\ndear old town,\" commemorated by Longfellow in his poem entitled \"My Lost\nYouth,\" were indelibly fixed in her memory and followed her wherever she\nwent, to the end of her days. In her movements she was light-footed,\nventuresome to rashness, and at times wild with fun and frolic. Her\nwhole being was so impressionable that things pleasant and things\npainful stamped themselves upon it as with the point of a diamond.\nWhatever she did, whatever she felt, she felt and did as for her life.\nAllusion has been made to the intensity of her sympathies. The sight or\ntale of suffering would set her in a tremor of excitement; and in her\neagerness to give relief she seemed ready for any sacrifice, however\ngreat. This trait arrested the observant eye of her father, and he\nexpressed to Mrs. Payson his fear lest it might some day prove a real\nmisfortune to the child. \"She will be in danger of marrying a blind man,\nor a helpless cripple, out of pure sympathy,\" he once said.\n\nBut by far the strongest of all the impressions of her childhood related\nto her father. His presence was to her the happiest spot on earth, and\nany special expression of his affection would throw her into an ecstasy\nof delight. When he was away she pined for his return. \"The children\nall send a great deal of love, and Elizabeth says, Do tell Papa to\ncome home,\" wrote her mother to him, when she was six years old. Her\nrecollections of her father were singularly vivid. She could describe\nminutely his domestic habits, how he looked and talked as he sat by the\nfireside or at the table, his delight in and skillful use of carpenters'\ntools, his ingenious devices for amusing her and diverting his own\nweariness as he lay sick in bed, _e.g._, tearing up sheets of white\npaper into tiny bits, and then letting her pour them out of the\nwindow to \"make believe it snowed,\" or counting all the bristles in a\nclothes-brush, and then as she came in from school, holding it up and\nbidding her guess their number--his coolness and efficiency in the wild\nexcitements of a conflagration, the calm deliberation with which he\nwalked past the horror-stricken lookers on and cut the rope by which\na suicide was suspended; these and other incidents she would recall a\nthird of a century after his death, as if she had just heard of or just\nwitnessed them. To her child's imagination his memory seemed to be\ninvested with the triple halo of father, hero, and saint. A little\npicture of him was always near her. She never mentioned his name without\ntender affection and reverence. Nor is this at all strange. She was\nalmost nine years old when he died; and his influence, during these\nyears, penetrated to her inmost being. She once said that of her\nfather's virtues one only--punctuality--had descended to her. But here\nshe was surely wrong. Not only did she owe to him some of the most\nstriking peculiarities of her physical and mental constitution, but her\npiety itself, if not inherited, was largely inspired and shaped by his.\nIn the whole tone and expression of her earlier religious life, at\nleast, one sees him clearly reflected. His devotional habits, in\nparticular, left upon her an indelible impression. Once, when four\nor five years old, rushing by mistake into his room, she found him\nprostrate upon his face--completely lost in prayer. A short time before\nher death, speaking of this scene to a friend, she remarked that the\nremembrance of it had influenced her ever since. What somebody said\nof Sara Coleridge might indeed have been said with no less truth of\nElizabeth Payson: \"Her father had looked down into her eyes and left in\nthem the light of his own.\"\n\nThe only records of her childhood from her own pen consist of the\nfollowing letters, written to her sister, while the latter was passing a\nyear in Boston. She was then nine years old.\n\nPORTLAND, _May 18, 1828._\n\nMy dear sister:--I thank you for writing to such a little girl as I am,\nwhen you have so little time. I was going to study a little catechism\nwhich Miss Martin has got, but she said I could not learn it. I want\nto learn it. I do not like to stay so long at school. We have to write\ncomposition by dictation, as Miss Martin calls it. She reads to us out\nof a book a sentence at a time. We write it and then we write it again\non our slates, because we do not always get the whole; then we write\nit on a piece of paper. Miss Martin says I may say my Sunday-school\n[lesson] there. Mr. Mitchell has had a great many new books. I have been\nsick. Doctor Cummings has been here and says E. is better and he thinks\nhe will not have a fever.... G. goes to school to Miss Libby, and H.\ngoes to Master Jackson. H. sends his love. Good-bye.\n\nYour affectionate sister, E. PAYSON,\n\n_September 29, 1828._\n\nMy dear sister:--I think you were very kind to write to me, when you\nhave so little time. I began to go to Mrs. Petrie's school a week ago\nyesterday. I stay at home Mondays in the morning to assist in taking\ncare of Charles or such little things as I can do. G. goes with me. When\nmother put Charles and him to bed, as soon as she had done praying with\nthem, G. said, Mother, will this world be all burnt up when we are dead?\nShe said, Yes, my dear, it will. What, and all the dishes too? will they\nmelt like lead? and will the ground be burnt up too? O what a nasty fire\nit will make. I saw the Northern lights last night. I sleep in a very\nlarge pleasant room in the bed with mother.... I have a very pleasant\nroom for my baby-house over the porch which has two windows and a\nfireplace in it, and a little cupboard too. E. Wood and I are as\nintimate as ever. I suppose you know that Mr. Wood is building him a\nbrick house. Mrs. Merril's little baby is dead. It was buried yesterday\nafternoon. Mr. Mussey lives across the street from us. He has a great\nmany elm trees in his front yard. His house is three stories high and\nthe trees reach to the top. We have heard two or three times from E.\nsince he went away. Yesterday all the Sabbath-schools walked in a\nprocession and then went to our meeting-house and Mr. William Cutter\naddressed them.\n\nI am your affectionate sister, E. Payson.\n\nHer feeble constitution exposed her to severe attacks of disease, and in\nMay, 1830, she was brought to the verge of the grave by a violent fever.\nHer mother was deeply moved by this event, and while recording in her\njournal God's goodness in sparing Elizabeth, wonders whether it is\nto the end that she may one day devote herself to her Saviour and do\nsomething for the \"honor of religion.\" In the latter part of 1830 Mrs.\nPayson removed to New York, where her eldest daughter opened a school\nfor girls. It was during this residence in New York that Elizabeth, at\nthe age of twelve years, made a public confession of Christ and came to\nthe Lord's table for the first time. She was received into the Bleecker\nstreet--now the Fourth avenue--Presbyterian church, then under the\npastoral care of the Rev. Erskine Mason, D.D., May 1, 1831. Toward the\nclose of the same year the family returned to Portland.\n\nIn a letter addressed to her husband, one of Mrs. Prentiss' oldest\nfriends now living, Miss Julia D. Willis, has furnished the following\nreminiscences of her early years. While they confirm what has been said\nabout her childhood, they are especially valuable for the glimpses they\ngive of her father and mother and sister. The Willis and Payson families\nwere very intimate and warmly attached to each other. Mr. Nathaniel\nWillis, the father of N. P. Willis the poet, was well known in\nconnection with \"The Boston Recorder,\" of which he was for many years\nthe conductor and proprietor. Both Mr. and Mrs. Willis cherished the\nmost affectionate veneration for the memory of Dr. Payson. So long as\nshe lived their house was a home to Mrs. Payson and her daughters,\nwhenever they visited Boston.\n\nAs a preacher Dr. Payson could not fail to make a strong impression even\non a child. Years ago in New York I once told Mrs. Prentiss, who was too\nyoung, at her father's death, to remember him well in the pulpit, that\nthe only public speaker who ever reminded me of him, was Edwin Booth in\nHamlet. I surprised, and, I am afraid, a little shocked her, but it\nwas quite true. The slender figure, the dark, brilliant eyes, the\ndeep earnestness of tone, the rapid utterance combined with perfect\ndistinctness of enunciation, in spite of surroundings the best\ncalculated to repel such an association, recalled him vividly to my\nmemory.\n\nMy father's connection with the religious press after his removal from\nPortland to Boston, brought many clergymen to our house, who often,\nin the kindness of their hearts, requited hospitality by religious\nconversation with the children, not church members, and presumably,\ntherefore, impenitent. I did not always appreciate this kindness as it\ndeserved, and often exercised considerable ingenuity to avoid being\nalone with them. In Dr. Payson's case, I soon learned, on the contrary,\nto seek such occasions. I was sure that before long he would look up\nfrom his book, or his manuscript, and have something pleasant or\nplayful to say to me. His general conversation, however, was oftener on\nreligious than on any other subjects, but it was so evidently from the\nfullness of his heart, and his vivid imagination afforded him such a\nwealth of illustration, that it was delightful even to an \"impenitent\"\nchild. Years afterward when I read in his Memoir of his desponding\ntemperament, of his seasons of gloom, of the sense of sin under which\nhe was bowed down, it seemed impossible to me that it could be _my_ Dr.\nPayson.\n\nI visited Portland and was an inmate of his family, at the commencement\nof the illness that finally proved fatal. He was not confined to his\nbed, or to his room, but he was forbidden, indeed unable, to preach,\nunable to write or study; he could only read and think. Still he did not\nshut himself up in his study with his sad thoughts. I remember him as\nusually seated with his book by the side of the fire, surrounded by his\nfamily, as if he would enjoy their society as long as possible, and the\nchildren's play was never hushed on his account. Nor did he forget the\nyoung visitor. When the elder daughter, to whom my visit was made, was\nat school, he would care for my entertainment by telling a story, or\npropounding a riddle, or providing an entertaining book to beguile the\ntime till Louisa's return.\n\nAmong the group in that cheerful room, I remember Lizzy well, a\nbeautiful child, slender, dark-eyed, light-footed, very quiet, evidently\nobservant, but saying little, affectionate, yet not demonstrative.\n\nOne evening during my visit, Mrs. Payson not being quite well, the\nelders had retired early, leaving Louisa and myself by the side of the\nfire, she preparing her school lesson and I occupied in reading. The\nlesson finished, Louisa proposed retiring, but I was too much interested\nin my book to leave it and promised to follow soon. She left me rather\nreluctantly, and I read on, too much absorbed in my book to notice the\ntime, till near midnight, when I was startled by hearing Dr. Payson's\nstep upon the stairs. I expected the reproof which I certainly deserved,\nbut though evidently surprised at seeing me, he merely said, \"You here?\nyou must be cold. Why did you let the fire go out?\" Bringing in some\nwood he soon rekindled it, and began to talk to me of the book I was\nreading, which was one of Walter Scott's poems. He then spoke of a poem\nwhich he had been reading that day, Southey's \"Curse of Kehama.\" He\nrelated to me with perfect clearness the long and rather involved story,\nwith that wonderful memory of his, never once forgetting or confusing\nthe strange Oriental names, and repeating word for word the curse:\n\n  I charm thy life, from the weapons of strife,\n  From stone and from wood, from fire and from flood,\n  From the serpent's tooth, and the beasts of blood,\n  From sickness I charm thee, and time shall not harm thee, etc., etc.\n\nI listened, intent, fascinated, forgot to ask why he was there instead\nof in his bed, forgot that it was midnight instead of mid-day. It was\nnot till on bidding me good night he added, \"I hope you will have a\nbetter night than I shall,\" that it occurred to me that he must be\nsuffering. The next day I learned from his wife that when unable to\nsleep on account of his racking cough, he often left his bed at night,\nthe cough being more endurable when in a sitting posture. I never saw\nDr. Payson after that visit, nor for several years any of the family,\nexcept Louisa, who spent a year with us while attending school in\nBoston to fit herself as a teacher to aid in the support of her younger\nbrothers and sister. When I was next with them, Louisa was already at\nthe head of a school in which her young sister was the brightest pupil,\nand to the profits of which she laid no personal claim, all going\nuntouched into the family purse. Several young girls, Louisa's pupils,\nhad been received as boarders in the family, and occasionally a\nclergyman was added to the number. It was during this visit that I first\nlearned to appreciate Mrs. Payson. Now that she stood alone at the head\nof the household, either her fine qualities were in bolder relief, or I\nbeing older, was better able to estimate them. The singular vivacity of\nher intellect made her a delightful companion. Then her youth had been\npassed in the literary circles of New Haven and Andover, and she had\nmuch to tell of distinguished people known to me only by reputation. I\nadmired her firm yet gentle rule, so skilfully adapted to the varying\nnatures under her charge; her conscientious study of that homely virtue\neconomy, so distasteful to one of her naturally lavish temper, always\nready to give to those in need to an extent which called forth constant\nremonstrances from more prudent friends; her alacrity also in all\nhousehold labors, which the more excited my wonder, knowing the little\nopportunity she could have had to practise them amid the wealth of her\nfather's house before the Embargo, which later wrecked his fortune with\nthose of so many other New England merchants. She was, indeed, of a most\nnoble nature, hating all meanness and injustice, and full of helpful\nkindness and sympathy. No woman ever had warmer or more devoted friends.\n\nBoth at this time and in subsequent visits, as she advanced from\nchildhood to girlhood, I remember Lizzy well; although my attention\nwas chiefly absorbed by the elder sister of my own age, my principal\ncompanion when present, and correspondent when absent. The two sisters\nwere strongly contrasted. Louisa, as a child, was afflicted with a\nsensitive, almost morbid shyness and reserve, and an incapacity for\nenjoying the society of other children whose tastes were uncongenial\nwith her own. The shyness passed with her childhood, but the\nsensitiveness and exclusiveness never quite left her. Her love of books\nwas a passion, and she would resent an unfair criticism of a favorite\nauthor as warmly as if it were an attack on a personal friend. To Lizzy,\non the contrary, a friend was a book which she loved to read. Human\nnature was her favorite study. There seemed to be no one in whom she\ncould not find something to interest her, none with whom there was not\nsome point of sympathy. Combined with this wide and genial sympathy was\nanother quality which helped to endear her to her companions, viz., an\nentire absence of all attempt to show her best side, or put the best\nface on anything that concerned her. An ingenuous frankness about\nherself and her affairs--even about her little weaknesses--was one\nof her most striking traits. No one, indeed, could know her without\nlearning to love her dearly. Yet if I should say that in my visits to\nPortland, Lizzy always appeared to me pre-eminently the life and charm\nof the household, it would not be exactly true, though she would\nhave been so of almost any other household. The Payson family was a\ndelightful one to visit, all were so bright, and in the contest of wits\nthat took place often between Lizzy and her merry brothers, it was\nsometimes hard to tell which bore off the palm.\n\nI do not know that I ever thought of her at that time as an author. If\nanybody had predicted to me that one of that group would be the writer\nof books, which would not only have a wide circulation at home, but be\ntranslated into foreign languages, I should certainly have selected\nLouisa, and I think most persons who knew them would have done the same.\nThe elder sister's passion for books, her great powers of acquisition,\nthe range of her attainments--embracing not only modern languages and\ntheir literature, but Latin, Greek and Hebrew--her ability to maintain\ndiscussions on German metaphysics and theology with learned Professors,\nall seemed to point her out as the one likely to achieve distinction in\nthe literary world.\n\nI do not remember whether it was Lizzy's early contributions to \"The\nYouth's Companion,\" showing already the germ of the creative power in\nher, or her letters to her sister, which first suggested to me that the\npleasure her friends found in her conversation might yet be enjoyed by\nthose who would never see her. Louisa had given up her school for the\nmore congenial employment of contributing to magazines and reviews and\nof writing children's books. And as the greater literary resources of\nBoston drew her thither, she was often for months a welcome guest at our\nhouse, where she first met Professor Hopkins of Williamstown, and whom\nshe afterward married. The letters which Lizzy wrote to her at those\ntimes were never allowed to be the monopoly of one person; we all\nclaimed a right to read them. The ease with which in these she seemed\nto talk with her pen, the mingled pathos and humor with which she would\nrelate all the little joys and sorrows of daily life, leaving her\nreaders between a smile and a tear, showed the same characteristics\nwhich afterward made her published writings so much more generally\nattractive than the graver ones of her elder sister. But Louisa's\nfailing health soon after her marriage, and the long years of suffering\nwhich followed, prevented her ever doing justice to the expectations her\nfriends had formed for her.\n\nThe occasion of my next visit to Portland was a letter from Mrs. Payson\nto my mother, who was her constant correspondent, in which she spoke\nsadly of an indisposition she feared was the precursor of serious\nillness, but which chiefly troubled her on account of Lizzy's distress\nthat her school prevented her being constantly with her mother. An\noffer on my part to come and take her place, in her hours of necessary\nabsence, was at once accepted. Mrs. Payson's illness proved less serious\nthan had been feared, and once more I passed several pleasant weeks in\nthat house; but the pleasantest hours of the day were those in which\nLizzy, returning from school, sat down at her mother's bedside and\namused her with her talk about her pupils, their various characters and\nthe progress they had made in their studies, or related little incidents\nof the school-room--with her usual frankness not omitting those\nwhich revealed some fault, or what she considered such, on her part,\nespecially her impulsiveness that led her often to say things she\nafterward regretted. As an example, one of her pupils was reading French\nto her and coming to the expression Mon Dieu! so common in French\nnarratives, had pronounced it so badly that Lizzy exclaimed, \"Mon Doo?\nHe would not know himself what you meant!\" The laugh which it was\nimpossible to repress, did not diminish her compunction at what she\nfeared her pupils would regard as irreverence on her part. I believe I\nalways cherished sufficient affection for my teachers, and yet I was not\na little astonished on accompanying Lizzy to school one day, to see as\nwe turned the corner of a street a rush of girls with unbonneted heads,\nto greet their young teacher for whom they had been watching, and escort\nher to her throne in the school-room, and evidently in their hearts. For\na year or two after this visit I have no recollection of her, or indeed\nof any of the Payson family. Death, meanwhile, had been busy in my own\nhome, and my memory is a blank for anything beyond that sad circle.\n\nSince that date you have known her better than I. I wish that these\nrecollections of a time when I knew her better than you, were not so\nmeagre. If we were not thousands of miles apart, and I could talk with\nyou, instead of writing to you, perhaps they would not appear quite so\nunsatisfying. Yet, trivial as they are, I send them, in the persuasion\nthat any trifle that concerned her or hers is of interest to you.\n\nGENEVA, Switzerland, _Feb. 1, 1879._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIII.\n\nRecollections of Elizabeth's Girlhood by an early Friend and Schoolmate.\nHer own Picture of Herself before her Father's Death. Favorite Resorts.\nWhy God permits so much Suffering. Literary Tastes. Letters. \"What are\nLittle Babies For?\" Opens a School. Religious Interest.\n\n\nIt is to be regretted that the letters referred to by Miss Willis, and\nindeed nearly all of Elizabeth's family letters, written before she left\nher mother's roof, have disappeared. But the following recollections by\nMrs. M. C. H. Clark, of Portland, will in part supply their place and\nserve to fill up the outline, already given, of the first twenty years\nof her life.\n\nIn the volume of sketches entitled, \"Only a Dandelion,\" you will find,\nin the story of Anna and Emily, some very pleasing incidents relating\nto the early life of dear Elizabeth. Anna was Lizzy Wood, her earliest\nplaymate and friend. Miss Wood was a sweet girl, the only sister of Dr.\nWilliam Wood, of Portland. She died at an early age. Emily was Mrs.\nPrentiss herself. I remember her once telling me about the visit at\n\"Aunt W.'s,\" and believe that nearly all the details of the story are\nfounded in fact. It is her own picture of herself as a little girl,\ndrawn to the life. Several traits of the character of Emily, as given in\nthe sketch, are on this account worthy of special note. One is her very\nintense desire not only to be loved, but to be loved _alone_, or much\nmore than any one else; and to be assured of it \"over and over again.\"\nWhen Anna returned from her journey, she brought the same presents to\nSusan Morton as to Emily. On discovering this fact Emily was greatly\ndistressed.\n\n\"I thought you would be so glad to get all these things!\" said Anna.\n\n\"And so I am,\" said Emily, \"I only want you to love me better than any\nother little girl, because I love you better.\"\n\n\"Well, and so I do,\" returned Anna; \"I love you ten times as well as I\nlove Susan Morton.\"\n\nThis satisfied Emily, and \"for many days her restless little heart was\nas quiet and happy as a lamb's.\"\n\nAnother trait is brought out in the incident that occurred on her\nreturning home from Anna's. She had written, or rather scratched, the\nword \"Anna,\" over one whole side of her room, while odd lines of what\npurported to be poetry filled the other.\n\nBut this was not all. Her sister produced the beautiful Bible which had\nbeen given Emily by her Aunt Lucy, on her seventh birthday, and showed\nher father how all its blank leaves were covered with Annas. Her\nfather took the book with reverence, and Emily understood and felt the\nseriousness with which he examined her idle scrawls. It was a look that\nwould have risen up before her and made her stay her hand, should she\never again in her life-long have been tempted thus to misuse the word\nof God; just as the angel stood before Balaam in the narrow path he was\nstruggling to push through. But Emily never again was thus tempted; and\never after her Bible was sacredly kept free from \"blot, or wrinkle, or\nany such thing.\"\n\nHer father now took her with him to his study, and gave her a great many\npieces of paper, some large and some small, on which he told her with a\nsmile, she could write Anna's name to her heart's content. Emily felt\nvery grateful; this little kindness on her father's part did her more\ngood than a month's lecture could have done, and made her resolve never\nto do anything that could possibly grieve him again. She went away to\nher own little baby-house and wrote on one of the bits of paper, some\nverses, in which she said she had the best father in the world. When\nthey were done, she read them over once or twice, and admired them\nexceedingly; after which, with a very mysterious air, she went and threw\nthem into the kitchen fire.\n\nThis incident, so prettily related, illustrates the intensity of her\nfriendships, shows that she had begun to write verses when a mere child,\nand gives a very pleasant glimpse of her father and of her devotion to\nhim.\n\nMy intimate acquaintance with her commenced in 1832, when we were\nmembers of Miss Tyler's Sabbath-school class. Miss Tyler was a daughter\nof Rev. Dr. Bennett Tyler, her father's successor. She was greatly\npleased when I told her I was going to attend her sister's school, which\nwas opened in the spring of 1833, on the corner of Middle and Lime\nstreets. My seat was next to hers and we were placed in the same\nclasses. Our homes were near each other on Franklin street, and we\nalways walked back and forth together. She was at this time a prolific\nwriter of notes. Sometimes she would meet me on Monday morning with not\nless than four, written since we had parted on Saturday afternoon. She\nused to complain now and then, that I wrote her only one to four or five\nof hers to me. In the pleasant summer afternoons we loved to take long\nwalks together. One was down by the shore behind the eastern promenade.\nHere we would find a sheltered nook, and with our backs to the world\nand our faces toward the islands and the ocean, would sit in \"rapt\nenjoyment\" of the scene, speaking scarcely a word, until one or the\nother exclaimed with a long-drawn sigh: \"Well, it is time for us to go\nhome.\"\n\nAnother of our places of resort was the old cemetery on Congress street,\nwhich in those days was very retired. Our favorite spot here was the\nsummit of a tomb, which stood on the highest point in the grounds. It\nwas the old style of tomb--a broad marble slab, supported by six small\nstone pillars on a stone foundation, and surrounded by two steps raised\nabove the soil. It was a very quiet retreat. We could hear the distant\nhum of the city and at the same time enjoy a view of the water and\nshipping, as the land sloped down toward the harbor. I remember well\nthat one dark spring day, as we sat there cuddled up under the broad\nslab, Lizzy gave me an account of a book she had just been reading. It\nwas the Memoir of Miss Susanna Anthony, by old Dr. Hopkins, of Newport.\nShe told me what a good and holy woman Miss Anthony was, how much she\nsuffered and how beautifully she bore her sufferings. My sympathy was\nstrongly excited and I exclaimed, \"I do not see how it is _right_ for\nGod, who can control all things, to permit such suffering!\" Lizzy\nreplied very sweetly, \"Well, Carrie, we can't understand it, but I have\nbeen thinking that this _might_ be God's way of preparing His children\nfor very high degrees of service on earth, or happiness in heaven.\" I\nwas deeply impressed with this remark; somehow it seemed to _stand by\nme_, and I think it was a corner-stone of her faith.\n\nThis summer--that of 1833--her mother fitted up for her exclusive use\na small room called the \"Blue Room,\" where she had all her books and\ntreasures--among them a writing desk which had been her father's. Here\nall her leisure hours were spent. It was my privilege to be admitted\nto this sanctuary, and many pleasant hours we passed together there. I\nthink Elizabeth was always religious. She knew a great deal then about\nthe Bible and often talked with me of divine things. She seemed to feel\na deep interest in my spiritual welfare. She loved to share with me her\nfavorite books. To her I was indebted for my acquaintance with George\nHerbert, and with Wordsworth. She induced me to read \"Owen on the 133d\nPsalm,\" and Flavel's \"Fountain of Life.\" In 1834 we both began to attend\nthe Free street Seminary, of which the Rev. Solomon Adams was then\nPrincipal. Her sister had become assistant teacher with him. Our desks\nadjoined each other and we were together a great deal. She was an\nadmirable scholar, very studious, prompt and ready at recitation. Her\ninfluence and example, added to her friendship and sympathy, were\ninvaluable to me at this period. One day, about this time, she told\nme of her engagement with Mr. Willis, to become a contributor to \"The\nYouth's Companion.\" This paper was one of the first, if not the first,\nof its class published in this country, and had a wide circulation among\nthe children throughout New England. Most of the pieces in \"Only a\nDandelion,\" first appeared, I think, in the \"Youth's Companion,\" among\nthe rest several in verse. They are written in a sprightly style, are\nfull of bright fancies as well as sound feeling and excellent sense, and\nforetoken plainly the author of the 'Susy' books.\n\nIn 1835 Lizzy went to Ipswich and spent the summer in the school there.\nIt was then under the care of Miss Grant, and was the most noted\ninstitution of its kind in New England. A year or two later, Mr. N. P.\nWillis returned from Europe, and with his English bride made a short\nvisit at Mrs. Payson's. Miss Payson talked with him of Elizabeth's taste\nfor writing poetry and showed him some of her pieces. He praised and\nencouraged her warmly, and this was, I think, one of the influences that\nstrengthened her in the purpose to become an author. Upon my telling her\none day how much I liked a certain Sunday-school book I had just read,\nshe smilingly asked, \"What would you think if some day I should write a\nbook as good as that?\"\n\nI saw a good deal of her home life at this time. It was full of filial\nand sisterly love and devotion. Amidst the household cares by which her\nmother was often weighed down and worried, she was an ever-near friend\nand sympathizer. To her brothers, too, she endeared herself exceedingly\nby her helpful, cheery ways and the strong vein of fun and mirthfulness\nwhich ran through her daily life.\n\nIn the spring of 1837 Mrs. Payson sold her house on Franklin street and\nrented one in the upper part of the city. Lizzy used to call it \"the\npumpkin house,\" because it was old and ugly; but its situation and the\nopportunity to indulge her rural tastes made amends for all its defects.\nIn a letter to her friend Miss E. T. of Brooklyn, N. Y., dated May 21,\n1837, she thus refers to it:\n\nSince your last letter arrived we have left our pleasant home for an\nold yellow one above John Neal's. Now don't imagine it to be a delicate\nstraw-color, neither the smiling hue of the early dandelion. No, it once\nshone forth in all the glories of a deep pumpkin; but time's \"effacing\nfingers\" have sadly marred its beauty. Mr. Neal's Aunt Ruth, a quiet old\nQuakeress, occupies a part of it and we Paysons bestow ourselves in the\nremainder. This comes to you from its great garret. Here I sit every\nnight till after dark as merry as a grig. \"The mind is its own place.\"\nWith all the inconveniences of the house I would not exchange it\nat present for any other in the city. The situation is perfectly\ndelightful. Casco Bay and part of Deering's Oaks lie in full view. [8]\nThe Oaks are within a few minutes' walk. Back-Cove is seen beyond, and\nrising far above the _blue_ White Mountains. The Arsenal stares us in\nthe face, if we look out the end windows and the Westbrook meeting-house\nis nearer than Mr. Vail's by a quarter of a mile. I never believed there\nwas anything half so fine in this region. I think nothing of walking\nanywhere now. One day, after various domestic duties, I worked in my\ntiny garden four hours, and in the afternoon a party of girls came up\nfor me to go with them to Bramhall's hill. We walked from three till\nhalf past six, came back and ate a hasty, with some of us a _furious_\nsupper, and then all paraded down to second parish to singing-school.\nI expect to live out in the air most of the summer. I mean to have as\npleasant a one as possible, because we shall never live so near the\nOaks and other pretty places another summer. If you were not so timid I\nshould wish you were here to run about with me, but who ever heard of\nE. T. _running_? Now, Ellen, I never was _meant_ to be dignified and\nsometimes--yea, often--I run, skip, hop, and _once_ I did climb over a\nfence! Very unladylike, I know, but I am not a lady.\n\nIn the fall of 1837 Mrs. Payson moved again. The incident deserves\nmention, as it brought Lizzy into daily intercourse with the Rev. Mr.\nFrench and his wife. Mr. French was rector of the Episcopal church in\nPortland, and afterward Professor and Chaplain at West Point. He was\na man of fine literary culture and Mrs. French was a very attractive\nwoman. In a letter dated \"Night before Thanksgiving,\" and addressed to\nthe early friend already mentioned, Lizzy refers to this removal and\nalso gives a glimpse of her active home life:\n\nI have been busy all day and am so tired I can scarcely hold a pen.\nAmidst the beating of eggs, the pounding of spices, the furious rolling\nof pastry of all degrees of shortness, the filling of pies with\npumpkins, mince-meat, apples, and the like, the stoning of raisins and\nwashing of currants, the beating and baking of cake, and all the other\n_ings_, (in all of which I have had my share) thoughts of your ladyship\nhave somehow squeezed themselves in. We have really bidden adieu to\n\"Pumpkin Place,\" as Mrs. Willis calls it, and established ourselves in\na house formerly occupied by old Parson Smith--and very snug and\ncomfortable we are, I assure you.\n\nIn the midst of our \"moving,\" after I had packed and stowed and lifted,\nand been elbowed by all the sharp corners in the house, and had my hands\nall torn and scratched, I spied the new \"Knickerbocker\" 'mid a heap of\nrubbish and was tempted to peep into it. Lo and behold, the first thing\nthat met my eye was the Lament of the Last Peach. [9] I didn't care to\nread more and forthwith returned to fitting of carpets and arranging\ntables and chairs and bureaus--but all the while meditating how I should\nbe revenged upon you. As to ----'s request I am sorry to answer nay; for\nI feel it would be the greatest presumption in me to think of writing\nfor a magazine like that. I do not wish to publish anything, anywhere,\nthough it would be quite as wise as to entrust my scraps to _your_ care.\nMy mother often urges me to send little things which she happens to\nfancy, to this and that periodical. Without her interference nothing\nof mine would ever have found its way into print. But mammas look\nwith rose-colored spectacles on the actions and performances of their\noffspring. Have you laughed over the Pickwick Papers? We have almost\nlaughed ourselves to death over them. I have not seen Lizzy D. for a\nlong time, but hear she is getting along rapidly. If I could go to\nschool two years more, I should be glad, but of course that is out of\nthe question.... It is easier for you to write often than it is for me.\nYou have not three tearing, growing brothers to mend and make for. I am\nbecome quite expert in the arts of patching and darning. I am going to\nget some pies and cake and raisins and other goodies to send to our\ngirl's sick brother. If I had not so dear and happy a home, I should\nenvy you yours. You say you do not remember whether I love music or not.\nI love it extravagantly _sometimes_--but have not the knowledge to enjoy\nscientific performances. The simple melody of a single voice is my\ndelight. Mrs. French, the Episcopal minister's wife, who is a great\nfriend of ours and lives next door (so near that she and sister talk\ntogether out of their windows), has a baby two days old with black curly\nhair and black eyes, and I shall have a nice time with it this winter.\nDo you love babies?\n\nThe question with which this letter closes, suggests one of Lizzy's most\nstriking and loveliest traits. She had a perfect passion for babies, and\nreveled in tending, kissing, and playing with them. Here are some pretty\nlines in one of her girlish contributions to \"The Youth's Companion,\"\nwhich express her feeling about them:\n\n  What are little babies for?\n    Say! say! say!\n  Are they good-for-nothing things?\n    Nay! nay! nay!\n\n  Can they speak a single word?\n    Say! say! say!\n  Can they help their mothers sew?\n    Nay! nay! nay!\n\n  Can they walk upon their feet?\n    Say! say! say!\n  Can they even hold themselves?\n    Nay! nay! nay!\n\n  What are little babies for?\n    Say! say! say!\n  Are they made for us to love?\n    _Yea_! YEA!! YEA!!!\n\nIn the fall of 1838 Mrs. Payson purchased a house in Cumberland street,\nwhich continued to be her residence until the family was broken up. You\nremember the charming little room Lizzy had fitted up over the hall in\nthis house, how nicely she kept it, and how happy she was in it. One of\nthe windows looked out on a little flower garden and at the close of the\nlong summer days the sunset could be enjoyed from the west window. She\nhad had some fine books given her, which, added to the previous store,\nmade a somewhat rare collection for a young girl in those days.\n\nAbout this time, having been relieved of her part of domestic service by\nthe coming into the family of a young relative--whose devotion to her\nwas unbounded--she opened in the house a school for little girls. It\nconsisted at first of perhaps eight or ten, but their number increased\nuntil the house could scarcely hold them. She was a born teacher and her\nyoung pupils fairly idolized her. [10] In this year, too, she took\na class in the Sabbath-school composed of nearly the same group who\nsurrounded her on the week-days, and they remained under her care as\nlong as she lived in Portland.\n\nThe Rev. Mr. Vail having retired from the pastorate of the second parish\nin the autumn of 1837, Cyrus Hamlin, just from the Theological Seminary\nat Bangor, became the stated supply for some months. His preaching\nattracted the young people and during the winter and spring there was\nmuch interest in all the Congregational churches. Following the example\nof the other pastors, Mr. Hamlin invited persons seriously disposed to\nmeet him for religious conversation. Elizabeth besought me, with all\npossible earnestness and affection, to \"go to Mr. Hamlin's meeting.\" One\nday she came to see me a short time before the hour, saying that I was\never on her mind and in her prayers, that she had talked with Mr. Hamlin\nabout me, nor would she leave me until I had promised to attend the\nmeeting. I did so; and from that time we were united in the strong bonds\nof Christian love and sympathy. What a spiritual helper she was to me in\nthose days! What precious notes I was all the time receiving from\nher! The memory of her tender, faithful friendship is still fresh and\ndelightful, after the lapse of more than forty years. [11]\n\nIn the summer of 1838 the Rev. Jonathan B. Condit, D.D., was called from\nhis chair in Amherst College and installed pastor of our church. He was\na man of very graceful and winning manners and wonderfully magnetic. He\nat once became almost an object of worship with the enthusiastic young\npeople. The services of the Sabbath and the weekly meetings were\ndelightful. The young ladies had a praying circle which met every\nSaturday afternoon, full of life and sunshine. Indeed, the exclusive\ninterest of the season was religious; our reading and conversation were\nreligious; well-nigh the sole subject of thought was learning something\nnew of our Saviour and His blessed service. All Lizzy's friends and\nseveral of her own family were rejoicing in hope. And she herself was\nradiant with joy. For a little while it seemed almost as if the shadows\nin the Christian path had fled away, and the crosses vanished out of\nsight. The winter and spring of 1840 witnessed another period of general\nreligious interest in Portland. Large numbers were gathered into the\nchurches. Lizzy was greatly impressed by the work, her own Christian\nlife was deepened and widened, she was blessed in guiding several\nmembers of her beloved Sunday-school class to the Saviour, and was thus\nprepared, also, for the sharp trial awaiting her in the autumn of the\nsame year, when she left her home and mother for a long absence in\nRichmond.\n\nFrom her earliest years she was in the habit of keeping a journal, and\nshe must have filled several volumes. I wonder that she did not preserve\nthem as mementos of her childhood and youth. Perhaps because her\nafterlife was so happy that she never needed to refer to such\nreminiscences of days gone by.\n\nI have thus given you, in a very informal manner, some recollections of\nher earlier years. I have been astonished to find how vividly I recalled\nscenes, events and conversations so long past. I was startled and\nshocked when the news came of her sudden death. But I can not feel that\nshe was called to her rest too soon. She seemed to me singularly happy\nin all the relations of life; and then as an author, hers was an\nexceptional case of full appreciation and success. I have ever regarded\nher as \"favored among women\"--blessed in doing her Master's will and\ntestifying for Him, blessed in her home, in her friends, and in her\nwork, and blessed in her death.\n\nPORTLAND, _December 31, 1878._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIV.\n\nThe Dominant Type of Religious Life and Thought in New England in the\nFirst Half of this Century. Literary Influences. Letter of Cyrus Hamlin.\nA Strange Coincidence.\n\n\nA brief notice of the general type of religious life and thought, which\nprevailed at this time in New England, will throw light upon both the\npreceding and following pages. Elizabeth's early Christian character,\nalthough largely shaped by that of her father, was also, like his,\nvitally affected by the religious spirit and methods then dominant.\nSeveral distinct elements entered into the piety of New England at that\nperiod, (1.) There was, first of all, the old Puritan element which the\nPilgrim Fathers and their immediate successors brought with them from\nthe mother-country, and which had been nourished by the writings of the\ngreat Puritan divines of the seventeenth century--such as Baxter, Howe,\nBunyan, Owen, Matthew Henry, and Flavel--by the \"Imitation of Christ,\"\nand Bishop Taylor's \"Holy Living and Dying,\" and by such writers as\nDoddridge, Watts, and Jonathan Edwards of the last century. This lay at\nthe foundation of the whole structure, giving it strength, solidity,\nearnestness, and power. (2.) But it was modified by the so-called\nEvangelical element, which marked large sections of the Church of\nEngland and most of the Dissenting bodies in Great Britain during\nthe last half of the eighteenth and the early part of the nineteenth\ncentury. The writings of John Newton, Richard Cecil, Hannah More, Thomas\nScott, Cowper, Wilberforce, Leigh Richmond, John Foster, Andrew Fuller,\nand Robert Hall--not to mention others--were widely circulated in New\nEngland and had great influence in its pulpits and its Christian homes.\nTheir admirable spirit infused itself into thousands of lives, and\nhelped in many ways to improve the general tone both of theological\nand devotional sentiment. (3.) But another element still was the new\nEvangelistic spirit, which inaugurated and still informs those great\nmovements of Christian benevolence, both at home and abroad, that are\nthe glory of the age. Dr. Payson's ministry began just before the\nformation of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions,\nand before his death mission-work had come to be regarded as quite\nessential to the piety and prosperity of the Church. The Lives of David\nBrainerd, Henry Martyn, Harriet Newell, and others like them, were\nhousehold books. (4.) Nor should the \"revival\" element be omitted in\nenumerating the forces that then shaped the piety and religious thought\nof New England. The growth of the Church and the advancement of the\ncause of Christ were regarded as inseparable from this influence. A\nrevival was the constant object of prayer and effort on the part of\nearnest pastors and of the more devout among the people. Far more stress\nwas laid upon special seasons and measures of spiritual interest and\nactivity than now--less upon Christian nurture as a means of grace, and\nupon the steady, normal development of church life. Many of the most\neminent, devoted, and useful servants of Christ, whose names, during the\nlast half century, have adorned the annals of American faith and zeal,\nowed their conversion, or, if not their conversion, some of their\nnoblest and strongest Christian impulses, to \"revivals of religion.\"\n(5.) To all these should perhaps, be added another element--namely, that\nof the new spirit of reform and the new ethical tone, which, during the\nthird and fourth decades of this century especially, wrought with such\npower in New England. Of this influence and of the philanthropic idea\nthat inspired it, Dr. Channing may be regarded as the most eminent\nrepresentative. It brought to the front the humanity and moral teaching\nof Christ, as at once the pattern and rule of all true progress, whether\nindividual or social; and it was widely felt, even where it was not\ndistinctly recognised or understood. Whatever errors or imperfections\nmay have belonged to it, this influence did much to soften the dogmatism\nof opinion, to arouse a more generous, catholic type of sentiment, to\nshow that the piety of the New Testament is a principle of universal\nlove to man, as well as of love to God, and to emphasise the sovereign\nclaims of personal virtue and social justice. These truths, to be sure,\nwere not new; but in the great moral-reform movements and conflicts--to\na certain extent even in theological discussions--that marked the times,\nthey were asserted and applied with extraordinary clearness and energy\nof conviction; and, as the event has proved, they were harbingers of a\nnew era of Christian thought, culture and conduct, both in private and\npublic life.\n\nSuch were some of the religious influences which surrounded Mrs.\nPrentiss during the first twenty years of her life, and which helped to\nform her character. She was also strongly affected, especially while\npassing from girlhood into early womanhood, by the literary influences\nof the day. Poetry and fiction were her delight. She was very fond of\nWordsworth, Tennyson, and Longfellow; while the successive volumes of\nDickens were read by her with the utmost avidity. Mrs. Payson's house\nwas a good deal visited by scholars and men of culture. Her eldest\ndaughter had already become somewhat widely known by her writings. In\nthe extent, variety and character of her attainments she was, in truth,\na marvel. Indeed, she quite overshadowed the younger sister by her\nlearning and her highly intellectual conversation. And yet Elizabeth\nalso attracted no little attention from some who had been first drawn\nto the house by their friendship for Louisa. [12] Among her warmest\nadmirers was Mr. John Neal, then well known as a man of letters; he\npredicted for her a bright career as an author. Still, it was her\npersonal character that most interested the visitors at her mother's\nhouse. This may be illustrated by an extract from a letter of Mr. Hamlin\nto a friend of the family in New York, written in April, 1838, while he\nwas their temporary pastor. Mr. Hamlin has since become known throughout\nthe Christian world by his remarkable career as a missionary in Turkey,\nand as organiser of Robert College. A few months after the letter was\nwritten he set sail for Constantinople, accompanied by his wife, whose\nearly death was the cause of so much grief among all who knew her. [13]\nI should like to write a long letter about dear Elizabeth. I have seen\nher more since Louisa left and I love her more. She has a peculiar\ncharm for me. I think she has a quick and excellent judgment, refined\nsensibilities, and an _instinctive_ perception of what is fit and\nproper.... It seems to me there is a great deal of purity--of the\n_spirituelle_--about her feelings. But I can not tell you exactly what\nit is that makes me think so highly of her. It is a nameless something\nresulting from her whole self, from her sweet face and mouth, her eye\nfull of love and soul, her form and motion. I do not think she likes me\nmuch, I have paid so much attention to Louisa and so little to herself.\nYet she is not one of those who _claim_ attention, but rather shrinks\nfrom it. She may have faults of which I have no knowledge. But I am\ncharmed with everything I have seen of her.\n\nHow strange are the chance coincidences of human life! In another letter\nto the same friend in New York, in which Mr. Hamlin refers in a similar\nmanner to Elizabeth, occur these words:\n\nIn a few weeks I hope to be in Dorset, among the Green Mountains, where\nmy thoughts and feelings have their centre above all places on this\nearth. I wish you could be present at my wedding there on the third of\nSeptember.\n\nHow little did he dream, when penning these words, or did his friend\ndream while reading them, that, after the lapse of more than forty\nyears, the \"dear Elizabeth\" would find her grave near by the old\nparsonage in which that wedding was to be celebrated, while the dust of\nthe lovely daughter of Dorset would be sleeping on the distant shores of\nthe Bosphorus!\n\n\n[1] For many years after the publication of his Memoir, it was so often\ngiven to children at their baptism that at one time those who bore it,\nin and out of New England, were to be numbered by hundreds, if not\nthousands. \"I once saw the deaths of _three_ little Edward Paysons in\none paper,\" wrote Mrs. Prentiss in 1832.\n\n[2] He was the author of a curious work entitled, \"Proofs of the real\nExistence, and dangerous Tendency, of Illuminism.\" Charlestown, 1802. By\n\"Illuminism\" he means an organised attempt, or conspiracy, to undermine\nthe foundations of Christian society and establish upon its ruins the\nsystem of atheism.\n\n[3] \"I spent part of last evening reading over some old letters of my\ngrandmother's and never realised before what a remarkable woman she was\nboth as to piety and talent.\"--_From a letter of Mrs. Prentiss, written\nin 1864._\n\n[4] In a letter to his mother,--written when Elizabeth was three years\nold, he says: \"E. has a terrible abscess, which we feared would prove\ntoo much for her slender constitution. We were almost worn out with\nwatching; and, just as she began to mend, I was seized with a violent\nague in my face, which gave me incessant anguish for six days and nights\ntogether, and deprived me almost entirely of sleep. Three nights I did\nnot close my eyes. When well nigh distracted with pain and loss of\nsleep, Satan was let loose upon me, to buffet me, and I verily thought\nwould have driven me to desperation and madness.\"\n\n[5] The late President Wayland.\n\n[6] Prof. Calvin E. Stowe, D.D.\n\n[7] The late Rev. Absalom Peters, D.D.\n\n[8]\n\n  I can see the breezy dome of groves,\n    The shadows of Deering's Woods;\n  And the friendships old and the early loves\n  Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves\n    In quiet neighborhoods.\n      And the verse of that sweet old song,\n      It flutters and murmurs still:\n     \"A boy's will is the wind's will,\n  And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.\"\n                 --LONGFELLOW'S _My Lost Youth._\n\n[9] \"The Lament of the Last Peach\" had been written by her a year\nbefore when in Brooklyn, and her friend's brother had sent it to \"The\nKnickerbocker,\" the popular Magazine of that day. Here it is:\n\n  LAMENT OF THE LAST PEACH.\n\n  In solemn silence here I live,\n    A lone, deserted peach;\n  So high that none but birds and winds\n    My quiet bough can reach.\n  And mournfully, and hopelessly,\n    I think upon the past;\n  Upon my dear departed friends,\n    And I, the last--the last.\n\n  My friends! oh, daily one by one\n    I've seen them drop away;\n  Unheeding all the tears and prayers\n    That vainly bade them stay.\n  And here I hang alone, alone--\n    While life is fleeing fast;\n  And sadly sigh that I am left\n    The last, the last, the last.\n\n  Farewell, then, thou my little world\n    My home upon the tree,\n  A sweet retreat, a quiet home\n    Thou mayst no longer be;\n  The willow trees stand weeping nigh,\n    The sky is overcast,\n  The autumn winds moan sadly by,\n    And say, the last--the last!\n\n[10] \"Dear Lizzy is in her little school. Her pupils love her dearly.\nShe will have about thirty in the summer.\"--_Letter of Mrs. Payson,\nMarch 28, 1839_.\n\n[11] Three years later Elizabeth thus referred to this period in the\nlife of her friend:--\"During the time in which she was seeking the\nSaviour with all her heart, I was much with her and had an opportunity\nto see every variety of feeling as she daily set the whole before\nme. The affection thus acquired is, I believe, never lost. If I live\nforever, I shall not lose the impressions which I then received--the\ndeep anxiety I felt lest she should finally come short of salvation, and\nthen the happiness of having her lost in contemplation of the character\nof Him whom she had so often declared it impossible to love.\"\n\n[12] Old friends of her father also became much interested in her. Among\nthem was Simon Greenleaf, the eminent writer on the law of evidence, and\nJudge Story's successor at Harvard. On removing to Cambridge, in 1833,\nhe gave her with his autograph a little volume entitled, \"Hours for\nHeaven; a small but choice selection of prayers, from eminent Divines of\nthe Church of England,\" which long continued to be one of her books of\ndevotion.\n\n[13] See the touching memorial of her, \"Light on the Dark River,\"\nprepared by her early friend, Mrs. Lawrence.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nTHE NEW LIFE IN CHRIST.\n\n1840-1841.\n\nI.\n\nA Memorable Experience. Letters to her Cousin. Goes to Richmond as a\nTeacher. Mr. Persico's School. Letters.\n\n\nMiss Payson was now in her twenty-first year, a period which she always\nlooked back to as a turning-point in her spiritual history. The domestic\ninfluences that encompassed her childhood, her early associations, and\nthe books of devotion which she read, all conspired to imbue her with an\nearnest sense of divine things, and while yet a young girl, as we\nhave seen, she publicly devoted herself to the service of her God and\nSaviour. For several years her piety, if marked by no special features,\nwas still regarded by her young friends, and by all who knew her, as of\na decided character. But during the general religious interest in the\nwinter of 1837-8, even while absorbed in solicitude for others, she\nbegan herself to question its reality. \"For some months I had no hope\nthat I was a Christian, and _pride_ made me go on just as if I felt\nmyself perfectly safe. Nothing could at that time have made me willing\nto have any eye a witness to my daily struggles.\" And yet she \"often\nlonged for the sympathy and assistance of Christian friends,\" and to her\nunwillingness to confide in them she afterwards attributed much of the\nsuffering that followed. \"I do not know exactly how I passed out of that\nseason, but my school commenced in April, and I became so interested in\nit that I had less time to think of and to watch myself. The next winter\nmost of my scholars were deeply impressed by divine things, and, of\ncourse, I could not look on without having my own heart touched. It was\nmy privilege to spend many delightful weeks in watching the progress\nof minds earnestly seeking the way of life and early consecrating\nthemselves to their Saviour.\" [1] But after a while a severe reaction\nset in and in the course of the summer she became careless in her\nreligious habits, shrank from the Lord's table as a \"place of absolute\ntorture,\" and while spending a fortnight in Boston in the fall, entirely\nomitted all exercises of private devotion.\n\nShe had now reached a crisis which was to decide her course for life.\nDuring the winter of 1839-40, she passed through very deep and harrowing\nexercises of soul. Her spiritual nature was shaken to its foundation,\nand she could say with the Psalmist, _Out of the depths have I cried\nunto Thee, O Lord._ For several months she was in a state similar\nto that which the old divines depict so vividly as being \"under\nconviction.\" Her sense of sin, and of her own unworthiness in the\nsight of God, grew more and more intense and oppressive. At times she\nabandoned all hope, accused herself of having played the hypocrite, and\nfancied she was given over to hardness of heart. At length she sought\ncounsel of her pastor and confided to him her trouble, but he \"did not\nknow exactly what to do with me.\" In the midst of her distress, and as\nits effect, no doubt, she was taken ill and confined to her room, where\nin solitude she passed several weeks seeking rest and finding none.\n\"Sometimes I tried to pray, but this only increased my distress and\nmade me cry out for annihilation to free me from the agony which seemed\ninsupportable.\" With a single interval of comparative indifference, this\nstate of mind continued for nearly four months. She thus describes it:\n\nIt was in vain that I sought the Lord in any of the lofty pathways\nthrough which my heart wished to go. At last I found it impossible to\ncarry on the struggle any longer alone. I would gladly have put myself\nat the feet of a little child, if by so doing I could have found peace.\nI felt so guilty and the character of God appeared so perfect in its\npurity and holiness, that I knew not which way to turn. The sin which\ndistressed me most of all was the rejection of the Saviour. This haunted\nme constantly and made me fly first to one thing and then another, in\nthe hope of finding somewhere the peace which I would not accept from\nHim. It was at this time that I kept reading over the first twelve\nchapters of Doddridge's \"Rise and Progress,\"--the rest of the book I\nabhorred. So great was my agony that I can only wonder at the goodness\nof Him who held my life in His hands, and would not permit me in the\nheight of my despair to throw myself away.\n\nIt was in this height of despair that thoughts of the infinite grace\nand love of Christ, which she says she had hitherto repelled, began to\nirradiate her soul. A sermon on His ability to save \"unto the uttermost\"\ndeeply affected her. [2] \"While listening to it my weary spirit _rested_\nitself, and I thought, 'surely it can not be wrong to think of the\nSaviour, although He is not mine.' With this conclusion I gave myself up\nto admire, to love and to praise Him, to wonder why I had never done\nso before, and to hope that all the great congregation around me were\njoining with me in acknowledging Him to be chief among ten thousand and\nthe One altogether lovely.\" On going home she could at first scarcely\nbelieve in her own identity, the feeling of peace and love to God and\nto all the world was so unlike the turbulent emotions that had long\nagitated her soul. \"From this time my mind went slowly onward, examining\nthe way step by step, trembling and afraid, yet filled with a calm\ncontentment which made all the dealings of God with me appear just\nright. I know myself to be perfectly helpless. I can not promise to do\nor to be anything; but I do want to put everything else aside, and to\ndevote myself entirely to the service of Christ.\"\n\nHer account of this memorable experience is dated August 28, 1840.\n\"While writing it,\" she adds, \"I have often laid aside my pen, to sit\nand think over in silent wonder the way in which the Lord has led me.\"\n\nHow in later years she regarded certain features of this experience, is\nnot fully known. The record passed at once out of her hands, and until\nafter her death was never seen by anyone, excepting the friend for whose\neye it was written. Many of its details had, probably, faded entirely\nfrom her memory. It can not be doubted, however, that she would have\njudged her previous state much less severely, would hardly have charged\nit with hypocrisy, or denied that the Saviour had been graciously\nleading her, and that she had some real love to Him, before as well as\nafter this crisis. So much may be inferred from the record itself and\nfrom the narrative in the preceding chapter. Her tender interest in the\nspiritual welfare of her friends and pupils, the high tone of religious\nsentiment that marks her early writings, the books she delighted in, her\nfilial devotion, the absolute sincerity of her character, all forbid\nany other conclusion. [3] The indications, too, are very plain that her\nmorbidly-sensitive, melancholy temperament had much to do with this\nexperience. Her account of it shows, also, that her mind was unhappily\naffected by certain false notions of the Christian life and ordinances\nthen, and still, more or less prevalent--notions based upon a too narrow\nand legal conception of the Gospel. Hence, her shrinking from the Lord's\ntable as a place of \"torture,\" instead of regarding it in its true\ncharacter, as instituted on purpose to feed hungry souls, like her own,\nwith bread from heaven. But for all that, the experience was a blessed\nreality and, as these pages will attest, wrought a lasting change in her\nreligious life. No doubt the Spirit of God was leading her through all\nits dark and terrible mazes. It virtually ended a conflict which the\nintensely proud elements of her nature rendered inevitable, if she was\nto become a true heroine of faith--the conflict between her Master's\nwill and her own. Her Master conquered, and henceforth to her dying hour\nHis will was the sovereign law of her existence, and its sweetest joy\nalso.\n\nThe following extracts from letters to her cousin, George E. Shipman,\nof New York, now widely known as the founder of a Foundling Home at\nChicago, will throw additional light upon her state of mind at this\nperiod. Mr. Shipman was the friend to whom the account of her experience\nalready mentioned was addressed. He had just spent several weeks in\nPortland, and to his Christian sympathy, kindness, and counsels while\nthere and during the two following years, she felt herself very deeply\nindebted. [4]\n\nPORTLAND, _August 22, 1840._\n\nI am always wondering if any body in the world is the better off for my\nbeing in it. And so if I was of any comfort to you, I am very glad of\nit. I do want, I confess, the privilege of offering you sometimes the\nwine and oil of consolation, and if I do it in such a way as to cause\npain with my unskilful hand, why, you must forgive me.... Mr. ----\ntalked to me as if he imagined me a blue-stocking. Just because my\nsister wears spectacles, folks take it for granted that I also am\nliterary.\n\n_Aug. 25th._--You ask if I find it easy to engage in religious\nmeditation, referring in particular to that on our final rest. This is\nanother of my trials. I can not meditate upon anything, except indeed it\nbe something quite the opposite of what I wish to occupy my mind. You\nknow that some Christians are able in their solitary walks and rides\nto hold, all the time, communion with God. I can very seldom do this.\nYesterday I was obliged to take a long walk alone, and it was made very\ndelightful in this way; so that I quite forgot that I was alone.... I am\nbeginning to feel, that I have enough to do without looking out for a\ngreat, wide place in which to work, and to appreciate the simple lines:\n\n  \"The trivial round, the common task,\n  Would furnish all we ought to ask;\n  Room to deny ourselves; a road\n  To bring us daily nearer God.\"\n\nThose words \"daily nearer God\" have an inexpressible charm for me. I\nlong for such nearness to Him that all other objects shall fade into\ncomparative insignificance,--so that to have a thought, a wish, a\npleasure apart from Him shall be impossible.\n\n_Sept. 12th._--At Sabbath-school this morning, while talking with my\nscholars about the Lord Jesus, my heart, which is often so cold and so\nstupid, seemed completely melted within me, with such a view of His\nwonderful, wonderful love for sinners, that I almost believed I had\nnever felt it till then. Such a blessing is worth toiling and wrestling\nfor a whole life. If a glimpse of our Saviour here upon earth can be so\nrefreshing, so delightful, what will it be in heaven!\n\n_Sept. 17th._--I have been reading to-day some passages from Nevins'\n\"Practical Thoughts.\" [5] Perhaps you have seen them; if so, do you\nremember two articles headed, \"I must pray more,\" and \"I must pray\ndifferently\"? They interested me much because in some measure they\nexpress my own feelings. I have less and less confidence in _frames_, as\nthey are called. I am glad that you think it better to have a few books\nand to read them over and over, for my own inclination leads me to that.\nOne gets attached to them as to Christian friends. Do not hesitate to\ndirect me over and over again, to go with difficulties and temptations\nand sin to the Saviour. I love to be led there and _left_ there.\nSometimes when the exceeding \"sinfulness of sin\" becomes painfully\napparent, there is nothing else for the soul to do but to lie in the\ndust before God, without a word of excuse, and that feeling of abasement\nin His sight is worth more than all the pleasures in the world.... You\nwill believe me if I own myself tired, when I tell you that I made\nfourteen calls this afternoon. But even the unpleasant business of\ncall-making has had one comfort. Some of the friends of whom I took\nleave, spoke so tenderly of Him whose name is so precious to His\nchildren that my heart warmed towards them instantly, and I thought it\nworth while to have parting hours, sad though they may be, if with them\ncame so naturally thoughts of the Saviour. Besides, I have been thinking\nsince I came home, that if I did not love Him, it could not be so\nrefreshing to hear unexpectedly of Him.... I did not know that mother\nhad anything to do with your father's conversion, and when I mentioned\nit to her she seemed much surprised and said she did not know it\nherself. Pray tell me more of it, will you? I have felt that if, in the\ncourse of my life, I should be the means of leading one soul to the\nSaviour, it would be worth staying in this world for no matter how many\nyears.\n\nDid you ever read Miss Taylor's \"Display\"? Sister says the character of\nEmily there is like mine. I think so myself save in the best point.\n\nWe come now to an important change in her outward life. She had accepted\nan invitation to become a teacher in Mr. Persico's school at Richmond,\nVirginia. Mr. Persico was an Italian, a brother of the sculptor of that\nname, a number of whose works are seen at Washington. He early became\ninterested in our institutions, and as soon as he was able, came to this\ncountry and settled in Philadelphia as an artist. He married a lady of\nthat city, and afterward on account of her health went to Richmond,\nwhere he opened a boarding and day school for girls. There were four\nseparate departments, one of which was under the sole care of Miss\nPayson. Her letters to her family, written at this time, have all been\nlost, but a full record of the larger portion of her Richmond life is\npreserved in letters to her cousin, Mr. Shipman. The following extracts\nfrom these letters show with what zeal she devoted herself to her new\ncalling and how absorbed her heart was still in the things of God. They\nalso throw light upon some marked features of her character.\n\nBOSTON, _September 23._\n\nI had, after leaving home, an attack of that terrible pain, of which I\nhave told you, and believed myself very near death. It became a serious\nquestion whether, if God should so please, I could feel willing to die\nthere alone, for I was among entire strangers. I never enjoyed more of\nHis presence than that night when, sick and sad and full of pain, I felt\nit sweet to put myself in His hands to be disposed of in His own way.\n\nThe attack referred to in this letter resembled _angina pectoris_, a\ndisease to which for many years she was led to consider herself liable.\nWhatever it may have been, its effect was excruciating. \"Mother was\ntelling me the other day,\" she wrote to a friend, \"that in her long life\nshe had never seen an individual suffer more severe bodily pain than she\nhad often tried to relieve in me. I remember scores of such hours of\nreal agony.\" In the present instance the attack was doubtless brought\non, in part at least, by mental agitation. \"No words,\" she wrote a few\nmonths later, \"can describe the anguish of my mind the night I left\nhome; it seemed to me that all the agony I had ever passed through was\ncondensed into a small space, and I certainly believe that I should die,\nif left to a higher degree of such pain.\"\n\nRICHMOND, _September 30, 1840._\n\nAbout twelve o'clock, when it was as dark as pitch, we were all ordered\nto prepare for a short walk. In single file then out we went. It seems\nthat a bridge had been burned lately, and so we were all to go round on\nfoot to another train of cars. There were dozens of bright, crackling\nbonfires lighted at short intervals all along, and as we wound down\nnarrow, steep and rocky pathways, then up steps which had been rudely\ncut out in the side of the elevated ground, and as far as we could see\nbefore us could watch the long line of moving figures in all varieties\nof form and color, my spirits rose to the very tiptop of enjoyment. I\nwished you could have a picture of the whole scene, which, though one of\nreal life, was to me at least exceedingly beautiful. We reached\nRichmond at one o'clock. Mr. Persico was waiting for us and received\nus cordially.... When I awoke at eight o'clock, I felt forlorn enough.\nImagine, if you can, the room in which I opened my eyes. It is in the\nattic, is very low and has two windows. My first thought was, \"I never\ncan be happy in this miserable hole;\" but in a second this wicked\nfeeling took flight, and I reproached myself for my ingratitude to Him\nwho had preserved me through all my journey, had made much of it so\ndelightful and profitable, and who still promised to be with me.\n\n_Oct. 2._--I will try to give you some account of our doings, although\nwe are not fully settled. We have risen at six so far, but intend to be\nup by five if we can wake. As soon as we are dressed I take my Bible out\ninto the entry, where is a window and a quiet corner, and read and think\nuntil Louisa [6] is ready to give me our room and take my place. At nine\nwe go into school, where Miss Lord [7] reads a prayer, and from that\nhour until twelve we are engaged with our respective classes. At twelve\nwe have a recess of thirty minutes. This over, we return again to\nschool, where we stay until three, when we are to dine. All day Saturday\nwe are free. This time we are to have Monday, too, as a special\nholiday, because of a great Whig convention which is turning the city\nupside-down. There is one pleasant thing, pleasant to me at least, of\nwhich I want to tell you. As Mr. Persico is not a religious man, I\nsupposed we should have no blessing at the table, and was afraid I\nshould get into the habit of failing to acknowledge God there. But I\nwas much affected when, on going to dine the first day I came, he stood\nleaning silently and reverentially over his chair, as if to allow all of\nus time for that quiet lifting up of the heart which is ever acceptable\nin the sight of God. It is very impressive. Miss Lord reads prayers at\nnight, and when Mrs. Persico comes home we are to have singing....\n\nThat passage in the 119th Psalm, of which you speak, is indeed\ndelightful. I will tell you what were some of my meditations on it. I\nthought to myself that if God continued His faithfulness toward me, I\nshall have afflictions such as I now know nothing more of than the name,\nfor I need them constantly. I have trembled ever since I came here at\nthe host of new difficulties to which I am exposed. Surely I did again\nand again ask God to decide the question for me as to whether I should\nleave home or not, and believed that He _had_ chosen for me. It\ncertainly was against my own inclinations....\n\n_Oct. 12th._--This morning I had a new scholar, a pale, thin little girl\nwho stammers, and when I spoke to her, and she was obliged to answer,\nthe color spread over her face and neck as if she suffered the utmost\nmortification. I was glad when recess came, to draw her close to my side\nand to tell her that I had a friend afflicted in the same way, and that\nconsequently, I should know how to understand and pity her. She held my\nhand fast in hers and the tears came stealing down one after another,\nas she leaned confidingly upon my shoulder, and I could not help crying\ntoo, with mingled feelings of gratitude and sorrow. Certainly it will be\ndelightful to soothe and to console this poor little thing.... You do\nnot like poetry and I have spent the best part of my life in reading\nor trying to write it. N. P. Willis told me some years ago, that if my\nhusband had a soul, he would love me for the poetical in me, and advised\nme to save it for him.\n\n_Oct. 27th._--Sometimes when I feel almost sure that the Saviour has\naccepted and forgiven me and that I _belong to Him_, I can only walk my\nroom repeating over and over again, _How wonderful_! And then when my\nmind strives to take in this love of Christ, it seems to struggle in\nvain with its own littleness and falls back weary and exhausted,\nto _wonder_ again at the heights and depths which surpass its\ncomprehension.... If there is a spark of love in my heart for anybody,\nit is for this dear brother of mine, and the desire to have his\neducation thorough and complete has grown with my growth. You, who are\nnot a sister, can not understand the feelings with which I regard him,\nbut they are such as to call forth unbounded love and gratitude toward\nthose who show kindness to him.\n\n_Nov. 3d._--I have always felt a peculiar love for the passage that\ndescribes the walk to Emmaus. I have tried to analyse the feeling of\npleasure which it invariably sheds over my heart when dwelling upon it,\nespecially upon the words, \"Jesus Himself drew near and went with them,\"\nand these, \"He made as though He would go further,\" but yielded to\ntheir urgent, \"Abide with us.\" ... This is one of the comforts of the\nChristian; God understands him fully whether he can explain his troubles\nor not. Sometimes I think all of a sudden that I do not love the Saviour\nat all, and am ready to believe that all my pretended anxiety to serve\nHim has been but a matter of feeling and not of principle; but of late\nI have been less disturbed by this imagination, as I find it extends\nto earthly friends who are dear to me as my own soul. I thought once\nyesterday that I didn't love anybody in the world and was perfectly\nwretched in consequence.\n\n_Nov. 12th._--The more I try to understand myself, the more I am\npuzzled. That I am a mixture of contradictions is the opinion I have\nlong had of myself. I call it a compound of sincerity and reserve.\nUnless you see just what I mean in your own consciousness, I doubt\nwhether I can explain it in words. With me it is both an open and a shut\nheart--open when and where and as far as I please, and shut as tight as\na vise in the same way. I was probably born with this same mixture of\nfrankness and reserve, having inherited the one from my mother and the\nother from my father.... I have often thought that, humanly speaking, it\nwould be a strange, and surely a very sad thing if we none of us inherit\nany of our father's piety; for when he prayed for his children it was,\nundoubtedly, that we might be very peculiarly the Lord's. H. was to\nbe the missionary; but if he can not go himself, and is prospered in\nbusiness, I hope he will be able to help send others. I have been\nfrightened, of late, in thinking how little good I am doing in the\nworld. And yet I believe that those who love to do good always find\nopportunities enough, wherever they are. Whether I shall do any here, I\ndare not try to guess.\n\n_Dec. 3d._--How I thank you for the interest you take in my Bible class.\nThey are so attentive to every word I say that it makes me deeply feel\nthe importance of seeking each of those words from the Holy Spirit. Many\nof them had not even a Bible of their own until now, nor were they\nin the habit of reading it at all. Among others there are two\ngrand-daughters of Patrick Henry. I wish I could give you a picture of\nthem, as they sit on Sabbath evening around the table with their eyes\nfixed so eagerly on my face, that if I did not feel that the Lord\nJesus was present, I should be overwhelmed with confusion at my\nunworthiness.... Mr. Persico is a queer man. Last Sabbath Miss L. asked\nhim if he had been to church. \"Oui, Mlle.,\" said he; \"_vous_ \u00e9tiez \u00e0\nl'\u00e9glise de l'homme--_moi_, j'\u00e9tais \u00e0 l'\u00e9glise de Dieu--dans les bois.\"\nThere is the bell for prayers; it is an hour since I began to write, but\nI have spent a great part of it with my eyes shut because I happened\nto feel more like meditating than writing, if you know what sort of\na feeling that is. Oh, that we might be enabled to go onward day by\nday--and _upward too_.\n\nI have been making violent efforts for years to become meek and lowly in\nheart. At present I do hope that I am less irritable than I used to be.\nIt was no small comfort to me when sister was home last summer, to learn\nfrom her that I had succeeded somewhat in my efforts. But though I have\nnot often the last year been guilty of \"harsh speeches,\" I have felt\nmy pride tugging with all its might to kindle a great fire when some\nunexpected trial has caught me off my guard. I am persuaded that real\nmeekness dwells deep within the heart and that it is only to be gained\nby communion with our blessed Saviour, who when He was reviled, reviled\nnot again.\n\n_Sabbath Evening, 8th._--I wanted to write last evening but had a worse\npain in my side and left arm than I have had since I came here. While it\nlasted, which was an hour and a half, I had such pleasant thoughts for\ncompanions as would make any pain endurable. I was asking myself if,\nsupposing God should please suddenly to take me away in the midst of\nlife, whether I should feel willing and glad to go, and oh, it did seem\n_delightful_ to think of it, and to feel sure that, sooner or later, the\nsummons will come. Those pieces which you marked in the \"Observer\" I\nhave read and like them exceedingly, especially those about growth in\ngrace.... You speak of the goodness of God to me in granting me so much\nof His presence, while I am here away from all earthly friends. Indeed I\nwant to be able to praise Him as I never yet have done, and I don't know\nwhere to begin. I have felt more pain in this separation from home on\nmother's account than any other, as I feel that she needs me at home to\ncomfort and to love her. Since she lost her best earthly friend I have\nbeen her constant companion. I once had a secret desire for a missionary\nlife, if God should see fit to prepare me for it, but when I spoke of\nit to mother she was so utterly overcome at its bare mention that I\ninstantly promised I would _never_ for any inducement leave or forsake\nher. I want you to pray for me that if poor mother's right hand is made\nforever useless, [8] I may after this year be a right hand for her, and\nbe enabled to make up somewhat to her for the loss of it by affection\nand tenderness and sympathy.... I don't remember feeling any way in\nparticular, when I first began to \"write for the press,\" as you call it.\nI never could realise that more than half a dozen people would read my\npieces. Besides, I have no desire of the sort you express, for fame.\nI care a great deal too much for the approbation of those I love and\nrespect, but not a fig for that of those I don't like or don't know.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nII.\n\nHer Character as a Teacher. Letters. Incidents of School-Life. Religious\nStruggles, Aims, and Hopes. Oppressive Heat and Weariness.\n\n\nMiss Payson had been in Richmond but a short time before she became\ngreatly endeared to Mr. and Mrs. Persico, and to the whole school. She\nhad a rare natural gift for teaching. Fond of study herself, she\nknew how to inspire her pupils with the same feeling. Her method was\nexcellent. It aimed not merely to impart knowledge but to elicit latent\npowers, and to remove difficulties out of the way. While decided and\nthorough, it was also very gentle, helpful, and sympathetic. She had a\nquick perception of mental diversities, saw as by intuition the weak and\nthe strong points of individual character, and was skillful in adapting\nher influence, as well as her instructions, to the peculiarities of\nevery one under her care. The girls in her own special department almost\nidolised her. The parents also of some of them, who belonged to Richmond\nand its vicinity, seeing what she was doing for their daughters, sought\nher acquaintance and showed her the most grateful affection.\n\nAlthough her school labors were exacting, she carried on a large\ncorrespondence, spent a good deal of time in her favorite religious\nreading, and together with Miss Susan Lord, the senior teacher and an\nold Portland friend, pursued a course of study in French and Italian. At\nthe table Mr. Persico spoke French, and in this way she was enabled\nto perfect herself in the practice of that language. Of her spiritual\nhistory and of incidents of her school life during the new year, some\nextracts from letters to her cousin will give her own account.\n\nRICHMOND, _January 3, 1841._\n\nIf I tell you that I am going to take under my especial care and\nprotection one of the family--a little girl of eleven years whom nobody\ncan manage at all, you may wonder why. I found on my plate at dinner a\nnote from Mrs. Persico saying that if I wanted an opportunity of doing\ngood, here was one; that if Nannie could sleep in my room, etc., it\nmight be of great benefit to her. The only reason why I hesitated was\nthe fear that she might be in the way of our best hours. But I have\nthought all along that I was living too much at my ease, and wanted a\nplace in which to deny myself for the sake of the One who yielded up\nevery comfort for my sake. Nannie has a fine character but has been\nmismanaged at home, and since coming here. She often comes and puts her\narms around me and says, \"There is _one_ in this house who loves me, I\ndo _know_.\" I receive her as a trust from God, with earnest prayer to\nHim that we may be enabled to be of use to her. From morning to night\nshe is found fault with, and this is spoiling her temper and teaching\nher to be deceitful.... I have been reading lately the Memoir of Martyn.\nI have, of course, read it more than once before, but everything appears\nto me now in such a different light. I rejoice that I have been led to\nread the book just now. It has put within me new and peculiar desires to\nlive wholly for the glory of God.\n\n_Jan.13th._--I understand the feeling about wishing one's self a dog,\nor an animal without a soul. I have sat and watched a little kitten\nfrisking about in the sunshine till I could hardly help killing it in my\nenvy--but oh, how different it is now! I have felt lately that perhaps\nGod has something for me to do in the world. I am satisfied, indeed,\nthat in calling me nearer to Himself He has intended to prepare me for\nHis service. Where that is to be is no concern of mine as yet. I only\nwish to belong to Him and wait for His will, whatever it may be.\n\n_Jan. 14th_.--I used to go through with prayer merely as a duty, but now\nI look forward to the regular time for it, and hail opportunities for\nspecial seasons with such delight as I once knew nothing of. Sometimes\nmy heart feels ready to break for the longing it hath for a nearer\napproach to the Lord Jesus than I can obtain without the use of words,\nand there is not a corner of the house which I can have to myself. I\nthink sometimes that I should be thankful for the meanest place in the\nuniverse. You ask if I ever dream of seeing the Lord. No--I never did,\nneither should I think it desirable; but a few days ago, when I woke,\nI had fresh in my remembrance some precious words which, as I had been\ndreaming, He had spoken to me. It left an indescribable feeling of love\nand peace on my mind. I seemed in my dream to be very near Him, and that\nHe was encouraging me to ask of Him all the things of which I felt the\nneed.\n\n_Jan. 17th_.--I did not mean to write so much about myself, for when I\ntook out my letter I was thinking of things and beings far above this\nworld. I was thinking of the hour when the Christian first enters into\nthe joy of his Lord, when the first note of the \"new song\" is borne to\nhis ear, and the first view of the Lamb of God is granted to his eye. It\nseems to me as if the bliss of that one minute would fully compensate\nfor all the toils and struggles he must go through here; and then to\nremember the ages of happiness that begin at that point! Oh, if the\nunseen presence of Jesus can make the heart to sing for joy in the midst\nof its sorrow and sin here, what will it be to dwell with Him forever!\n\nMy Bible class, which consists now of eighteen, is every week more\ndear to me. I am glad that you think poor Nannie well off. She has\nan inquiring mind, and though before coming here she had received no\nreligious instruction and had not even a Bible, she is now constantly\nasking me questions which prove her to be a first-rate thinker and\nreasoner. She went to the theatre last night and came home quite\ndisgusted, saying to herself, \"I shouldn't like to die in the midst of\nsuch gayeties as these.\" She urged me to tell her if I thought it wrong\nfor her to go, but I would not, because I did not want her to stay away\nfor my sake. I want her to settle the question fairly in her own mind\nand to be guided by her own conscience rather than mine. She is so\ngrateful and happy that, if the sacrifice had been greater, we should be\nglad that we had made it. And then if we can do her any good, how much\nreason we shall have to thank God for having placed her here!\n\n_Feb. 11th._--My thoughts of serious things should, perhaps, be called\nprayers, rather than anything else. I have constant need of looking up\nto God for help, so utterly weak and ignorant am I and so dependent upon\nHim. Sometimes in my walks, especially those of the early morning, I\ntake a verse from the \"Daily Food\" to think upon; at others, if my mind\nis where I want it should be, everything seems to speak and suggest\nthoughts of my Heavenly Father, and when it is otherwise I feel as\nif that time had been wasted. This is not \"keeping the mind on the\nstretch,\" and is delightfully refreshing. All I wish is that I were\nalways thus favored. As to a hasty temper, I know that anybody who ever\nlived with me, until within the last two or three years, could tell\nyou of many instances of outbreaking passion. I am ashamed to say how\nrecently the last real tempest occurred, but I will not spare myself. It\nwas in the spring of 1838, and I did not eat anything for so long that I\nwas ill in bed and barely escaped a fever. Mother nursed me so tenderly\nthat, though she forgave me, I _never_ shall forgive myself. Since then\nI should not wish you to suppose that I have been perfectly amiable, but\nfor the last year I think I have been enabled in a measure to control my\ntemper, but of that you know more than I do, as you had a fair specimen\nof what I am when with us last summer. It has often been a source of\nencouragement to me that everybody said I was gentle and amiable till\nmy father's death, when I was nine years old.... While reading to-night\nthat chapter in Mark, where it speaks of Jesus as walking on the sea,\nI was interested in thinking how frequently such scenes occur in our\nspiritual passage over the sea which is finally to land us on the shores\nof the home for which we long. \"While they were toiling in rowing,\"\nJesus went to them upon the water and \"would have passed by\" till He\nheard their cries, and then He manifested Himself unto them saying, _\"It\nis I.\"_ And when He came to them, the wind ceased and they \"wondered.\"\nSurely we have often found in our toiling that Jesus was passing by\nand ready at the first trembling fear to speak the word of love and\nof consolation and to give us the needed help, and then to leave\nus _wondering_ indeed at the infinite tenderness and kindness so\nunexpectedly vouchsafed for our relief.\n\n_Feb. 13th_--I do not think we should make our enjoyment of religion the\ngreatest end of our struggle against sin. I never once had such an idea.\nI think we should fight against sin simply because it is something\nhateful to God, because it is something so utterly unlike the spirit of\nChrist, whom it is our privilege to strive to imitate in all things. On\nall points connected with the love I wish to give my Saviour, and the\nservice I am to render Him, I feel that I want teaching and am glad to\nobtain assistance from any source. I hardly know how to answer your\nquestion. I do not have that constant sense of the Saviour's presence\nwhich I had here for a long time, neither do I feel that I love Him as\nI thought I did, but it is not always best to judge of ourselves by our\nfeelings, but by the general principle and guiding desire of the mind. I\ndo think that my prevailing aim is to do the will of God and to glorify\nHim in everything. Of this I have thought a great deal of late. I have\nnot a very extensive sphere of action, but I want my conduct, my every\nword and look and motion, to be fully under the influence of this desire\nfor the honor of God. You can have no idea of the constant observation\nto which I am exposed here.\n\n_Feb. 21st._--I spent three hours this afternoon in taking care of a\nlittle black child (belonging to the house), who is very ill, and as\nI am not much used to such things, it excited and worried me into a\nviolent nervous headache. I finished Brainerd's Life this afternoon,\namid many doubts as to whether I ever loved the Lord at all, so\ndifferent is my piety from that of this blessed and holy man. The book\nhas been a favorite with me for years, but I never felt the influence of\nhis life as I have while reading it of late.\n\nShe alludes repeatedly in her correspondence to the delight which she\nfound on the Sabbath in listening to that eminent preacher and divine,\nthe Rev. Dr. Wm. S. Plumer, who was then settled in Richmond. In a\nletter to her cousin she writes:\n\nI have become much attached to him; he seems more than half in heaven,\nand every word is full of solemnity and feeling, as if he had just held\nnear intercourse with God. I wish that you could have listened with me\nto his sermons to-day. They have been, I think, blessed messages from\nGod to my soul.\n\nAll her letters at this time glow with religious fervor. \"How wonderful\nis our divine Master!\" she seemed to be always saying to herself. \"It\nhas become so delightful to me to speak of His love, of His holiness, of\nHis purity, that when I try to write to those who know Him not, I hardly\nknow what is worthy of even a mention, if He is to be forgotten.\" And\nseveral years afterwards she refers to this period as a time when she\n\"shrank from everything that in the slightest degree interrupted her\nconsciousness of God.\"\n\nThe following letter to a friend, whose name will often recur in these\npages, well illustrates her state of mind during the entire winter.\n\n_To Miss Anna S. Prentiss. Richmond, Feb 26, 1841._\n\nYour very welcome letter, my dear Anna, arrived this afternoon, and, as\nmy labors for the week are over, I am glad of a quiet hour in which to\nthank you for it. I do not thank you simply because you have so soon\nanswered my letter, but because you have told me what no one else could\ndo so well about your own very dear self. When I wrote you I doubted\nvery much whether I might even allude to the subject of religion,\nalthough I wished to do so, since that almost exclusively has occupied\nmy mind during the last year. I saw you in the midst of temptations to\nwhich I have ever been a stranger, but which I conceived to be decidedly\nunfavorable to growth in any of the graces which make up Christian\ncharacter. It was not without hesitation that I ventured to yield to the\npromptings of my heart, and to refer to the only things which have at\npresent much interest for it. I can not tell you how I do rejoice\nthat you have been led to come out thus upon the Lord's side, and to\nconsecrate yourself to His service. My own views and feelings have\nwithin the last year undergone such an entire change, that I have wished\nI could take now some such stand in the presence of all who have known\nme in days past, as this which you have taken. My first and only wish is\nhenceforth to live but for Him, who has graciously drawn my wandering\naffections to Himself.... You speak of the faintness of your heart--but\n\"they who wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength,\" and I do\nbelieve the truth of these precious words; not only because they are\nthose of God, but also because my own experience adds happy witness to\nthem. I have lived many years with only just enough of hope to keep me\nfrom actual despair. The least breath was sufficient to scatter it all\nand to leave me, fearful and afraid, to go over and over again the same\nground; thus allowing neither time nor strength for progress in the\nChristian course. I trust that you will not go through years of such\nunnecessary darkness and despondency. There is certainly enough in our\nSaviour, if we only open our eyes that we may see it, to solve every\ndoubt and satisfy every longing of the heart; and He is willing to give\nit in full measure. When I contemplate the character of the Lord Jesus,\nI am filled with wonder which I can not express, and with unutterable\ndesires to yield myself and my all to His hand, to be dealt with in\nHis own way; and His way is a blessed one, so that it is delightful to\nresign body and soul and spirit to Him, without a will opposed to His,\nwithout a care but to love Him more, without a sorrow which His love\ncan not sanctify or remove. In following after Him faithfully and\nsteadfastly, the feeblest hopes may be strengthened; and I trust that\nyou will find in your own happy experience that \"joy and peace\" go hand\nin hand with love--so that in proportion to your devotion to the Saviour\nwill be the blessedness of your life. When I begin I hardly know where\nto stop, and now I find myself almost at the end of my sheet before I\nhave begun to say what I wish. This will only assure you that I love you\na thousand times better than I did when I did not know that your heart\nwas filled with hopes and affections like my own, and that I earnestly\ndesire, if Providence permits us to enjoy intercourse in this or in any\nother way, we may never lose sight of the one great truth that we are\n_not our own._ I pray you sometimes remember me at the throne of grace.\nThe more I see of the Saviour, the more I feel my own weakness and\nhelplessness and my need of His constant presence, and I can not help\nasking assistance from all those who love Him.... Oh, how sorry I am\nthat I have come to the end! I wish I had any faculty for expressing\naffection, so that I might tell you how much I love and how often I\nthink of you.\n\nHer cousin having gone abroad, a break in the correspondence with him\noccurred about this time and continued for several months. In a letter\nto her friend, Miss Thurston, dated April 21st, she thus refers to her\nschool:\n\nThere are six of us teachers, five of them born in Maine--which is\nrather funny, as that is considered by most of the folks here as the\nplace where the world comes to an end. Although the South lifts up its\nwings and crows over the North, it is glad enough to get its teachers\nthere, and ministers too, and treats them very well when it gets\nthem, into the bargain. We have in the school about one hundred and\ntwenty-five pupils of all ages. I never knew till I came here the\ninfluence which early religious education exerts upon the whole future\nage. There is such a wonderful difference between most of these young\npeople and those in the North, that you might almost believe them\nanother race of beings. Mrs. Persico is beautiful, intelligent,\ninteresting, and pious. Mr. Persico is just as much like John Neal as\ndifference of education and of circumstances can permit. Mr. N.'s strong\nsense of justice, his enthusiasm, his fun and wit, his independence and\nself-esteem, his tastes, too, as far as I know them, all exist in like\ndegree in Mr. Persico.\n\nThe early spring, with its profusion of flowers of every hue, so far in\nadvance of the spring in her native State, gave her the utmost pleasure;\nbut as the summer approached, her health began to suffer. The heat was\nvery intense, and hot weather always affected her unhappily. \"I feel,\"\nshe wrote, \"as if I were in an oven with hot melted lead poured over my\nbrain.\" Her old trouble, too--\"organic disease of the heart\" it was now\nsuspected to be--caused her much discomfort. \"While writing,\" she says\nin one of her letters, \"I am suffering excruciating pain; I can't call\nit anything else.\" Her physical condition naturally affected more or\nless her religious feelings. Under date of July 12th, she writes:\n\nThe word _conflict_ expresses better than any other my general state\nfrom day to day. I have seemed of late like a straw floating upon the\nsurface of a great ocean, blown hither and thither by every wind, and\ntossed from wave to wave without the rest of a moment. It was a mistake\nof mine to imagine that God ever intended man to rest in this world. I\nsee that it is right and wise in Him to appoint it otherwise.... While\nsuffering from my Saviour's absence, nothing interests me. But I was\nsomewhat encouraged by reading in my father's memoir, and in reflecting\nthat he passed through far greater spiritual conflicts than will\nprobably ever be mine.... I see now that it is not always best for us to\nhave the light of God's countenance. Do not spend your time and strength\nin asking for me that blessing, but this--that I may be transformed into\nthe image of Christ in His own time, in His own way.\n\nEarly in August she left Richmond and flew homeward like a bird to its\nnest.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIII.\n\nExtracts from her Richmond Journal.\n\n\nWere her letters to her cousin the only record of Miss Payson's Richmond\nlife, one might infer that they give a complete picture of it; for they\nwere written in the freedom and confidence of Christian friendship, with\nno thought that a third eye would ever see them. But it had another and\nhidden side, of which her letters contain only a partial record. Her\nearly habit of keeping a journal has been already referred to. She kept\none at Richmond, and was prevented several years later from destroying\nit, as she had destroyed others, by the entreaty of the only person who\never saw it. This journal depicts many of her most secret thoughts and\nfeelings, both earthward and heavenward. Some passages in it are of\ntoo personal a nature for publication, but the following extracts seem\nfairly entitled to a place here, as they bring out several features\nof her character with sunlike clearness, and so will help to a better\nunderstanding of the ensuing narrative:\n\nRICHMOND, _October 3, 1840._\n\nHow funny it seems here! Everything is so different from home! I foresee\nthat I shan't live nearly a year under these new influences without\nchanging my old self into something else. Heaven forbid that I should\ngrow old because people treat me as if I were grown up! I hate old young\nfolks. Well! whoever should see me and my scholars would be at a loss to\nknow wherein consists the difference between them and me. I am only a\nlittle girl after all, and yet folks do treat me as if I were as old and\nas wise as Methusaleh. And Mr. Persico says, \"Oui, Madame.\" Oh! oh! oh!\nIt makes me feel so ashamed when these tall girls, these damsels whose\nhearts are developed as mine won't be these half dozen years (to say\nnothing of their minds), ask me if they may go to bed, if they may walk,\nif they may go to Mr. So-and-so's, and Miss Such-a-one's to buy--a stick\nof candy for aught I know. Oh, oh, oh! I shall have to take airs upon\nmyself. I shall have to leave off little words and use big ones. I shall\nhave to leave off sitting curled up on my feet, turkey-fashion. I shall\nhave to make wise speeches (But a word in your ear, Miss--I _won't_).\n\n_Oct. 27th_--This Richmond is a queer sort of a place and I should be as\nmiserable in it as a fish out of water, only there is sunshine enough\nin my heart to make any old hole bright. In the first place, this dowdy\nchamber is in one view a perfect den--no carpet, whitewashed walls,\nloose windows that have the shaking palsy, fire-red hearth, blue paint\ninstead of white, or rather a suspicion that there was once some blue\npaint here. But what do I care? I'm as merry as a grig from morning till\nnight. The little witches down-stairs love me dearly, everybody is kind,\nand--and--and--when everybody is locked out and I am locked into this\nsame room, this low attic, there's not a king on the earth so rich, so\nhappy as I! Here is my little pet desk, here are my books, my papers.\nI can write and read and study and moralise, I don't pretend to say\n_think_--and then besides, every morning and every night, within these\nfour walls, heaven itself refuses not to enter in and dwell--and I may\ngrow better and better and happier and happier in blessedness with which\nnothing may intermeddle.\n\nMr. Persico is a man by himself, and quite interesting to me in one\nway, that is, in giving me something to puzzle out. I like him for his\nexquisite taste in the picture line and for having adorned his rooms\nwith such fine ones--at least they're fine to my inexperienced eye; for\nwhen I'm in the mood, I can go and sit and dream as it seemeth me good\nover them, and as I dream, won't good thoughts come into my heart? As\nto Mrs. P., I hereby return my thanks to Nature for making her so\nbeautiful. She has a face and figure to fall in love with. K. has also a\nfine face and a delicate little figure. Miss ---- I shall avoid as far\nas I can do so. I do not think her opinions and feelings would do me\nany good. She has a fine mind and likes to cultivate it, and for that I\nrespect her, but she has nothing natural and girlish in her, and I am\npersuaded, never had. She hates little children; says she hates to hear\nthem laugh, thinks them little fools. Why, how odd all this is to me!\nI could as soon hate the angels in heaven and hate to hear them sing.\nThat, to be sure, is my way, and the other way is hers--but somehow it\ndoesn't seem good-hearted to be so very, very superior to children as to\nshun the little loving beautiful creatures. I don't believe I ever shall\ngrow up! But, Miss ----, I don't want to do you injustice, and I'm much\nobliged to you for all the flattering things you've said about me, and\nif you like my eyes and think there is congeniality of feeling between\nus, why, I thank you. But oh, don't teach me that the wisdom of the\nworld consisteth in forswearing the simple beauties with which life is\nfull. Don't make me fear my own happy girlhood by talking to me about\nlove--oh, don't!\n\n_Dec. 1._--I wonder if all the girls in the world are just alike? Seems\nto me they might be so sweet and lovable if they'd leave off chattering\nforever and ever about lovers.... If mothers would keep their little\nunfledged birds under their own wings, wouldn't they make better mother-\nbirds? Now some girls down-stairs, who ought to be thinking about all\nthe beautiful things in life but just lovers, are reading novels,\nlove-stories and poetry, till they can't care for anything else.... Now,\nLizzy Payson, where's the use of fretting so? Go right to work reading\nLeighton and you'll forget that all the world isn't as wise as you think\nyou are, you little vain thing, you! Alas and alas, but this is such a\nnice world, and the girls don't know it!\n\n_Dec. 2._--What a pleasant walk I had this morning on Ambler's Hill.\nThe sun rose while I was there and I was so happy! The little valley,\nclothed with white houses and completely encircled by hills, reminded me\nof the verse about the mountains round about Jerusalem. Nobody was awake\nso early and I had all the great hill to myself, and it was so beautiful\nthat I could have thrown myself down and kissed the earth itself. Oh,\nsweet and good and loving Mother Nature! I choose you for my own. I will\nbe your little lady-love. I will hunt you out whenever you hide, and you\nshall comfort me when I am sad, and laugh with me when I'm merry, and\ntake me by the hand and lead me onward and upward till the image of the\nheavenly forceth out that of the earthly from my whole heart and soul.\nOh, how I prayed for a holy heart on that hillside and how sure I am\nthat I shall grow better! and what companionable thoughts I've had all\nday for that blessed walk!\n\n_8th._--My life is a nice little life just now, as regular as clockwork.\nWe walk and we keep school, and our scholars kiss and love us, and we\nkiss and love them, and we read Lamartine and I worship Leighton, good,\nwise, holy Leighton, and we discourse about everything together and\ndispute and argue and argue and dispute, and I'm quite happy, so I am!\nAs to Lamartine, he's no great things, as I know of, but I want to keep\nup my knowledge of French and so we read twenty pages a day. And as to\nour discourses, my fidgety, moralising sort of mind wants to compare its\ndoctrines with those of other people, though it's as stiff as a poker\nin its own opinions. You're a very consistent little girl! you call\nyourself a child, are afraid to open your mouth before folks, and yet\nyou're as obstinate and proud as a little man, daring to think for\nyourself and act accordingly at the risk of being called odd and\nincomprehensible. I don't care, though! Run on and break your neck if\nyou will. You're nothing especial after all.\n\n_9th._--To-night, in unrolling a bundle of work I found a little note\ntherein from mother. Whew, how I kissed it! I thought I should fly out\nof my senses, I was so glad. But I can't fly now-a-days, I'm growing\nso unetherial. Why, I take up a lot of room in the world and my frocks\nwon't hold me. That's because my heart is so quiet, lying as still as a\nmouse, after all its tossings about and trying to be happy in the things\nof this life. Oh, I am so happy now in the _other_ life! But as for\ntelling other people so--as for talking religion--I don't see how I\n_can._ It doesn't come natural. Is it because I am proud? But I pray to\nbe so holy, so truly a Christian, that my _life_ shall speak and gently\npersuade all who see me to look for the hidden spring of my perpetual\nhappiness and quietness. The only question is: Do I live so? I'm\nafraid I make religion seem too grave a thing to my watching maidens\ndown-stairs; but, oh, I'm afraid to rush into _their_ pleasures.\n\n_25th._-- ... I've been \"our Lizzy\" all my life and have not had to\ndisplay my own private feelings and opinions before folks, but have sat\nstill and listened and mused and lived within myself, and shut myself up\nin my corner of the house and speculated on life and the things thereof\ntill I've got a set of notions of my own which don't _fit into_ the\nnotions of anybody I know. I don't open myself to anybody on earth; I\ncan not; there is a world of something in me which is not known to those\nabout me and perhaps never will be; but sometimes I think it would be\n_delicious_ to love a mind like mine in some things, only better, wiser,\nnobler. I do not quite understand life. People don't live as they were\nmade to live, I'm sure ... I want _soul._ I want the gracious, glad\nspirit that finds the good and the beautiful in everything, joined to\nthe manly, exalted intellect--rare unions, I am sure, yet possible ones.\nLittle girl! Do you suppose such a soul would find anything in yours to\nsatisfy it? No--no--no--I do not. I know I am a poor little goose which\nought to be content with some equally poor little gander, but I _won't._\nI'll never give up one inch of these the demands of my reason and of my\nheart for all the truths you tell me about myself--never! But descend\nfrom your elevation, oh speculating child of mortality, and go down to\nschool. Oh, no, no school for a week, and I guess I'll spend the week in\nfancies and follies. It won't hurt me. I've done it before and got back\nto the world as satisfied as ever, indeed I have.\n\n_Jan. 1, 184l._--We've been busy all the week getting our presents ready\nfor the servants, and a nice time I've had this morning, seeing them\nshow their ivory thereat. James made a little speech, the amount of\nwhich was, he hoped I wouldn't get married till I'd \"done been\" here two\nor three years, because my face was so pleasant it was good to look at\nit! I was as proud as Lucifer at this compliment, and shall certainly\nlook pleasant all day to-day, if I never did before. Monsieur and the\nrest wished me, I won't say how many, good wishes, rushing at me as I\nwent in to breakfast--and Milly privately informed Lucy that she liked\nMiss Payson \"a heap\" better than she did any body else, and then came\nand begged me to buy her! I buy her! Heaven bless the poor little girl.\nI had some presents and affectionate notes from different members of the\nfamily and from my scholars--also letters from sister and Ned, which\ndelighted me infinitely more than I'm going to tell _you_, old journal.\nTook tea at Mr. P.'s and Mrs. P. laughed at her husband because he had\nonce an idea of going to New England to get my little ladyship to wife\n(for the sake of my father, of course). Mr. P. blushed like a boy and\nfidgeted terribly, but I didn't care a snap--I am not old enough to be\nwife to anybody, and I'm not going to mind if people do joke with\nme about it. I've had better things to think of on this New Year's\nday--good, heavenward thoughts and prayers and hopes, and if I do not\nbecome more and more transformed into the Divine, then are prayers and\nhopes things of nought. Oh, how dissatisfied I am with myself. How I\nlong to be like unto Him into whose image I shall one day be changed\nwhen I see Him as He is!\n\nI believe nobody understands me on religious points, for I can not, and,\nit seems to me, _need_ not parade my private feelings before the world.\nCousin G., God bless him! knows enough, and yet my letters to him do not\ntell the hundredth part of that which these four walls might tell, if\nthey would. I do not know that I am not wrong, but I do dislike\nthe present style of talking on religious subjects. Let people\npray--earnestly, fervently, not simply morning and night, but the _whole\nday long_, making their lives one continued prayer; but, oh, don't let\nthem tell others of, or let others know _half_ how much of communion\nwith Heaven is known to their own hearts. Is it not true that those who\ntalk most, go most to meetings, run hither and thither to all sorts of\nsocieties and all sorts of readings--is it not true that such\npeople would not find peace and contentment--yes, blessedness of\nblessedness--in solitary hours when to the Searcher of hearts alone are\nknown their aspirations and their love? I do not know, I am puzzled; but\nI may say here, where nobody will ever see it, what I _do_ think, and I\nsay it to my own heart as well as over the hearts of others--there is\nnot enough of real, true communion with God, not enough nearness to Him,\nnot enough heart-searching before Him; and too much parade and bustle\nand noise in doing His work on earth. Oh, I do not know exactly what I\nmean--but since I have heard so many apparently Christian people own\nthat of this sense of nearness to God they know absolutely nothing--that\nthey pray because it is their habit without the least expectation of\nmeeting the great yet loving Father in their closets--since I have heard\nthis I am troubled and perplexed. Why, is it not indeed true that the\nChristian believer, God's own adopted, chosen, beloved child, may speak\nface to face with his Father, humbly, reverently, yet as a man talketh\nwith his friend? Is it not true? Do not I _know_ that it is so? Oh, I\nsometimes want the wisdom of an angel that I may not be thus disturbed\nand wearied.\n\n_14th._--Now either Miss ----'s religion is wrong and mine right, or\nelse it's just the other way. I wrote some verses, funny ones, and sent\nher to-day, and she returned for answer that verse in Proverbs about\nvinegar on nitre, and seemed distressed that I ever had such worldly and\nfunny thoughts. I told her I should like her better if she ever had any\nbut solemn ones, whence we rushed into a discussion about proprieties\nand I maintained that a mind was not in a state of religious health, if\nit could not _safely_ indulge in thoughts funny as funny could be. She\nshook her head and looked as glum as she could, and I'm really sorry\nthat I vexed her righteous soul, though I'm sure I feel funny ever so\nmuch of the time, can not help saying funny things and cutting up capers\nnow and then. I'll take care not to marry a glum man, anyhow; not that\nI want my future lord and master to be a teller of stories, a wit, or a\nparticularly funny man--but he shan't wear a long face and make me wear\na long one, though he may be as pious as the day is long and _must_ be,\nwhat's more. Oh, my! I don't think I was so very naughty. I saw Miss\n---- laughing privately at these same verses, and she rushed in to Mrs.\nP. and read them to her, and then copied them for her aunt and paid\ntwenty-five cents postage on the letter. I should like to know how she\ndared waste so much time in unholy employments! As I was saying, and am\nalways thinking, it's rather queer that people are so oddly different in\ntheir ideas of religion. Heaven forbid I should trifle with serious and\nholy thoughts of my head and heart--but if my religion is worth a straw,\nsuch verse-writing will not disturb it.\n\n_January 16th_.--I wonder what's got into me to-day--I feel cross,\nwithout the least bit of reason for so feeling. I guess I'm not well,\nfor I'm sure I've felt like one great long sunbeam, I don't know how\nmany months, and it doesn't come natural to be fretful.\n\n_17th_.--I knew I wasn't well yesterday and to-day am half sick. We got\nthrough breakfast at twenty minutes to eleven, and as I was up at seven,\nI got kind o' hungry and out of sorts. This afternoon went to church and\nheard one of Dr. E.'s argumentative sermons. But there's something in\nthose Prayer-book prayers, certainly, if men won't or can't put any\ngrace into their sermons. I wish I had a perfect ideal Sunday in my head\nor heart, or both. If I'm _very_ good I'm tired at night, and if I'm bad\nmy conscience smites me--so any way I'm not very happy just now and I'm\nsick and mean to go to bed and so!\n\n_18th_.--Had a talk with Nannie. She has a thoughtful mind and who knows\nbut we may do her some good. I love to have her here, and for once in my\nlife like to feel a little bit--just the least bit--_old_; that is, old\nenough to give a little sage advice to the poor thing, when she asks it.\nShe says she won't read any more novels and will read the Bible and dear\nknows what else she said about finding an angel for me to marry, which\nheaven forbid she should do, since I'm too fond of being a little mite\nnaughty, to desire anything of that sort. After she was in bed she began\nto say her prayers most vehemently and among other things, prayed for\nMiss Payson. I had the strangest sensation, and yet an almost heavenly\none, if I may say so. May it please Heaven to listen to her prayer for\nme, and mine for her, dear child. But suppose I do her no good while she\nlives so under my wing?\n\n_19th._--Up early--walked and read Leighton. Mr. P. amused us at dinner\nby giving a funny account in his funny way, of a mistake of E.----\nH.----'s. She asked me the French for _as_. \"Aussi\" quoth I. Thereupon\nshe tucked a great O. C. into her exercise and took it to him and they\njabbered and sputtered over it, and she insisted that Miss Payson said\nso and he put his face right into hers and said, \"Will you try to prove\nthat Miss Payson is a fool, you little goose?\" and at last Miss A.\nunderstood and explained. Read Leighton after school and thirty-two\npages of Lamartine--then Mr. P. called--then Miss ---- teased me to\nlove her and kept me in her paws till the bell rang for tea. Why can't I\nlike her? I should be so ashamed if I should find out after all that\nshe is as good as she _seems_, but I never did get cheated yet when I\ntrusted my own mother wits, my instinct, or whatever it is by which I\nknow folks--and she is found wanting by this something.\n\n_28th_.--Mrs. Persico has comforted me to-day. She says Mr. T. came to\nMr. P. with tears in his eyes (could such a man shed tears?) and told\nhim that I should be the salvation of his child--that she was already\nthe happiest and most altered creature, and begged him to tell me so. I\nwas ashamed and happy too--but I think Mr. P. should have told him\nthat if good has been done to Nannie, it is _as_ much--to say the\nleast--owing to Louisa as to me. L. always joins me in everything I do\nand say for her, and I would not have even an accident deprive her of\nher just reward for anything. Nannie sat on the floor to-night in her\nnight-gown, thinking. At last she said, \"Miss Payson?\" \"Well, little\nwitch?\" \"You wouldn't care much if you should die to-night, should you?\"\n\"No, I think not.\" \"Nor I,\" said she. \"Why, do you think you should be\nbetter off than you are here?\" \"Yes, in heaven,\" said she. \"Why how do\nyou know you'll go to heaven?\" She looked at me seriously and said, \"Oh,\nI don't know--I don't know--I don't think I should like to go to the\nother place.\" We had then a long talk with her and it seems she's a\nregular little believer in Purgatory--but I wouldn't dispute with her. I\nguess there's a way of getting at her heart better than that.... Why is\nit that I have such a sensitiveness on religious points, such a dread of\nhaving my own private aims and emotions known by those about me? Is it\nright? I should like to be just what the Christian ought to be in these\nrelations. Miss ---- expects me to make speeches to her, but I _can\nnot_. If I thought I knew ever so much, I could not, and she annoys me\nso. Oh, I wish it didn't hurt my soul so to touch it! It's just like\na butterfly's wing--people can't help tearing off the very invisible\n_down_ so to speak, for which they take a fancy to it, if they get it\nbetween fingers and thumb, and so I have to suffer for their curiosity's\nsake. Am I bound to reveal my heart-life to everybody who asks? Must I\nnot believe that the heavenly love may, in one sense, be _hidden_ from\noutward eye and outward touch? or am I wrong?\n\n_Feb. 1, 184l._--Rose later than usual--cold, dull, rainy morning. Read\nin Life of Wilberforce. Defended Nannie with more valor than discretion.\nThis evening the storm departed and the moonlight was more beautiful\nthan ever; and I was so sad and so happy, and the life beyond and above\nseemed so beautiful. Oh, how I have longed to-day for heaven within my\nown soul! There has been much unspoken prayer in my heart to-night. I\ndon't know what I should do if I could have my room all to myself--and\nnot have people know it if even a good thought comes into my mind. I\nshall be happy in heaven, I know I shall--for even here prayer and\npraise are so infinitely more delightful than anything else.\n\n_3d._--Woke with headache, got through school as best I could, then came\nand curled myself up in a ball in the easy-chair and didn't move till\nnine, when I crept down to say good-bye to poor Mrs. Persico. Miss L.\nand Miss J. received me in their room so tenderly and affectionately\nthat I was ashamed. What makes them love me? I am sure I should not\nthink they could.\n\n_10th._--I wonder who folks think I am, and what they think? Sally R----\nsent me up her book of autographs with a request that I would add mine.\nI looked it over and found very great names, and did not know whether\nto laugh or cry at her funny request, which I couldn't have made up my\nmouth to grant. How queer it seems to me that people won't let me be\na little girl and will act as if I were an old maid or matron of\nninety-nine! Poor Mr. Persico is terribly unhappy and walks up and down\nperpetually with _such_ a step.\n\n_12th._-- ... I am sure that in these little things God's hand is just\nas clearly to be seen as in His wonderful works of power, and tried to\nmake Miss ---- see this, but she either couldn't or wouldn't. It seems\nto me that God is my Father, my own Father, and it is so natural to\nturn right to Him, every minute almost, with either thank-offerings or\npetitions, that I never once stop to ask if such and such a matter is\nsufficiently great for His notice. Miss ---- seemed quite astonished\nwhen I said so.\n\n_16th._-- ... I've been instituting an inquiry into myself to-day and\nhave been worthily occupied in comparing myself to an onion, though\nin view of the fragrance of that highly useful vegetable, I hope the\ncomparison won't go on all fours But I have as many natures as an onion\nhas--what d'ye call 'em--coats? First the outside skin or nature--kind\no' tough and ugly; _any_body may see that and welcome. Then comes my\nnext nature--a little softer--a little more removed from curious eyes;\nthen my inner one--myself--that 'ere little round ball which nobody\never did or ever will see the whole of--at least, s'pose not. Now most\npeople see only the outer rind--a brown, red, yellow, tough skin and\nthat's all; but I _think_ there's something inside that's better and\nmore truly an onion than might at first be guessed. And so I'm an onion\nand that's the end.\n\n_17th._--Mrs. P.'s birthday, in honor of which cake and wine. Mr. P. was\nangry with us because we took no wine. If he had asked me civilly to\ndrink his wife's health, I should probably have done so, but I am not to\nbe _frightened_ into anything. I made a funny speech and got him out of\nhis bearish mood, and then we all proceeded to the portico to see if the\nnew President had arrived--by which means we obtained a satisfactory\nview of two cows, three geese, one big boy in a white apron and one\nsmall one in a blue apron, three darkies of feminine gender and one old\nhorse; but Harrison himself we saw not. Mr. Persico says it's Tyler's\nluck to get into office by the death of his superior, and declares\nHarrison must infallibly die to secure John Tyler's fate. It's to be\nhoped this won't be the case. [9]\n\n_March 6th._--Miss L. read to us to-day some sprightly and amusing\nlittle notes written her years ago by a friend with whom she still\ncorresponds. I was struck with the contrast between these youthful and\nlight-hearted fragments and her present letters, now that she is a wife\nand mother. I wonder if there is always this difference between the girl\nand woman? If so, heaven forbid I should ever cease to be a child!\n\n_18th._--Headache--Nannie sick; held her in my arms two or three hours;\nhad a great fuss with her about taking her medicine, but at last out\ncame my word _must_, and the little witch knew it meant all it said and\ndown went the oil in a jiffy, while I stood by laughing at myself for my\npretension of dignity. The poor child couldn't go to sleep till she had\nthanked me over and over for making her mind and for taking care of her,\nand wouldn't let go my hand, so I had to sit up until very late--and\nthen I was sick and sad and restless, for I couldn't have my room to\nmyself and the day didn't seem finished without it.\n\nIt is a perfect mystery to me how folks get along with so little\npraying. Their hearts must be better than mine, or something. What is\nit? But if God sees that the desire of my whole heart is to-night--has\nbeen all day--towards Himself, will He not know this as prayer, answer\nit as such? Yes, prayer is certainly something more than bending of the\nknees and earnest words, and I do believe that goodness and mercy will\ndescend upon me, though with my lips I ask not.\n\n_24th._--Had a long talk with Mr. Persico about my style of governing.\nHe seemed interested in what I had to say about appeals to the\nconscience, but said my _youthful enthusiasm_ would get cooled down when\nI knew more of the world. I told him, very pertly, that I hoped I should\nnever know the world then. He laughed and asked, \"You expect to make\nout of these stupid children such characters, such hearts as yours?\"\n\"No--but better ones.\" He shook his head and said I had put him into\ngood humor. I don't know what he meant. I've been acting like Sancho\nto-day--rushing up stairs two at a time, frisking about, catching up\nMiss J---- in all her maiden dignity and tossing her right into the\nmidst of our bed. Who's going to be \"schoolma'am\" out of school? Not I!\nI mean to be just as funny as I please, and what's more I'll make Miss\n---- funny, too,--that I will! She'd have so much more health--Christian\nhealth, I mean--if she would leave off trying to get to heaven in such a\ndreadful bad \"way.\" I can't think _religion_ makes such a long, gloomy\nface. It must be that she is wrong, or else I am. I wonder which? Why\nit's all sunshine to me--and all clouds to her! Poor Miss ----, you\nmight be so happy!\n\n_April 9th._--Holiday. We all took a long walk, which I enjoyed highly.\nI was in a half moralising mood all the way, wanted to be by myself very\nmuch. We talked more than usual about home and I grew so sad. Oh, I\nwonder if anybody loves me as _I love_! I wonder! I long for mother, and\nif I could just see her and know that she is happy and that she will be\nwell again! It is really a curious question with me, whether provided\nI ever fall in love (for I'll _fall_ in love, else not go in at all) I\nshall leave off loving mother best of anybody in the world? I suppose I\nshall be in love sometime or other, but that's nothing to do with me now\nnor I with it. I've got my hands full to take care of my naughty little\nself.\n\n_17th._--Mrs. Persico got home to-night [10] and what a meeting we had!\nwhat rejoicing! How beautiful she looked as she sat in her low chair,\nand we stood and knelt in a happy circle about her! A queen--an\nangel--could not have received love and homage with a sweeter grace. Sue\nIrvine cried an hour for joy and I wished I were one of the crying sort,\nfor I'm sure I was glad enough to do almost anything. Beautiful woman!\nWe sang to her the Welcome Home, Miss F. singing as much with her eyes\nas with her voice, and Mr. and Mrs. Persico both cried, he like a little\nchild. Oh, that such evenings as this came oftener in one's life! All\nthat was beautiful and good in each of our hidden natures came dancing\nout to greet her at her coming, and all petty jealousies were so quieted\nand--why, what a rhapsody I'm writing! And to-morrow, our good\nbetter natures tucked away, dear knows where, we shall descend with\nbusiness-like airs to breakfast, wish each other good morning, pretend\nthat we haven't any hearts. Oh, is this life! I won't believe it.\nOur good genius has come back to us; now all things will again go on\nsmoothly; once more I can be a little girl and frolic up here instead of\nplaying Miss Dignity down-stairs.\n\n_May 7th._--This evening I passed unavoidably through Miss ----'s room.\nShe was reading Byron as usual and looked so wretched and restless, that\nI could not help yielding to a loving impulse and putting my hand on\nhers and asking why she was so sad. She told me. It was just what I\nsupposed. She is trying to be happy, and can not find out how; reads\nByron and gets sickly views of life; sits up late dreaming about love\nand lovers; then, too tired to pray or think good thoughts, tosses\nherself down upon her bed and wishes herself dead. She did not tell me\nthis, to be sure, but I gathered it from her story. I alluded to\nher religious history and present hopes. She said she did not think\ncontinued acts of faith in Christ necessary; she had believed on Him\nonce, and now He would save her whatever she did; and she was not going\nto torment herself trying to live so very holy a life, since, after all,\nshe should get to heaven just as well through Him as if she had been\nparticularly good (as she termed it). I don't know whether a good or a\nbad spirit moved me at that minute, but I forgot that I was a mere child\nin religious knowledge, and talked about _my_ doctrine and made it a\nvery beautiful one to my mind, though I don't think she thought it\nso. Oh, for what would I give up the happiness of praying for a holy\nheart--of striving, struggling for it! Yes, it is indeed true that we\nare to be saved simply, only, apart from our own goodness, through the\nlove of Christ. But who can believe himself thus chosen of God--who can\nthink of and hold communion with Infinite Holiness, and not long for\nthe Divine image in his own soul? It is a mystery to me--these strange\ndoctrines. Is not the fruit of love aspiration after the holy? Is not\nthe act of the new-born soul, when it passes from death unto life, that\nof desire for assimilation to and oneness with Him who is its all in\nall? How can love and faith be _one act_ and then cease? I dare not\nbelieve--I would not for a universe believe--that my very sense of\nsafety in the love of Christ is not to be just the sense that shall bind\nme in grateful self-renunciation wholly to His service. Let me be _sure_\nof final rest in heaven--sure that at this moment I am really God's own\nadopted child; and I believe my prayers, my repentings, my weariness of\nsin, would be just what they now are; nay, more deep, more abundant. Oh,\nit is _because_ I believe--fully believe that I shall be saved through\nChrist--that I want to be like Him here upon earth It is because I do\nnot fear final misery that I shrink from sin and defilement here. Oh,\nthat I could put into that poor bewildered heart of hers just the sweet\nrepose upon the ever present Saviour which He has given unto me! The\nquietness with which my whole soul rests upon Him is such blessed\nquietness! I shall not soon forget this strange evening.\n\n\n[1] She refers to this, doubtless, in a note to Mr. Hamlin, dated March\n28, 1839. Mr. H. was then in Constantinople. \"It seems as if a letter to\ngo so far ought to be a good one, so I am afraid to write to you. But we\n'_think to you_' every day, and hope you think of us sometimes. I have\nbeen so happy all winter that I have some happiness to spare, and if you\nneed any you shall have as much as you want.\"\n\n[2] The sermon was preached by her pastor, the Rev. Dr. Condit, April\n19th.\n\n[3] There is one thing I recall as showing the very early religious\ntendency of Lizzy's mind. It was a little prayer meeting which she held\nwith a few little friends, as long ago as her sister kept school in the\nlarge parlor of the house on Middle street, before the death of her\nfather. It assembled at odd hours and in odd places. I also remember her\ninterest in the spiritual welfare of her young companions, after the\nreturn of the family from their sojourn in New York. She showed this by\naccompanying some of us, in the way of encouragement, to Dr. Tyler's\ninquiry-meeting. Then during the special religious interest of 1838, she\nfelt still more deeply and entered heartily into the rejoicing of those\nof us who at that time found \"peace in believing.\" The next year I\naccompanied my elder sister Susan to Richmond, and during my absence she\ngave up her Christian hope and passed through a season of great darkness\nand despondency, emerging, however, into the light upon a higher plane\nof religious experience and enjoyment. She sometimes thought this the\nvery beginning of the life of faith in her soul. But as I used to say\nto her when the next year we were together at Richmond, it seemed to me\nquite impossible that any one who had not already received the grace of\nGod, could have felt what she had felt and expressed. I do not doubt\nin the least that for years she had been a true follower of\nChrist.--_Letter from Miss Ann Louisa P. Lord, dated Portland, December\n30, 1878_.\n\n[4] It may be proper to say here, that while but few of her letters are\ngiven entire, it has not been deemed needful specially to indicate all\nthe omissions. In some instances, also, where two letters, or passages\nof letters, relate to the same subject, they have been combined.\n\n[5] An excellent little work by Rev. William Nevins, D.D. Dr. Nevins was\npastor of the first Presbyterian Church in Baltimore, where he died in\n1835, at the age of thirty-seven. He was one of the best preachers and\nmost popular religious writers of his day.\n\n[6] Miss Ann Louisa P. Lord.\n\n[7] Miss Susan Lord.\n\n[8] Referring to a serious accident, by which her mother was for some\ntime deprived of the use of her right hand.\n\n[9] But, singularly enough, it was. President Harrison died April 4,\n1841, just a month after his inauguration, and Mr. Tyler succeeded him.\n\n[10] From Philadelphia, where she had undergone a surgical operation.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nPASSING FROM GIRLHOOD INTO WOMANHOOD.\n\n1841-1845.\n\nI.\n\nAt Home again. Marriage of her Sister. Ill-Health. Letters. Spiritual\nAspiration and Conflict. Perfectionism. \"Very, very Happy.\" Work for\nChrist what makes Life attractive. Passages from Her Journal. A Point of\nDifficulty.\n\n\nNot long after Elizabeth's return from Richmond, her sister was married\nto the Rev. Albert Hopkins, Professor in Williams College. The wedding\nhad been delayed for her coming. \"I would rather wait six years than\nnot have you present,\" her sister wrote. This event brought her into\nintimate relations with a remarkable man; a man much beloved in his day,\nand whose name will often reappear in these pages.\n\nThe next two or three months showed that her Richmond life, although so\nfull of happy experiences, had yet drawn heavily upon her strength. They\nwere marked by severe nervous excitement and fits of depression. This,\nhowever, passed away and she settled down again into a busy home life.\nBut it was no longer the home life of the past. The year of absence had\nleft a profound impression upon her character. Her mind and heart had\nundergone a rapid development. She was only twenty-two on her return,\nand had still all the fresh, artless simplicity of a young girl, but\nthere was joined to it now the maturity of womanhood. Of the rest of the\nyear a record is preserved in letters to her cousin. These letters give\nmany little details respecting her daily tasks and the life she led in\nthe family and in the world; but they are chiefly interesting for the\nlight they shed upon her progress heavenward. Her whole soul was still\nabsorbed in divine things. At times her delight in them was sweet and\nundisturbed; then again, she found herself tossed to and fro upon the\nwaves of spiritual conflict. Perfectionism was just then much discussed,\nand the question troubled her not a little, as it did again thirty years\nlater. But whether agitated or at rest, her thoughts all centered in\nChrist, and her constant prayer was for more love to Him.\n\nPORTLAND, _Sept. 15, 1841._\n\nThe Lord Jesus is indeed dear to me. I can not doubt it. His name is\nexceedingly precious. Oh, help me, my dear cousin, to love Him more, to\nattain His image, to live only for Him! I blush and am ashamed when\nI consider how inadequate are the returns I am making Him; yet I can\npraise Him for all that is past and trust Him for all that is to come.\nI can not tell you how delightful prayer is. I feel that in it I have\ncommunion with God--that He is here--that He is mine and that I am His.\nI long to make progress every day, each minute seems precious, and I\nconstantly tremble lest I should lose one in returning, instead of\npressing forward with all my strength. No, not _my_ strength, for I have\nnone, but with all which the Lord gives me. How can I thank you enough\nthat you pray for me!\n\n_Sept. 18th._--I am all the time so nervous that life would be\ninsupportable if I had not the comfort of comforts to rejoice in. I\noften think mother would not trust me to carry the dishes to the closet,\nif she knew how strong an effort I have to make to avoid dashing them\nall to pieces. When I am at the head of the stairs I can hardly help\nthrowing myself down, and I believe it a greater degree of just such a\nstate as this which induces the suicide to put an end to his existence.\nIt was never so bad with me before. Do you know anything of such a\nfeeling as this? To-night, for instance, my head began to feel all at\nonce as if it were enlarging till at last it seemed to fill the room,\nand I thought it large enough to carry away the house. Then every object\nof which I thought enlarged in proportion. When this goes off the sense\nof the contraction is equally singular. My head felt about the size of a\npin's head; our church and everybody in it appeared about the bigness of\na cup, etc. These strange sensations terminate invariably with one still\nmore singular and particularly pleasant. I can not describe it--it is\na sense of smoothness and a little of dizziness. If you never had such\nfeelings this will be all nonsense to you, but if you have and can\nexplain them to me, why I shall be indeed thankful. I have been subject\nto them ever since I can remember. I never met with a physician yet who\nseemed to know what is the matter with me, or to care a fig whether I\ngot well or not. All they do is to roll up their eyes and shake their\nheads and say, \"Oh!\" ... As to the wedding, we had a regular fuss, so\nthat I hardly knew whether I was in the body or out of it. The Professor\nwas here only two days. He is very eminently holy, his friends say, and\nfrom what I saw of him, I should think it true. This was the point which\ninterested sister in him. As soon as the wedding was over my spirits\ndeparted and fled. It is true enough that \"marriage involves one union,\nbut _many separations_.\"\n\n_Oct. 17th._--We had a most precious sermon this afternoon from the\nBaptist minister on the words, \"Christ is all and in all.\" I longed to\nhave you hear the Saviour thus dwelt upon. I did not know how full the\nApostles were of His praise--how constantly they dwelt upon Him, till it\nwas spread before me thus in one delightful view. Oh, may He become our\nall--our beginning and our ending--our first and our last! I do love\nto hear Him thus honored and adored. Let us, dear cousin, look at our\nSaviour more. Let us never allow aught to come between our hearts and\nour God. Speak to me as to your own soul, urging me onward, and if you\ndo not see the fruits of your faithfulness here, may you see when sowing\nis turned to reaping.\n\n_Oct. 24th._--I must call upon you to rejoice with me that I have to-day\ngot back my old Sunday-school class. I wondered at their being so\nearnest about having me again, yet I trust that God has given me this\nhold upon their affections for some good purpose.... I do not know\nexactly how to discriminate between the suggestions of Satan and those\nof my own heart, but for a week past, even while my inclinations and my\nwill were set upon Christ, something followed me in my down-sittings and\nmy uprisings, urging me to hate the Lord Jesus; asking if His strict\nrequirements were not too strait to be endured; and it has grieved me\ndeeply that such a thought could find its way into my mind. \"I have\nprayed for thee that thy faith fail not\" is my last refuge. How\ngraciously did Jesus provide a separate consolation for each difficulty\nwhich He foresaw could meet His disciples on their way.\n\n_Nov. 8th._--Mother has been sick. The doctor feared inflammation of the\nbrain; but she is better now. I have had my first experience as a nurse,\nand Dr. Mighels says I am a good one.\n\nWhenever I think of God's wonderful, _wonderful_ goodness to me and of\nmy own sinfulness, I want to find a place low at the foot of the cross\nwhere I may cover my face in the dust, and yet go on praising Him. You\ndo not know how all things have been made new to me within less than two\nyears. Still, I struggle fiercely every hour of my life. For instance,\nmy desire to be much beloved by those dear to me, is a source of\nconstant grief. Some weeks ago, a person, who probably did not know\nthis, told me that I was remarkably lovable and that everybody said so.\nI was so foolish, so wicked, as to be more pleased by this than I\ndare to tell--but enough so to give me after-hours of bitter sorrow.\nSometimes it seems to me that I grow prouder every day, and I wanted to\nask mother if she did not think so; but I thought perhaps God is showing\nme my pride as I had never seen it that I may wage war against this, His\nenemy and mine. I do not believe anybody else has such an evil nature\nas I. But let us never rest till we are satisfied with being counted as\nnothing, that our Saviour may be all in all. It seems no small portion\nof the joy I long for in heaven, to be thus self-forgetful in love to\nChrist. How strange that we do not now supremely love Him. How I do long\nto live with those who praise Him. I long to have every Christian with\nwhom I meet speak of Him with love and exalt Him. [1]\n\n_Nov. 12th._--I have been very unwell and low-spirited. The cause of\nthis, folks seem to agree, was over-exertion during mother's sickness.\nTo tell the truth, I was so anxious about her that I did not try to\nsave my strength at all, and excitement kept me up, so that I was not\nconscious of any special fatigue till all was over and the reaction\ncame, when I just went into a dead-and-alive state and had the \"blues\"\noutrageously. It seemed as if I could do nothing but fold my hands and\ncry.\n\nSister is coming home this winter. I would like you to see this letter\nof hers. She is as nearly a perfectionist now as your father is. She\nbegs me to read the New Testament and to pray for a knowledge of the\ntruth. And so I have for a year and a half, and this is what I learn\nthereby: \"The heart is deceitful above all things and desperately\nwicked\"--at least such I find mine to be. To be sure, that I am not\nperfect is no proof that I may not become so; however, I feel most\nsympathy with those who, like Martyn, Brainerd, and my father, had to\n_fight_ their way through. Yet her remarks threw my mind into great\nconfusion at first and I knew not what to do; thereupon I went at once\nwith my difficulties to the Lord and tried to _seek the truth_, whatever\nit might be, from Him. It seems to me that I am safe while in His hands,\nand that if those things are essential, He will not withhold them from\nme. Truly, if there is a royal road to holiness, and if in one moment of\ntime sin may be crushed and forever slain, I of all others should know\nit; for at present the way is thronged with difficulties. [2] It seems\nto me that I am made of wants\"--I need everything. At the same time, how\ngreat is the goodness of God to me! I long to have my heart so filled\nwith the one single image of my Redeemer, that it shall ever flow in\nspontaneous adoration. Such a Saviour! I am pained to the very depths of\nmy soul because I love Him so little.... If I am only purified and made\nentirely the Lord's, let Him take His own course and make the refining\nprocess ever so painful.\n\n  \"When the shore is won at last,\n  Who will count the billows past?\"\n\n_Dec. 16th._--Do you remember what father said about losing his will\nwhen near the close of his life? That remark has always made the subject\nof a _lost will_ interesting to me. There is another place where he\nwishes he had known this blessedness twenty years before. [3]\n\n_Dec. 18th._--\"I am very, very happy; and yet it is hardly a happiness\nwhich I can describe. You know what it is to rejoice in the sweet\nconsciousness that there is a Saviour--a near and a present Saviour; and\nthus am I now rejoicing; grateful to Him for His holy nature, for His\npower over me, for His dealings with me, for a thousand things which I\ncan only try to express to Him. Oh, how excellent above all treasures\ndoes He now appear! One minute of nearness to the Lord Jesus contains\nmore of delight than years spent in intercourse with any earthly friend.\nI could not but own to-night that God can make me happy without a right\nhand or a right eye. Lord, make me Thine, and I will cheerfully give\nThee all.\n\n_Dec. 22d._--\"As to my Italian and Tasso, I am ashamed to tell you how\nslow I have been. Between company and housework and sewing I have my\nhands about full, and precious little time for reading and study. Still,\nI feel that I live a life of too much ease. I should love to spend\nthe rest of my existence in the actual service of the Lord, without a\nquestion as to its ease and comfort. Reading Brainerd this afternoon\nmade me long for his loose hold on earthly things. I do not know how to\nattain to such a spirit. Is it by prayer alone and the consequent sense\nof the worth of Divine things that this deadness to the world is to be\ngained--or, by giving up, casting away the treasures which withdraw\nthe heart or have a tendency to withdraw it from God? This is quite an\ninteresting question to me now, and I should really like it settled. The\nthought of living apart from God is more dreadful than any affliction I\ncan think of.\n\nHere are some passages from two leaves of her journal which escaped the\nflames. They touch upon another side of her life at this period.\n\n_December 1, 184l._--\"I went to the sewing-circle this afternoon and had\nsuch a stupid time! Enough gossip and nonsense was talked to make one\nsick, and I'm sure it wasn't the fault of my head that my hair didn't\nstand on end. Now my mother is a very sensible mother, but when she\nurges me into company and exhorts me to be more social, she runs the\nrisk of having me become as silly as the rest of 'em. She fears I may be\nharmed by reading, studying and staying with her, but heaven forbid I\nshould find things in books worse than things out of them. I can't think\nthe girls are the silly creatures they make themselves appear. They want\nan aim in life, some worthy _object;_ give them that, and the good and\nexcellent which, I am sure, lies hidden in their nature, will develop\nitself at once. When the young men rushed in and the girls began looking\nunutterable things, I rushed out and came home. I can't and won't talk\nnonsense and flirt with those boys! Oh, what is it I do want? Somebody\nwho feels as I feel and thinks as I think; but where shall I find the\nsomebody?\n\n_7th._--\"Frolicked with G., rushed up stairs with a glass-lamp in my\nhand, went full tilt against the door, smashed the lamp, got the oil\non my dress, on two carpets, besides spattering the wall. First\nconsequence, a horrible smell of lamp-oil; Second, great quakings,\nshakings, and wonderings what my ma would say when she came home; Third,\nablutions, groanings, ironings; Fourth, a story for the Companion long\nenough to pay for that 'ere old lamp. Letting alone that, I've been a\nvery good girl to-day; studied, made a call, went to see H. R. with\nbooks, cakes, apples, and what's more, my precious tongue wherewith I\ndiscoursed to her.\n\n_14th._--\"Busy all day. Carried a basket full of \"wittles\" to old Ma'am\nBurns, heard an original account of the deluge from the poor woman,\nwished I was as near heaven as she seems to be, studied, sewed, taught\nT. and E., tried to be a good girl and didn't have the blues once.\n\n_20th._--\"Spent most of the afternoon with Lucy, who is sick. She held\nmy hand in hers and kissed it over and over, and expressed so much love\nand gratitude and interest in the Sunday-school that I felt ashamed.\n\n_24th_--Helped mother bake all the morning, studied in the afternoon,\ngot into a frolic, and went out after dark with G. to shovel snow, and\nthen paddled down to L----'s with a Christmas-pudding, whereby I got a\nreal backache, legache, neckache, and all-overache, which is just good\nenough for me. I was in the funniest state of mind this afternoon! I\nguess anybody, who had seen me, would have thought so!\n\n_25th, Saturday._--Got up early and ran down to Sally Johnson's with a\nbig pudding, consequence whereof a horrible pain in my side. I don't\ncare, though. I do love to carry puddings to good old grannies.\n\n_Jan. 1, 1842._--Began the New Year by going to see Lucy, fainting,\ntumbling down flat on the floor and scaring everybody half out of their\nwits. I don't think people ought to like me, on the whole, but when they\ndo, aint I glad? I wonder if perfectly honest-hearted people want to be\nloved better than they deserve, as in one sense I, with yet a pretty\nhonest heart, do? I wonder how other folks think, feel inside? Wish I\nknew!\n\nMost of the year 1842 was passed at home in household duties, in study,\nand in trying to do good. Never had she been busier, or more helpful to\nher mother; and never more interested in the things of God. It was a\nyear of genuine spiritual growth and also of sharp discipline. The\ntrue ideal of the Christian life revealed itself to her more and more\ndistinctly, while at the same time she had opportunity both to learn and\nto practise some of its hardest lessons. A few extracts from letters to\nher cousin will give an inkling of its character.\n\n_March 19, 1842._--Sometimes I have thought my desire to live for my\nSaviour and to labor for Him had increased. It certainly seems wonderful\nto me now that I could ever have wished to die, as I used to do, _when\nI had done nothing for God_. The way of life which appears most\nattractive, is that spent in persevering and unwearying toil for Him.\nThere was a warmth and a fervency to my religious feelings the first\nyear after my true hope which I do not find now and often sigh for; but\nI think my mind is more seriously determined for God than it was then,\nand that my principles are more fixed. Still I am less than the least of\nall.... I have read not quite five cantos of Tasso. You will think me\nrather indolent, but I have had a great deal to do, which has hindered\nstudy and reading.\n\n_May 3d_--The Christian life was never dearer to me than it is now, but\nit throngs with daily increasing difficulties. You, who have become a\nbeliever in perfection, may say that this conflict is not essential, and\nindeed I have been so weary, of late, of struggling that I am almost\nready to fly to the doctrine myself. I have certainly been made more\nwilling to seek knowledge on this point from the Holy Spirit.\n\n_Sept. 30th_--You speak of indulging unusually, of late, in your natural\nvivacity and finding it prejudicial. Here is a point on which I am\ncompletely bewildered. I find that if for a month or two I steadily\nset myself to the unwearied pursuit of spirituality of mind and entire\nweanedness from the world, a sad reaction _will_ follow. My efforts\nslightly relax, I indulge in mirthful or worldly (in the sense of not\nreligious) conversation, delight in it, and find my health and spirits\nbetter for it. But then my spiritual appetites at once become less keen,\nand from conversation I go to reading, from reading to writing, and then\ncomes the question: Am I not going back?--and I turn from all to follow\nhard after the Lord. Is this a part of our poor humanity, above which\nwe can not rise? This is a hard world to live in; and it will prove\na trying one to me or I shall love it dearly. I have had temptations\nduring the last six months on points where I thought I stood so safely\nthat there was no danger of a fall. Perhaps it is good for us to be\nallowed to go to certain lengths, that we may see what wonderful\nsupplies of grace our Lord gives us every hour of our lives.\n\n_October 1st_--I have had two or three singular hours of excitement\nsince I left writing to you last evening. If you were here I should be\nglad to read you a late passage in my history which has come to its\ncrisis and is over with--thanks to Him, who so wonderfully guides me by\nHis counsel. If I ever saw the hand of God distinctly held forth for my\nhelp, I have seen it here, coming in the right time, in the right way,\n_all_ right.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nII.\n\nReturns to Richmond. Trials there. Letters. Illness. School Experiences.\n\"To the Year 1843.\" Glimpses of her daily Life. Why her Scholars\nlove her so. Homesick. A Black Wedding. What a Wife should be. \"A\nPresentiment.\" Notes from her Diary.\n\n\nIn November of this year, at the urgent solicitation of Mr. Persico,\nMiss Payson returned to Richmond, and again became a teacher in his\nschool. But everything was now changed, and that for the worse. Mr.\nPersico, no longer under the influence of his wife, who had fallen a\nprey to cruel disease, lost heart, fell heavily in debt, and became at\nlength hopelessly insolvent. Later, he is said to have been lost at sea\non his way to Italy. The whole period of Miss Payson's second residence\nin Richmond was one of sharp trial and disappointment. But it brought\nout in a very vivid manner her disinterestedness and the generous warmth\nof her sympathies. At the peril of her health she remained far into the\nsummer of 1843, faithfully performing her duties, although, as she well\nknew, it was doubtful if she would receive any compensation for her\nservices. As a matter of fact, only a pittance of her salary was ever\npaid. Of this second residence in Richmond no other record is needed\nthan a few extracts from letters written to a beloved friend who was\npassing the winter at the South, and whose name has already been\nmentioned.\n\nA sentence in the first of these letters deserves to be noted as\naffording a key to one side of her character, namely: \"the depressing\nsense of inferiority which was born with me.\" All her earlier years were\nshadowed by this morbid feeling; nor was she ever quite free from its\ninfluence. It was, probably, at once a cause and an effect of the\nsensitive shyness that clung to her to the last. Perhaps, too, it grew\nin part out of her irrepressible craving for love, coupled with utter\nincredulity about herself possessing the qualities which rendered her so\nlovable. \"It is one of the faults of my character,\" she wrote, \"to fancy\nthat nobody cares for me.\"\n\nWhen, dear Anna, I had taken my last look at the last familiar face\nin Portland (I fancy you know whose face it was) I became quite as\nmelancholy as I ever desire to be, even on the principle that \"by the\nsadness of the countenance the heart is made better.\" I dare say\nyou never had a chance to feel, and therefore will not be able to\nunderstand, the depressing sense of inferiority which was born with me,\nwhich grew with my growth and strengthened with my strength, and\nwhich, though somewhat repressed of late years, gets the mastery very\nfrequently and makes me believe myself the most unlovable of beings. It\nwas with this feeling that I left home and journeyed hither, wondering\nwhy I was made, and if anybody on earth will ever be a bit the happier\nfor it, and whether I shall ever learn where to put myself in the scale\nof being. This is not humility, please take notice--for humility is\ncontented, I think, with such things as it hath.\n\n_To Miss Anna S. Prentiss. Richmond, Nov. 26, 1842_\n\nWhen I reached Richmond last night, tired and dusty and stupefied, I\nfelt a good deal like crawling away into some cranny and staying there\nthe rest of my life; but this morning, when I had remembered mother's\nexistence and yours and that of some one or two others, I felt more\ndisposed to write than anything else. Your note was a great comfort to\nme during two and a half hours at Portsmouth, and while on my journey.\nI thought pages to you in reply. How I should love to have you here in\nRichmond, even if I could only see you once a month, or _know_ only that\nyou were here and never see you! With many most kind friends about me,\nI still shall feel very keenly the separation from you. There is nobody\nhere to whom I can speak confidingly, and my hidden spirit will have to\nsit with folded wings for eight months to come. To whom shall I talk\nabout you, pray? On the way hither I fell in love with a little girl who\nalso fell in love with me, and as I sat with her over our lonely fire at\nPhiladelphia and in Washington, I could not help speaking of you now and\nthen, till at last she suddenly looked up and asked me if you hadn't a\nbrother, which question effectually shut my mouth. In a religious point\nof view I am sadly off here. There is a different atmosphere in the\nhouse from what there used to be, and I look forward with some anxiety\nto the future.\n\nThe \"little girl\" referred to received soon after a letter from Miss\nPayson. In enclosing it to a friend, more than thirty-seven years later,\nshe wrote: \"I cried bitterly when she left us for Richmond. She was out\nand out good and true. When my father was taking leave of us, the\nlast night in Washington, she proposed that as we had enjoyed so\nmuch together, we should not separate without a prayer of thanks\nand blessing-seeking, a proposal to which my father most heartily\nresponded.\" Here is an extract from the letter:\n\nWhen I look over my school-room I am frequently reminded of you, for my\nthirty-six pupils are, most of them, about your age. I have some very\nlovable girls under my wing. I should be too happy if there were no\n\"unruly members\" among these good and gentle ones; but in the little\nworld where I shall spend the greater part of the next eight months, as\nwell as in the great and busy one, which as yet neither you or I know\nmuch about, I fancy there are mixtures of \"the just and the unjust,\" of\n\"the evil and the good.\" We have a very pleasant family this year. The\nyoungest (for I omit the black baby in the kitchen) we call Lily. She\nis my pet and plaything, and is quite as affectionate as you are. Then\ncomes a damsel named Beatrice, who has taken me upon _trust_ just as you\ndid. You may be thankful that your parents are not like hers, for she is\nto be educated _for the world_; music, French and Italian crowd almost\neverything else out of place, and as for religious influences, she is\nunder them here for the first time. How thankful I feel when I see such\ncases as this, that God gave me pious parents, who taught me from my\nvery birth, that His fear is the _beginning_ of wisdom! My room-mate we\ncall Kate. She is pious, intelligent, and very warm-hearted, and I love\nher dearly. She is an orphan--Mrs. Persico's daughter ...\n\nI am rather affectionate by nature, if not in practice, and though I\nknow that nearness to the Friend, whom I hope I have chosen, could make\nme happy in any circumstances, I do not pretend to be above the desire\nfor earthly friends, provided He sees fit to give them to me. I believe\nmy father used to say that we could not love them too much, if we only\ngave Him the first place in our hearts. Let us earnestly seek to make\nHim our all in all. It is delightful, in the midst of adversities and\ntrials, to be able to say \"There is none upon earth that I desire\nbesides Thee,\" but it requires more grace, I think, to be able to use\nsuch language when the world is bright about us. You have known little\nof sorrow as yet, but if you have given your whole, undivided heart to\nGod, you will not need affliction, or to have your life made so desolate\nthat \"weariness must toss you to His breast.\" There is a bright side to\nreligion, and I love to see Christians walking in the sunshine. I trust\nyou have found this out for yourself, and that your hope in Christ makes\nyou happy in the life that now is, as well as gives you promise of\nblessedness in that which is to come.\n\nBefore she had been long in Richmond she was seized with an illness\nwhich caused her many painful, wearisome days and nights. Referring to\nthis illness, in a letter to Miss Prentiss, she writes:\n\nIt is dull music being sick away from one's mother, but I have a knack\nat submitting myself to my fate; so my spirit was a contented one, and I\nwas not for a moment unhappy, except for the trouble which I gave those\nwho had to nurse me. I thought of you, at least two-thirds of the time.\nAs my little pet, Lily L., said to me last night, when she had very\nnearly squeezed the breath out of my body, \"I love you a great deal\nharder than I hug you\"; so I say to you--I love you harder than I tell,\nor can tell you. A happy New-Year to you, dear Anna. How much and how\nlittle in those few old words! Consider yourself kissed and good-night.\n\nThe \"New Year\" was destined to be a very eventful one alike to her\nfriend and to herself. She seemed to have a presentiment of it, at least\nin her own case, as some lines written on a blank leaf of her almanac\nfor that year attest:\n\n  With mingling hope and trust and fear\n  I bid thee welcome, untried year;\n  The paths before me pause to view;\n  Which shall I shun and which pursue?\n  I read my fate with serious eye;\n  I see dear hopes and treasures fly,\n  Behold thee on thy opening wing\n  Now grief, now joy, now sorrow bring.\n  God grant me grace my course to run\n  With one blest prayer--_His_ will be done.\n\nA little journal kept by her during the following months gives bright\nglimpses of her daily life. The entries are very brief, but they show\nthat while devoted to the school, she also spent a good deal of time\namong her books, kept up a lively correspondence with absent friends,\nand contributed her full share to the entertainment of the household by\n\"holding soirees\" in her room, \"reading to the girls,\" writing stories\nfor them, and helping to \"play goose\" and other games.\n\n_To Miss Anna S. Prentiss, Richmond, Feb. 22, 1843._\n\nThanks to the Father of his Country for choosing to be born in Virginia!\nfor it gives us a holiday, and I can write to you, dearest of Annas. You\ndon't know how delighted I was to get your long-watched-for letter.\nYou very kindly express the wish that you could bear some of my school\ndrudgery with me. I would not give you that, but you should have love\nfrom some of these warm-hearted damsels, which would make you happy even\nin the midst of toil and vexation. I can't think what makes my scholars\nlove me so. I'm sure it is a gift for which I should be grateful, as\ncoming from the same source with all the other blessings which are about\nme. I believe my way of governing is a more fatiguing one than that\nof scolding, fretting, and punishing. There is a little bit of a tie\nbetween each of these hearts and mine--and the least mistake on my part\nsevers it forever; so I have to be exceedingly careful what I do and\nsay. This keeps me in a constant state of excitement and makes my pulse\nfly rather faster than, as a pulse arrived at years of discretion, it\nought to do. I come out of school so happy, though half tired to death,\nwishing I were better, and hoping I shall become so; for the more my\nscholars love me, the more I am ashamed that I am not the pink of\nperfection they seem to fancy me.\n\n_Evening._--I have just come up here to my lonely room (which, if I\nhadn't the happiest kind of a heart in the world, would look right\ngloomy) and have read for the third time your dear, good letter, and all\nI wish is that I could tell you how I love you, and how angry I am with\nmyself that I did not know and love you sooner. It seems so odd that we\nshould have been born and \"raised\" so near each other and yet apart. You\nsay you are a believer in destiny. So am I--particularly in affairs of\nthe heart; and I hope that we are made friends now for something more\nthan the satisfaction which we find in loving. I am in danger of\nforgetting that I am to stay in this world only a little while and\nthen _go home._ Will you help me to bear it in mind?... How must the\n\"Pilgrim's Progress\" interest a mind that has never learned the whole\nbook by rote in childhood. I have often wished I could read it as a\nfirst-told tale, and so I wish about the xiv. of John and some other\nchapters in the Bible.\n\nYour incidental mention that you have family prayers every evening\nproduced a thousand strange sensations in my mind. I hardly know why.\nDid I ever tell you how I love and admire the new Bishop Johns? And how\nif I _am_ a \"good Presbyterian,\" as they say here, I go to hear him\nwhenever and wherever he preaches. I don't think him a _great_ man, but\nhe has that sincerity and truthfulness of manner which win your love at\nonce. [4] ... What nice times you must have studying German! I dreamed\nthe night I read your account of it that I was with you, and that you\nsaid I was as stupid as an owl. I have the queerest mind somehow. It\nwon't work like those of other people, but goes the farthest way round\nwhen it wants to go home, and I never could do anything with it but just\nlet it have its own way, and live the longer. They are having a nice\ntime down in the parlor worshipping Miss Ford, the light and sunshine of\nthe house, who leaves to-morrow for Natchez, and I am going down to help\nthem. So, good-night.\n\n_To the same. April 24._\n\nSince I wrote you last we have all had a good deal to put our patience\nand philosophy and faith to the test, and I must own that I have been\nfor some weeks about as uncomfortable as mortal damsel could be.\nEverything went wrong with Mr. Persico, and his gloom extended to all\nof us. I never spent such melancholy weeks in my life, and became so\nhomesick that I could hardly drag myself into school. In the midst of\nit, however, I made fun for the rest, as I believe I should do in a\ndungeon; and now it is all over, I look back and laugh still.\n\nWe had a black wedding--a very black one--in my schoolroom the other\nnight; our cook having decided to take to herself a lord and master. It\nwas the funniest affair I ever saw. Such comical dresses! such heaps of\ncake, wine, coffee, and candy! such kissings and huggings! The man who\nperformed the ceremony prayed that they might _obey each other,_ wherein\nI think he showed his originality and good sense, too. Then he held\na book upside down and pretended to read, dear knows what! but the\nProfessor--that is to say, Mrs. P.--laughed so loud when he said, \"Will\nyou take this _wo-_man to be your wedded _husband_\" that we all joined in\nfull chorus, whereupon the poor priest (who was only the sexton of St.\nJames') was so confused that he married them over twice. I never saw\na couple in their station in life provided with a tenth part of the\nluxuries with which they abounded. We worked all day Saturday in the\nkitchen, making and icing cake for them, and a nice frolic we had of it,\ntoo. Do you love babies? We have a black one in the lot whom I pet for\nwant of something on which to expend my love.\n\nWhen I find anything that will interest the whole family, I read it\naloud for general edification. The girls persuaded me into writing a\nstory to read to them, and locked me into my room till it was done. It\nwas the first love-story I ever wrote, for hitherto I have not known\nenough about such things to be able to do it. This reminds me that you\nasked if I intend forgetting you after I am married. I have no sort of\nidea what I shall do, provided I ever marry. But if I ever fall in love\nI dare say I shall do it so madly and absorbingly as to become, in a\nmeasure and for a season, forgetful of everything and everybody else.\nStill, though I hate professions, I don't see how I can ever cease to\nlove you, whatever else I forget or neglect. There is a restlessness\nin my affection for you that I don't understand--a half wish to avoid\nenjoyment now, that I may in some future time share it with you. And yet\nI have a presentiment that we may have sympathy in trials of which I now\nknow nothing.\n\nI am ashamed of myself, of late, that these subjects of love and\nmatrimony find a place in my thoughts which I never have been in the\nhabit of giving them, but people here talk of little else and I am borne\non with the current. I think that to give happiness in married life a\nwoman should possess oceans of self-sacrificing love and I, for one,\nhaven't half of that self-forgetting spirit which I think essential.\n\nI am glad you like the \"Christian Year,\" and I see you are quite an\nEpiscopalian. Well, if you are like the good old English divines, nobody\ncan find fault with your choice. Mr. Persico was brought up a Catholic\nbut professes to be a nothingarian now. For myself, this only I know\nthat I earnestly wish all the tendencies of my heart to be heavenward,\nand I believe that the sincere inquirer after truth will be guided by\nthe Infinite Mind. And so on that faith I venture myself and feel safe\nas a child may feel, who holds his father's hand. Life seems full of\nmysteries to me of late--and I am tempted to strange thoughtfulness in\nthe midst of its gayest scenes.\n\nHow true was the \"presentiment\" described in this letter, will appear in\nher correspondence with the same friend more than a quarter of a century\nlater.\n\n_To Anna S. Prentiss, Richmond, June 1, 1843_\n\nI believe you and I were intended to know each other better I have found\na certain something in you that I have been wanting all my life. While I\nwish you to know me just as I am, faults and all, I can t bear to\nthink of ever seeing anything but the good and the beautiful in your\ncharacter, dear Anna, and I believe my heart would break outright should\nI find you to be otherwise than just that which I imagine you are. I\ndon't know why I am saying this; but I have learned more of the world\nduring the last year than in any previous half dozen of my life, and the\nresult is dissatisfaction and alarm at the things I see about me. I wish\nI could always live, as I have hitherto done, under the shelter of my\nmother's wing.... I ought to ask your pardon for writing in this horrid\nstyle, but I was born to do things by steam, I believe, and can't do\nthem moderately. As I write to, so I love you, dear Anna, with all my\ninterests and energies tending to that one point. I was amused the other\nday with a young lady who came and sat on my bed when I was sick (for I\nam just getting well from a quite serious illness), and after some half\ndozen sighs, wished she were Anna Prentiss that she might be loved as\nintensely as she desired. This is a roundabout way of saying how very\ndear you are to me. What chatter-boxes girls are! I wonder how many\ntimes I've stopped to say \"My dear, don't talk so much--for I am writing\nin school.\"\n\n_June 27th_--Mr. ---- brought \"The Home\" to me and I have laughed and\ncried over it to my heart's content. Out of pure self-love, because they\nsaid she was like me, I liked poor Petra with the big nose, best of the\nbunch--though, to be sure, they liken me to somebody or other in\nevery book we read till I begin to think myself quite a bundle of\ncontradictions. I have a thousand and one things to say to you, but I\nwonder if as soon as I see you I shall straightway turn into a poker,\nand play the stiffy, as I always do when I have been separated from\nmy friends. I am writing in a little bit of a den which, by a new\narrangement, I have all to myself. What if there's no table here and\nI have to write upon the bureau, sitting on one foot in a chair and\nstretching upwards to reach my paper like a monkey? What do I care? I am\nwriting to _you_, and your spirit, invoked when I took possession of the\npremises, comes here sometimes just between daylight and dark, and talks\nto me till I am ready to put forth my hand to find yours. Oh! Anna, you\nmust be everything that is pure and good, through to the very depths\nof your heart, that mine may not ache in finding it has loved only an\nimaginary being. Not that I expect you to be perfect--for I shouldn't\nlove you if you were immaculate--but pure in aim and intention and\ndesire, which I believe you to be.\n\n_29th._--Do you want to know what mischief I've just been at? There lay\npoor Miss ----, alias \"Weaky\" as we call her, taking her siesta in the\nmost innocent manner imaginable, with a babe-in-the-wood kind of air,\nwhich proved so highly attractive that I could do no less than pick her\nup in my arms and pop her (I don't know _but_ it was _head_ first),\nright into the bathing-tub which happened to be filled with fresh cold\nwater. Poor, good little Weaky! There she sits shaking and shivering and\nlaughing with such perfect sweet humor, that I am positively taking a\nvow never to do so again. Well, I had something quite sentimental to say\nto you when I began writing, but as the spirit moved me to the above\nperpetration of nonsense, I've nothing left in me but fun, and for that\nyou've no relish, have you?\n\nI made out to cry yesterday and thereby have so refreshed my soul as\nto be in the best possible humor just now. The why and wherefore of my\ntears, which by the way I don't shed once in an age, was briefly the\nwithdrawal from school of one of my scholars, one who had so attached\nherself to me as to have become almost a part of myself, and whom I\nhad taught to love you, dear Anna, that I might have the exquisite\nsatisfaction of talking about you every day--a sort of sweet interlude\nbetween grammar and arithmetic which made the dull hours of school grow\nharmonious. She had a presentiment that her life was to close with our\nschool session, from which I couldn't move her even when her health was\ngood, and she says that she prays every day, not that her life may be\nlengthened, but that she may die before I am gone. I am superstitious\nenough to feel that the prayer may have its answer, now that I see her\ndrooping and fading away without perceptible disease. The only time I\never witnessed the rite of confirmation was when the hands of the good\nbishop rested upon her head, and no wonder if I have half taken up arms\nin defense of this \"laying-on of hands,\" out of the abundance of my\nheart if not from the wisdom of my head. Well, I've lost my mirthful\nmood, speaking of her, and don't know when it will come again.\n\nI have taken it into my head that you will visit Niagara on your way\nhome from the South and have half a mind to go there myself. Did your\nbrother bring home the poems of R. M. Milnes? I half hope that he did\nnot, since I want to see you enjoy them for the first time, particularly\na certain \"Household Brownie\" story, with which I fell in love when\nPresident Woods sent us the volume.\n\nHere follow a few entries in her diary:\n\n_May 1._---Holiday. Into the country all of us, white, black, and gray.\nSue Empie devoted herself to me like a lover and so did Sue Lewis, so\nI was not at a loss for society. My girls made a bower, wherein I was\nensconced and obliged to tell stories to about forty listeners till my\ntongue ached. _July 18th._--Left Richmond. _Aug. 2nd._--Left Reading\nfor Philadelphia. _5th._--Williamstown and saw mother, sister and baby.\n_16th._--President Hopkins' splendid address before the Alumni--also\nthat of Dr. Robbins. _18th._--Left Williamstown and reached Nonantum\nHouse at night. Saw Aunt Willis, Julia, Sarah, Ellen, etc. _22nd._--Came\nhome, oh so very happy! Dear, good home! _23rd._--Callers all day, the\nsecond of whom was Mr. P. There have been nineteen people here and I'm\ntired! _25th._--What _didn't_ I hear from Anna P. to-day! _31st._--Rode\nwith Anna P. to Saccarappa to see Rev. Mr. and Mrs. H. B. Smith--took\ntea at the P.s and went with them to the Preparatory Lecture. I do\nnothing but go about from place to place. _Sept. 1st._--Just as cold as\ncold could be all day. Spent evening at Mrs. B.'s, talking with Neal\nDow. _9th._--Cold and blowy and disagreeable. Went to see Carrie H. Came\nhome and found Mr. P. here; he stayed to tea--read us some interesting\nthings--told us about Mary and William Howitt. _10th._--Our church was\nre-opened to-day. Mr. Dwight preached in the morning and Mr. Chickering\nin the afternoon.\n\nSeptember 11th she marked with a white stone and kept ever after as one\nof the chief festal days of her life, but of the reason why there is\nhere no record. The diary for the rest of the year is blank with the\nexception of a single leaf which contains these sentences:\n\n\"Celle qui a besoin d'admirer ce qu'elle aime, celle, don't le jugement\nest p\u00e9n\u00e9trant, bien que son imagination exalt\u00e9e, il n'y a pour elle\nqu'un objet dans l'univers.\"\n\n\"Celui qu'on aime, est le vengeur des fautes qu'on a commis sur cette\nterre; la Divinit\u00e9 lui pr\u00eate son pouvoir.\"\n\nMAD. DE STAEL.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIII.\n\nHer Views of Love and Courtship. Visit of her Sister and Child. Letters.\nSickness and Death of Friends. Ill-Health. Undergoes a Surgical\nOperation. Her Fortitude. Study of German. Fenelon.\n\n\nThe records of the next year and a half are very abundant, in the form\nof notes, letters, verses and journals; but they are mostly of too\nprivate a character to furnish materials for this narrative, belonging\nto what she called \"the deep story of my heart.\" They breathe the\nsweetness and sparkle with the morning dew of the affections; and while\nsome of them are full of fun and playful humor, others glow with all\nthe impassioned earnestness of her nature, and others still with deep\nreligious feeling. She wrote:\n\nMy heart seems to me somewhat like a very full church at the close of\nthe services--the great congregation of my affections trying to find\ntheir way out and crowding and hindering each other in the general rush\nfor the door. Don't you see them--the young ones scampering first down\nthe aisle, and the old and grave and stately ones coming with proud\ndignity after them?... I feel now that \"dans les myst\u00e8res de notre\nnature aimer, _encore aimer,_ est ce qui nous est rest\u00e9 de notre\nheritage c\u00e9leste,\" and oh, how I thank God for my blessed portion of\nthis celestial endowment!\n\nLove in a word was to her, after religion, the holiest and most\nwonderful reality of life; and in the presence of its mysteries she\nwas--to use her own comparison--\"like a child standing upon the\nseashore, watching for the onward rush of the waves, venturing himself\nclose to the water's edge, holding his breath and wooing their approach,\nand then, as they come dashing in, retreating with laughter and mock\nfear, only to return to tempt them anew.\" Her only solicitude was lest\nthe new interest should draw her heart away from Him who had been its\nchief joy. In a letter to her cousin, she touches on this point:\n\nYou know how by circumstances my affections have been repressed, and\nnow, having found _liberty to love,_ I am tempted to seek my heaven in\nso loving. But, my dear cousin, there is nothing worth having apart from\nGod; I feel this every day more and more and the fear of satisfying\nmyself with something short of Him--this is my only anxiety. This drives\nme to the throne of His grace and makes me refuse to be left one moment\nto myself. I believe I desire first of all to love God supremely and to\ndo something for Him, if He spares my life.\n\nEarly in December her sister, Mrs. Hopkins, with an infant boy, came to\nPortland and passed a part of the winter under the maternal roof. The\narrival of this boy--her mother's first grandchild--was an event in the\nfamily history. Here is her own picture of the scene:\n\nIt was a cold evening, and grandmamma, who had been sitting by the fire,\nknitting and reading, had at last let her book fall from her lap, and\nhad dropped to sleep in her chair. The four uncles sat around the table,\ntwo of them playing chess, and two looking on, while Aunt Fanny, with\nher cat on her knees, studied German a little, looked at the clock very\noften, and started at every noise.\n\n\"I have said, all along, that they wouldn't come,\" she cried at last.\n\"The clock has just struck nine, and I am not going to expect them any\nlonger. I _knew_ Herbert would not let Laura undertake such a journey in\nthe depth of winter; or, at any rate, that Laura's courage would tail at\nthe last moment.\"\n\nShe had hardly uttered these words, when there was a ring at the\ndoorbell, then a stamping of feet on the mat, to shake off the snow, and\nin they Came, Lou, and Lou's papa, and Lou's mamma, bringing ever so\nmuch fresh, cold air with them. Grandmamma woke up, and rose to meet\nthem with steps as lively as if she were a young girl; Aunt Fanny tossed\nthe cat from her lap, and seized the bundle that held the baby; the four\nuncles crowded about her, eager to get the first peep at the little\nwonder. There was such a laughing, and such a tumult, that poor Lou,\ncoming out of the dark night into the bright room, and seeing so many\nstrange faces, did not know what to think. When his cloaks and shawls\nand capes were at last pulled off by his auntie's eager hands, there\ncame into view a serious little face, a pair of bright eyes, and a head\nas smooth as ivory, on which there was not a single hair. His sleeves\nwere looped up with corals, and showed his plump white arms, and he sat\nup very straight, and took a good look at everybody.\n\n\"What a perfect little beauty!\" \"What _splendid_ eyes!\" \"What a lovely\nskin!\" \"He's the perfect image of his father!\" \"He's _exactly_ like his\nmother!\" \"What a dear little nose!\" \"What fat little hands, full of\ndimples!\" \"Let _me_ take him!\" \"Come to his own grandmamma!\" \"Let his\nuncle toss him--so he will!\" \"What does he eat?\" \"Is he tired?\" \"Now,\n_Fanny!_ you've had him ever since he came; he wants to come to me; I\nknow he does!\"\n\nThese, and nobody knows how many more exclamations of the sort, greeted\nthe ears of the little stranger, and were received by him with unruffled\ngravity.\n\n\"Aunt Fanny\" devoted herself during the following weeks to the care of\nher little nephew. Her letters written at the time--some of them with\nhim in her arms--are full of his pretty ways; and when, more than a\nscore of years later, he had given his young life to his country and\nwas sleeping in a soldier's grave, his \"sayings and doings\" formed the\nsubject of one of her most attractive juvenile books.\n\nA few extracts from her letters will give glimpses of her state of mind\nduring this winter, and show also how the thoughtful spirit, which from\nthe first tempered the excitements of her new experience, was deepened\nby the loss of very dear friends.\n\nPORTLAND, _December 9, 1843._\n\nLast evening I spent at Mrs. H.----'s with Abby and a crowd of other\npeople. John Neal told me I had a great bump of love of approbation, and\nconscientiousness very large, and self-esteem hardly any; and that he\nhoped whoever had most influence over me would remedy that evil. He then\nwent on to pay me the most extravagant compliments, and said I could\nbecome distinguished in any way I pleased. Thinks I to myself, \"I should\nlike to be the best little wife in the world, and that's the height of\nmy ambition.\" Don't imagine now that I believe all he says, for he has\nbeen saying just such things to me since I was a dozen years old, and I\ndon't see as I am any great things yet. Do you?\n\n_Jan. 3d, 1844._--Sister is still here and will stay with us a month\nor two yet. Her husband has gone home to preach and pray himself into\ncontentment without her. Though he was here only a week, his quiet\nChristian excellence made us all long to grow better. It is always the\ncase when he comes, though he rather lives than talks his religion. I\nnever saw, as far as piety is concerned, a more perfect specimen of a\nman in his every-day life.\n\nDo you pray for me every night and every morning? Don't forget how I\ncomfort myself with thinking that you every day ask for me those graces\nof the Spirit which I so long for. Indeed, I have had lately such\nheavenward yearnings!... Why do you ask _if_ I pray for you, as if I\ncould love you and _help_ praying for you continually and always. I have\nno light sense of the holiness a Christian minister should possess. I\nhalf wish there were no veil upon my heart on this point, that you\nmight see how, from the very first hour of your return from abroad, my\ninterest in you went hand-in-hand with this _looking upward_.\n\n_Jan. 22d._--We have all been saddened by the repeated trials with which\nour friends the Willises are visited this winter. Mrs. Willis is still\nvery ill, and there is no hope of her recovery; and Ellen, the pet\nof the whole household--the always happy, loving, beautiful young\nthing--who had been full of delight in the hope of becoming a mother,\nlies now at the point of death; having lost her infant, and with it her\nbright anticipations. For fourteen years there had not been a physician\nin their house, and you may imagine how they are all now taken, as it\nwere, by surprise by the first break death has threatened to make in\ntheir peculiarly happy circle. Our love for all the family has grown\nwith our growth and strengthened with our strength, and what touches\nthem we all feel.\n\n_Feb. 8th._--How is it that people who have no refuge in God live\nthrough the loss of those they love? I am very sad this morning, and\nalmost wish I had never loved you or anybody. Last night we heard of the\ndeath of Julia Willis' sister, and this morning learn that a dear little\ngirl in whom we all were much interested, and whom I saw on Saturday\nonly slightly unwell, is taken away from her parents, who have no\nmanner of consolation in losing this only child. There is a great cloud\nthroughout our house, and we hardly know what to do with ourselves. When\nI met mother and sister yesterday on my return from your house, I saw\nthat something was the matter of which they hesitated to tell me; and of\nwhom should I naturally think but of you--you in whom my life is bound\nup; and, when mother finally came to put her arms around me, I suffered\nfor the moment that intensity of anguish which I should feel in knowing\nthat something dreadful had befallen you. She told me, however, of poor\nEllen's death, and I was so lost in recovering you again that I cared\nfor nothing else all the evening, and until this morning had scarcely\nthought of the aching, aching hearts she has left behind. Her poor young\nhusband, who loved her so tenderly, is half-distracted.\n\nOh, I have blessed God to-day that until He had given me a sure and\ncertain hold upon Himself, He had not suffered me to love as I love now!\nIt is a mystery which I can not understand, how the heart can live on\nthrough the moment which rends it asunder from that of which it has\nbecome a part, except by hiding itself in God. I have felt Ellen's death\nthe more, because she and her husband were associated in my mind with\nyou. I hardly know how or why; but she told me much of the history of\nher heart when I saw her last summer on my way home from Richmond, at\nthe same time that she spoke much of you. She had seen you at our house\nbefore you went abroad, and seemed to have a sort of presentiment that\nwe should love each other.\n\nBut I ought to beg you to forgive me for sending you this gloomy page;\nyet I was restless and wanted to tell you the thoughts that have been in\nmy heart towards you to-day--the serious and saddened love with which I\nlove you, when I think of you as one whom God may take from me at any\nmoment. I do not know that it is unwise to look this truth in the face\nsometimes--for if ever there was heart tempted to idolatry, to giving\nitself up fully, utterly, with perfect abandonment of every other hope\nand interest, to an earthly love, so is mine tempted now.\n\n_Feb. 13th._--Mother is going to Boston with sister on Saturday,\nprovided I am well enough (which I mean to be), as Mrs. Willis has\nexpressed a strong wish to see her once more. We heard from them\nyesterday again. Poor Ellen's coffin was placed just where she stood as\na bride, less than eight months ago, and her little infant rested on her\nbreast. There is rarely a death so universally mourned as hers; she was\nthe most winning and attractive young creature I ever saw.\n\n_Feb. 21st._--Are you in earnest? Are you in earnest? Are you really\ncoming home in March? I am afraid to believe, afraid to doubt it. I am\ncrying and laughing and writing all at once. You would not tell me so\nunless you _really were coming_, I know ... And you are coming home!\n(How madly my heart is beating! lie still, will you?) I almost feel that\nyou are here and that you look over my shoulder and read while I write.\nAre you sure that you will come? Oh, don't repent and send me another\nletter to say that you will wait till it is pleasanter weather; it is\npleasant now. I walked out this morning, and the air was a spring air,\nand gentlemen go through the streets with their cloaks hanging over\ntheir arms, and there is a constant plashing against the windows, of\nwater dripping down from the melting snow; yes, I verily believe that\nit is warm, and that the birds will sing soon--I do, upon my word ...\nI wouldn't have the doctor come and feel my pulse this afternoon for\nanything. He would prescribe fever powders or fever drops, or something\nof the sort, and bleed me and send me to bed, or to the insane hospital;\nI don't know which. I could cry, sing, dance, laugh, all at once. Oh,\nthat I knew exactly when you will be here--the day, the hour, the\nminute, that I might know to just what point to govern my impatient\nheart--for it would be a pity to punish the poor little thing too\nseverely. I have been reading to-day something which delighted me very\nmuch; do you remember a little poem of Goethe's, in which an imprisoned\ncount sings about the flower he loves best, and the rose, the lily, the\npink, and the violet, each in turn fancy themselves the objects of his\nlove. [5] You see I put you in the place of the prisoner at the outset,\nand I was to be the flower of his love, whatever it might be. Well,\nit was the \"Forget-me-not.\" If there were a flower called the\n\"Always-loving,\" maybe I might find out to what order and class I\nbelong. Dear me; there's the old clock striking twelve, and I verily\nmeant to go to bed at ten, so as to sleep away as much of the time as\npossible before your coming, but I fell into a fit of loving meditation,\nand forgot everything else. You should have seen me pour out tea\nto-night! Why, the first thing I knew, I had poured it all out into my\nown cup till it ran over, and half filled the waiter, which is the first\ntime I ever did such a ridiculous thing in my life. But, dearest, I\nbid you good night, praying you may have sweet dreams and an inward\nprompting to write me a long, long, blessed letter, such as shall make\nme dance about the house and sing.\n\n_Feb. 22d._--Oh, I am frightened at myself, I am so happy! It seems\nas if even this whole folio would not in the least convey to you the\ngladness with which my heart is dancing and singing and making merry.\nThe doctor seems quite satisfied with my shoulder, and says \"_it's\nfirst-rate;_\" so set your heart at rest on that point. I hope there'll\nbe nobody within two miles of our meeting. Suppose you stop in some out\nof the way place just out of town, and let me trot out there to see you?\nOh, are you really coming?\n\n_To G, E. S. March 4, 1844._\n\nI must write a few lines to tell you, my dear cousin, that I am thinking\nof and praying for you on your birthday. I have but one request to offer\neither for you or for myself, and that is for more love to our Redeemer.\nI bless God that I have no other want.... I do not know why it is, but I\nnever have thought so much of death and of the certainty that I, sooner\nor later, must die, as within a few months past. I am not exactly\nsuperstitious, but this daily and hourly half-presentiment that my life\nwill not be a long one, is singularly subduing, and seems to lay a\nrestraining hand upon future plans. I am not sorry, whatever may be the\nevent, that it is so. I dread clinging to this world and seeking my rest\nin it. I am not afraid to die, or afraid that anything I love may be\ntaken from me; I only have this serious and thoughtful sense of death\nupon my mind. You know how we have loved the Willis family, and can\nimagine how we felt the death of their youngest daughter, who was dear\nto everybody. And Mrs. Willis is, probably, not living. This has added\nto my previous feeling on the subject, which was, perhaps, first\noccasioned by the sudden and terrible loss of my poor friend, Mr.\nThatcher, a year ago this month. [6] God forbid I should ever forget the\nlessons He saw I needed, and dare to feel that there is a thing upon\nearth which death may not touch. Oh, in how many ways He has sought to\nwin my whole heart for His own!\n\n_March 22d._--I was interrupted last night by the arrival of G. L. P.,\nafter his four months' absence in Mississippi, improved in health, and\nin looks, and in spirits, and quite as glad to see me, I believe, as\neven you, in your goodness of heart, say my lover ought to be. But I\nwill tell you the truth, my dear cousin, I am _afraid_ of love. There is\nno other medium, save that of the happiness of loving and being loved,\nby which my affections could be effectually turned from divine to\nearthly things. Am I not then on dangerous ground? Yet God mercifully\nshows me that it is so, and when I think how He has saved me hitherto\nthrough sharp temptations, it seems wicked, distrust of Him, not to feel\nthat He will save me through those to come. I know now there are some of\nthe great lessons of life yet to be learned; I believe I must _suffer_\nas long as I have an earthly existence. Will not then God make that\nsuffering but as a blessed reprover to bring me nearer Himself? I hope\nso.\n\nDuring the winter her health had become so much impaired, that great\nanxiety was felt as to the issue. In a letter to her friend, Miss Ellen\nThurston, dated April 20, 1844, she writes:\n\nYou remember, perhaps, that on the afternoon you were so good as to\ncome and spend with me, I was making a fuss about a little thing on\nmy shoulder. Well, I had at last to have it removed, and though the\noperation was not in itself very painful, its effects on my whole\nnervous system have been most powerful. I have lost all regular habits\nof sleep--for a week I do not know that I slept two hours--and am ready\nto fly into a fit at the bare thought of sitting still long enough to\nwrite a common letter. I have, however, the consolation of being pitied\nand consoled with, as there's something in the idea of cutting at the\nflesh which touches the heart, a thousand times more than some severer\nsufferings would do. I am getting quite thin and weak upon it, and I\nbelieve mother firmly expects me to shrink into nothing, though I am a\npretty bouncing girl still.\n\nOwing to some mishap the healing process was entirely thwarted, and\nafter a very trying summer, the operation had to be repeated. This time\nit was performed by that eminent surgeon and admirable Christian man,\nDr. John C. Warren of Boston, assisted by his son, Dr. J. M. W. Dr.\nWarren told Miss Payson's friend, who had accompanied an invalid sister\nto New York, that he thought it would require \"about five minutes;\" but\nit proved to be much more serious than he had anticipated. Miss Willis,\nin her letter from Geneva already quoted, thus refers to it:\n\nMy next meeting with Lizzy revealed a striking trait of her character,\nwhich hitherto I had had no opportunity of observing--her wonderful\nfortitude under suffering. I was at the seashore with my sister and\nfamily when, her little child being taken suddenly very ill in the\nnight, I went up to Boston by an early train to bring down as soon\nas possible our family physician. On arriving at his house I was\ndisappointed at being told that he could not come at once, being engaged\nto perform an operation that morning. While waiting for the return\ntrain, I called at my father's office and was surprised to hear that\nLizzy was the patient. A painful tumor had developed itself on the back\nof her neck, and she had come up with her mother to Boston to consult\nDr. Warren, who had advised its immediate removal.\n\nI went at once to see her. She greeted me with even more than her usual\nwarmth and after stating in a few words the object of her coming to\nBoston and that she was expecting the doctors every moment, she added:\n\"You will stay with me, I am sure. Mother insists on being present, but\nshe can not bear it. She will be sure to faint. If you will promise\nto stay, I can persuade her to remain in the next room.\" Seeing the\ndistress in my face at the request, she said, \"I will be very good. You\nwill have nothing to do but sit in the room, to satisfy mother.\" It was\nimpossible to refuse and I remained. There was no chloroform then to\ngive blessed unconsciousness of suffering and every pang had to be\nendured, but she more than kept her promise to \"be good.\" Not a sound or\na movement betrayed suffering. She spoke only once. After the knife was\nlaid aside and the threaded needle was passed through the quivering\nflesh to draw the gaping edges of the wound together, she asked, after\nthe first stitch had been completed, in a low, almost calm tone, with\nonly a slight tremulousness, how many more were to be taken. When the\noperation was over, and the surgeons were preparing to depart, she\nquestioned them minutely as to the mark which would be left after\nhealing. I was surprised that she could think of it at such a moment,\nknowing how little value she had always set on her personal appearance,\nbut her mother explained it afterward by referring to her betrothal to\nyou, and the fear that you would find the scar disfiguring. [7]\n\nIn a letter to Mrs. Stearns, [8] she herself writes, Sept. 6:\n\nI had no idea of the suffering which awaited me. I thought I should get\noff as I did the first time. But I have a great deal to be thankful for.\nOn Wednesday, to my infinite surprise and gladness, George pounced down\nupon me from New York, having been quite cut to the heart by the account\nmother gave him. Everybody is so kind, and I have had so many letters,\nand seen so many sympathising faces, and \"dear Lizzy\" sounds so sweet\nto my insatiable ears; and yet--and yet--I would rather die than live\nthrough the forty-eight hours again which began on Monday morning.\nSomebody must have prayed for me, or I never should have got through.\n\nAn extract from another of her letters, dated Portland, September 11th,\nbelongs here:\n\nI must tell you, too, about Dr. Warren (the old one). When mother\nasked him concerning the amount he was to receive from her for his\nprofessional services, he smiled and said: \"I shall not charge _you_\nmuch, and as for Miss Payson, when she is married and rich, she may pay\nme and welcome--but not till then.\" I told him I never expected to be\nrich, and he replied, with what mother thought an air of contentment\nthat said he knew all about it: \"Well, we can be happy without riches,\"\nand such a good, happy smile shone all over his face as I have seldom\nbeen so fortunate as to see in an old man. As for the young one, he\nseemed as glad when I was dressed on Sunday with a clean frock and no\nshawl, as if it were really a matter of consequence to him to see his\npatients looking comfortable and well. I am getting along finely; there\nis only one spot on my shoulder which is troublesome, and they ordered\nme on a very strict diet for that--so I am half-starved this blessed\nminute. We went to Newburyport on Monday, and stayed there with Anna\ntill yesterday afternoon. I think the motion of the cars hurt me\nsomewhat, but by the time you get here I do hope I shall be quite well.\n\n_Evening_.-- ... I have had such happy thoughts and prayers to-night!\nYou should certainly have knelt with me in my little room, where, for\nthe first time a year ago this evening, I asked God to bless _us_; and\nyou too, perhaps, then began first to pray for me. Oh, what a wonderful\ntime it was!... I hope you have prayed for me to-day--I don't mean as\nyou always do, but with new prayers wherewith to begin the new year. God\nbless you and love you!\n\nBut this period was also one of large mental growth. It was marked\nespecially by two events that had a shaping influence upon both her\nintellectual and religious character. One was the study of German. She\nwas acquainted already with French and Italian; she now devoted her\nleisure hours to the language and works of Schiller and Goethe. These\nopened to her a new world of thought and beauty. Her correspondence\ncontains frequent allusions to the progress of her German reading. Here\nis one in a letter to her cousin:\n\nI have read George Herbert a good deal this winter. I have also read\nseveral of Schiller's plays--William Tell and Don Carlos among the\nrest--and got a great deal more excited over them than I have over\nanything for a long while. George has a large German library, but\nI don't suppose I shall be much the wiser for it, unless I turn to\nstudying theology. Did you read in Goethe's Wilhelm Meister, the\n\"Bekenntnisse einer sch\u00f6nen Seele\"? I do think it did my soul good when\nI read it last July. The account she gives of her religious history\nreminded me of mine in some points very strongly.\n\nThe other incident was her introduction to the writings of Fenelon--an\nauthor whom, in later years, she came to regard as an oracle of\nspiritual wisdom. In the letter just quoted, she writes: \"I am reading\nFenelon's 'Maximes des Saints,' and many of his ideas please me\nexceedingly. Some of his 'Lettres Spirituelles' are delicious--so\nheavenly, so child-like in their spirit.\" [9]\n\n\n[1] _Jan, 1, 1845._--I used never to confide my religious feelings to\nany one in the world. I went on my toilsome, comfortless way quite by\nmyself. But when at the end of this long, gloomy way, I saw and knew and\nrejoiced in Christ, then I forgot myself and my pride and my reserve,\nand was glad if a little child would hear me say \"I love Him!\"--glad if\nthe most ignorant, the most hitherto despised, would speak of Him.\n\n[2] Later she writes: \"I have had a long talk with sister to-day about\nLeighton. She claims him, as all the Perfectionists do, as one of their\nnumber; though, by the way, in the common acceptation of the word, she\nis not a Perfectionist herself, but only on the boundary-line of the\nenchanted ground. I am completely puzzled when I think on such subjects.\nI doubt if sister is right, yet know not where she is wrong. She\ndoes not obtrude her peculiar opinions on any one, and I began the\nconversation this afternoon myself.\"\n\n[3] \"Oh, what a blessed thing it is to lose one's will! Since I have\nlost my will I have found happiness. There can be no such thing as\ndisappointment to me, for I have no desires but that God's will may be\naccomplished.\" \"Christians might avoid much trouble if they would only\nbelieve what they profess, viz.: that God is able to make them happy\nwithout anything but Himself. They imagine that if such a dear friend\nwere to die, or such and such blessings to be removed, they should be\nmiserable; whereas God can make them a thousand times happier without\nthem. To mention my own case: God has been depriving me of one blessing\nafter another; but as every one was removed, He has come in and filled\nup its place; and now, when I am a cripple and not able to move, I am\nhappier than ever I was in my life before or ever expected to be; and\nif I had believed this twenty years ago, I might have been spared much\nanxiety.\"\n\n[4] The Right Rev. John Johns, Bishop of the Protestant Episcopal Church\nof Virginia, was a man of apostolic simplicity and zeal, and universally\nbeloved. An almost ideal friendship existed between him and Dr. Charles\nHodge, of Princeton. _Dear, blessed, old John,_ Dr. H. called him when\nhe was seventy-nine years old. See Life of Dr. Hodge, pp. 564-569.\nBishop Johns died in 1876.\n\n[5] Das Bl\u00fcmlein Wundersch\u00f6n. _Lied des gefangenen Grafen_, is the title\nof the poem. Goethe's Samtliche Werke. Vol. I., p. 151.\n\n[6] See appendix A, p. 533.\n\n[7] The horrible operation is over, Heaven be praised! It was far more\nhorrible than we had anticipated. They were _an hour and a quarter_,\nbefore all was done. I was very brave at first and wouldn't leave the\nroom, but I found myself so faint that I feared falling and had to go.\nLizzy behaved like a heroine indeed, so that even the doctors admired\nher fortitude. She never spoke, but was deadly faint, so that they were\nobliged to lay her down that the dreadful wound might bleed; then there\nwas an artery to be taken up and tied; then six stitches to be taken\nwith a great big needle. Most providentially dear Julia Willis came\nin about ten minutes before the doctors and though she was greatly\ndistressed, she never faints, and staid till Lizzy was laid in bed....\nShe was just like a marble statue, but even more beautiful, while the\nblood stained her shoulders and bosom. You couldn't have looked on such\nsuffering without fainting, man that you are.--_From a letter of Mrs.\nPayson, dated Boston, Sept. 2, 1844._\n\n[8] Her friend, Miss Prentiss, had been married, in the previous autumn,\nto the Rev. Jonathan F. Stearns, of Newburyport.\n\n[9] \"Explication des Maximes des Saints sur la Vie Int\u00e9rieure\" is\nthe full title of the famous little work first named. It appeared in\nJanuary, 1697. If measured by the storm it raised in France and at Rome,\nor by the attention it attracted throughout Europe, its publication may\nbe said to have been one of the most important theological events of\nthat day. The eloquence of Bossuet and the power of Louis XIV. were\ntogether exerted to the utmost in order to brand its illustrious author\nas a heretical Quietist; and, through their almost frantic efforts, it\nwas at last condemned in a papal brief. But, for all that, the little\nwork is full of the noblest Christian sentiments. It pushes the doctrine\nof pure love, perhaps, to a perilous extreme, but still an extreme that\nleans to the side of the highest virtue. After its condemnation the\nPope, Innocent XII., wrote to the French prelates, who had been most\nprominent in denouncing Fenelon: _Peccavit excessu amoris divini, sed\nvos peccastis defectu amoris proximi_--i.e., \"He has erred by too much\nlove of God, but ye have erred by too little love of your neighbor.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nTHE YOUNG WIFE AND MOTHER.\n\n1845-1850.\n\nI.\n\nMarriage and Settlement in New Bedford. Reminiscences. Letters. Birth of\nher First Child. Death of her Sister-in-Law. Letters.\n\n\nOn the 16th of April, 1845, Miss Payson was married to the Rev. George\nLewis Prentiss, then just ordained as pastor of the South Trinitarian\nchurch in New Bedford, Mass. Here she passed the next five and a half\nyears; years rendered memorable by precious friendships formed in them,\nby the birth of two of her children, by the death of her mother, and by\nother deep joys and sorrows. New Bedford was then known, the world over,\nas the most important centre of the whale-fishery. In quest of the\nleviathans of the deep its ships traversed all seas, from the tumbling\nicebergs of the Arctic Ocean to the Southern Pacific. But it was also\nknown nearer home for the fine social qualities of its people. Many of\nthe original settlers of the town were Quakers, and its character had\nbeen largely shaped by their friendly influence. Husbands and wives,\nwhether young or old, called each other everywhere by their Christian\nnames, and a charming simplicity marked the daily intercourse of life.\nInto this attractive society Mrs. Prentiss was at once welcomed. The\nArnold family in particular--a family representing alike the friendly\nspirit, the refinement and taste, the wealth, and the generous\nhospitality of the place--here deserve mention. Their kindness was\nunwearied; flowers and fruit came often from their splendid garden and\ngreenhouses; and, in various other ways, they contributed from the\nmoment of her coming to render New Bedford a pleasant home to her.\n\nBut it was in her husband's parish that she found her chief interest\nand joy. His people at first welcomed her in the warmest manner on her\nsainted father's account, but they soon learned to love her for her own\nsake. She early began to manifest among them that wonderful sympathy,\nwhich made her presence like sunshine in sick rooms and in the house of\nmourning, and, in later years, endeared her through her writings to so\nmany hearts. While her natural shyness and reserve caused her to shrink\nfrom everything like publicity, and even from that leadership in the\nmore private activities of the church which properly belonged to her sex\nand station, any kind of trouble instantly aroused and called into play\nall her energies. The sickness and death of little children wrought upon\nher with singular power; and, in ministering aid and comfort to bereaved\nmothers, she seemed like one specially anointed of the Lord for this\ngentle office. Now, after the lapse of more than a third of a century,\nthere are those in New Bedford and its vicinity who bless her memory, as\nthey recall scenes of sharp affliction cheered by her presence and her\nloving sympathy.\n\nThe following reminiscences by one of her New Bedford friends, written\nnot long after her death, belong here:\n\nOh, that I had the pen of a ready writer! How gladly would I depict her\njust as she came to New Bedford, a youthful bride and our pastor's wife,\nmore than a third of a century ago! My remembrances of her are still\nfresh and delightful; but they have been for so many years _silent_\nmemories that I feel quite unable fully to express them. And yet I will\ntry to give you a few simple details. Several things strike me as I\nrecall her in those days. Our early experiences in the struggle of life\nhad been somewhat similar and this drew us near to each other. She was\nnaturally very shy and in the presence of strangers, or of\nuncongenial persons, her reserve was almost painful; but with her\nfriends--especially those of her own sex--all this vanished and she was\nfull of animated talk. Her conversation abounded in bright, pointed\nsayings, in fine little touches of humor, in amusing anecdotes and\nincidents of her own experience, which she related with astonishing ease\nand fluency, sometimes also in downright girlish fun and drollery; and\nall was rendered doubly attractive by her low, sweet woman's voice and\nher merry, fitful laugh. Yet these things were but the sparkle of a very\ndeep and serious nature. Even then her religious character was to me\nwonderful. She seemed always to know just what was prompting her,\nwhether, nature or grace; and her perception of the workings of the two\nprinciples was like an instinct. While I, though cherishing a Christian\nhope, was still struggling in bondage under the law, she appeared to\nenjoy to the full the glorious liberty of the children of God. And when\nI would say to her that I was constantly doing that which I ought not\nand leaving undone so much that I ought to do, she would try to comfort\nme and to encourage me to exercise more faith by responding, \"Oh, you\ndon't know what a great sinner I am; but Christ's love is greater\nstill.\" There was a helpful, assuring, sunshiny influence about her\npiety which I have rarely seen or felt in any other human being. And\nalmost daily, during all the years of separation, I have been conscious\nof this influence in my own life.\n\nI remember her as very retiring in company, even among our own people.\nBut if there were children present, she would gather them about her and\nhold them spell-bound by her talk. Oh, she was a marvellous storyteller!\nHow often have I seen her in the midst of a little group, who, all eyes\nand ears, gazed into her face and eagerly swallowed every word, while\nshe, intent on amusing them, seemed quite unconscious that anybody else\nwas in the room. Mr. H---- used to say, \"How I envy those children and\nwish I were one of them!\"\n\nMrs. Prentiss received much attention from persons outside of our\ncongregation, and who, from their position and wealth, were pretty\nexclusive in their habits. But they could not resist the attraction of\nher rare gifts and accomplishments. New Bedford at that time, as you\nknow, had a good deal of intellectual and social culture. This was\nparticularly the case among the Unitarians, whose minister, when you\ncame to us, was that excellent and very superior man, the Rev. Ephraim\nPeabody, D.D., afterwards of King's Chapel in Boston. One of the leading\nfamilies of his flock was the \"Arnold family,\" whose garden and grounds\nwere then among the finest in the State and at whose house such men\nas Richard H. Dana, the poet, the late Professor Agassiz, and others\neminent for their literary and scientific attainments, were often to be\nseen. This whole family were warmly attached to Mrs. Prentiss, and after\nyou left New Bedford, often referred to their acquaintance with her in\nthe most affectionate manner. And I believe Mr. Arnold and his daughter\nused to visit you in New York. The father, mother, daughter, and aunt\nare all gone. And what a change have all these vanished years wrought\nin the South Trinitarian society! I can think of only six families then\nworshipping there, that are worshipping there now. But so long as a\nsingle one remains, the memory of Mrs. Prentiss will still be precious\nin the old church.\n\nThe story of the New Bedford years may be told, with slight additions\nhere and there, by Mrs. Prentiss' own pen. Most of her letters to her\nown family are lost; but the letters to her husband, when occasionally\nseparated from her, and others to old friends, have been preserved and\nafford an almost continuous narrative of this period. A few extracts\nfrom some of those written in 1845, will show in what temper of mind she\nentered upon her new life. The first is dated Portland, January both,\njust after Mr. Prentiss received the call to New Bedford:\n\nI have wished all along, beyond anything else, not so much that we might\nhave a pleasant home, pleasant scenery and circumstances, good society\nand the like, as that we might have good, holy influences about us, and\nGod's grace and love within us. And for you, dear George, I did not so\nmuch desire the intellectual and other attractions, about which we have\ntalked sometimes, as a dwelling-place among those whom you might train\nheavenward or who would not be a hindrance in your journey thither.\nThrough this whole affair I know I have thought infinitely more of you\nthan of myself. And if you are happy at the North Pole shan't I be happy\nthere too? I shall be heartily thankful to see you a pastor with a\npeople to love you. Only I shall be jealous of them.\n\nTo her friend, Miss Thurston, she writes from New Bedford, April 28th:\n\nI thank you with all my heart for your letter and for the very pretty\ngift, which I suppose to be the work of your own hands. I can not tell\nyou how inexpressibly dear to me are all the expressions of affection I\nhave received and am receiving from old friends. We have been here ten\ndays, and very happy days they have been to me, notwithstanding I have\nhad to see so many strange faces and to talk to so many new people. And\nboth my sister and Anna tell me that the first months of married life\nare succeeded by far happier ones still; so I shall go on my way\nrejoicing. As to what your brother says about disappointment, nobody\nbelieves his doctrine better than I do; but life is as full of blessings\nas it is of disappointments, I conceive, and if we only know how, we may\noften, out of mere _will_, get the former instead of the latter. I have\nhad some experience of the \"conflict and dismay\" of this present evil\nworld; but then I have also had some of its smiles. Neither of these\never made me angry with this life, or in love with it. I believe I am\npretty cool and philosophical, but it won't do for me at this early day\nto be boasting of what is in me. I shall have to wait till circumstances\nbring it out. I can only answer for the past and the present--the one\nhaving been blessed and gladdened and the other _being_ made happy and\ncheerful by lover and husband. I'll tell you truly, as I promised to do,\nif my heart sings another tune on the 17th of April, 1848. I only hope\nI shall enter soberly and thankfully on my new life, expecting sunshine\nand rain, drought and plenty, heat and cold--and adapting myself to\nalternations contentedly--but who knows? We are boarding at a hotel,\nwhich is not over pleasant. However, we have two good rooms and have\nhome things about us. I like to sit at work while Mr. Prentiss writes\nhis sermons and he likes to have me--so, for the present, a study can be\ndispensed with. In a few weeks we hope to get to housekeeping. I like\nNew Bedford very much.\n\nTo her husband she writes, June 18:\n\nI can not help writing you again, though I did send you a letter last\nnight. It is a very pleasant morning, and I think of you all the time\nand love you with the happiest tears in my eyes. I have just been making\nsome nice crispy gingerbread to send Mrs. H----, as she has no appetite,\nand I thought anything from home would taste good to her. I hope this\nwill please you. Mother called with me to see her yesterday. She looks\nvery ill. I have no idea she will ever get well. We had a nice time at\nthe garden last night. Mr. and Miss Arnold came out and walked with us\nnearly an hour, though tea was waiting for them, and Miss A. was very\nparticularly attentive to me (for your dear sake!), and gave me flowers,\nbeautiful ones, and spoke with much interest of your sermons. Oh, I am\nready to jump for joy, when I think of seeing you home again. Do please\nbe glad as I am. I suppose your mother wants you too; but then she can't\nlove you as I do--I'm sure she can't--with all the children among whom\nshe has to divide her heart. Give my best love to her and Abby. How I\nwish I were in Portland, helping you pack your books. But I can't write\nany more as we are going to Mrs. Gibbs' to tea. Mother is reading Hamlet\nin her room. She is enjoying herself very much.\n\nMrs. Gibbs, whose name occurs in this letter, was one of those\ninestimable friends, who fulfill the office of mother, as it were, to\nthe young minister's wife. She was tenderly attached to Mrs. Prentiss\nand her loving-kindness, which was new every morning and fresh every\nevening, ceased only with her life. Her husband, the late Capt. Robert\nGibbs, was like her in unwearied devotion to both the pastor and the\npastor's wife.\n\nThe summer was passed in getting settled in her new home, and receiving\nvisits from old friends. Early in the autumn she spent several weeks in\nPortland. After her return, Nov. 2, she writes to Miss Thurston:\n\nI was in Portland after you had left, and got quite rested and recruited\nafter my summer's fatigue, so that I came home with health and strength,\nif not to lay my hand to the plough, to apply it to the broom-handle and\nother articles of domestic warfare. Just what I expected would befall me\nhas happened. I have got immersed in the whirlpool of petty cares and\nconcerns which swallow up so many other and higher interests, and\ntalk as anxiously about good \"help\" and bad, as the rest of 'em do. I\nsometimes feel really ashamed of myself to see how virtuously I fancy I\nam spending my time, if in the kitchen, and how it seems to be wasted if\nI venture to take up a book. I take it that wives who have no love and\nenthusiasm for their husbands are more to be pitied than blamed if they\nsettle down into mere cooks and good managers.... We have had right\npleasant times since coming home; never pleasanter than when, for a day\nor two, I was without \"help,\" and my husband ground coffee and drew\nwater for me, and thought everything I made tasted good. One of the\ndeacons of our church--a very old man--prays for me once a week at\nmeeting, especially that my husband and I may be \"mutual comforts and\nenjoyments of each other,\" which makes us laugh a little in our sleeves,\neven while we say Amen in our hearts. We have been reading aloud Mary\nHowitt's \"Author's Daughter,\" which is a very good story indeed--don't\nask me if I have read anything else. My mind has become a complete\nmummy, and therefore incapable of either receiving or originating a new\nidea. I did wade through a sea of words, and nonsense on my way home in\nthe shape of two works of Prof. Wilson--\"The Foresters\" and \"Margaret\nLindsay\"--which I fancy he wrote before he was out of his mother's arms\nor soon after leaving them. The girls in Portland are marrying off like\nall possessed. It reminds me of a shovel full of popcorn, which the more\nyou watch it the more it won't pop, till at last it all goes racketing\noff at once, pop, pop, pop; without your having time to say Jack\nRobinson between.\n\nMy position as wife of a minister secures for me many affectionate\nattentions, and opens to me many little channels of happiness, which\nconspire to make me feel contented and at home here. I do not know how\na stranger would find New Bedford people, but I am inclined to think\nsociety is hard to get into, though its heart is warm when you once do\nget in. We are very pleasantly situated, and our married life has been\nabundantly blessed. I doubt if we could fail to be contented anywhere if\nwe had each other to love and care for.\n\nWe went to hear Templeton sing last night. I was perfectly charmed with\nhis hunting song and with some others, and better judges than I were\nequally delighted. I had a letter from Abby last week. She is in\nVicksburg and in fine spirits, and fast returning health.\n\nHer letters during 1846 glow with the sunshine of domestic peace and\njoy. In its earlier months her health was unusually good and she depicts\nher happiness as something \"wonderful.\" All the day long her heart, she\nsays, was \"running over\" with a love and delight she could not begin\nto express. But her letters also show that already she was having\nforetastes of that baptism of suffering, which was to fit her for doing\nher Master's work. In January she revisited Portland, where she had the\npleasure of meeting Prof, and Mrs. Hopkins with their little boy, and\nof passing several weeks in the society of her own and her husband's\nfamily. But Portland had now lost for her much of its attraction. \"I've\nseen all the folks,\" she wrote, \"and we've said about all we've got to\nsay to each other, and though I love to be at home, of course, it is not\nthe home it used to be before you had made such another dear, dear home\nfor me. Oh, do you miss me? do you feel a _little bit_ sorry you let me\nleave you? Do say, yes.... But I can't write, I am so happy! I am so\nglad I am going home!\" Early in December her first child was born.\nWriting a few weeks later to Mrs. Stearns, she thus refers to this\nevent:\n\nWhat a world of new sensations and emotions come with the first child! I\nwas quite unprepared for the rush of strange feelings--still more so for\nthe saddening and chastening effect. Why should the world seem more than\never empty when one has just gained the treasure of a living and darling\nchild?\n\nThe saddening effect in her own case was owing in part, no doubt, to\nanxiety occasioned by the fatal illness of her husband's eldest sister,\nto whom she was tenderly attached. The following letter was written\nunder the pressure of this anxiety:\n\n_To Miss Thurston, New Bedford, Jan. 31, 1847_\n\nI dare say the idea of _Lizzy Payson_ with a _baby_ seems quite funny\nto you, as it does to many of the Portland girls; but I assure you it\ndoesn't seem in the least funny to me, but as natural as life and I may\nadd, as wonderful, almost. She is a nice little plump creature, with a\nfine head of dark hair which I take some comfort in brushing round a\nquill to make it curl, and a pair of intelligent eyes, either black or\nblue, nobody knows which. I find the care of her very wearing, and have\ncried ever so many times from fatigue and anxiety, but now I am getting\na little better and she pays me for all I do. She is a sweet, good\nlittle thing, her chief fault being a tendency to dissipation and\nsitting up late o' nights. The ladies of our church have made her a\nbeautiful little wardrobe, fortunately for me.\n\nI had a lot of company all summer; my sister, her husband and boy, Mr.\nStearns and Anna, Mother Prentiss, Julia Willis, etc. I had also my last\nvisit from Abby, whom I little thought then I should never see again.\nOur happiness in our little one has been checked by our constant anxiety\nwith regard to Abby's health, and it is very hard now for me to give up\none who has become in every sense a sister, and not even to have the\nprivilege of bidding her farewell. George went down about a week since\nand will remain till all is over. I do not even know that while I write\nshe is yet living. She had only one wish remaining and that was to see\nGeorge, and she was quite herself the day of his arrival, as also the\nday following, and able to say all she desired. Since then she has been\nrather unconscious of what was passing, and I fervently trust that by\nthis time her sufferings are over and that she is where she longed\nand prayed to be. [1] You can have no idea how alike are the emotions\noccasioned by a birth and a death in the family. They seem equally\nsolemn to me and I am full of wonder at the mysterious new world into\nwhich I have been thrown. I used to think that the change I saw in\nyoung, giddy girls when they became mothers, was owing to suffering and\ncare wearing upon the spirits, but I see now that its true source lies\nfar deeper. My brother H. has been married a couple of months, so I have\none sister more. I shall be glad when they are all married. Some sisters\nseem to feel that their brothers are lost to them on their marriage, but\nif I may judge by my husband, there is fully as much gain as loss. I am\nsure no son or brother could be more devoted to mother and sisters than\nhe is. Of course the baby is his perfect comfort and delight; but I need\nnot enlarge on this point, as I suppose you have seen papas with their\nfirst babies. A great sucking of a very small thumb admonishes me that\nthe little lady in the crib meditates crying for supper, so I must hurry\noff my letter.\n\nAbby Lewis Prentiss died on Saturday, January 30, 1847, at the age\nof thirty-two. Long and wearisome sufferings, such as usually attend\npulmonary disease, preceded the final struggle. It was toward the close\nof a stormy winter's day, that she gently fell asleep. A little while\nbefore she had imagined herself in a \"very beautiful region\" which her\ntongue in vain attempted to describe, surrounded by those she loved.\nAmong her last half-conscious utterances was the name of her brother\nSeargent. The next morning witnessed a scene of such wondrous splendor\nand loveliness as made the presence of Death seem almost incredible. The\nsnow-fall and mist and gloom had ceased; and as the sun rose, clear and\nresplendent, every visible object--the earth, trees, houses--shone as\nif enameled with gold and pearls and precious stones. It was the Lord's\nday; and well did the aspect of nature symbolise the glory of Him, who\nis the Resurrection and the Life.\n\nOn receiving the news of his sister's death, her brother Seargent,\nwriting to his mother, thus depicted her character:\n\nMy heart bleeds to the core, as I sit down to mingle my tears with\nyours, my dear, beloved mother. I can not realise that it is all over;\nthat I shall never again, in this world, see our dear, dear Abby.\nGladly would I have given my own life to preserve hers. But we have\nconsolation, even in our extreme grief; for she was so good that we know\nshe is now in heaven, and freed from all care, unless it be that her\naffectionate heart is still troubled for us, whom she loved so well. We\ncan dwell with satisfaction, after we have overcome the first sharpness\nof our grief, upon her angel-like qualities, which made her, long before\nshe died, fit for the heaven where she now is.... You have lost the\npurest, noblest, and best of daughters; I, a sister, who never to my\nknowledge did a selfish act or uttered a selfish thought. With the\nexception of yourself, dear mother, she was, of all our family circle,\nthe best prepared to enter her Father's house.\n\nSome extracts from letters written at this time, will show the\ntenderness of Mrs. Prentiss' sisterly love and sympathy, and give a\nglimpse also of her thoughts and occupations as a young mother.\n\n_To Mrs. Stearns, New Bedford, Feb. 17, 1847_\n\nIf I loved you less, my dear Anna, I could write you twenty letters\nwhere I now can hardly get courage to undertake one. How very dearly\nI do love you I never knew, till it rushed upon my mind that we might\nsometime lose you as we have lost dear Abby. How mysteriously your and\nMary's and my baby are given us just at this very time, when our hearts\nare so sore that we are almost afraid to expose them to new sufferings\nby taking in new objects of affection! But it does seem to me a great\nmercy that, trying as it is in many respects, these births and this\ndeath come almost hand in hand. Surely we three young mothers have\nlearned lessons of life that must influence us forever in relation to\nthese little ones!\n\nI have been like one in the midst of a great cloud, since the birth\nof our baby, entirely unconscious how much I love her; but I am just\nbeginning to take comfort in and feel sensible affection for her. I long\nto show the dear little good creature to you. But I can hardly give up\nmy long-cherished plans and hopes in regard to Abby's seeing and loving\nour first child. Almost as much as I depended on the sympathy and\naffection of my own mother in relation to this baby, I was depending on\nAbby's. But I rejoice that she is where she is, and would not have her\nback again in this world of sin and conflict and labor, for a thousand\ntimes the comfort her presence could give. But you don't know how I\ndread going home next summer and not finding her there! It was a great\nmercy that you could go down again, dear Anna. And indeed there are\nmanifold mercies in this affliction--how many we may never know, till we\nget home to heaven ourselves and find, perhaps, that this was one of the\ninvisible powers that helped us on our way thither. I had a sweet little\nnote from your mother to-day. I would give anything if I could go right\nhome, and make her adopt me as her daughter by a new adoption, and be a\nreal blessing and comfort to her in this lonely, dark time. Eddy Hopkins\ncalls my baby _his_. How children want to use the possessive case in\nregard to every object of interest!\n\nI find the blanket that Mrs. Gibbs knit for me so infinitely preferable,\nfrom its elasticity, to common flannel, that I could not help knitting\none for you. If I say that I have thought as many affectionate thoughts\nto you, while knitting it, as it contains stitches, I fancy I speak\nnothing but truth and soberness--for I love you now with the love I have\nreturned on my heart from Abby, who no longer is in want of earthly\nfriends. Dear little baby thought I was knitting for her special\npleasure, for her bright eyes would always follow the needles as she lay\nupon my lap, and she would smile now and then as if thanking me for my\ntrouble. The ladies have given her an elegant cloak, and Miss Arnold has\njust sent her a little white satin bonnet that was made in England, and\nis quite unlike anything I ever saw. Only to think, I walked down to\nchurch last Sunday and heard George preach once more!\n\n_March 3d._--We could with difficulty, and by taking turns, get through\nreading your letter--not only because you so accurately describe our own\nfeelings in regard to dear Abby, but because we feel so keenly for you.\nI often detect myself thinking, \"Now I will sit down and write Abby a\nnice long letter\"; or imagining how she will act when we go home with\nour baby; and as you say, I dream about her almost every night. I used\nalways to dream of her as suffering and dying, but now I see her just as\nshe was when well, and hear her advising this and suggesting that, just\nas I did when she was here last summer. Life seems so different now from\nwhat it did! It seems to me that my _youth_ has been touched by Abby's\ndeath, and that I can never be so cheerful and light-hearted as I have\nbeen. But, dear Anna, though I doubt not this is still more the case\nwith you, and that you see far deeper into the realities of life than I\ndo, we have both the consolations that are to be found in Christ--and\nthese will remain to us when the buoyancy and the youthful spirit have\ngone from our hearts.\n\n_March 12th._ ... I had been reading a marriage sermon to George from\n\"Martyria,\" and we were having a nice _conjugal_ talk just as your\nlittle stranger was coming into the world. G. is so hurried and driven\nthat he can not get a moment in which to write. He has a funeral this\nafternoon, that of Mrs. H., a lady whom he has visited for two years,\nand a part, if not all, of that time once a week. I have made several\ncalls since I wrote you last--two of them to see babies, one of whom\ntook the shine quite off of mine with his great blue-black eyes and\neyelashes that lay halfway down his cheeks.\n\nThe latter part of April she visited Portland; while there she wrote to\nher husband, April 27:\n\nJust as I had the baby to sleep and this letter dated, I was called down\nto see Dr. and Mrs. Dwight and their little Willie. The baby woke before\nthey had finished their call, and behaved as prettily and looked as\nbright and lovely as heart could wish. Dr. Dwight held her a long time\nand kissed her heartily. [2] I got your letter soon after dinner, and\nfrom the haste and the _je ne sais quoi_ with which it was written, I\nfeared you were not well. Alas, I am full of love and fear. How came you\nto _walk_ to Dartmouth to preach? Wasn't it by far too long a walk to\ntake in one day? I heard Dr. Carruthers on Sunday afternoon. He made the\nfinest allusion to my father I ever heard and mother thought of it as\nI did. To-day I have had a good many callers--among the rest Deacon\nLincoln. [3] When he saw the baby he said, \"Oh, what a homely creature.\nDo tell if the New Bedford babies are so ugly?\" Mrs. S., thinking him in\nearnest, rose up in high dudgeon and said, \"Why, we think her beautiful,\nDeacon Lincoln.\" \"Well, I don't wonder,\" said he. I expect she will get\nmeasles and everything else, for _lots_ of children come to see her and\neat her up. Mother, baby and I spend to-morrow at your mother's. Do up a\nlot of sleeping and grow fat, pray do! And oh, love me and think I am\na darling little wife, and write me loving words in your next letter.\n_Wednesday_.--We have a fine day for going up to your mother's. And the\nbaby is bright as a button and full of fun. Aren't you glad?\n\n_To Mrs. Stearns, Portland, May 22, 1847_\n\nWe have just been having a little quiet Saturday evening talk about dear\nAbby, as we sat here before the lighting of the lamps, and I dare say\nI was not the only one who wished you here too. I came up here from my\nmother's on Monday morning and have had a delightful week. I can not\nbegin to tell you how glad I am that we are going to make you a little\nvisit on our way home. I do so want to see you and your children, and\nshow you our darling little baby that I can hardly wait till the time\ncomes. I suppose you have got your little folks off to bed, and so if\nyou will take a peep into the parlor here you will see how we are all\noccupied--mother in her rocking-chair, with her \"specs\" on, studying my\nDewees on Children; George toe to toe with her, reading some old German\nbook, and Lina [4] curled upon the sofa, asleep I fancy, while I sit in\nthe corner and write you from dear Abby's desk with her pen. Mercy\nand Sophia watch over the cradle in the dining-room, where mother's\nfifteenth grandchild reposes, unconscious of the honor of sleeping where\nhonorables, reverends, and reverendesses have slumbered before her. How\nstrange it seems that _my_ baby is one of this family--bone of their\nbone, and flesh of their flesh! I need not say how I miss dear Abby, for\nyou will see at once that that which was months ago a reality to you,\nhas just become such to me. It pains me to my heart's core to hear how\nshe suffered. Dear, dear Abby! how I did love her, and how thankful I\nam for her example to imitate and her excellencies to rejoice in! Your\nuncle James Lewis [5] spent last night here, and this morning he prayed\na delightful prayer, which really softened my whole soul. I do not\nknow when I have had my own wants so fervently expressed, or been more\nedified at family worship, and his allusion to Abby was very touching.\n\nThe following extracts from letters written to her husband, while he was\nabsent in Maine, may be thought by some to go a little too much into\nthe trifling details of daily life and feeling, but do not such details\nafter all form no small part of the moral warp and woof of human\nexperience?\n\n_To her husband New Bedford, August 27th_.\n\nI heard this morning that old Mrs. Kendrick was threatened with typhus\nfever, and went down soon after breakfast to see how she did, and, as I\nfound Mrs. Henrietta had watched with her and was looking all worn out,\nI begged her to let me have her baby this afternoon, that she might have\na chance to rest; so, after dinner, Sophia went down and got her. At\nfirst she set up a lamentable scream, but we huddled on her cloak and\nput her with our baby into the carriage and gave them a ride. She is\na _proper_ heavy baby, and my legs ache well with trotting round the\nstreets after the carriage. Think of me as often as you can and pray for\nme, and I will think of you and pray for you all the time.\n\n_Tuesday Evening_.--You see I am writing you a sort of little journal,\nas you say you like to know all I do while you are away. Our sweet baby\nmakes your absence far less intolerable than it used to be before she\ncame to comfort me.... I have felt all soul and as if I had no body,\never since your precious letter came this morning. I have so pleased\nmyself with imagining how funny and nice it would be if I could creep in\nunperceived by you, and hear your oration! I long to know how you got\nthrough, and what Mr. Stearns and Mr. Smith thought of it. I always pray\nfor you more when you are away than I do when you are at home, because I\nknow you are interrupted and hindered about your devotions more or less\nwhen journeying. I have had callers a great part of to-day, among them\nMrs. Leonard, Mrs. Gen. Thompson, Mrs. Randall, and Capt. Clark. [6]\nCapt. C. asked for nobody but the baby. The little creature almost\nsprang into his arms. He was much gratified and held her a long while,\nkissing and caressing her. I think it was pretty work for you to go to\nreading your oration to your mother and old Mrs. Coe, when you hadn't\nread it to me. I felt a terrible pang of jealousy when I came to that in\nyour letter. I am going now to call on Miss Arnold.\n\n_Friday, Sept, 3d._--Yesterday forenoon I was _perfectly wretched_. It\ncame over me, as things will in spite of us, \"Suppose he didn't get\nsafely to Brunswick!\" and for several hours I could not shake it off.\nIt had all the power of reality, and made me so faint that I could do\nnothing and fairly had to go to bed. I suppose it was very silly, and\nif I had not tried in every way to rise above it might have been even\nwicked, but it frightened me to find how much I am under the power of\nmere feeling and fancy. But do not laugh at me. Sometimes I say to\nmyself, \"What MADNESS to love any human being so intensely! What would\nbecome of you if he were snatched from you?\" and then I think that\nthough God justly denies us comfort and support for the future, and\nbids us lean upon Him _now_ and trust Him for the rest, He can give us\nstrength for the endurance of His most terrible chastisements when their\nhour comes.\n\n_Saturday._--I am a mere baby when I think of your getting sick in this\ntime of almost universal sickness and sorrow and death.... Yesterday\nMrs. Gibbs and Mrs. Leonard took me, with Sophia and baby, to the\ncemetery, and on a long ride of three hours--all of which was\ndelightful. In the afternoon baby had an ill-turn which alarmed me\nexcessively, because so many children are sick, but I gave her medicine\nand think she will soon be well again. Mrs. Gibbs and Mrs. Randall and\nothers sent me yesterday a dozen large peaches, two melons, a lot\nof shell-beans and tomatoes, a dish of blackberries and some fried\ncorn-cakes--not an atom of the whole of which shall I touch, taste,\nhandle, or smell; so you need not fear my killing myself. Mrs. Capt.\nDelano, where the Rev. Mr. Brock from England stayed, has just lost two\nchildren after a few days' illness. They were buried in one coffin. Old\nGideon Howland, the richest man here, is also dead. The papers are full\nof deaths. Our dear baby is nine months old to-day, and may God, if He\n_sees best_, spare her to us as many more; and if He does not, I feel as\nif I could give her up to Him--but we don't know what we can do till\nthe time comes. I hear her sweet little voice down stairs and it sounds\nhappy, so I guess she feels pretty comfortable.\n\n_Sabbath Evening._--The baby is better, and I dare say it is my\nimagination that says she looks pale and puny. She is now asleep in your\nstudy, where too I am sitting in your chair. I came down as soon as I\ncould this morning, and have stayed here all day. It is so quiet and\npleasant among your books and papers, and it was so dull up-stairs! I\nthought before your letter came, while standing over the green, grassy\ngraves of Lizzie Read, Mary Rodman, and Mrs. Cadwell, [7] how I should\nlove to have dear Abby in such a green, sweet spot, where we could\nsometimes go together to talk of her. I must own I should like to be\nburied under grass and trees, rather than cold stone and heavy marble.\nShould not you?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nII.\n\nBirth of a Son. Death of her Mother. Her Grief. Letters. Eddy's Illness\nand her own Cares. A Family Gathering at Newburyport. Extracts from\nEddy's Journal.\n\n\nPassing over another year, which was marked by no incidents requiring\nspecial mention, we come again to a birth and a death in close\nconjunction. On the 22d of October, 1848, her second child, Edward\nPayson, was born. On the 17th of November, her mother died. Of the life\nof this child she herself has left a minute record, portions of which\nwill be given later. In a letter to his sister, dated New Bedford,\nNovember 21st, her husband thus refers to her mother's departure:\n\nWe have just received the sad intelligence of Mother Payson's death. She\npassed away very peacefully, as if going to sleep, at half-past five on\nFriday afternoon. Dear Lizzy was at first quite overwhelmed, as I knew\nshe would be--for her attachment to her mother was uncommonly tender and\ndevoted; but she is now perfectly tranquil and will soon, I trust, be\nable to think of her irreparable loss with a melancholy pleasure even.\nThere is much in the case that is peculiarly fitted to produce a\ncheerful resignation. Mrs. Payson has been a severe sufferer; and since\nthe breaking up of her home in Portland, she has felt, I think, an\nincreasing detachment from the world. I was exceedingly struck with this\nduring her visit here last winter. She seemed to me to be fast ripening\nfor heaven. It is such a comfort to us that she was able to _name_ our\nlittle boy! [8]\n\nMrs. Payson died in the 65th year of her age. She was a woman of most\nattractive and admirable qualities, full of cheerful life and energy,\nand a whole-hearted disciple of Jesus. A few extracts from Mrs.\nPrentiss' letters will show how deeply she felt her loss. To her\nyoungest brother she writes:\n\nHow gladly I would go, if I could, to see you all, and talk over with\nyou the thousand things that are filling our minds and hearts! We can\nnot drain this bitter cup at one draught and then go on our way as\nthough it had never been. The loss of a mother is never made up or\natoned for; and ours was such a mother; so peculiar in her devotion and\ntenderness and sympathy! I can not mourn that her sorrowful pilgrimage\nis over, can not think for a moment of wishing she were still on earth,\nweeping and praying and suffering--but for myself and for you and for\nall I mourn with hourly tears. She has sacrificed herself for us.\n\nTo her friend, Miss Lord, she writes, Jan. 31:\n\nIt seems to me that every day and hour I miss my dear mother more and\nmore, and I feel more and more painfully how much she suffered during\nher last years and months. Dear Louise, I thought I knew that she could\nnot live long, but I never realised it, and even now I keep trying to\nhope that she has not really gone. Just in this very spot where I now\nsit writing, my dear mother's great easy-chair used to sit, and here,\nonly a year ago, she was praying for and loving me. O, if I had only\n_known_ she was dying then, and could have talked with her about heaven\ntill it had grown to seeming like a home to which she was going, and\nwhither I should follow her sooner or later! But it is all over and I\nwould not have her here again, if the shadow of a wish could restore\nher to us. I only earnestly long to be fitting, day by day, to meet\nher again in heaven. God has mingled many great mercies with this\naffliction, and I do not know that I ever in my life so felt the delight\nof praying to and thanking Him. When I begin to pray I have so much to\nthank Him for, that I hardly know how to stop. I have always thought\nI would not for the universe be left unchastised--and now I feel the\nsmart, I still can say so. Lotty's visit was a great comfort and service\nto me, but I was very selfish in talking to her so much about my own\nloss, while she was so great a sufferer under hers. Since she left\nmy little boy has been worse than ever and pined away last week very\nrapidly. You can form no idea, by any description of his sufferings, of\nwhat the dear little creature has undergone since his birth. I feel a\nperfect longing to see Portland and mother's many dear friends there,\nespecially your mother and a few like her. I am very tired as I have\nwritten a great part of this with baby in my lap--so I can write no\nmore.\n\n_To Mrs. Stearns, Feb. 17, 1849._\n\nDear little Eddy has found life altogether unkind thus far, and I have\nhad many hours of heartache on his account but I hope he may weather\nthe storm and come out safely yet. The doctor examined him all over\nyesterday, particularly his head, and said he could not make him out a\n_sick_ child, but that he thought his want of flesh owing partly to\nhis sufferings but more to the great loss of sleep occasioned by his\nsufferings. Instead of sleeping twelve hours out of the twenty-four, he\nsleeps but about seven and that by means of laudanum. Isn't it a mercy\nthat I have been able to bear so well the fatigue and care and anxiety\nof these four hard months? I feel that I have nothing to complain of,\nand a _great deal_ to be thankful for. On the whole, notwithstanding my\ngrief about my dear mother's loss, and my perplexity and distress about\nbaby, I have had as much real happiness this winter as it is possible\nfor one to glean in such unfavorable circumstances. _By far_ the\ngreatest trial I have to contend with, is that of losing all power\nto control my time. A little room all of my own, and a regular hour,\nmorning and night, all of my own would enable me, I think, to say,\n\"_Now_ let life do its worst!\"\n\nI am no stranger, I assure you, to the misgivings you describe in your\nlast letter; I think them the result of the _wish_ without the _will_\nto be holy. We pray for sanctification and then are afraid God will\nsanctify us by stripping us of our idols and feel distressed lest we\ncan not have them and Him too. Reading the life of Madame Guyon gave me\ngreat pain and anxiety, I remember. I thought that if such spiritual\ndarkness and trial as she was in for many years, was a necessary\nattendant on eminent piety, I could not summon courage to try to live\nsuch a life. Of all the anguish in the world there is nothing like\nthis--the sense of God, without the sense of nearness to Him. I wish you\nwould always \"think aloud\" when you write to me. I long to see you and\nthe children and Mr. S., and so does George. Poor G. has had a very hard\ntime of it ever since little Eddy's birth--so much care and worry and\nsleeplessness and labor, and how he is ever to get any rest I don't see.\nThese are the times that try our souls. Let nobody condole with me about\nour _bodies_. It is the struggle to be patient and gentle and cheerful,\nwhen pressed down and worn upon and distracted, that costs us so much. I\nthink when I have had all my children, if there is anything left of me,\nI shall write about the \"Battle of Life\" more eloquently than Dickens\nhas done. I had a pleasant dream about mother and Abby the other night.\nThey came together to see me and both seemed so well and so happy! I\nfeel _perfectly happy_ now, that my dear mother has gone home.\n\n_To the Same, May 7, 1849._\n\nI used to think it hard to be sick when I had dear mother hanging over\nme, doing all she could for my relief, but it is harder to be denied the\npoor comfort of being let alone and to have to drag one's self out of\nbed to take care of a baby. Mr. Stearns must know how to pity me, for my\nreal sick headaches are very like his, and when racked with pain, dizzy,\nfaint and exhausted with suffering, starvation and sleeplessness, it is\nterrible to have to walk the room with a crying child! I thought as I\nlay, worn out even to childishness, obliged for the baby's sake to have\na bright sunlight streaming into the chamber, and to keep my eyes and\nears on the alert for the same cause, how still we used to think the\nhouse must be left when my father had these headaches and how mother\nbusied herself all day long about him, and how nice his little plate of\nhot steak used to look, as he sat up to eat it when the sickness had\ngone--and how I am suffering here all alone with nobody to give me even\na look of encouragement. George was out of town on my sickest day. When\nhe was at home he did everything in the world he could do to keep the\nchildren still, but here they must be and I must direct about every\ntrifle and have them on the bed with me. I am getting desperate and feel\ndisposed to run furiously in the traces till I drop dead on the way.\nDon't think me very wicked for saying so. I am jaded in soul and body\nand hardly know what I do want. If T. comes, George, at all events, will\nget relief and that will take a burden from my mind.... I want Lina to\ncome this summer. There is a splendid swing on iron hooks under a tree,\nat the house we are going to move into. Won't that be nice for Jeanie\nand Mary's other children, if they come? I wish I had a little fortune,\nnot for myself but to gather my \"folks\" together with. I shall not write\nyou, my dear, another complaining letter; do excuse this.\n\nThis letter shows the extremity of her trouble; but it is a picture,\nmerely. The reality was something beyond description; only young\nmothers, who know it by experience, can understand its full meaning.\nNow, however, the storm for a while abated. The young relative, whose\nloving devotion had ministered to the comfort of her dying mother, came\nto her own relief and passed the next six months at New Bedford, helping\ntake care of Eddy. In the course of the spring, too, his worst symptoms\ndisappeared and hope took the place of fear and despondency. Referring\nto this period, his mother writes in Eddy's journal:\n\nOn the Saturday succeeding his birth, we heard of my dear mother's\nserious illness, and, when he was about three weeks old, of her death.\nWe were not surprised that his health suffered from the shock it thus\nreceived. He began at once to be affected with distressing colic, which\ngave him no rest day or night. His father used to call him a \"little\nmartyr,\" and such indeed he was for many long, tedious months. On the\n16th of February, the doctor came and spent two hours in carefully\ninvestigating his case. He said it was a most trying condition of\nthings, and he would gladly do something to relieve me, as he thought\nI had been through \"enough to _kill ten men_.\" ... When Eddy was about\neight months old, the doctor determined to discontinue the use of\nopiates. He was now a fine, healthy baby, bright-eyed and beautiful, and\nhis colic was reducing itself to certain seasons on each day, instead of\noccupying the whole day and night as heretofore. We went through fire\nand water almost in trying to procure for him natural sleep. We swung\nhim in blankets, wheeled him in little carts, walked the room with\nhim by the hour, etc., etc., but it was wonderful how little sleep he\nobtained after all. He always looked wide awake and as if he did not\n_need_ sleep. His eyes had gradually become black, and when, after a day\nof fatigue and care with him he would at last close them, and we would\nflatter ourselves that now we too should snatch a little rest, we would\nsee them shining upon us in the most amusing manner with an expression\nof content and even merriment. About this time he was baptized. I well\nremember how in his father's study, and before taking him to church,\nwe gave him to God. He was very good while his papa was performing the\nceremony, and looked so bright and so well, that many who had never seen\nhim in his state of feebleness, found it hard to believe he had been\naught save a vigorous and healthy child. My own health was now so broken\ndown by long sleeplessness and fatigue, that it became necessary for me\nto leave home for a season. Dr. Mayhew promised to run in _every day_ to\nsee that all went well with Eddy. His auntie was more than willing to\ntake this care upon herself, and many of our neighbors offered to go\noften to see him, promising to do everything for his safety and comfort\nif I would only go. Not aware how miserable a state I was in, I resolved\nto be absent only one week, but was away for a whole month.\n\nA part of the month, with her husband and little daughter, she passed at\nNewburyport. His brother, S. S. Prentiss--whose name was then renowned\nall over the land as an orator and patriot--had come North for the\nlast time, bringing his wife and children with him. It was a\nnever-to-be-forgotten family gathering under the aged mother's roof.\n\nOn my return (she continues in Eddy's journal) I found him looking\nfinely. He had had an ill-turn owing to teething which they had kept\nfrom me, but had recovered from it and looked really beautiful. His\nfather and uncle S. S. had been to see him once during our vacation,\nand we were now expecting them again with his Aunt Mary and her three\nchildren and his grandmother. We depended a great deal on seeing Eddy\nand Una together, as she was his _twin_ cousin and only a few hours\nolder than he. But on the very evening of their arrival he was taken\nsick, and, although they all saw him that night looking like himself, by\nthe next morning he had changed sadly. He grew ill and lost flesh and\nstrength very fast, and no remedies seemed to have the least effect on\nhis disorder, which was one induced by teething.... For myself I did not\nbelieve anything could now save my precious baby, and had given him to\nGod so unreservedly, that I was not conscious of even a wish for his\nlife.... When at last we saw evident tokens of returning health and\nstrength, we felt that we received him a second time as from the grave.\nTo me he never seemed the same child. My darling Eddy was lost to me and\nanother--_and yet the same_--filled his place. I often said afterward\nthat a little stranger was running about my nursery, not mine, but\nGod's. Indeed, I can't describe the peculiar feelings with which I\nalways regarded him after this sickness, nor how the thought constantly\nmet me, \"He is not mine; he is God's.\" Every night I used to thank Him\nfor sparing him to me one day longer; thus truly enjoying him _a day at\na time_.\n\nAn extract from a letter to Miss Lord, written on the anniversary of her\nmother's death, will close the account of this year.\n\nIf I were in Portland now, I should go right down to see you. I feel\njust like having a dear, old-fashioned talk with you. I was thinking how\nmany times death had entered that old Richmond circle of which you and I\nonce formed a part; Mrs. Persico, Susan, Charlotte Ford, Kate Kennedy,\nand now our own dearest Lotty, all gone. I can not tell you how much I\nmiss and grieve for Lotty. [9] I can not be thankful enough that I went\nto Portland in the summer and had that last week with her, nor for her\nmost precious visit here last winter. Whenever you think of any little\nthing she said, I want you to write it down for me, no matter whether\nit seems worth writing or not. I know by experience how precious such\nthings are. This is a sad day to me. Indeed, all of this month has been\nso, recalling as it has done, all I was suffering at this time last\nyear, and all my dear mother was then suffering. I can hardly realise\nthat she has been in heaven a whole year, and that I feel her loss as\nvividly as if it were but yesterday--indeed, more so. I do not feel that\nthis affliction has done me the good that it ought to have done and that\nI hoped it would. As far as I have any excuse it lies in my miserable\nhealth. I want so much to be more of a Christian; to live a life of\nconstant devotion. Do tell me, when you write, if you have such troubled\nthoughts, and such difficulty in being steadfast and unmovable? Oh, how\nI sigh for the sort of life I led in Richmond, and which was more or\nless the life of the succeeding years at home! My husband tries to\npersuade me that the difference is more in my way of life, and that then\nbeing my time for contemplation, now is my time for action. But I know,\nmyself, that I have lost ground. You must bear me in mind when you pray,\nmy dear Louise, for I never had so much need of praying nor so little\ntime or strength for it.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIII.\n\nFurther Extracts from Eddy's Journal. Ill-health. Visit to Newark. Death\nof her Brother-in-law, S. S. Prentiss. His Character. Removal to Newark.\nLetters.\n\nThe record of the new year opens with this entry in Eddy's journal:\n\n\n_January, 1850._--Eddy is now fourteen months old, has six teeth, and\nwalks well, but with timidity. He is, at times, really beautiful. He is\nvery affectionate, and will run to meet me, throw his little arms round\nmy neck and keep pat-pat-patting me, with delight. Miss Arnold sent him,\nat New Year's, a pretty ball, with which he is highly pleased. He rolls\nit about by knocking it with a stick, and will shout for joy when he\nsees it moving. He is _crazy_ to give everybody something, and when he\nis brought down to prayers, hurries to get the Bible for his father, his\nlittle face all smiles and exultation, and his body in a quiver with\nemotion. He is like lightning in all his movements, and is never still\nfor an instant. It is worth a good deal to see his face, it is so\n_brimful_ of life and sunshine and gladness.\n\nHer letters, written during the winter and spring, show how in the midst\nof bodily suffering, depression, and sorrow her views of life were\nchanging and her faith in God growing stronger. Three of her brothers\nwere now in California, seeking their fortunes in the newly-discovered\ngold mines. To one of them she writes, March 10th:\n\nI was delighted yesterday by the reception of your letter. I do not\nwonder that Lotty's death affected you as it did--but however sharp the\ninstruments by which these lessons come to us, they are full of good\nwhen they do come. As I look back to the time when I did not know what\ndeath was doing and could do, I seem to myself like a child who has not\nyet been to school. The deaths of our dear mother and of Lotty have\ntaken fast hold of me. Life is _entirely changed_. I do not say this\nin a melancholy or repining temper, for I would not have life appear\notherwise than in its true light. All my sickly, wicked disgust with it\nhas been put to the blush and driven away. I see now that to live for\nGod, whether one is allowed ability to be actively useful or not, is a\ngreat thing, and that it is a wonderful mercy to be allowed to live and\nsuffer even, if thereby one can glorify Him. I desire to live if it is\nGod's will, though I confess heaven looks most attractive when either\nsin, sorrow, or sickness weary me. But I must not go on at this rate,\nfor I could not in writing begin to tell you how different everything\nlooks as I advance into a knowledge of life and see its awful sorrows\nand sufferings and changes and know that I am subject to all its laws,\nsoon to take my turn in its mysterious close. My dear brother, let us\nlearn by heart the lessons we are learning, and go in their strength\nand wisdom all our days.... Our children are well. Eddy has gone to be\nweighed (he weighed twenty-four pounds). He is a fine little fellow.\nI have his nurse still, and ought to be in excellent health, but am\na nervous old thing, as skinny and bony as I can be. I can think of\nnothing but birds' claws when I look at my hands. But I have so much to\nbe thankful for in my dear husband and my sweet little children, and\nlove all of you so dearly, that I believe I am as rich as if I had the\nflesh and strength of a giant. I am going this week to hear Miss Arnold\nread a manuscript novel. This will give spice to my life. Warmest love\nto you all.\n\nAgain, May 10th, she writes:\n\nIt would be a great pleasure to me to keep a journal for you if I were\nwell enough, but I am not. I have my sick headache now once a week, and\nit makes me really ill for about three days. Towards night of the third\nday I begin to brighten up and to eat a morsel, but hardly recover my\nstrength before I have another pull-down, just as I had got to this\npoint the door-bell rang, and lo! a beautiful May-basket hanging on the\nlatch for \"Annie,\" full of pretty and good things. I can hardly wait\ntill morning to see how her eyes will shine and her little feet fly when\nshe sees it. George has been greatly distressed about S. S., and has, I\nthink, very little, if any, hope that he will recover. Dr. Tappan [10]\nspent Tuesday night here. We had a really delightful visit from him. He\nspoke highly of your classmate, Craig, who is just going to be married.\nHe told us a number of pleasant anecdotes about father. Eddy has got big\nenough to walk in the street. He looks like a little picture, with his\ngreat forehead and bright eyes. He is in every way as large as most\nchildren are at two years. His supreme delight is to tease A. by making\nbelieve strike her or in some other real boy's hateful way. She and he\nplay together on the grass-plat, and I feel quite matronly as I sit\nwatching them with their balls and wheel-barrows and whatnots. This\nlittle scamp has, I fear, broken my constitution to pieces. It makes me\ncrawl all over when I think of you three fagging all day at such dull\nand unprofitable labor. But I am sure Providence will do what is really\nbest for you all. We think and talk of and pray for you every day and\nmore than once a day, and, in all my ill-health and sufferings, the\nremembrance of you is pleasant and in great measure refreshing. I\ndepend more upon hearing from you all than I can describe. What an\nunconquerable thing family affection is!\n\nShe thus writes, May 30th, to her old Portland friend, Miss Lord:\n\nI have written very few letters and not a line of anything else the\npast winter, owing to the confusion my mind is in most of the time from\ndistress in my head. Three days out of every seven I am as sick as I\nwell can be--the rest of the time languid, feeble, and exhausted by\nfrequent faint turns, so that I can't do the smallest thing in my\nfamily. I hardly know what it is so much as to put a clean apron on to\none of my children. To me this is a constant pain and weariness; for\nour expense in the way of servants is greater than we can afford and\neverything is going to destruction under my face and eyes, while I dare\nnot lift a finger to remedy it. I live in constant alternations of hope\nand despondency about my health. Whenever I feel a little better, as I\ndo to-day, I am sanguine and cheerful, but the next ill-turn depresses\nme exceedingly. I don't think there is any special danger of my dying,\nbut there is a good deal of my getting run down beyond the power of\nrecovery, and of dragging out that useless existence of which I have a\nperfect horror. But I would not have you think I am not happy; for I can\ntruly say that I _am_, most of the time, as happy as I believe one can\nbe in this world. All my trials and sufferings shut me up to the one\ngreat Source of peace, and I know there has been need of every one of\nthem.\n\nI have not yet made my plans for the summer. Our doctor urges me to go\naway from the children and from the salt water, but I do not believe it\nwould do me a bit of good. I want you to see my dear little boy. He is\nnow nineteen months old and as fat and well as can be. He is a beautiful\nlittle fellow, we think, and very interesting. He is as gallant to A.\nas you please, and runs to get a cushion for her when their supper is\ncarried in, and won't eat a morsel himself till he sees her nicely\nfixed. George has gone to Boston, and I am lonely enough. I would write\nanother sheet if I dared, but I don't dare.\n\nWhat she here says of her happiness, amidst the trials of the previous\nwinter, is repeated a little later in a letter to her husband:\n\nI can truly say I have not spent a happier winter since our marriage, in\nspite of all my sickness. It seems to me I can never recover my spirits\nand be as I have been in my best days, but what I lose in one way\nperhaps I shall gain in another. Just think how my ambition has been\ncrushed at every point by my ill-health, and even the ambition to be\nuseful and a comfort to those about me trampled underfoot, to teach me\nwhat I could not have learned in any other school!\n\nIn the month of June she went on a visit to Newark, New Jersey, where\nher husband's mother and sister now resided; Dr. Stearns having in the\nfall of 1849 accepted a call to the First Presbyterian church in that\ncity. While she was in Newark news came of the dangerous illness, and,\nsoon after, of the death at Natchez of her brother-in-law, Mr. S. S.\nPrentiss. The event was a great shock to her, and she knew that it would\nbe a crushing blow to her husband. Her letters to him, written at this\ntime, are full of the tender love and sympathy that infuse solace into\nsorrow-stricken hearts. Here is an extract from one of them, dated July\n11th:\n\nI can't tell you how it grieves and distresses me to have had this\nlong-dreaded affliction come upon you when you were alone. Though I\ncould do so little to comfort you, it seems as if I _must_ be near\nyou.... But I know I am doing right in staying here--doing as you would\ntell me to do, if I could have your direct wish, and you don't know how\nthankful I am that it has pleased God to let me be with dear mother at a\ntime when she so needed constant affection and sympathy. Yes there are\nwonderful mercies with this heavy affliction, and we all see and feel\nthem. Poor mother has borne all the dreadful suspense and then the\nsecond blow of to-day far better than any of us dared to hope, but she\nweeps incessantly. Anna is with her all she can possibly be, and Mr.\nStearns is an angel of mercy. I have prayed for you a great deal this\nweek, and I know God is with you, comforts you, and will enable you to\nbear this great sorrow. And yet I can't help feeling that I want to\ncomfort you myself. Oh, may we all reap its blessed fruits as long as we\nlive! Let us withdraw a while from everything else, that we may press\nnearer to God.\n\nWe were in a state of terrible suspense all day Tuesday, all day\nWednesday, and until noon to-day; starting at every footfall, expecting\ntelegraphic intelligence either from you or from the South, and\ndeplorably ignorant of Seargent's alarming condition, notwithstanding\nall the warning we had had. With one consent we had put far off the evil\nday.... And now I must bid you good-night, my dearest husband, praying\nthat you may be the beloved of the Lord and rest in safety by Him.\n\nThe early years of Mrs. Prentiss' married life were in various ways\nclosely connected with that of this lamented brother; so much so that he\nmay be said to have formed one of the most potent, as well as one of the\nsunniest, influences in her own domestic history. Not only was he very\nhighly gifted, intellectually, and widely known as a great orator, but\nhe was also a man of extraordinary personal attractions, endeared to all\nhis friends by the sweetness of his disposition, by his winning ways,\nhis wit, his playful humor, his courage, his boundless generosity, his\nfraternal and filial devotion, and by the charm of his conversation. His\ndeath at the early age of forty-one called forth expressions of profound\nsorrow and regret from the first men of the nation. After the lapse of\nnearly a third of a century his memory is still fresh and bright in the\nhearts of all, who once knew and loved him. [11]\n\nNotwithstanding the shock of this great affliction, Mrs. Prentiss\nreturned to New Bedford much refreshed in body and mind. In a letter to\nher friend Miss Lord, dated September 14th, she writes:\n\nI spent six most profitable weeks at Newark; went out very little, saw\nvery few people, and had the quiet and retirement I had long hungered\nand thirsted for. Since I have had children my life has been so\ndistracted with care and sickness that I have sometimes felt like giving\nup in despair, but this six weeks' rest gave me fresh courage to start\nanew. I have got some delightful books--Manning's Sermons. [12] They are\n(letting the High-churchism go) most delightful; I think Susan would\nhave feasted on them. But she is feasting on angels' food and has need\nof none of these things.\n\nIn October of this year Mrs. Prentiss bade adieu to New Bedford,\nnever to revisit it, and removed to Newark; her husband having become\nassociate pastor of the Second Presbyterian church in that place. In the\nspring of the following year he accepted a call to the Mercer street\nPresbyterian church in New York, and that city became her home the\nrest of her days. Although she tarried so short a time in Newark, she\nreceived much kindness and formed warm friendships while there. She\ncontinued to suffer much, however, from ill-health and almost entirely\nsuspended her correspondence. A few letters to New Bedford friends\nare all that relate to this period. In one to Mrs. J. P. Allen, dated\nNovember 2d, she thus refers to an accident, which came near proving\nfatal:\n\nYesterday we went down to New York to hear Jenny Lind; a pleasure to\nremember for the rest of one's life. If anything, she surpassed our\nexpectations. In coming home a slight accident to the cars obliged us to\nwalk about a mile, and I must needs fall into a hole in the bridge which\nwe were crossing, and bruise and scrape one knee quite badly. The wonder\nis that I did not go into the river, as it was a large hole, and pitch\ndark. I think if I had been walking with Mr. Prentiss I should not only\nhave gone in myself, but pulled him in too; but I had the arm of a\nstronger man, who held me up till I could extricate myself. You can't\nthink how I miss you, nor how often I wish you could run in and sit with\nme, as you used to do. I have always loved you, and shall remember you\nand yours with the utmost interest. We had a pleasant call the other day\nfrom Captain Gibbs. Seeing him made me homesick enough. I could hardly\nkeep from crying all the time he stayed. It seems to us both as if\nwe had been gone from New Bedford more months than we have days. Mr.\nPrentiss said yesterday that he should expect if he went back directly,\nto see the boys and girls grown up and married.\n\n_To Mrs. Reuben Nye, Newark, Feb 12, 1851._\n\nMr. Prentiss and Mr. Poor have just taken Annie and Eddy out to walk,\nand I have been moping over the fire and thinking of New Bedford\nfriends, and wishing one or more would \"happen in.\" I am just now\ngetting over a severe attack of rheumatism, which on leaving my back\nintrenched itself in Mr. P.'s shoulder. I dislike this climate and am\nvery suspicious of it. Everybody has a horrible cold, or the rheumatism,\nor fever and ague. Mr. Prentiss says if I get the latter, he shall be\noff for New England in a twinkling. I think he is as well as can be\nexpected while the death of his brother continues so fresh in his\nremembrance. All the old cheerfulness, which used to sustain me amid\nsickness and trouble, has gone from him. But God has ordered the iron to\nenter his soul, and it is not for me to resist that will. Our children\nare well. We have had much comfort in them both this winter. Mother\nPrentiss is renewing her youth, it is so pleasant to her to have us all\nnear her. (Eddy and A. are hovering about me, making such a noise that I\ncan hardly write. Eddy says, \"When I was tired, _Poor_ tarried me.\") Mr.\nPoor carries all before him. [13] He is _very_ popular throughout\nthe city, and I believe Mrs. P. is much admired by their people. Mr.\nPrentiss is preaching every Sabbath evening, as Dr. Condit is able to\npreach every morning now. I feel as much at home as I possibly could\nanywhere in the same time, but instead of mourning less for my New\nBedford friends, I mourn more and more every day.\n\nTo Mrs. Allen she writes, Feb. 21:\n\nI know all about those depressed moods, when it costs one as much to\nsmile, or to give a pleasant answer, as it would at other times to make\na world. What a change it will be to us poor sickly, feeble, discouraged\nones, when we find ourselves where there is neither pain or lassitude or\nfatigue of the body, or sorrow or care or despondency of the mind!\n\nI miss you more and more. People here are kind and excellent and\nfriendly, but I can not make them, as yet, fill the places of the\nfamiliar faces I have left in New Bedford. I am all the time walking\nthrough our neighborhood, dropping into Deacon Barker's or your house,\nor welcoming some of you into our old house on the corner. Eddy is\npretty well. He is a sweet little boy, gentle and docile. He learns to\ntalk very fast, and is crazy to learn hymns. He says, \"Tinkle, tinkle\n_leetleeverybody_, and give 'tatoes to beggar boys.\" Mother Prentiss\nseems to _thrive_ on having us all about her. She lives so far off that\nI see her seldom, but Mr. P. goes every day, except Sundays, when\nhe can't go--rain or shine, tired or not tired, convenient or not\nconvenient. Since my mother's death he has felt that he must do quickly\nwhatever he has to do for his own.\n\n\n[1] \"I found dear Abby still alive and rejoiced beyond expression to see\nme. She had had a very feeble night, but brightened up towards noon and\nwhen I arrived seemed entirely like her old self, smiling sweetly and\nexclaiming, \"This is the last blessing I desired! Oh, how good the Lord\nis, isn't He?\" It was very delightful. The doctor has just been in and\nhe says she may go any instant, and yet may live a day or two. Mother is\nwonderfully calm and happy, and the house seems like the very gate of\nheaven.... I so wish you could have seen Abby's smile when I entered her\nroom. And then she inquired so affectionately for you and baby: \"Now\ntell me everything about them.\" She longs and prays to be gone. There\nis something perfectly childlike about her expressions and feelings,\nespecially toward mother. She can't bear to have her leave the room and\nholds her hand a good deal of the time. She sends ever so much love.\"--\n_Extract from a letter, dated Portland, January 27, 1847._\n\n[2] The late Rev. William T. Dwight, D.D., pastor of the Third Church in\nPortland. He was a son of President Dwight, an accomplished man, a noble\nChristian citizen, and one of the ablest preachers of his day. For many\nyears his house almost adjoined Mrs. Payson's, and both he and Mrs.\nDwight were among her most cherished friends.\n\n[3] A devoted friend of her father's, one of his deacons, and a genial,\nwarm-hearted, good man.\n\n[4] A niece of her husband, a lovely child, who died a few years later\nin Georgia.\n\n[5] Rev. James Lewis, a venerated elder and local preacher of the\nMethodist Episcopal Church, then nearly eighty years of age. He died\nin 1855, universally beloved and lamented. He entered upon his work in\n1800. During most of those fifty-five years he was wont to preach every\nSabbath, often three times, rarely losing an appointment by sickness,\nand still more rarely by storms in summer or winter. He lived in Gorham,\nMaine, and his labors were pretty equally divided among all the towns\nwithin fifteen miles round. His rides out and back, often over the\nroughest roads or through heavy snows, averaged, probably, from fifteen\nto twenty miles. It was estimated that he had officiated at not less\nthan 1,500 funerals, sometimes riding for the purpose forty miles. His\nfuneral and camp-meeting sermons included, he could not have preached\nless than from 8,000 to 9,000 times. He never received a dollar of\ncompensation for his ministerial services. Though a hard-working farmer,\nhis hospitality to his itinerant brethren was unbounded. In several\ntowns of Cumberland and adjoining counties, he was the revered\npatriarch, as half a century earlier he had been the youthful pioneer of\nMethodism. When he departed to be with Christ, there was no better man\nin all the State to follow after him.\n\n[6] One of a number of old whaling captains in her husband's\ncongregation, in whom she was interested greatly. They belonged to\na class of men _sui generis_--men who had traversed all oceans,\nhad visited many lands, and were as remarkable for their jovial\nlarge-hearted, social qualities, when at home, as for their indomitable\nenergy, Yankee push, and adventurous seamanship, when hunting the\nmonsters of the deep on the other side of the globe.\n\n[7] Two bright girls and a young mother, who had died not long before.\n\n[8] Her sickness lasted six weeks, dating from the day of her being\nentirely confined to bed. Her life was prolonged much beyond what her\nphysicians or any one else who saw her, had believed possible. During\nthe last week her sufferings were less, and she lay quiet part of the\ntime. Friday morning she had an attack of faintness, in the course of\nwhich she remarked \"I am dying.\" She recovered and before noon sank\ninto a somnolent state from which she never awoke. Her breathing became\nsofter and fainter till it ceased at half-past five in the afternoon.\nOh, what a transition was that! from pain and weariness and woe to the\nworld of light! to the presence of the Saviour! to unclouded bliss! I\nfelt, and so I believe did all assembled round her bed, that it was time\nfor exultation rather than grief. We could not think of ourselves, so\nabsorbed were we in contemplation of her happiness. She was able to say\nscarcely anything during her sickness, and left not a single message\nfor the absent children, or directions to those who were present. Her\nextreme weakness, and the distressing effect of every attempt to speak,\nmade her abandon all such attempts except in answer to questions. But\nthe tenor of her replies to all inquiries was uniform, expressing entire\nacquiescence in the will of God, confidence in Him through Christ, and\na desire to depart as soon as He should permit. Tranquillity and peace,\nunclouded by a single doubt or fear, seem to have filled her mind. There\nwere several reasons which led us to decide that the interment should\ntake place here; but on the following Saturday a gentleman arrived from\nPortland, sent by the Second Parish to remove the remains to that place,\nif we made no objection. As we made none, the body was disinterred and\ntaken to P., my brother G. accompanying it. So that her mortal remains\nnow rest with those of my dear father.--_Letter from Mrs. Hopkins to her\naunt in New Haven, dated Williamstown, Dec. 1, 1848._\n\n[9] The wife of her brother, Mr. Henry M. Payson.\n\n[10] The Rev. Benjamin Tappan, D.D., an old friend of her father's and\none of the patriarchs of the Maine churches.\n\n[11] See appendix B, p. 534, for a brief sketch of his life.\n\n[12] Sermons by Henry Edward Manning, Archdeacon of Chichester (now\nCardinal Manning), 1st, 2d, and 3d Series.\n\n[13] The Rev. D. W. Poor, D.D., now of Philadelphia. He had been settled\nat Fair Haven, near New Bedford, and was then a pastor in Newark.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nIN THE SCHOOL OF SUFFERING.\n\n1851-1858.\n\nI.\n\nRemoval to New York and first Summer there. Letters. Loss of Sleep and\nAnxiety about Eddy. Extracts from Eddy's Journal, describing his last\nIllness and Death. Lines entitled \"To my Dying Eddy.\"\n\n\nMrs. Prentiss' removal to New York was an important link in the chain\nof outward events which prepared her for her special life-work. It\nintroduced her at once into a circle unsurpassed, perhaps, by any other\nin the country, for its intelligence, its domestic and social virtues,\nand its earnest Christian spirit. The Mercer street Presbyterian church\ncontained at that time many members whose names were known and honored\nthe world over, in the spheres of business, professional life,\nliterature, philanthropy, and religion; and among its homes were some\nthat seemed to have attained almost the perfection of beauty. In these\nhomes the new pastor's wife soon became an object of tender love and\ndevotion. Here she found herself surrounded by all congenial influences.\nHer mind and heart alike were refreshed and stimulated in the healthiest\nmanner. And to add to her joy, several dear old friends lived near her\nand sat in adjoining pews on the Sabbath.\n\nBut happy as were the auspices that welcomed her to New York, the\nexperience of the past two years had taught her not to expect too much\nfrom any outward conditions. She entered, therefore, upon this new\nperiod of her life in a very sober mood. Nor had many months elapsed\nbefore she began to hear premonitory murmurs of an incoming sea of\ntrouble. Most of the summer of 1851 she remained in town with the\nchildren. An extract from a letter to her youngest brother, dated August\n1, will show how she whiled away many a weary hour:\n\nIt has been very hot this summer; our house is large and cool, and above\nall, I have a nice bathing-room opening out of my chamber, with hot and\ncold water and a shower-bath, which is a world of comfort. We spent part\nof last week at Rockaway, L. I., visiting a friend. [1] I nearly froze\nto death, but George and the children were much benefited. I have\nimproved fast in health since we came here. Yesterday I walked two and a\nhalf miles with George, and a year ago at this time I could not walk a\nquarter of a mile without being sick after it for some days. When I\nfeel miserably I just put on my bonnet and get into an omnibus and go\nrattlety-bang down town; the air and the shaking and the jolting and the\nsight-seeing make me feel better and so I get along. If I could safely\nleave my children I should go with George. He hates to go alone and\nsurely I hate to be left alone; in fact instead of liking each other's\nsociety less and less, we every day get more and more dependent on each\nother, and take separation harder and harder. Our children are well.\n\nTo her husband, who had gone to visit an old friend, at Harpswell, on\nthe coast of Maine, she writes a few days later:\n\nOn Saturday very early Professor Smith called with the House of Seven\nGables. I read about half of it in the evening. One sees the hand of the\n_artist_ as clearly in such a work as in painting, and the hand of a\nskilful one, too. I have read many books with more interest, but never\none in which I was so diverted from the story to a study of the author\nhimself. So far there is nothing exciting in it. I don't know who\nsupplied the pulpit on Sunday morning. The sermon was to young men,\nwhich was not so appropriate as it might have been, considering there\nwere no young men present, unless I except our Eddy and other sprigs of\nhumanity of his age. I suppose you will wonder what in the world I let\nEddy go for. Well, I took a fancy to let Margaret try him, as nobody\nwould know him in the gallery and he coaxed so prettily to go. He was\nhighly excited at the permission, and as I was putting on his sacque, I\ndirected Margaret to take it off if he fell asleep. \"Ho! I shan't go to\nsleep,\" quoth he; \"Christ doesn't have rocking-chairs in His house.\" He\nset off in high spirits, and during the long prayer I heard him laugh\nloud; soon after I heard a rattling as of a parasol and Eddy saying,\n\"There it is!\" by which time Margaret, finding he was going to begin a\nregular frolic, sagely took him out.\n\n_August 7th_--The five girls from Brooklyn all spent yesterday here.\nThey had a regular frolic towards night, bathing and shower-bathing.\nAfterwards we all went on top of the house. It was very pleasant up\nthere. I took the children to Barnum's Museum, as I proposed doing. They\nwere delighted, particularly with the \"Happy Family,\" which consisted of\ncats, rats, birds, dogs, rabbits, monkeys, etc., etc., dwelling together\nin unity. I observed that though the cats forbore to lay a paw upon\nthe rats and mice about them, they yet took a melancholy pleasure in\n_looking_ at these dainty morsels, from which nothing could persuade\nthem to turn off their eyes. I am glad that you got away from New\nBedford alive and that you did not stay longer, but hearing about our\nfriends there made me quite long to see them myself. Do have just the\nbest time in the world at Harpswell, and don't let the Rev. Elijah drown\nyou for the sake of catching your mantle as you go down. I dare not tell\nyou how much I miss you, lest you should think I do not rejoice in your\nhaving this vacation. May God bless and keep you.\n\nDuring the autumn she suffered much again from feeble health and\nincessant loss of sleep. \"I have often thought,\" she wrote to a friend,\n\"that while so stupefied by sickness I should not be glad to see my own\nmother if I had to speak to her.\" But neither sick days nor sleepless\nnights could quench the Brightness of her spirit or wholly spoil her\nenjoyment of life. A little diary which she kept contains many gleams of\nsunshine, recording pleasant visits from old friends, happy hours and\nwalks with the children, excursions to Newark, and how \"amazingly\" she\n\"enjoyed the boys\" (her brothers) on their return from the pursuit of\ngolden dreams in California. In the month of November the diary shows\nthat her watchful eye observed in Eddy signs of disease, which filled\nher with anxiety. Before the close of the year her worst fears began\nto be realised. She wrote, Dec. 31: \"I am under a constant pressure of\nanxiety about Eddy. How little we know what the New Year will bring\nforth.\" Early in January, 1852, his symptoms assumed a fatal type, and\non the 16th of the same month the beautiful boy was released from his\nsufferings, and found rest in the kingdom of heaven, that sweet home of\nthe little children. A few extracts from Eddy's journal will tell the\nstory of his last days:\n\nOn the 19th of December the Rev. Mr. Poor was here. On hearing of it,\nEddy said he wanted to see him. As he took now so little interest in\nanything that would cost him an effort, I was surprised, but told Annie\nto lead him down to the parlor; on reaching it they found Mr. Poor not\nthere, and they then went up to the study. I heard their father's joyous\ngreeting as he opened his door for them, and how he welcomed Eddy, in\nparticular, with a perfect shower of kisses and caresses. This was the\nlast time the dear child's own feet ever took him there; but his father\nafterwards frequently carried him up in his arms and amused him with\npictures, especially with what Eddy called the \"bear books.\" [2] One\nmorning Ellen told him she was going to make a little pie for his\ndinner, but on his next appearance in the kitchen told him she had let\nit burn all up in the oven, and that she felt _dreadfully_ about it.\n\"Never mind, Ellie,\" said he, \"mamma does not like to have me eat pie;\nbut when I _get well_ I shall have as many as I want.\"\n\nOn the 24th of December Mr. Stearns and Anna were here. I was out with\nthe latter most of the day; on my return Eddy came to me with a little\nflag which his uncle had given him, and after they had left us he ran\nup and down with it, and as my eye followed him, I thought he looked\nhappier and brighter and more like himself than I had seen him for a\nlong time. He kept saying, \"Mr. Stearns gave me this flag!\" and then\nwould correct himself and say, \"I mean my _Uncle_ Stearns.\" On this\nnight he hung up his bag for his presents, and after going to bed,\nsurveyed it with a chuckle of pleasure peculiar to him, and finally fell\nasleep in this happy mood. I took great delight in arranging his and\nA.'s presents, and getting them safely into their bags. He enjoyed\nChristmas as much as I had reason to expect he would, in his state of\nhealth, and was busy among his new playthings all day. He had taken a\nfancy within a few weeks to kneel at family prayers with me at my chair,\nand would throw one little arm round my neck, while with the other hand\nhe so prettily and seriously covered his eyes. As their heads touched my\nface as they knelt, I observed that Eddy's felt hot when compared with\nA.'s; just enough so to increase my uneasiness. On entering the nursery\non New Year's morning, I was struck with his appearance as he lay in\nbed; his face being spotted all over. On asking Margaret about it, she\nsaid he had been crying, and that this occasioned the spots. This did\nnot seem probable to me, for I had never seen anything of this kind on\nhis face before. How little I knew that these were the last tears my\ndarling would ever shed.\n\nOn Sunday morning, January 4, not being able to come himself, Dr. Buck\nsent Dr. Watson in his place. I told Dr. W. that I thought Eddy had\nwater on the brain; he said it was not so, and ordered nothing but a\nwarm bath. On Thursday, January 8, while Margaret was at dinner, I knelt\nby the side of the cradle, rocking it very gently, and he asked me to\ntell him a story. I asked what about, and he said, \"A little boy,\" on\nwhich I said something like this: Mamma knows a dear little boy who was\nvery sick. His head ached and he felt sick all over. God said, I must\nlet that little lamb come into my fold; then his head will never ache\nagain, and he will be a very happy little lamb. I used the words little\nlamb because he was so fond of them. Often he would run to his nurse\nwith his face full of animation and say, \"Marget! Mamma says I am her\nlittle lamb!\" While I was telling him this story his eyes were fixed\nintelligently on my face. I then said, \"Would you like to know the name\nof this boy?\" With eagerness he said, \"Yes, yes, mamma!\" Taking his dear\nlittle hand in mine, and kissing it, I said, \"It was Eddy.\" Just then\nhis nurse came in and his attention was diverted, so I said no more.\n\nOn Sunday, January 11, at noon, while they were all at dinner, I was\nleft alone with my darling for a few moments, and could not help kissing\nhis unconscious lips. To my utter amazement he looked up and plainly\nrecognised me and warmly returned my kiss. Then he said feebly, but\ndistinctly twice, \"I want some meat and potato.\" I do not think I should\nhave been more delighted if he had risen from the dead, once more to\nrecognise me. Oh, it was _such_ a comfort to have one more kiss, and to\nbe able to gratify one more wish!\n\nOn Friday, January 16th, his little weary sighs became more profound,\nand, as the day advanced, more like groans; but appeared to indicate\nextreme fatigue, rather than severe pain. Towards night his breathing\nbecame quick and laborious, and between seven and eight slight spasms\nagitated his little feeble frame. He uttered cries of distress for a few\nminutes, when they ceased, and his loving and gentle spirit ascended to\nthat world where thousands of holy children and the blessed company of\nangels and our blessed Lord Jesus, I doubt not, joyfully welcomed him.\nNow we were able to say, _It is well with the child!_\n\n\"Oh,\" said the gardener, as he passed down the garden-walk, \"who plucked\nthat flower? Who gathered that plant?\" His fellow-servants answered,\n\"The MASTER!\" And the gardener held his peace.\n\nThe feelings of the mother's heart on Friday found vent in some lines\nentitled _To My Dying Eddy; January 16th_. Here are two stanzas:\n\n  Blest child! dear child! For thee is Jesus calling;\n  And of our household thee--and only thee!\n  Oh, hasten hence! to His embraces hasten!\n  Sweet shall thy rest and safe thy shelter be.\n\n  Thou who unguarded ne'er hast left our threshold,\n  Alone must venture now an unknown way;\n  Yet, fear not! Footprints of an Infant Holy\n  Lie on thy path. Thou canst not go astray.\n\nIn a letter to her friend Mrs. Allen, of New Bedford, dated January 28,\nshe writes:\n\nDuring our dear little Eddy's illness we were surrounded with kind\nfriends, and many prayers were offered for us and for him. Nothing that\ncould alleviate our affliction was left undone or unthought of, and we\nfeel that it would be most unchristian and ungrateful in us to even\nwonder at that Divine will which has bereaved us of our only boy--the\nlight and sunshine of our household. We miss him _sadly_. I need not\nexplain to you, who know all about it, _how_ sadly; but we rejoice that\nhe has got away from this troublous life, and that we have had the\nprivilege of giving so dear a child to God. When he was well he was one\nof the happiest creatures I ever saw, and I am sure he is well now,\nand that he is as happy as his joyous nature makes him susceptible of\nbecoming. God has been most merciful to us in this affliction, and, if\na bereaved, we are still a _happy_ household and full of thanksgiving.\nGive my love to both the children and tell them they must not forget\nus, and when they think and talk of their dear brother and sisters in\nheaven, they must sometimes think of the little Eddy who is there too.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nII.\n\nBirth of her Third Child. Reminiscence of a Sabbath-Evening Talk. Story\nof the Baby's Sudden Illness and Death. Summer of 1852. Lines entitled\n\"My Nursery.\"\n\n\nThe shock of Eddy's death proved almost too much for Mrs. Prentiss'\nenfeebled frame. She bore it, however, with sweet submission, and on the\n17th of the following April her sorrow was changed to joy, and Eddy's\nempty place filled, as she thought, by the birth of Elizabeth, her third\nchild, a picture of infantine health and beauty. But, although the child\nseemed perfectly well, the mother herself was brought to the verge of\nthe grave. For a week or two her life wavered in the balance, and she\nwas quite in the mood to follow Eddy to the better country. Her husband,\nrecording a \"long and most interesting conversation\" with her on Sabbath\nevening, May 2d, speaks of the \"depth and tenderness of her religious\nfeelings, of her sense of sin and of the grace and glory of the\nSaviour,\" and then adds, \"Her old Richmond exercises seem of late\nto have returned with their former strength and beauty increased\nmany-fold.\" On the 14th of May she was able to write in pencil these\nlines to her sister, Mrs. Hopkins:\n\nI little thought that I should ever write to you again, but I have been\nbrought through a great deal, and now have reason to expect to get well.\nI never knew how much I loved you till I gave up all hope of ever seeing\nyou again, and I have not strength yet to tell you all about it. Poor\nGeorge has suffered much. I hope all will be blessed to him and to me. I\nam still confined to bed. The doctor thinks there may be an abscess near\nthe hip-joint, and, till that is cured, I can neither lie straight in\nbed or stand on my feet or ride out. Everybody is kind. Our cup has run\nover. It is a sore trial not to be allowed to nurse baby. She is kept\nin another room. I only see her once a day. She begins to smile, and is\nvery bright-eyed. I hope your journey will do you good. If you can, do\nwrite a few lines--not more. But, good-by.\n\nHardly had she penned these lines, when, like a thunderbolt from a clear\nsky, another stunning blow fell upon her. On the 19th of May, after an\nillness of a few hours, Bessie, too, was folded forever in the arms of\nthe Good Shepherd. Here is the mother's own story of her loss:\n\nOur darling Eddy died on the 16th of January. The baby he had so often\nspoken of was born on the 17th of April. I was too feeble to have any\ncare of her. Never had her in my arms but twice; once the day before she\ndied and once while she was dying. I never saw her little feet. She was\na beautiful little creature, with a great quantity of dark hair and very\ndark blue eyes. The nurse had to keep her in another room on account\nof my illness. When she was a month old she brought her to me one\nafternoon. \"This child is perfectly beautiful,\" said she; \"to-morrow I\nmean to dress her up and have her likeness taken.\" I asked her to get me\nup in bed and let me take her a minute. She objected, and I urged her\na good deal, till at last she consented. The moment I took her I was\nstruck by her unearthly, absolutely angelic expression; and, not having\nstrength enough to help it, burst out crying bitterly, and cried all the\nafternoon while I was struggling to give her up.\n\nHer father was at Newark. When he came home at dark I told him I was\nsure that baby was going to die. He laughed at me, said my weak health\nmade me fancy it, and asked the nurse if the child was not well. She\nsaid she was--perfectly well. My presentiment remained, however, in full\nforce, and the first thing next morning I asked Margaret to go and see\nhow baby was. She came back, saying, \"She is very well. She lies there\non the bed scolding to herself.\" I cried out to have her instantly\nbrought to me. M. refused, saying the nurse would be displeased. But my\nanxieties were excited by the use of the word \"scolding,\" as I knew no\nbaby a month old did anything of that sort, and insisted on its being\nbrought to me. The instant I touched it I felt its head to be of a\nburning heat, and sent for the nurse at once. When she came, I said,\n\"This child is _very sick_.\" \"Yes,\" she said, \"but I wanted you to have\nyour breakfast first. At one o'clock in the night I found a little\nswelling. I do not know what it is, but the child is certainly very\nsick.\" On examination I knew it was erysipelas. \"Don't say that,\" said\nthe nurse, and burst into tears. I made them get me up and partly dress\nme, as I was so excited I could not stay in bed.\n\nDr. Buck came at ten o'clock; he expressed no anxiety, but prescribed\nfor her and George went out to get what he ordered. The nurse brought\nher to me at eleven o'clock and begged me to observe that the spot had\nturned black. I knew at once that this was fearful, fatal disease, and\nentreated George to go and tell the doctor. He went to please me, though\nhe saw no need of it, and gave the wrong message to the doctor, to the\neffect that the swelling was increasing, to which the doctor replied\nthat it naturally would do so. The little creature, whose moans Margaret\nhad termed scolding, now was heard all over that floor; every breath a\nmoan that tore my heart in pieces. I begged to have her brought to me\nbut the nurse sent word she was too sick to be moved. I then begged the\nnurse to come and tell me exactly what she thought of her, but she said\nshe could not leave her. I then crawled on my hands and knees into the\nroom, being unable then and for a long time after to bear my own weight.\n\nWhat a scene our nursery presented! Everything upset and tossed about,\nmedicines here and there on the floor, a fire like a fiery furnace, and\nMiss H. sitting hopelessly and with falling tears with the baby on a\npillow in her lap--all its boasted beauty gone forever. The sight was\nappalling and its moans heart-rending. George came and got me back to my\nsofa and said he felt as if he should jump out of the window every time\nhe heard that dreadful sound. He had to go out and made me promise not\nto try to go to the nursery till his return. I foolishly promised. Mrs.\nWhite [3] called, and I told her I was going to lose my baby; she was\nvery kind and went in to see it but I believe expressed no opinion as\nto its state. But she repeated an expression which I repeated to myself\nmany times that day, and have repeated thousands of times since--\"_God\nnever makes a mistake_.\"\n\nMargaret went soon after she left to see how the poor little creature\nwas, and did not come back. Hour after hour passed and no one came. I\nlay racked with cruel torture, bitterly regretting my promise to George,\nlistening to those moans till I was nearly wild. Then in a frenzy of\ndespair I pulled myself over to my bureau, where I had arranged the\ndainty little garments my darling was to wear, and which I had promised\nmyself so much pleasure in seeing her wear. I took out everything she\nwould need for her burial, with a sort of wild pleasure in doing for her\none little service, where I had hoped before to render so many. She it\nwas whom we expected to fill our lost Eddy's vacant place; we thought\nwe had _had_ our sorrow and that now our joy had come. As I lay back\nexhausted, with these garments on my breast, Louisa Shipman [4] opened\nthe door. One glance at my piteous face, for oh, how glad I was to see\nher! made her burst into tears before she knew what she was crying for.\n\n\"Oh, go bring me news from my poor dying baby!\" I almost screamed, as\nshe approached me. \"And see, here are her grave-clothes.\" \"Oh, Lizzy,\nhave you gone crazy?\" cried she, with a fresh burst of tears. I besought\nher to go, told her how my promise bound me, made her listen to those\nterrible sounds which two doors could not shut out. As she left the room\nshe met Dr. B. and they went to the nursery together. She soon came\nback, quiet and composed, but very sorrowful. \"Yes, she is dying,\" said\nshe, \"the doctor says so; she will not live an hour.\" ... At last we\nheard the sound of George's key. Louise ran to call him. I crawled once\nmore to the nursery, and snatched my baby in fierce triumph from the\nnurse. At least once I would hold my child, and nobody should prevent\nme. George, pale as death, baptized her as I held her in my trembling\narms; there were a few more of those terrible, never-to-be-forgotten\nsounds, and at seven o'clock we were once more left with only one child.\nA short, sharp conflict, and our baby was gone.\n\nDr. B. came in later and said the whole thing was to him like a\nthunderclap--as it was to her poor father. To me it followed closely on\nthe presentiment that in some measure prepared me for it. Here I sit\nwith empty hands. I have had the little coffin in my arms, but my baby's\nface could not be seen, so rudely had death marred it. Empty hands,\nempty hands, a worn-out, exhausted body, and unutterable longings to\nflee from a world that has had for me so many sharp experiences. God\nhelp me, my baby, my baby! God help me, my little lost Eddy!\n\nBut although the death of these two children tore with anguish the\nmother's heart, she made no show of grief, and to the eye of the world\nher life soon appeared to move on as aforetime. Never again, however,\nwas it exactly the same life. She had entered into the fellowship of\nChrist's sufferings, and the new experience wrought a great change in\nher whole being.\n\nA part of the summer and the early autumn of 1852 were passed among\nkind friends at Newport, in Portland, and at the Ocean House on Cape\nElizabeth. She returned much refreshed, and gave herself up cheerfully\nto her accustomed duties. But a cloud rested still upon her home, and at\ntimes the old grief came back again with renewed poignancy. Here are a\nfew lines expressive of her feelings. They were written in pencil on a\nlittle scrap of paper:\n\n  MY NURSERY. 1852.\n\n  I thought that prattling boys and girls\n  Would fill this empty room;\n  That my rich heart would gather flowers\n  From childhood's opening bloom.\n\n  One child and two green graves are mine,\n  This is God's gift to me;\n  A bleeding, fainting, broken heart--\n  This is my gift to Thee.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIII.\n\nSummer at White Lake. Sudden Death of her Cousin, Miss Shipman.\nQuarantined. _Little Susy's Six Birthdays._ How she wrote it. _The\nFlower of the Family._ Her Motive in writing it. Letter of Sympathy to a\nbereaved Mother. A Summer at the Seaside. _Henry and Bessie._\n\n\nThe year 1853 was passed quietly and in better health. In the early\nsummer she made a delightful visit at The Island, near West Point, the\nhome of the author of \"The Wide, Wide World.\" She was warmly attached to\nMiss Warner and her sister, and hardly less so to their father and aunt,\nwhose presence then adorned that pleasant home with so much light and\nsweetness.\n\nEarly in August she went with her husband and child to White Lake,\nSullivan Co., N. Y., where, in company with several families from the\nMercer street church, she spent six weeks in breathing the pure country\nair, and in healthful outdoor exercise. [5]\n\nAbout the middle of October she was greatly distressed by the sudden\ndeath of the young cousin, already mentioned, who was staying with her\nduring her husband's absence on a visit to New Bedford. Miss Shipman\nwas a bright, attractive girl, and enthusiastic in her devotion to\nMrs. Prentiss. The latter, in a letter to her husband, dated Saturday\nmorning, October 15th, 1853, writes:\n\nI imagine you enjoying this fine morning, and can't rejoice enough, that\nyou are having such weather. A. is bright and well and is playing in\nher baby-house and singing. Louise is still quite sick, and I see no\nprospect of her not remaining so for some time. The morning after you\nleft I thought to be sure she had the small-pox. The doctor, however,\ncalls it a rash. It makes her look dreadfully and feel dreadfully.\nShe gets hardly a moment of sleep and takes next to no nourishment.\nArrowroot is all the doctor allows. He comes twice a day and seems\n_very_ kind and full of compassion. She crawled down this morning to the\nnursery, and seems to be asleep now. Mrs. Bull very kindly offered to\ncome and do anything if Louise should need it, but I do not think she\nwill be sick enough for that. I feel well and able to do all that is\nnecessary. The last proof-sheets came last night, so that job is off my\nhands. [6] And now, darling, I can't tell you how I miss you. I never\nmissed you more in my life, if as much. I hope you are having a nice\nvisit. Give my love to Capt. and Mrs. Gibbs and all our friends. Your\nmost loving little wife.\n\nOn the following Wednesday, October 19th, she writes to her husband's\nmother:\n\nYou will be shocked to hear that Louisa Shipman died on Sunday night\nand was buried yesterday. Her disease was spotted fever of the most\nmalignant character, and raged with great fury. She dropped away most\nunexpectedly to us, before I had known five minutes that she was in\ndanger, and I came near being entirely alone with her. Dr. M. happened\nto be here and also her mother-in-law; but I had been alone in the house\nwith her all day. It is a dreadful shock to us all, and I feel perfectly\nstupefied. George got home in time for the funeral, but Dr. Skinner\nperformed the services. Anna will go home to-morrow and tell you all\nabout it. She and Mr. S. slept away, as the upper part of the house is\nairing; and to-night they will sleep at Prof. Smith's.\n\nThe case was even more fearful than she supposed while writing this\nletter. Upon her describing it to Dr. Buck, who called a few hours\nlater, he exclaimed, \"Why, it was malignant small-pox! You must all be\nvaccinated instantly and have the bedding and house disinfected.\" This\nwas done; but it was too late. Her little daughter had the disease,\nthough in a mild form; and one of her brothers, who was passing the\nautumn with her, had it so severely as barely to escape with his life.\nShe herself became a nurse to them both, and passed the next two months\nquarantined within her own walls. To her husband's mother she wrote:\n\nI am not allowed to see _anyone_--am very lonesome, and hope Anna will\nwrite and tell me every little thing about you all. The scenes I have\nlately passed through make me tremble when I think what a fatal malady\nlurks in every corner of our house. And speaking after the manner of\nmen, does it not seem almost incredible that this child, watched from\nher birth like _the apple of our eyes_, should yet fall into the jaws of\nthis loathsome disease? I see more and more that parents _must_ leave\ntheir children to Providence.\n\nIn the early part of this year Mrs. Prentiss wrote _Little Susy's Six\nBirthdays_, the book that has given so much delight to tens of thousands\nof little children, wherever the English tongue is spoken. Like most\nof her books, it was an inspiration and was composed with the utmost\nrapidity. She read the different chapters, as they were written, to\nher husband, child and brother, who all with one voice expressed their\nadmiration. In about ten days the work was finished. The manuscript was\nin a clear, delicate hand and without an erasure. Upon its publication\nit was at once recognised as a production of real genius, inimitable\nin its kind, and neither the popular verdict nor the verdict of the\nchildren as to its merits has ever changed.\n\nMrs. Prentiss, as has been stated already, began to write for the press\nat an early age. But from the time of her going to Richmond till 1853--a\nperiod of thirteen years--her pen was well nigh idle, except in the way\nof correspondence. When, therefore, she gave herself again to literary\nlabor, it was with a largely increased fund of knowledge and experience\nupon which to draw. These thirteen years had taught her rich lessons,\nboth in literature and in life. They had been especially fruitful in\nrevealing to her the heart of childhood and quickening her sympathy with\nits joys and sorrows. And all these lessons prepared her to write Little\nSusy's Six Birthdays and the other Susy books.\n\nThe year 1854 was marked by the birth of her fourth child, and by the\npublication of _The Flower of the Family._ This work was received with\ngreat favor both at home and abroad. It was soon translated into French\nunder the title, _La Fleur de la Famille,_ and later into German under\nthe title, _Die Perle der Familie_. In both languages it received the\nwarmest praise.\n\nIn a letter to her friend Mrs. Clark, of Portland, she thus refers to\nthis book:\n\nI long to have it doing good. I never had such desires about anything\nin my life; and I never sat down to write without first praying that I\nmight not be suffered to write anything that would do harm, and that, on\nthe contrary, I might be taught to say what would do good. And it\nhas been a great comfort to me that every word of praise I ever have\nreceived from others concerning it has been \"it will do good,\" and this\nI have had from so many sources that amid much trial and sickness ever\nsince its publication, I have had rays of sunshine creeping in now and\nthen to cheer and sustain me.\n\nTo the same friend, just bereft of her two children, she writes a few\nmonths later:\n\nIs it possible, is it possible that you are made childless? I feel\ndistressed for you, my dear friend; I long to fly to you and weep with\nyou; it seems as if I _must_ say or do something to comfort you. But God\nonly can help you now, and how thankful I am for a throne of grace and\npower where I can commend you, again and again, to Him who doeth all\nthings well.\n\nI never realise my own affliction in the loss of my children as I do\nwhen death enters the house of a friend. Then I feel that _I can't have\nit so._ But why should I think I know better than my Divine Master what\nis good for me, or good for those I love! Dear Carrie,'! trust that in\nthis hour of sorrow you have with you that Presence, before which alone\nsorrow and sighing flee away. _God_ is left; _Christ_ is left; sickness,\naccident, death can not touch you here. Is not this a blissful\nthought?... As I sit at my desk my eye is attracted by the row of books\nbefore me, and what a comment on life are their very titles: \"Songs in\nthe Night,\" \"Light on Little Graves,\" \"The Night of Weeping,\" \"The Death\nof Little Children,\" \"The Folded Lamb,\" \"The Broken Bud,\" these have\nstrayed one by one into my small enclosure, to speak peradventure a word\nin season unto my weariness. And yet, dear Carrie, this is not all of\nlife. You and I have tasted some of its highest joys, as well as its\ndeepest sorrows, and it has in reserve for us only just what is best for\nus. May sorrow bring us both nearer to Christ! I can almost fancy my\nlittle Eddy has taken your little Maymee by the hand and led her to the\nbosom of Jesus. How strange our children, our own little infants, have\nseen Him in His glory, whom we are only yet longing for and struggling\ntowards!\n\nIf it will not frighten you to own a Unitarian book, there is one called\n\"Christian Consolation\" by Rev. A. P. Peabody, that I think you would\nfind very profitable. I see nothing, or next to nothing, Unitarian\nin it, while it is _full_ of rich, holy experience. One sermon on\n\"Contingent Events and Providence\" touches your case exactly.\n\nNo event of special importance marked the year 1855. She spent the month\nof July among her friends in Portland, and the next six weeks at the\nOcean House on Cape Elizabeth. This was one of her favorite places of\nrest. She never tired of watching the waves and their \"multitudinous\nlaughter,\" of listening to the roar of the breakers, or climbing the\nrocks and wandering along the shore in quest of shells and sea-grasses.\nIn gathering and pressing the latter, she passed many a happy hour. In\nAugust of this year appeared one of her best children's books, _Henry\nand Bessie; or, What they Did in the Country._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIV.\n\nA Memorable Year. Lines on the Anniversary of Eddy's Death. Extracts\nfrom her Journal. _Little Susy's Six Teachers._ The Teachers' Meeting.\nA New York Waif. Summer in the Country. Letters. _Little Susy's Little\nServants._ Extracts from her Journal. \"Alone with God.\"\n\n\nThe records of the year 1856 are singularly full and interesting. It was\na year of poignant suffering, of sharp conflicts of soul, and of great\npeace and joy. Its earlier months, especially, were shadowed by a dark\ncloud of anxiety and distress. And her feeble bodily state caused by\ncare-worn days and sleepless nights, added to the trouble. Old sorrows,\ntoo, came back again. On the 16th of January, the anniversary of Eddy's\ndeath, she gave vent to her feelings in some pathetic verses, of which\nthe following lines form a part:\n\n  Four years, four weary years, my child,\n  Four years ago to-night,\n  With parting cry of anguish wild\n  Thy spirit took its flight; ah me!\n  Took its eternal flight.\n\n  And in that hour of mortal strife\n  I thought I felt the throe,\n  The birth-pang of a grief, whose life\n  Must soothe my tearless woe, must soothe\n  And ease me of my woe.\n\n  Yet folded far through all these years,\n  Folded from mortal eyes,\n  Lying alas \"too deep for tears,\"\n  Unborn, unborn it lies, within\n  My heart of heart it lies.\n\n  My sinless child! upon thy knees\n  Before the Master pray;\n  Methinks thy infant hands might seize\n  And shed upon my way sweet peace;\n  Sweet peace upon my way.\n\nHere follow some extracts from her journal.\n\n_Jan 3d. 1856._--Had no time to write on New Year's day, as we had a\nhost of callers. It was a very hard day, as I was quite unwell, and had\nat last to give up and go to bed.\n\n_15th_--Am quite uneasy about baby, as it seems almost impossible she\nshould long endure such severe pain and want of sleep. My life is a\nvery anxious one. I feel every day more and more longing for my home\nin heaven. Sometimes I fear it amounts almost to a sinful longing--for\nsurely I ought to be willing to live or die, just as God pleases.\n\n_Feb. 1st._--I have had no heart to make a record of what has befallen\nus since I last wrote. And yet I may, sometime, want to recall this\nexperience, painful as it is. Dear little baby had been improving in\nhealth, and on Wednesday we went to dine at Mrs. Wainright's. We went at\nfour. About eight, word came that she was ill. When I got home I found\nher insensible, with her eyes wide open, her breathing terrific, and her\ncondition in every respect very alarming. Just as Dr. Buck was coming\nin, she roused a little, but soon relapsed into the same state. He told\nus she was dying. I felt like a stone, _In a moment_ I seemed to give up\nmy hold on her. She appeared no longer mine but God's. It is always\nso in such great emergencies. _Then_, my will that struggles so about\ntrifles, makes no effort. But as we sat hour after hour watching the\nalternations of color in her purple face and listening to that terrible\ngasping, rattling sound, I said to myself \"A few more nights like this,\nand I do believe my body and soul would yield to such anguish.\" Oh, why\nshould I try to tell myself what a night it was. God knows, God only!\nHow He has smitten me by means of this child, He well knows. She\nremained thus about twelve hours. Twelve hours of martyrdom to me such\nas I never had known. Then to our unspeakable amazement she roused up,\nnursed, and then fell into a sweet sleep of some hours.\n\n_Sunday, Feb. 3d._--The stupor, or whatever it is, in which that\ndreadful night has left me, is on me still. I have no more sense or\nfeeling than a stone. I kneel down before God and do not say a word.\nI take up a book and read, but get hold of nothing. At church I felt\nafraid I should fall upon the people and tear them. I could wish no one\nto pity me or even know that I am smitten. It does seem to me that those\nwho can sit down and cry, know nothing of misery.\n\n_Feb. 4th_.--At last the ice melts and I can get near my God--my only\ncomfort, my only joy, my All in all! This morning I was able to open my\nheart to Him and to cast some of this burden on Him, who alone _knows_\nwhat it is.... I see that it is sweet to be a pilgrim and a stranger,\nand that it matters _very little_ what befalls me on the way to my\nblessed home. If God pleases to spare my child a little longer, I will\nbe very thankful. May He take this season, when earthly comfort fails\nme, to turn me more than ever to Himself. For some months I have enjoyed\na _great deal_ in Him. Prayer has been very sweet and I have had some\nglimpses of joys indescribable.\n\n_6th._--She still lives. I know not what to think. One moment I think\none thing and the next another. It is harder to submit to this suspense\nthan to a real, decided blow. But I desire to leave it to my God. He\nknows all her history and all mine. He orders all these aggravating\ncircumstances and I would not change them. My darling has not lived in\nvain. For eighteen months she has been the little rod used by my Father\nfor my chastisement and not, I think, quite in vain. Oh my God! stay\nnot Thy hand till Thou hast perfected that which concerneth me. Send\nanything rather than unsanctified prosperity.\n\n_Feb. 10th._--To help divert my mind from such incessant brooding over\nmy sorrows, I am writing a new book. I had just begun it when baby's\nill-turn arrested me. I trust it may do some little good; at least I\nwould not dare to write it, if it _could_ do none. May God bless it!\n\n_Feb. 14th._--Wanted to go to the prayer-meeting but concluded to take\nA. to hear Gough at the Tabernacle. Seeing such a crowd always makes\nme long to be in that happy crowd of saints and angels in heaven, and\nhearing children sing so sweetly made me pray for an entrance into the\nsinging, praising multitude there. Oh, when shall I be one of that\nblessed company who _sin_ not! My book is done; may God bless it to\n_one_ child at least--then it will not have been wasted time.\n\nThe book referred to was _Little Susy's Six Teachers_. It was published\nin the spring, and at once took its place beside the _Six Birthdays_ in\nthe hearts of the children; a place it still continues to hold. The six\nteachers are Mrs. Love, Mr. Pain, Aunt Patience, Mr. Ought, Miss Joy,\nand the angel Faith. At the end of six years they hold a meeting and\nreport to little Susy's parents what they have been doing. The closing\nchapter, herewith quoted, gives an account of this meeting, and may\nserve as a specimen of the style and spirit of all the Little Susy\nbooks.\n\n\"If Mr. Pain is to be at the meeting, I can't go,\" said Miss Joy.\n\nShe stood on tip-toe before the glass, dressing herself in holiday\nclothes.\n\n\"Perhaps he would be willing to leave his rod behind him,\" said Mrs.\nLove. \"I will ask him at all events.\"\n\nMr. Pain thought he should not feel at home without his rod. He said he\nalways liked to have it in his hands, whether he was to use it or not.\n\nMiss Joy was full of fun and mischief about this time, so she slipped\nup slyly behind Mr. Pain while he was talking and snatched away the\nrod before he could turn round. Mrs. Love smiled on seeing this little\ntrick, and they all went down to the parlor and seated themselves with\nmuch gravity. Little Susy sat in the midst in her own low chair looking\nwide awake, you may depend. Her papa and mamma sat on each side like two\njudges. Mrs. Love rocked herself in the rocking-chair in a contented,\neasy way; and Aunt Patience, who liked to do such things, helped Miss\nJoy to find the leaves of her report--which might have been rose-leaves,\nthey were so small.\n\nMr. Ought looked very good indeed, and the angel Faith shone across the\nroom like a sunbeam.\n\n\"Susy will be six years old to-morrow,\" said her papa. \"You have all\nbeen teaching her ever since she was born. We will now listen to your\nreports and hear what you have taught her, and whether you have done her\nany good.\"\n\nThey were all silent, but everybody looked at Mrs. Love as much as to\nsay she should begin. Mrs. Love took out a little book with a sky-blue\ncover and began to read:\n\n\"I have not done much for Susy, but love her dearly; and I have not\ntaught her much, but to love everybody. When she was a baby I tried to\nteach her to smile, but I don't think I could have taught her if Miss\nJoy had not helped me. And when she was sick, I was always sorry for\nher, and tried to comfort her.\"\n\n\"You have done her a great deal of good,\" said Susy's papa, \"we will\nengage you to stay six years longer, should God spare her life.\"\n\nThen Mr. Pain took up his book. It had a black cover, but the leaves\nwere gilt-edged and the cover was spangled with stars.\n\n\"I have punished Susy a good many times,\" said Mr. Pain. \"Sometimes I\nslapped her with my hand; sometimes I struck her with my rod; sometimes\nI made her sick; but I never did any of these things because I was angry\nwith her or liked to hurt her. I only came when Mrs. Love called me.\"\n\n\"You have taught her excellent lessons,\" said Susy's papa, \"if it had\nnot been for you she would be growing up disobedient and selfish. You\nmay stay six years longer.\"\n\nThen Mr. Pain made a low bow and said he was thinking of going away and\nsending his brother, Mr. Sorrow, and his sister, Mrs. Disappointment, to\ntake his place.\"\n\n\"Oh, no!\" cried Susy's mamma, \"not yet, not yet! Susy is still so\nlittle!\"\n\nThen Mr. Pain said he would stay without a rod, as Susy was now too old\nto be whipped.\n\nThen Miss Joy took up her book with its rainbow cover and tried to read.\nBut she laughed so heartily all the time, and her leaves kept flying out\nof her hands at such a rate, that it was not possible to understand what\nshe was saying. It was all about clapping hands and running races, and\npicking flowers and having a good time. Everybody laughed just because\nshe laughed, and Susy's papa could hardly keep his face grave long\nenough to say:\n\n\"You have done more good than tongue can tell. You have made her just\nsuch a merry, happy, laughing little creature as I wanted her to be. You\nmust certainly stay six years longer.\"\n\nThen Mr. Ought drew forth his book. It had silver covers and its leaves\nwere of the most delicate tissue.\n\n\"I have taught little Susy to be good,\" said he. \"Never to touch what\nis not hers; never to speak a word that is not true; never to have a\nthought she would not like the great and holy God to see. If I stay six\nyears longer I can teach her a great deal more, for she begins now to\nunderstand my faintest whisper. She is such a little girl as I love to\nlive with.\"\n\nThen Susy turned rosy-red with pleasure, and her papa and mamma got up\nand shook hands with Mr. Ought and begged him never, never to leave\ntheir darling child as long as she lived.\n\nIt was now the turn of Aunt Patience. Her book had covers wrought by her\nown hands in grave and gay colors well mingled together.\n\n\"When I first came here,\" she said, \"Susy used to cry a great deal\nwhenever she was hurt or punished. When she was sick she was very hard\nto please. When she sat down to learn to sew and to read and to write,\nshe would break her thread in anger, or throw her book on the floor, or\ndeclare she never could learn. But now she has left off crying when she\nis hurt, and tries to bear the pain quietly. When she is sick she does\nnot fret or complain, but takes her medicine without a word. When she\nis sewing she does not twitch her thread into knots, and when she is\nwriting she writes slowly and carefully. I have rocked her to sleep\na thousand times. I have been shut up in a closet with her again and\nagain, and I hope I have done her some good and taught her some useful\nlessons.\"\n\n\"Indeed you have, Aunt Patience,\" said Susy's papa, \"but Susy is not yet\nperfect. We shall need you six years longer.\"\n\nAnd now the little angel Faith opened his golden book and began to read:\n\n\"I have taught Susy that there is another world besides this, and have\ntold her that it is her real home, and what a beautiful and happy one it\nis. I have told her a great deal about Jesus and the holy angels. I do\nnot know much myself. I am not very old, but if I stay here six years\nlonger I shall grow wiser and I will teach Susy all I learn, and we will\npray together every morning and every night, till at last she loves the\nLord Jesus with all her heart and soul and mind and strength.\"\n\nThen Susy's papa and mamma looked at each other and smiled, and they\nboth said:\n\n\"Oh, beautiful angel, never leave her!\"\n\nAnd the angel answered:\n\n\"I will stay with her as long as she lives, and will never leave her\ntill I leave her at the very door of heaven.\"\n\nThen the teachers began to put up their books, and Susy's papa and mamma\nkissed her, and said:\n\n\"We have had a great deal of comfort in our little daughter; and, with\nGod's blessing, we shall see her grow up a loving, patient, and obedient\nchild--full of joy and peace and rich in faith and good works.\"\n\nSo they all bade each other good-night and went thankfully to bed.\n\nThe next entry in the journal notes a trait of character, or rather of\ntemperament, which often excited the wonder and also the anxiety of\nher friends. It caused her no little discomfort, but she could never\nwithstand its power.\n\n_March 21st_.--I have been busy with a sewing fit and find the least\ninteresting piece of work I can get hold of, as great a temptation\nas the most charming. For if its _charm_ does not absorb my time and\nthoughts, the eager haste to finish and get it out of the way, does.\nThis is my life. I either am stupefied by ill-health or sorrow, so as\nto feel no interest in anything, or am _absorbed_ in whatever business,\nwork or pleasure I have on hand.\n\nBut neither anxiety about her child, household cares, or any work she\nhad in hand, so absorbed her thoughts as to render her insensible to the\nsorrows and trials of others. On the contrary, they served rather to\ncall forth and intensify her kindly sympathies. A single case will\nillustrate this. A poor little girl--one of those waifs of humanity in\nwhich a great city abounds--had been commended to her by a friend. In a\nletter to this friend, dated March 17, 1856, she writes:\n\nThat little girl came, petticoat and all; we gave her some breakfast,\nand I then went down with her to Avenue A. On the way, she told me that\nyou gave her some money. To my great sorrow we found, on reaching the\nschool, that they could not take another one, as they were already\noverflowing. As we came out, I saw that the poor little soul was just\nready to burst into tears, and said to her \"Now you're disappointed, I\nknow!\" whereupon she actually looked up into my face and _smiled_. You\nknow I was afraid I never should make her smile, she looked so forlorn.\nI brought her home to get some books, as she said she could read, and\nshe is to come again to-morrow. A lady to whom I told the whole story,\nsent me some stockings that would about go on to her big toe; however,\nthey will be nice for her little sister. The weather has been so mild\nthat I thought it would not be worth while to make her a cloak or\nanything of that sort; but next fall I shall see that she is comfortably\nclad, if she behaves as well as she did the day she was here. Oh, dear!\nwhat a drop in the great bucket of New York misery, one such child is!\nYet somebody must look out for the drops, and I am only too thankful to\nseize on this one.\n\nIn June she went, with the children, to Westport, Conn., where in rural\nquiet and seclusion she passed the next three months. Here are some\nextracts from her letters, written from that place:\n\nWestport, _June 25, 1856._\n\nWe had a most comfortable time getting here; both the children enjoyed\nthe ride, and baby seemed unusually bright. Judge Betts was very\nattentive and kind to us. Mrs. G. grows more and more pleasant every\nday. We have plenty of good food, but she worries because I do not eat\nmore. You know I never was famous for eating meat, and country dinners\nare not tempting. You can't think how we enjoy seeing the poultry fed.\nThere are a hundred and eighty hens and chickens, and you should see\nbaby throw her little hand full of corn to them. We went strawberrying\nyesterday, all of us, and the way she was poked through bars and lifted\nover stone-walls would have amused you. She is already quite sunburnt;\nbut I think she is looking sweetly. I find myself all the time peeping\nout of the window, thinking every step is yours, or that every wagon\nholds a letter for me.\n\n_To Miss A. H. Woolsey, Westport, June 27._\n\nMr. P. enclosed your kind note in one of his own, after first reading it\nhimself, if you ever heard of such a man. I had to laugh all alone while\nreading it, which was not a little provoking. We are having very nice\ntimes here indeed. Breakfast at eight, dinner at half-past twelve, and\ntea at half-past six, giving us an afternoon of unprecedented length\nfor such lounging, strawberrying or egg-hunting as happens to be on\nthe carpet. The air is perfectly loaded with the fragrance of clover\nblossoms and fresh hay. I never saw such clover in my life; roses are\nnothing in comparison. I only want an old nag and a wagon, so as to\ndrive a load of children about these lovely regions, and that I hope\nevery moment to attain. To be sure, it would be amazingly convenient\nif I had a table, and didn't have to sit on the floor to write upon\na trunk; but then one can't have everything, and I am almost too\ncomfortable with what I have. A. is busy reading Southey to her\n\"children\"; baby is off searching for eggs, and her felicity reached its\nheight when she found an ambitious hen had laid two in her carriage,\nwhich little thought what it was coming to the country for. I think the\ndear child already looks better; she lives in the open air and enjoys\neverything.\n\nMrs. Buck lives about half a mile below us, and we run back and forth\nmany times a day. I have already caught the country fashion of rushing\nto the windows the moment a wheel or an opening gate is heard. I fancy\neverybody is bringing me a letter or else want to send one to the\noffice, and the only way to do that is to scream at passers-by and\nask them if they are going that way. If you hear that I am often seen\ndriving a flock of geese down the road, or climbing stone walls, or\ncreeping through bar fences, you needn't believe a word of it, for I am\na pattern of propriety, and pride myself on my dignity. I hope, now\nyou have begun so charmingly, that you will write again. You know what\nletters are in the country.\n\n_To her Husband, Westport, June 27._\n\nI wonder where you are this lovely morning? Having a nice time\nsomewhere, I do hope, for it is too fine a day to be lost. If you want\nto know where I am, why I'm sitting at the window writing on a trunk\nthat I have just lifted into a chair, in order to make a table. For\ntable there, is none in this room, and how am I to write a book without\none? If ever I get down to the village, I hope to buy, beg, borrow or\nsteal one, and until that time am putting off beginning my new\nLittle Susy. [7] That note from Miss Warner, by the by, spoke so\nenthusiastically of the Six Teachers that I felt compensated for the\nmortification of hearing -------- call it a \"nice\" book. You will be\nsorry to hear that I have no prospect of getting a horse. I am quite\ndisappointed, as besides the pleasure of driving our children, I hoped\nto give Mrs. Buck and the boys a share in it. Only to think of her\nbringing up from the city a beefsteak for baby, and proposing that the\ndoctor should send a small piece for her every day! Thank you, darling,\nfor your proposal about the Ocean House. I trust no such change will be\nneedful. We are all comfortable now, the weather is delicious, and there\nare so many pretty walks about here, that I am only afraid I shall be\ntoo well off. Everything about the country is charming to me, and I\nnever get tired of it. The first few days nurse seemed a good deal out\nof sorts; but I must expect some such little vexations; of course, I can\nnot have perfection, and for dear baby's sake I shall try to exercise\nall the prudence and forbearance I can.\n\n_Sunday._--We went to church this morning and heard a most instructive\nand, I thought, superior sermon from Mr. Burr of Weston, on progress in\nreligious knowledge. He used the very illustration about the cavern and\nthe point of light that you did.\n\n_July 7th._--We all drove to the beach on Saturday. It was just the very\nday for such a trip, and baby was enchanted. She sat right down and\nbegan to gather stones and shells, as if she had the week before her. We\nwere gone three hours and came home by way of the village, quite in\nthe mood for supper. Yesterday we had a pleasant service; Mr. Atkinson\nappears to be a truly devout, heavenly man to whom I felt my heart knit\nat the outset on this account, I am taking great delight in reading the\nMemoir of Miss Allibone. [8] How I wish I had a friend of so heavenly a\ntemper! I fear my new Little Susy will come out at the little end of the\nhorn. I am sure it won't be so good as the others. It is more than one\nquarter done.\n\n_July 21st._--What do you think I did this forenoon? Why, I finished\nLittle Susy and shall lay it aside for some days, when I shall read it\nover, correct, and pack it off out of the way. Yes, I wish you would\nbring my German Hymn Book. I am so glad you liked the hymns I had\nmarked! [9] And do get well so as not to have to leave off preaching the\nGospel. My heart dies within me whenever I think of your leaving the\nministry. Every day I live, it appears to me that the office of a\nChristian pastor and teacher is the best in the world. I shall not be\nable to write you a word to-morrow, as we are to go to Greenfield Hill\nto Miss Murray's, and you must take to-morrow's love to-night--if you\nthink you can stand so much at once. God be with you and bless you.\n\n_July 30th._--Baby and I have just been having a great frolic. She was\nso pleased with your message that she caught up your letter and kissed\nit, which I think very remarkable in a child who, I am sure, never saw\nsuch a thing done. A. seems well and happy, and is as good as I think we\nought to expect. I see more and more every day, that if there ever _was_\nsuch a thing as human perfection, it was as long ago as David's time\nwhen, as he says, he saw the \"end\" of it. How very kind the W.'s have\nbeen!\n\n_August 3d._--I got hold of Dr. Boardman's \"Bible in the Family,\" at the\nBucks yesterday, and brought it home to read. I like it very much. There\nis a vein of humor running through it which, subdued as it is, must have\nawakened a good many smiles. He quotes some lines of Coleridge, which I\nwonder I did not have as a motto for Susy's Teachers:\n\n  Love, Hope and Patience, these must be thy graces,\n  And in thine own heart let them first _keep school_.\n\n_To Miss Mary B. Shipman, Westport, August 11._\n\nDr. Buck, who has seen her twice since we came here, thinks baby\nwonderfully improved, and says every day she lives increases her chance\nof life. I have been exceedingly encouraged by all he has said, and feel\na great load off my heart. Last Friday, on fifteen minutes' notice, I\npacked up and went _home_, taking nurse and biddies, of course. I was so\nrestless and so perfectly _possessed_ to go to meet George, that I could\nnot help it. We went in the six o'clock train, as it was after five when\nI was \"taken\" with the fit that started me off; got home in a soft rain,\nand to our great surprise and delight found G. there, he having got\nhomesick at Saratoga, and just rushed to New York on his way here. We\nhad a great rejoicing together, you may depend, and I had a charming\nvisit of nearly three days. We got back on Monday night, rather tired,\nbut none of us at all the worse for the expedition. Mr. P. sits here\nreading the Tribune, and A. is reading \"Fremont's Life.\" She is as brown\nas an Indian and about as wild.\n\nA few passages from her journal will also throw light upon this period:\n\n_June 30th._--I am finding this solitude and leisure very sweet and\nprecious; God grant it may bear the rich and abundant fruit it ought to\ndo! Communion with Him is such a blessing, here at home in my own room,\nand out in the silent woods and on the wayside. Saturday, especially,\nI had a long walk full of blissful thoughts of Him whom I do believe I\nlove--oh, that I loved Him better!--and in the evening Mrs. Buck came\nand we had some very sweet beginnings of what will, I trust, ripen into\nmost profitable Christian communion. My heart delights in the society of\nthose who love Him. Yesterday I had a more near access to God in prayer\nthan usual, so that during the whole service at church I could hardly\nrepress tears of joy and gratitude.\n\n_July 7th._--I do trust God's blessed, blessed Spirit is dealing\nfaithfully with my soul--searching and sifting it, revealing it somewhat\nto itself and preparing it for the indwelling of Christ. This I do\nheartily desire. Oh, God! search me and know me, and show me my own\nguilty, poor, meagre soul, that I may turn from it, humbled and ashamed\nand penitent, to my blessed Saviour. How very, very thankful I feel for\nthis seclusion and leisure; this quiet room where I can seek my God and\npray and praise, unseen by any human eye--and which sometimes seems like\nthe very gate of heaven.\n\n_July 23d._--This is my dear little baby's birthday. I was not able to\nsleep last night at all, but at last got up and prayed specially for\nher. God has spared her two years; I can hardly believe it! Precious\nyears of discipline they have been, for which I do thank Him. I have\nprayed much for her to-day, and with some faith, that if her life is\nspared it will be for His glory. How far rather would I let her go this\nmoment, than grow up without loving Him! Precious little creature!\n\n_27th._--This has been one of the most oppressive days I ever knew. I\nwent to church, however, and enjoyed all the services unusually. As we\nrode along and I saw the grain ripe for the harvest, I said to myself,\n\"God gathers in _His_ harvest as soon as it is ripe, and if I devote\nmyself to Him and pray much and turn entirely from the world I shall\nripen, and so the sooner get where I am _all the time_ yearning and\nlonging to go!\" I fear this was a merely selfish thought, but I do not\nknow. This world seems less and less homelike every day I live. The more\nI pray and meditate on heaven and my Saviour and saints who have crossed\nthe flood, the stronger grows my desire to be bidden to depart hence and\ngo up to that sinless, blessed abode. Not that I forget my comforts, my\nmercies here; they are _manifold_; I know they are. But Christ appears\nso precious; sin so dreadful! so dreadful! To-day I gave way to pride\nand irritation, and my agony on account of it outweighs weeks of merely\nearthly felicity. The idea of a Christian as he should be, and the\nreality of most Christians--particularly myself--why, it almost makes\nme shudder; my only comfort is, in heaven, I _can_ not sin! In heaven I\nshall see Christ, and see Him as He is, and praise and honor Him as I\nnever do and never shall do here. And yet I know my dear little ones\nneed me, poor and imperfect a mother as I am; and I pray every hour to\nbe made willing to wait for their sakes. For at the longest it will not\nbe long. Oh, I do believe it is the _sin_ I dread and not the suffering\nof life--but I know not; I may be deluded. My love to my Master seems to\nme very shallow and contemptible. I am astonished that I love anything\nelse. Oh, that He would this moment come down into this room and tell me\nI never, never, shall grieve Him again!\n\nSome verses entitled \"Alone with God,\" belong here:\n\n  Into my closet fleeing, as the dove\n    Doth homeward flee,\n  I haste away to ponder o'er Thy love\n     Alone with Thee!\n\n  In the dim wood, by human ear unheard,\n    Joyous and free,\n  Lord! I adore Thee, feasting on Thy word,\n    Alone with Thee!\n\n  Amid the busy city, thronged and gay,\n    But One I see,\n  Tasting sweet peace, as unobserved I pray\n    Alone with Thee!\n\n  Oh, sweetest life! Life hid with Christ in God!\n    So making me\n  At home, and by the wayside, and abroad,\n    Alone with Thee!\n\n    WESTPORT, _August 22, 1856._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nV.\n\nReady for new Trials. Dangerous Illness. Extracts from her Journal.\nVisit to Greenwood. Sabbath Meditations. Birth of another Son. Her\nHusband resigns his pastoral Charge. Voyage to Europe.\n\n\nThe summer at Westport was so beneficial to the baby and so full both of\nbodily and spiritual refreshment to herself, that on returning to town,\nshe resumed her home tasks with unwonted ease and comfort. The next\nentry in her journal alludes to this:\n\n_November 27th_.--Two months, and not a word in my journal! I have done\nfar more with my needle and my feet than with my pen. One comes home\nfrom the country to a good many cares, and they are worldly cares, too,\nabout eating and about wearing. I hope the worst of mine are over now\nand that I shall have more leisure. But no, I forget that now comes the\ndreaded, dreaded experience of weaning baby. But what then? I have had\na good rest this fall. Have slept unusually well; why, only think, some\nnights not waking once--and some nights only a few times; and then we\nhave had no sickness; baby better--all better. Now I ought to be willing\nto have the trials I need so much, seeing I have had such a rest. And\nheaven! heaven! let me rest on that precious word. Heaven is at the end\nand God is there.\n\nEarly in March, 1857, she was taken very ill and continued so until May.\nFor some weeks her recovery seemed hardly possible. She felt assured\nher hour had come and was eager to go. All the yearnings of her heart,\nduring many years, seemed on the point of being gratified. The next\nentry in her journal refers to this illness:\n\n_Sunday, May 24th, 1857._--Just reading over the last record how ashamed\nI felt of my faithlessness! To see dear baby so improved by the very\nchange I dreaded, and to hear her pretty, cheerful prattle, and to\nfind in her such a source of joy and comfort--what undeserved, what\nunlooked-for mercies! But like a physician who changes his remedies as\nhe sees occasion, and who forbears using all his severe ones at once, my\nFather first relieved me from my wearing care and pain about this dear\nchild, and then put me under new discipline. It is now nearly six months\nsince I have been in usual health, and eight weeks of great prostration\nand suffering have been teaching me many needed lessons. Now, contrary\nto my hopes and expectations, I find myself almost well again. At first,\nhaving got my heart _set_ toward heaven and after fancying myself almost\nthere, I felt disappointed to find its gates still shut against me. [10]\n\nBut God was very good to me and taught me to yield in this point to His\nwiser and better will; He made me, as far as I know, as peaceful in\nthe prospect of living as joyful in the prospect of dying. Heaven\ndid, indeed, look very attractive when I thought myself so near it;\nI pictured myself as no longer a sinner but a blood-washed saint; I\nthought I shall soon see Him whom my soul loveth, and see Him as He is;\nI shall never wound, never grieve Him again, and all my companions will\nbe they who worship Him and adore Him. But not yet am I there! Alas, not\nyet a saint! My soul is oppressed, now that health is returning, to find\nold habits of sin returning too, and this monster Self usurping God's\nplace, as of old, and pride and love of ease and all the infirmities of\nthe flesh thick upon me. After being encompassed with mercies for two\nmonths, having every comfort this world could offer for my alleviation,\nI wonder at myself that I can be anything but a meek, docile child,\nprofiting by the Master's discipline, sensible of the tenderness that\nwent hand-in-hand with every stroke, and walking softly before God and\nman! But I am indeed a wayward child and in need of many more stripes.\nMay I be made willing and thankful to bear them.\n\nIndeed, I do thank my dear Master that He does not let me alone, and\nthat He has let me suffer so much; it has been a rich experience, this\nlong illness, and I do trust He will so sanctify it that I shall have\ncause to rejoice over it all the rest of my life. Now may I return\npatiently to all the duties that lie in my sphere. May I not forget how\nmomentous a thing death appeared when seen face to face, but be ever\nmaking ready for its approach. And may the glory of God be, as it never\nyet has been, my chief end. My love to Him seems to me so very feeble\nand fluctuating. Satan and self keep up a continual struggle to get the\nvictory. But God is stronger than either. He must and will prevail, and\nat last, and in a time far better than any I can suggest, He will open\nthose closed gates and let me enter in to go no more out, and then \"I\nshall never, never sin.\"\n\nAs might be inferred from this record, she was at this time in the\nsweetest mood, full of tenderness and love. The time of the singing of\nbirds had now come, and all nature was clothed with that wondrous beauty\nand verdure which mark the transition from spring to summer. The drives,\nwhich she was now able to take into the country, on either side of the\nriver, gave her the utmost delight. On the 30th of May--the day that has\nsince become consecrated to the memory of the Nation's heroic dead--she\nwent, with her husband and eldest daughter, to visit and place flowers\nupon the graves of Eddy and Bessie. Never is Greenwood more lovely and\nimpressive than at the moment when May is just passing into June. It is\nas if Nature were in a transfiguration and the glory of the Lord shone\nupon the graves of our beloved! Mrs. Prentiss made no record of this\nvisit, but on the following day thus wrote in her journal:\n\n_May 31st._--Another peaceful, pleasant Sunday, whose only drawback has\nbeen the want of strength to get down on my knees and praise and pray to\nmy Saviour, as I long to do. For well as I am and astonishingly improved\nin every way, a very few minutes' use of my voice, even in a whisper,\nin prayer, exhausts me to such a degree that I am ready to faint. This\nseems so strange when I can go on talking to any extent--but then it is\ntalking without emotion and in a desultory way. Ah well! God knows best\nin what manner to let me live, and I desire to ask for nothing but a\ndocile, acquiescent temper, whose only petition shall be, \"What wilt\nThou have me to do?\" not how can I get most enjoyment along the way. I\ncan not believe if I am His child, that He will let anything hinder my\nprogress in the divine life. It seems dreadful that I have gone on so\nslowly, and backward so many times--but then I have been thinking this\nis \"to humble and to prove me, and to do me good in the latter end.\" ...\nI thank my God and Saviour for every faint desire He gives me to see\nHim as He is, and to be changed into His image, and for every struggle\nagainst sin He enables me to make. It is all of Him. I do wish I loved\nHim better! I do wish He were never out of my thoughts and that the\naim to do His will swallowed up all other desires and strivings. Satan\nwhispers that will never be. But it shall be! One day--oh, longed-for,\nblessed, blissful day!--Christ will become my All in all! Yes, even\nmine!\n\nThis is the last entry in her journal for more than a year; her letters,\ntoo, during the same period are very few. In August of 1857, she was\nmade glad by the birth of another son, her fifth child. Her own health\nwas now much better than it had been for a long time; but that of her\nhusband had become so enfeebled that in April, 1858, he resigned his\npastoral charge and by the advice of his physician determined to go\nabroad, with his family, for a couple years; the munificent kindness of\nhis people having furnished him with the means of doing so. The tender\nsympathy and support which she gave him in this hour of extreme weakness\nand trial, more than everything else, after the blessing of Heaven,\nupheld his fainting spirits and helped to restore him at length to his\nchosen work. They set sail for the old world in the steamship Arago,\nCapt. Lines, June 26th, amidst a cloud of friendly wishes and\nbenedictions.\n\n[1] The friend was Mr. Wm. G. Bull, who had a summer cottage at\nRockaway. He was a leading member of the Mercer street church and one\nof the best of men. The poor and unfortunate blessed him all the\nyear round. To Mrs. Prentiss and her husband he was indefatigable in\nkindness. He died at an advanced age in 1859.\n\n[2] Godman's \"American Natural History.\"\n\n[3] Mrs. Norman White, mother of the Rev. Erskine N. White, D.D., of New\nYork.\n\n[4] Her cousin, whose sudden death occurred under the same roof in\nOctober of the next year.\n\n[5] \"We were all weighed soon after coming here,\" she wrote, \"and my\nladyship weighed 96, which makes me out by far the leanest of the ladies\nhere. When thirteen years old I weighed but 50 pounds.\"\n\n[6] Referring to \"Little Susy's Six Birthdays.\"\n\n[7] _Little Susy's Little Servants._\n\n[8] A Life bid with Christ in God, being a memoir of Susan Allibone. By\nAlfred Lee, Bishop of the Protestant Episcopal Church in Delaware.\n\n[9] See appendix C, p. 539.\n\n[10] Many years afterward, speaking to a friend of this illness, she\nrelated the following incident. One day she lay, as was supposed,\nentirely unconscious and _in articulo mortis_. Repeated but vain\nattempts had been made to administer a medicine ordered by the doctor to\nbe used in case of extremity. Her husband urged one more attempt still;\nit might possibly succeed. She heard distinctly every word that was\nspoken and instantly reasoned within herself, whether she should consent\nor refuse to swallow the medicine. Fancying herself just entering the\neternal city, she longed to refuse but decided it would be wrong and so\nconsented to come back again to earth.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nIN RETREAT AMONG THE ALPS.\n\n1858-1860.\n\nI.\n\nLife abroad. Letters about the Voyage and the Journey from Havre to\nSwitzerland. Chateau d'Oex. Letters from there. The Ch\u00e2let Rosat. The\nFree Church of the Canton de Vaud. Pastor Panchaud.\n\n\nMrs. Prentiss passed more than two years abroad, mostly in Switzerland.\nThey were years burdened with heavy cares, with ill-health and keen\nsolicitude concerning her husband. But they were also years hallowed by\nsignal mercies of Providence, bright every now and then with floods\nof real sunshine, and sweetened by many domestic joys. Although quite\nsecluded from the world a large portion of the time, her solitude was\ncheered by the constant arrival of letters from home. During these years\nalso she was first initiated into full communion with Nature; and what\nexquisite pleasure she tasted in this new experience, her own pen will\ntell. Indeed, this period affords little of interest except that which\nblossomed out of her domestic life, her friendships, and her love of\nnature. She travelled scarcely at all and caught only fugitive glimpses\nof society or of the treasures of European art.\n\nA few simple records, therefore, of her retired home-life and of the\nimpressions made upon her by Alpine scenery, as contained in\nher letters, must form the principal part of this chapter. Her\ncorrespondence, while abroad, would make a large volume by itself; in\nselecting from it what follows, the aim has been to present, as far\nas possible, a continuous picture of her European sojourn, drawn by\nherself. Were a faithful picture of its quiet yet varied scenes to be\ndrawn by another hand, it would include features wholly omitted by her;\nfeatures radiant with a light and beauty not of earth. It would reflect\na sweet patience, a heroic fortitude, a tender sympathy, a faith in God\nand an upholding, comforting influence, which in sharp exigencies the\nChristian wife and mother knows so well how to exercise, and which are\ninspired only by the Lord Jesus Himself.\n\nThe friend to whom the following letter was addressed years ago passed\naway from earth. But her name is still enshrined in many hearts. The\nstory of her generous and affectionate kindness, as also that of her\nchildren, would fill a whole chapter. \"You will never know how we have\nloved and honored you all, _straight through_\" wrote Mrs. Prentiss to\none of them, many years later.\n\n_To Mrs. Charles W. Woolsey, Havre, July 11, 1858._\n\nHow many times during our voyage we had occasion to think of and thank\nyou and yours, a dozen sheets like this would fail to tell you. Of all\nyour kind arrangements for our comfort not one failed of its object.\nWhether the chair or my sacque had most admirers I do not know, but\nI can't imagine how people ever get across the ocean without such\nconsolations on the way. As to the grapes they kept perfectly to\nthe last day and proved delicious; the box then became a convenient\nreceptacle for the children's toys; while the cake-box has turned into\na medicine-chest. We had not so pleasant a voyage as is usual at this\nseason, it being cold and rainy and foggy much of the time. However,\nnone of us suffered much from sea-sickness--Mr. Prentiss not in the\nleast; his chief discomfort was from want of sleep. On the whole, we had\na less dreary time than we anticipated, and perhaps the stupidity in\nwhich we were engulfed for two weeks was a wholesome refuge from the\nexcitement of the month previous to our departure. We landed in a\ndeluge of rain, and the only article in our possession that alarmed the\nofficers of the Custom House was _not_ the sewing-machine, which was\nhardly vouchsafed a look, but your cake-box. We were thankful to tumble\npell-mell into a carriage, and soon to find ourselves in a comfortable\nroom, before a blazing fire. We go round with a phrase-book and talk\nout of it, so if anybody ever asks you what sort of people the Prentiss\nfamily are and what are our conversational powers, you may safely and\nveraciously answer, \"They talk like a book.\" M. already asks the French\nnames of almost everything and is very glad to know that \"we have got\nat Europe,\" and when asked how she likes France, declares, \"Me likes\n_that_.\" We go off to Paris in the morning. I will let Mr. Prentiss\ntell his own story. Meanwhile we send you everyone our warmest love and\nthanks.\n\nAfter a few days in Paris the family hastened to Chateau d'Oex, where\nNew York friends awaited them. Chateau d'Oex is a mountain valley in the\ncanton of Vaud, on the right bank of the Sarine, twenty-two miles east\nof Lausanne, and is one of the loveliest spots in Switzerland. Aside\nfrom its natural beauties, it has some historical interest. It was\nonce the home of the Counts of Gruyere, and the ruins of their ancient\nchateau are still seen there. The Free church of the village was at this\ntime under the care of Pastor Panchaud, a favorite pupil and friend of\nVinet. He was a man of great simplicity and sweetness of character,\nan excellent preacher, and wholly devoted to his little flock. Mrs.\nPrentiss and her husband counted his society and ministrations a smile\nof Heaven upon their sojourn in Chateau d'Oex.\n\n_To Mrs. Henry B. Smith, Chateau D'Oex July 25, 1858._\n\nOur ride from Havre to Paris was charming. We had one of those luxurious\ncars, to us unknown, which is intended to hold only eight persons, but\nwhich has room for ten; the weather was perfect, and the scenery all the\nway very lovely and quite novel. A. and I kept mourning for you and M.\nto enjoy it with us, and both agreed that we would gladly see only half\nthere was to see, and go half the distance we were going, if we could\nonly share with you our pleasures of every kind. On reaching Paris and\nthe hotel we found we could not get pleasant rooms below the fifth\nstory. They were directly opposite the garden of the Tuileries, where\nbirds were flying and singing, and it was hard to realise that we were\nin the midst of that great city. We went sight-seeing very little. A.\nand I strolled about here and there, did a little shopping, stared in at\nthe shop windows, wished M. had this and you had that, and then strolled\nhome and panted and toiled and groaned up our five flights, and wrote in\nour journals, or rested, or made believe study French. We went to the\nJardin des Plantes in order to let the children see the Zoological\nGarden. We also drove through the Bois de Boulogne, and spent part of\nan evening in the garden of the Palais Royal, and watched the people\ndrinking their tea and coffee, and having all sorts of good times. We\nfound Paris far more beautiful than we expected, and certainly as to\ncleanliness it puts New York ages behind. We were four days in coming\nfrom Paris to this place. We went up the lake of Geneva on one of the\nfinest days that could be asked for, and then the real joy of our\njourney began; Paris and all its splendors faded away at once and\nforever before these mountains, and as George had never visited Geneva,\nor seen any of this scenery, my pleasure was doubled by his. Imagine, if\nyou can, how we felt when Mt. Blanc appeared in sight! We reached Vevay\njust after sunset, and were soon established in neat rooms of quite\nnovel fashion. The floors were of unpainted white wood, checked off with\nblack walnut; the stairs were all of stone, the stove was of porcelain,\nand every article of furniture was odd. But we had not much time to\nspend in looking at things within doors, for the lake was in full view,\nand the mountain tops were roseate with the last rays of the setting\nsun, and the moon soon rose and added to the whole scene all it wanted\nto make us half believe ourselves in a pleasant dream. I often asked\nmyself, \"Can this be I!\" \"And _if_ it be I, as I hope it be\"--\n\nEarly next morning, which was dear little M.'s birthday, we set off in\ngrand style for Chateau d'Oex. We hired a monstrous voiture which had\nseats inside for four, and on top, with squeezing, seats for three,\nbesides the driver's seat; had five black horses, and dashed forth in\nall our splendor, ten precious souls and all agog. I made a sandwich\nbetween Mr. S. and George on top, and the \"bonnes\" and children were\npacked inside. This was our great day. The weather was indescribably\nbeautiful; we felt ourselves approaching a place of rest and a welcome\nhome; the scenery was magnificent, and already the mountain air was\nbeginning to revive our exhausted souls and bodies. We sat all day hand\nin hand, literally \"lost in wonder.\" With all I had heard ever since I\nwas born about these mountains, I had not the faintest idea of their\nreal grandeur and beauty. We arrived here just after sunset, and soon\nfound ourselves among our friends. Mrs. Buck brought us up to our new\nhome, which we reached on foot (as our voiture could not ascend so high)\nby a little winding path, by the side of which a little brook kept\nrunning along to make music for us. It is a regular Swiss ch\u00e2let, much\nlike the little models you have seen, only of a darker brown, and on\neither side the mountains stand ranged, so that look where we will we\nare feasted to our utmost capacity.\n\nWe have four small, but very neat, pretty rooms. Our floors are of\nunpainted pine, as white and clean as possible. The room in which we\nspend our time, and where I am now writing, I must fully set before\nyou.... Our centre table has had a nice new red cover put on it to-day,\nwith a vase of flowers; it holds all our books, and is the ornament of\nthe room. In front of the sofa is a red rug on which we say our prayers.\nOver it is a picture, and over G.'s table is another. Out of the window\nyou see first a pretty little flower garden, then the valley dotted with\nbrown ch\u00e2lets, then the background of mountains. Behind the house you go\nup a little winding path--and can go on forever without stopping if you\nchoose--along the sides of which flowers such as we cultivate at home\ngrow in profusion; you can't help picking them and throwing them away to\nsnatch a new handful. The brook takes its rise on this side, and runs\nmusically along as you ascend. Yesterday we all went to church at nine\nand a half o'clock, and had our first experience of French preaching,\nand I was relieved to find myself understanding whole sentences here\nand there. And now I need not, I suppose, wind up by saying we are in\na charming spot. All we want, as far as this world goes, is health\nand strength with which to enjoy all this beauty and all this sweet\nretirement, and these, I trust, it will give us in time. Isabella \"wears\nlike gold.\" She is everything I hoped for, and from her there has not\nbeen even a _tone_ of discomfort since we left. But my back aches and my\npaper is full. We all send heaps of love to you all and long to hear.\n\n_August 10th._--We breakfast at eight on bread and honey, which is the\nuniversal Swiss breakfast, dine at one, and have tea at seven. I usually\nsew and read and study all the forenoon. After dinner we take our Alpen-\nstocks and go up behind the house--a bit of mountain-climbing which\nmakes me realise that I am no longer a young girl. I get only so high,\nand then have to come back and lie down. George and Annie beat me all\nto pieces with their exploits. I do not believe we could have found\nanywhere in the world a spot better adapted to our needs. How _you_\nwould enjoy it! I perfectly yearn to show you these mountains and all\nthis green valley. The views I send will give you a very good idea of\nit, however. The smaller ch\u00e2let in the print is ours. In a little summer\nhouse opposite Isabella now sits at work on the sewing-machine. My best\nlove to all three of your dear \"chicks,\" and to your husband if \"he's\nwillin'.\"\n\n_To Mrs. H.B. Washburn, Chateau d'Oex, August 21, 1858._\n\n... We slipped off without any leave-taking, which I was not sorry for.\nI did not want to bid you good-bye. We had to say it far too often as it\nwas, and, when we fairly set sail we had not an emotion left, but sank\nat once into a state of entire exhaustion and stupidity.... We thought\nParis very beautiful until we came in view of the Lake of Geneva, Mt.\nBlanc, and other handiworks of God, when straightway all its palaces and\nmonuments and fountains faded into insignificance. I began to feel that\nit was wicked for a few of my friends, who were born to enjoy the land\nof lakes and mountains, not to be here enjoying it, and you were one of\nthem, you may depend. However, whenever I have had any such pangs of\nregret in relation to you, I have consoled myself with the reflection\nthat with your enthusiastic temperament, artist eye, and love of nature,\nyou never would survive even a glimpse of Switzerland; the land of\nWilliam Tell would be the death of you. When you are about eighty years\nold, have cooled down about ten degrees below zero, have got a little\ndim about the eyes, and a little stiff about the knees, it may possibly\nbe safe for you to come and break yourself in gradually. I have not\nforgotten how you felt and what you did at the White Mountains, you see.\n\nWell, joking apart, we are in a spot that would just suit you in every\nrespect. We are not in a street or a road or any of those abominations\nyou like to shun, but our little ch\u00e2let, hardly accessible save on foot,\nis just tucked down on the side of the gentle slope leading up the\nmountain. It is remote from all sights but those magnificent ones\nafforded by the range of mountains, the green rich valley, and the\never-varying sky and cloudland, and all sounds save that of a brook\nwhich runs hurrying down its rocky little channel and keeps us company\nwhen we want it. I ought, however, to add that my view of this\nparticular valley is that of a novice. People say the scenery here is\ntame in comparison with what may be seen elsewhere; but look which way I\nwill, from front windows or back windows, at home or abroad, I am as one\nat a continual feast; and what more can one ask? Mr. Prentiss feels that\nthis secluded spot is just the place for him, and as it is a good point\nfrom which to make excursions on foot or otherwise, he and Mr. Stearns\nhave already made several trips and seen splendid sights. How much we\nhave to be grateful for! For my part, I would rather--far rather--have\ncome here and stayed here blindfold, than not to have come with my dear\nhusband. So all I have seen and am experiencing I regard as beauty and\nfelicity _thrown in_.\n\n_To Mrs. Abigail Prentiss, Chateau d'Oex, Sept. 5, 1858._\n\nI wish we had you, my dear mother, here among these mountains, for the\ncool, bracing air would help to build you up. Both Mr. Stearns and\nGeorge have come back from Germany looking better than when they started\non their trip two weeks ago. It has been very cold; the thermometer some\nmornings at eight o'clock standing at 46\u00ba, and the mountains being all\ncovered with snow. We slept with a couple of bottles of hot water at our\nfeet, and two blankets and a comforter of eiderdown over us, after going\nto bed early to get warm. My sewing-machine is a great comfort, and the\npeasants enjoy coming down from the mountains to see it. Besides, I find\nsomething to do on it every day.\n\nI often wish I could set you down in the midst of the church to which we\ngo every Sunday, if only to show you how the people dress. A bonnet is\nhardly seen there; everybody wearing a black silk cap or a bloomer. _I_\nwear a bloomer; a brown one trimmed with brown ribbon. An old lady sits\nin front of me who wears a white cap much after the fashion of yours,\nand on top of that is perked a monstrous bloomer trimmed with black\ngauze ribbon. Her dress is linsey-woolsey, and for outside garment she\nwears a black silk half-handkerchief, as do all the rest. No light dress\nor ribbon is seen. I must tell you now something that amused A. and me\nvery much yesterday at dinner. A French gentleman, who married a Spanish\nlady four years ago, sits opposite us at the table, and he and his\nwife are quite fascinated with M., watch all her motions, and whisper\ntogether about all she does. Yesterday they got to telling us that the\nlady had been married when only twelve years old to a gentleman of\nthirty-two, had two children, and was a grandmother, though not yet\nthirty-six years old. She said she carried her doll with her to her\nhusband's house, and he made her learn a geography lesson every day till\nshe was fourteen, when she had a baby of her own. I asked her if she\nloved her husband, and she said \"Oh, yes,\" only he was very grave and\nscolded her and shut her up when she wouldn't learn her lessons.\nShe said that her own mother when thirty-six years old had fourteen\nchildren, all of whom are now living, twelve of them boys, and that the\nlaws of Spain allow the father of six sons to ask a favor for them of\nthe King, but the father of twelve may ask a favor for each one; so\nevery one of her brothers had an office under the Government or was an\nofficer in the army. I don't know when I have been more amused, for she,\nlike all foreigners, was full of life and gesture, and showed us how she\ntore her hair and threw down her books when angry with her husband.\n\nThe children are all bright and well. The first time we took the cars\nafter landing, M. was greatly delighted. \"Now we're going to see\ngrandma,\" she cried. Mrs. Buck got up a picnic for her, and had a treat\nof raspberries and sponge-cake--frosted. The cake had \"M.\" on the top\nin red letters. Baby is full of life and mischief. The day we landed\nhe said \"Papa,\" and now he says \"Mamma.\" Isabella [1] is everything we\ncould ask. She is trying to learn French, and A. hears her recite every\nnight. George found some furnished rooms at Montreux, which he has taken\nfor six months from October, and we shall thus be keeping house. A. has\njust rushed in and snatched her French Bible, as she is going to the\nevening service with some of the English family. You will soon hear all\nabout us from Mr. Stearns.\n\nThe following letter will show how little power either her own cares, or\nthe charms of nature around her, had to quench her sympathy for friends\nin sorrow:\n\n_To Miss A. H. Woolsey, Chateau D'Oex, Sept. 11, 1858._\n\nWe received your kind letter this morning. We had already had our\nsympathies excited in behalf of you all, by seeing a notice of the death\nof the dear little child in a paper lent to us by Mrs. Buck, and were\nmost anxious to hear all the particulars you have been so good as to\ngive us. This day, which fifteen years ago we marked with a white stone,\nand which we were to celebrate with all our hearts, has passed quite\nwearily and drearily. There is something indescribably sad in the\ndetails of the first bereavement which has fallen within the circle\nof those we love; perhaps, too, old sorrows of our own clamored for a\nhearing; and then, too, there was the conviction, \"This is not all death\nwill do while the ocean severs you from kindred and friends.\" We longed\nto speak to you many words of affectionate sympathy and Christian cheer;\nbut long before we can make them reach you, I trust you will have felt\nsure that you were at least remembered and prayed for. It is a comfort\nthat no ocean separates us from Him who has afflicted you. The loss to\nyou each and all is very great, but to the mother of such a child it\nis beyond description. Faith alone can bear her through it, but faith\n_can_. What a wonderful little creature the sweet Ellie must have been!\nWe were greatly touched by your account of her singing that beautiful\nhymn. It must have been divinely ordered that she should leave such a\nprecious legacy behind her. And though her loveliness makes her loss the\ngreater, the loss of an unlovely wayward child would surely be a heavier\ngrief.\n\nI never know where to stop when I begin to talk about the death of a\nlittle one; but before I stop I want to ask you to tell Mrs. H. one word\nfrom me, which will not surprise and will perhaps comfort her. It is\nthis. Neither his father nor myself would be willing to have God now\nbereave us of the rich experience of seven years ago, when our noble\nlittle boy was taken away. We have often said this to each other, and\noftener said it to Him, who if He took, also gave much. But after all,\nwe can not _say_ much to comfort either Mrs. H. or you. We can only\ntruly, heartily and always sympathise with you.... Mr. Prentiss and Mr.\nStearns have spent a fortnight in jaunting about; beginning at Thun and\nending at Munich. They both came home looking fresher and better than\nwhen they left, but Mr. P. is not at all well now, and will have his ups\nand downs, I suppose, for a long time to come.... We can step out at\nany moment into a beautiful path, and, turn which way we will, meet\nsomething charming. Yesterday he came back for me, having found a new\nwalk, and we took our sticks, and went to enjoy it together till we got,\nas it were, fairly locked in by the mountains, and could go no further.\nOnly to think of having such things as gorges and water-falls and\nroaring brooks, right at your back door! The seclusion of this whole\nregion is, however, its great charm to us, and to tell the truth, the\nprimitive simplicity of style of dress, etc., is quite as charming to me\nas its natural beauty. We took tea one night last week with the pastor\nof the Free church; he lives in a house for which he pays thirty dollars\na year, and we were quite touched and pleased with his style of living;\nwhite pine walls and floors, unpainted, and everything else to match. We\ntook our tea at a pine table, and the drawing-room to which we retired\nfrom it, was a corner of the same room, where was a little mite of a\nsofa and a few books, and a cheerful lamp burning.\n\nAll this time I have not answered your question about the Fourth of\nJuly. We had great doings, I assure you. Mr. P. made a speech, and ran\nup and down the saloon like a war horse. He was so excited and pale that\nI did not enjoy it much, thinking any instant he would faint and fall.\nMr. Cleaveland was the orator of the day and acquitted himself very\nwell, they all said. I was in my berth at the time of its delivery,\nsaving myself for the dinner and toasts, and so did not hear it. The\nwhole affair is to be printed. There was a great cry of \"Prentiss!\nPrentiss!\" after the \"Captain's dinner,\" and at last the poor man had to\nrespond in a short speech to a toast to the ladies. I suppose you know\nthat he considers all women as angels. Mr. Stearns left us on Thursday\nto set his face homewards.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nII.\n\nMontreux. The Swiss Autumn. Castle of Chillon. Death and Sorrow of\nFriends at Home. Twilight Talks. Spring Flowers.\n\n\nEarly in October the family removed to Montreux, at the upper end of the\nlake of Geneva, where the next six months were passed in what was then\nknown as the Maison des Bains. Montreux was at this time the centre of\na group of pleasant villages, scattered along the shore of the lake, or\nlying back of it among the hills. One of these villages, Clarens, was\nrendered famous in the last century by the pen of Rousseau, and early\nin this by the pen of Byron. The grave of Vinet, the noble leader, and\ntheologian of the Free Church of the canton of Vaud, now renders the\nspot sacred to the Christian scholar. Montreux was then a favorite\nresort of invalids in quest of a milder climate. At many points it\ncommands fine views of the lake, and the whole region abounds in\npicturesque scenery. The Maison des Bains is said to have long since\ndisappeared; but in 1858, it seemed to hang upon the side of the\nMontreux hill and was one of the most noticeable features of the\nlandscape, as seen from the passing steamer.\n\n_To Mrs. Henry B. Smith, Montreux, October 31, 1858._\n\nYour letter was a real comfort and I am so thankful to the man that\ninvented letter-writing that I don't know what to do. We feast on\neverything we hear from home, however sick, or weak; it is a sort of\nsea-air appetite. Your letters are not a thousandth part long enough,\nbut if you wrote all the time I suppose they wouldn't be.... You see I\nam experimenting with two kinds of ink, hoping my letters may be more\neasy to read. George tried it the other day by writing me a little note,\ntelling me first how he loved me in black ink and then how he loved me\nin blue, after which he tore it up; wasn't that a shame? Anna writes\nthat you seemed miserable the day she was at your house. The fact is,\npeople of such restless mental activity as you and I, my dear, never\nneed expect to be well long at a time--for, as soon as we get a little\nhealth we consume it just as children do candy. George and I are both\nable, however, to take long walks, and the other day we went to see the\ncastle of Chillon. I was much impressed with all I saw. Under Byron's\nname, which I saw on one of the columns, there were the initials \"H. B.\nS.\"--\"H. B. Smith,\" says I. \"You don't say so!\" cries George, \"where?\nlet me see--oh, I don't think it can be his, for here are some more\nletters,\" which I knew all the time, but for all that H. B. S. _does_\nstand for H. B. Smith. There are ever so many charming walks about here\nand from some points the scenery is wonderfully picturesque. I never was\nin the country so late as to see the trees after a frost, and although\nthe foliage here is less brilliant, it is said, than that of American\nforests, I find it hard to believe that there can be anything more\nbeautiful than the wooded mountains covered with the softest tints of\nevery shade and coloring interspersed with snowcapped peaks and bare,\ngray rocks. The glory has departed somewhat within two days, as we have\nhad a little snow-storm, and the leaves have fallen sadly. We began to\nhave a fire yesterday and to put on some of our winter clothing; yet\nroses bloom just outside our door, and mignonette, nasturtiums, and a\nvariety of other flowers adorn every house. The Swiss love for flowers\nis really beautiful. I wish you would let the children go to the\nhot-house which they pass on the way from school and get me some\nflower-seeds, as it will be pleasant to me to have the means of giving\npleasure. I presume the gardener would be able to select a dozen or so\nof American varieties which would be a treasure here. I amuse myself\nwith making flower-pictures, with which to enliven our parlor, and\nassure you that these works of art are remarkable specimens of genius. I\ndo not know where the time goes, but I do not have half enough of it, or\nelse do not understand the art of making the most of it. We have just\nsubscribed to a library at a franc a month, and hope to read a little\nFrench.... I suppose Z. will be a regular young lady by the time we come\nhome, and that I shall be afraid of her, as I am of all young ladies.\nHow nicely she and M. would look in the jaunty little hats they all wear\nhere. I wonder if the fashion will stretch across the ocean? I dare say\nit will. Never was there anything so becoming in the world.\n\n_To Mrs. Stearns, Montreux, Nov. 21, 1858._\n\nWe were glad to hear from your last letter that you are all so well,\nand especially to hear such good accounts of Mr. Stearns. It is a real\ncomfort to us to find that his little trip has done him so much good.\nI was sorry to hear of the loss of that friend of the Thurstons in the\nAustria, for I heard Ellen speak of her in the most rapturous manner.\nThis world is full of mysteries. Only to think of the shock George\nreceived when expecting to meet Mr. Butler in Paris and perhaps spend\nseveral weeks with him there, he heard at Geneva the news of his sudden\ndeath! [2] He loved and honored Mr. B. most warmly and truly. You will\nremember that the latter came abroad on account of the health of his\ndaughter; her younger sister accompanied them, and they were all full\nof the brightest anticipations. But the same steamer which brought them\nover, carried home his remains on the next trip, and those two poor\nyoung girls are left in a strange land, afflicted and disappointed and\nalone. Mr. Butler died a most peaceful and happy death, and George was\nvery glad to be in Paris in time to comfort the young ladies, who\nwere perfectly delighted to see him. He got back yesterday very much\nexhausted and has spent most of the day on the sofa. A. has a teacher\nwho comes three times a week from Vevay, and spends most of the day. She\nis a young lady of about twenty-five, well educated and accustomed to\nteaching, and has taken hold of A. with no little energy. She can not\nspeak a word of English. Tell your A. we can't get over it that the\nhorses, dogs and cats here all understand French. I have been ever so\nbusy fixing and fussing for winter, which has come upon us all in a\nrush. Isabella has been bewitched for about a week, having got at last a\nletter from her beau, and every speck of work she has done on the sewing\nmachine was either wrongside out or upside down. While George was gone I\nmade up a lot of flower-pictures to adorn the walls of our parlor; he is\nwalking about admiring them, and I wish you would drop in and help him.\nHe had a real homesick fit to see you all to-day, feeling so tired after\nhis journey; but seems brighter to-night, and promises faithfully to get\nwell now, right off.\n\n_Dec. 5th._--The death of Sarah P. must have excited all your\nsympathies. The loss of a little child--and I shudder when I recall\nthe pangs of such a loss!--can be nothing in comparison with such an\naffliction as this. I well remember what a bright young thing she was.\nHer poor mother's grief and amazement must be all the greater for the\nfact of the perfect vigor and sound health which had, as it were,\nassured her of long life and happiness and usefulness. I had an\ninexpressible sadness upon me as soon as I heard that she was\ndangerously ill; often in such moments one bitterly realises that all\nthis world's idols are likewise perishable.\n\nA.'s teacher gives lessons also in a family half an hour from Vevay, who\nare going to Germany to spend a year, and she gave such an account of\nthe place, that George let her persuade him into going to see it, as the\nowner desired to rent it during his absence. He took A. with him, as\nI could not go. They came back in ecstasies, and have both set their\nhearts so on taking it that I should not at all wonder if that should be\nthe end. We left some of our things at Chateau d'Oex, fully expecting\nto return there, but this Vevay country seat with its cherry, apple and\npear trees, its seclusion, its vicinity to reading-room and library,\nhas quite disgusted George with the idea of spending another summer \"en\npension.\" The family entertained G. and A. very hospitably, gave them a\nlunch of bologna sausage, bread and butter, cake, wine and grapes, and\nabove all, the little girls gave A. two little Guinea pigs, which you\nmay imagine filled her with delight. The whole affair was very agreeable\nto her, as she had not spoken to a child (save M.) since we came to\nMontreux.\n\n_January 3d, 1859._--We read your letter, written at Bedford, with no\nlittle interest and sympathy. While we could not but rejoice that one\nmore saint had got safely and without a struggle home, we felt the\nexceeding disappointment you must have had in losing the last smile you\ncame so near receiving. [3] I think you had a sort of presentiment last\nwinter what this one might bring forth, for I remember your saying it\nwould probably be the last visit to you, and that you wanted to make it\nas pleasant as possible. And pleasant I do not doubt you and the whole\nhousehold made it to her. Still there always will be regrets and vain\nwishes after the death of one we love. What a pity that we can not be\nto our friends while they live all we wish we had been after they have\ngone! George and I feel an almost childish clinging to mother, while we\nhope and believe she will live to bless us if we ever return home.\n\n_Jan. 23d._--We have been afflicted in the sudden death of our dear\nfriend, Mrs. Wainwright. The news came upon us without preparation--for\nshe was ill only a few days--and was a great shock to us. You and mother\nknow what she was to us during the whole time of our acquaintance\nwith her; I loved her most heartily. I can not get over the saddening\nimpression which such deaths cause, by receiving new ones; our lives\nhere are so quiet and uneventful, that we have full leisure to meditate\non the breaches already made in our circle of friends at home, and to\nforebode many more such sorrowful tidings. Mrs. Wainwright was like a\n_mother_ to me, and I am too old to take up a new friend in her place.\n[4]\n\nI do not know whether I mentioned the afflictions of my cousin H. They\nhave been very great, and have excited my sympathies keenly. Her first\nchild died when eighteen months old, after a feeble, suffering life.\nThen the second child, an amiable, loving creature--I almost see her now\nsitting up so straight with her morsel of knitting in her hands!--she\nwas taken sick and died in five days. Her sister, about eight years old,\ncame near dying of grief; she neither played, ate or slept, and they\nwrote me that her wails of anguish were beyond description. Just as she\nwas getting a little over the first shock, the little boy, then\nabout three years old, died suddenly of croup. Poor H. is almost\nbroken-hearted. I have felt dreadfully at being away when she was so\nafflicted; they had not been long enough in New York to have a minister\nof their own, and they all said, oh, if George and I had only been\nthere!\n\nHer letters during the rest of the winter are tinged with the sadness\ncaused by these and other distressing afflictions among friends at\nhome. Her sympathies were kept under a constant strain. But her letters\ncontain also many gleams of sunshine. Although very quiet and secluded,\nand often troubled by torturing neuralgic pains, as well as by sudden\nshocks of grief, her life at Montreux was not without its own peculiar\njoys. One of the greatest of these was to while away the twilight or\nevening hours in long talks with her husband about home and former days.\nDistance, together with the strange Alpine scenes about her, seemed to\nhave the effect of a score of years in separating her from the past, and\nthrowing over it a mystic veil of tenderness and grace. Old times and\nold friends, when thus viewed from the beautiful shores of Lake Leman,\nappeared to the memory in a softened light and invested with something\nof that ideal loveliness which the grave itself imparts to the objects\nof our affections. Many of these old friends, indeed, had passed through\nthe Grave--some, long before, some recently--and to talk of _them_ was\nsweet talk about the blessed home above, as well as the home beyond the\nocean.\n\nAnother joy that helped to relieve the monotony and weariness of the\nMontreux life, was in her children; especially as, on the approach of\nspring, she wandered with them over the hill-sides in quest of flowers;\nthen her delight knew no bounds. In a letter to Mrs. Washburn, dated\nMarch 19, she writes:\n\nM. and G. catch A.'s and my enthusiasm, and come with their little hands\nfull of dandelions, buttercups and daisies, and their hats full of\nprimroses. Even Mr. Prentiss conies in with his hands full of crocuses,\npurple and white, and lots of an extremely pretty flower, \"la fille\navant la m\u00e8re,\" which he gathers on the mountains where I can not\nclimb.... I often think of you and Mrs. B----, when I revel among the\nbeautiful profusion of flowers with which this country is adorned. So\nearly as it is, the hills and fields are _covered_ with primroses,\ndaisies, cowslips, violets, lilies, and I don't know what not; in five\nminutes we can gather a basketful.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIII.\n\nThe Campagne Genevrier. Vevay. Beauty of the Region. Letters. Birth of a\nSon. Visit from Professor Smith. Excursion to Chamouni. Whooping-cough\nand Scarlet-fever among the Children. Doctor Curchod. Letters.\n\n\nAt the end of March the family removed to the campagne Genevrier, about\ntwo miles back of Vevay, in the direction of St. Leger. At one point\nit overlooked the town and the lake, and commanded a fine view of the\nmountains of Savoy and of the distant Jura range. On the opposite shore\nof the lake is the village where Lord Byron passed some time in 1816,\nand where he is said to have written the wonderful description of a\nthunder-storm, in the third canto of Childe Harold. At all events the\nvery scene, so vividly depicted by him, was witnessed from Genevrier.\n[5]\n\n_To Mrs. Stearns, Genevrier, April 5, 1859_\n\nYour letter describing how nicely your party went off, followed us from\nMontreux, to enliven us here in our new home. We only wish we could have\nbeen there. You need not have apologised for giving so many details, for\nit is just such little events of your daily life that we want to hear\nabout. My mouth quite waters for a bit of the cake they sent you; I\nremember Mrs. Dr. J. and others used to send us big loaves which were\ndelicious, and such as I never tasted out of Newark. We came here last\nThursday in a great snow-storm, which was cheerless and cold enough\nafter the warm weather we had had for so many weeks. I do not suppose\nmore snow fell on any day through the winter, and we all shivered and\nlamented and huddled over the fire at a great rate. Yet I have just been\ndriven indoors by the heat of the sun, having begun to write at a little\ntable just outside the house, and fires and snow have disappeared.\nGeorge has gone to town with Jules in the wagon to buy sugar, oil, oats,\nbuttons, and I do not know what not, and is no doubt thinking of you\nall; for we do nothing but cry out how we wish you were here with us to\nenjoy this beautiful spot. We are entirely surrounded by mountains in\nthe distance, and with green fields, vineyards, and cultivated grounds\nnearer home. How your children would delight in the flowers, the white\ndoves, the seven little tiny guinea pigs, no bigger than your Annie's\nhand shut up, and the ample, neat play-places all about us. I can't tell\nyou how George and I enjoy seeing M. trotting about, so eager and so\nhappy, and gathering up, as we hope, health and strength every hour! We\nfind the house, on the whole, very convenient, and it is certainly as\npleasant as can be; every room cheerful and every window commanding a\nview which is ravishing.\n\n_To Mrs. Smith, Genevrier, April 7, 1859._\n\nYou will be surprised, I dare say, to hear that I am writing out of\ndoors; I can hardly, myself, believe that it is possible to do so with\ncomfort and safety at this season, but it is perfectly charming weather,\nneither cold or hot, and with a small shawl and my bloomer on, I am out\na large part of the day. You would fly here in a balloon if you knew\nwhat a beautiful spot we are in. We are surrounded with magnificent\nviews of both the lake and the mountains, and can not turn in any\ndirection without being ravished. The house is pretty, and in most\nrespects well and even handsomely furnished; damask curtains, a Titian,\na Rembrandt, and a Murillo in the parlor; the floors are waxed and\ncarpetless, to be sure, but Mrs. Buck has given us lots of large pieces\nof carpeting such as are used in this country to cover the middle of the\nrooms, and these will make us comfortable next winter. But the winters\nhere are so short that one hardly gets fixed to meet them, when they are\nover.\n\nWe have quite a nice garden, from which we have already eaten lettuce,\nspinach, and parsley; our potatoes were planted a day or two ago, and\nour peas are just up. One corner of the house, unconnected with our\npart, is occupied by a farmer who rents part of the land; he is obliged\nto do our marketing, etc., and we get milk and cream from him. I wish\nthe latter was as easy to digest as it is palatable and cheap. They beat\nit up here till it looks like pure white lather and eat it with sugar.\nThe grounds about our house are very neat and we shall have oceans of\nflowers of all sorts; several kinds are in full bloom now. The wild\nflowers are so profuse, so beautiful and so various that A. and I are\nalmost demented on the subject. From the windows I see first the wide,\ngravelled walk which runs round the house; then a little bit of a green\nlawn in which there is a little bit of a pond and a tiny _jet d'eau_\nwhich falls agreeably on the ear; beyond this the land slopes gently\nupward till it is not land but bare, rugged mountain, here and there\nsprinkled with snow and interspersed with pine-trees. The sloping land\nis ploughed up and men and women are busy sowing and planting; too far\noff to disturb us with noise, but looking, the women at least, rather\npicturesque in their short blue dresses and straw hats. On the right\nhand the Dent du Midi is seen to great advantage; it is now covered with\nsnow. The little village of St. Leger lies off in the distance; you can\njust see its roofs and the quaint spire of a very old church; otherwise\nyou see next to no houses, and the stillness is very sweet. _Now_ won't\nyou come? The children seem to enjoy their liberty greatly, and are\nrunning about all the time. They have each a little garden and I hope\nwill live out of doors all summer.\n\nThe state of her health during the next three months was a source of\nconstant and severe suffering, but could not quench her joy in the\nwonders of nature around her. \"My drives about this lovely place,\" she\nwrote in June, \"have begun to give me an _immense_ amount of pleasure;\nindeed, my faculty for enjoyment is so great, that I sometimes think one\nday's felicity pays for weeks of misery, and that if it hadn't been\nfor my poor health, I should have been _too_ happy here.\" Nor did her\nsuffering weaken in the least her sympathy with the troubles of her\nfriends at home. While for the most part silent as to her own peculiar\ntrials, her letters were full of cheering words about theirs. To one of\nthese she wrote at this time:\n\nGod has taken care that we should not enjoy so much of this world's\ncomfort since we left home as to _rest_ in it. Your letters are so sad,\nthat I have fancied you perhaps overestimated our situation, feeling\nthat you and your feeble husband were bearing the burden and heat of\nthe day while we were standing idle. My dear ----, there are trials\neverywhere and in every sphere, and every heart knoweth its own\nbitterness, or else physical burdens are sent to take the place of\nmental depression. After all, it will not need more than _an hour_ in\nheaven to make us ashamed of our want of faith and courage here on\nearth. Do cheer up, dear child, and \"look aloft!\" Poor Mr. ----! I know\nhis work is hard and up the hill, but it will not be _lost_ work and can\nnot last forever. It seems to me God might accept with special favor\nthe services of those who \"_toil_ in rowing.\" After all, it is not the\n_amount_ of work He regards, but the spirit with which it is done.\n\nEarly in July she was made glad by the birth of her sixth child--her\n\"Swiss boy,\" as she liked to call him. Her gladness was not a little\nincreased by a visit soon after from Professor Henry B. Smith, of the\nUnion Theological Seminary. This visit was one of the memorable events\nof her life abroad. Professor Smith was not merely a great theologian\nand scholar; he was also a man of most attractive personal qualities.\nAnd, when unbending among friends from his exacting literary labors,\nthe charm of his presence and conversation was perfect. His spirits ran\nhigh, and he entered with equal zest into the amusements of young or\nold. His laugh was as merry as that of the merriest girl; no boy took\npart more eagerly in any innocent sport; nobody could beat him in\nclimbing a mountain. He was a keen observer, and his humor--sometimes\nvery dry, sometimes fresh and bright as the early dew--rendered his\ncompanionship at once delightful and instructive. His learning and\nculture were so much a part of himself, that his most familiar talk\nabounded in the happiest touches about books and art and life. All his\nfinest traits were in full play while he was at Genevrier, and, when he\nleft, his visit seemed like a pleasant dream.\n\n_To Mrs. Smith, Genevrier, July 25th._\n\nI am only too glad of the chance your husband gives me to write you\nanother bit of a note. We are enjoying his visit amazingly. There are\nonly two drawbacks to its felicity; one is that he won't stay all\nsummer, and the other that you are not here. The children were enchanted\nwith the presents he brought them. When I shall be on my feet and well\nand strong again time only can tell. A. has _devoted_ herself to me in\nthe sweetest way. What she has been to me all winter and up to this\ntime, tongue could not tell. My doctor is as kind as a brother. He was\na perfect stranger to me, and was brought to my bedside when I was\nwrithing in agony; but in ten minutes his tenderness and sympathy made\nme forget that he was a stranger, and, through that long night of\ndistress and the long day that followed, he did _every_ thing that\nmortal could do to relieve and comfort me. He brought his wife up to see\nme the other day, and I begged her to tell him how grateful I felt. \"He\n_is_ kind,\" she answered, \"but then he _loves you so!_\" (They both\nspeak English.) I am so puffed up by his praises! I am sure I thought I\ngroaned, but he says \"pas une gemissement.\"\n\n_August 14th._--Our two husbands have gone to Lausanne for the day,\ntaking A. with them. They seem to be having real nice times together,\nand if, as your husband says, \"his old wife were here,\" his felicity and\nours would be too great. They lounge about, talk, drink soda-water, and\nview the prospect. Dr. Buck came up from Geneva on Thursday and spent\nthe night and part of Friday with us, and it would have done you good to\nhear him and your husband laugh. He was quite enchanted with the place,\nand says we never shall want to go home. _August 23d._--Your husband has\ngiven me leave to write you a little bit of a note out of my little bit\nof a heart on this little bit of paper. He and A. have just gone off to\nget some pretty grass for you. He will tell you when he gets home how\nhe baptized his namesake on Sunday. We have enjoyed his visit more than\ntongue can tell. George says _he_ has enjoyed it as much as he thought\nhe should, and I am sure I have enjoyed it a great deal more, as I have\nbeen so much better in health than I expected. But how you must miss\nhim!\n\nOn the 12th of September--a faultless autumn day--she set out with her\nhusband and eldest daughter for Chamouni. It was her first excursion\nfor pleasure since coming to Switzerland. A visit to this great and\nmarvelous handiwork of God is an event in the dullest life. In her\ncase the experience was so full of delight, that it seemed almost to\ncompensate for the cares and disappointments of the whole previous year.\nThe plan was to return to Genevrier and then pass on to the Bernese\nOberland, but the visit to Chamouni proved to be her last as well as her\nfirst pleasure excursion in Switzerland.\n\n_To Mrs. Stearns, Genevrier, October 2, 1859._\n\nI have, been so absorbed with anxiety about the children since we\ngot back from our journey, that I have not felt like writing you a\ndescription of it. George told you, I suppose, that the news awaiting us\nwhen we reached Vevay was of the baby's having whooping-cough. It was\na great shock to us, for the weather was dismally cold, and it did not\nseem as if the little thing could get safely through the disease at so\nunfavorable a time of year. Then there were the other two to have it\nalso. On Friday last baby's cry had become a sad sort of wail, and he\nwas so pale and weak, that I did not see how he was going to rally; but\nhe is better to-day, so that I begin to take breath.... To go back to\nChamouni, it seems a mercy that we went when we did. We enjoyed the\nwhole trip. We made the excursion to the Mer de Glace in a pouring rain,\nwithout injury to any of us, and were well repaid for our trouble by the\nnovelty of the whole expedition and the extraordinary sights we saw.\nGeorge intended taking us to the Oberland if we found the children\nwell on our return, but all hope of accomplishing another journey was\ndestroyed when we found what different business was before us. It is a\nreal disappointment, for the weather is now mild and very fine, just\nadapted to journeying, and so many things have conspired to confine\nme to this spot, that I have found it quite hard to be as patient and\ncheerful as I am sure I ought to be. Alas and alas! what an insatiable\nthing human nature is! How it craves _every_ thing the world can offer,\ninstead of contenting itself with what ought to content it. However, I\nshall soon get over my fidgets, and as to George, of course he is only\ndisappointed for me and A., as he has visited the Oberland, and was only\ngoing to give us pleasure. And, if I must choose between the two, I'd\nrather have the littlest baby in the world than see all the biggest\nmountains in it. We are thankful to hear that mother still continues to\nbe so well. We long to see her, and I think a look at her or a smile\nfrom her would do George good like a medicine.\n\n_October 17th._--I went to church yesterday for the first time in ten\nmonths; we came out at half-past ten, so you see we have a tolerably\nlong day before us when church is done. It is not at all like going to\nchurch at home; you not only find it painful to listen with such strict\nattention as the foreign tongue requires, but you miss the neat,\nwell-ordered sanctuary, the picture of family life (for there are\nno little children present!) and the agreeable array of dress. The\nflapping, monstrous bloomers tire your eyes, and so do the grotesque,\ncoarse clothes and the tokens of extreme poverty. I grow more and more\npatriotic every day, and am astonished at what I see and hear of life in\nEurope.\n\nI snatched one afternoon when the baby was better than usual to go to\nVilleneuve with George to call on Mr. and Mrs. H. and the sister of Mrs.\nH., who is one of our Mercer street young ladies. They were at the Hotel\nByron, where you stayed. What a beautiful spot it is! Mr. H. afterwards\ncame and dined with us, and was so charmed with the place that he was\ntempted to take it when we leave; his wife, however, had set her heart\non going home at that time, as she had left one child there. The vintage\nis going on here at Genevrier to-day, and we are all invited to go and\neat our fill.\n\n_To Mrs. Henry B. Smith, Genevrier, Oct. 20, 1859._\n\nYou ask how I find time to make flower-pictures. Why, I have been\nconfined to the house a good deal by the baby's sickness, and could\nhardly set myself about anything else when I was not watching and\nworrying about him. When we got home from Chamouni we found him with\nwhat proved to be a very serious disease in the case of so young a\nchild. It has shaken his little frame nearly to pieces, leaving him\nafter weeks of suffering not much bigger than a doll, and all eyes and\nbones. It was a pretty hard struggle for life, and I hardly know how he\nhas weathered the storm. The idea of leaving our dear little Swiss baby\nin a little Swiss grave, instead of taking him home with us, was very\ndistressing to me, and I can not help earnestly desiring that death may\nnot assail us in this foreign land.\n\nOur trip to Chamouni was very pleasant and did me a deal of good. If I\ncould have kept on the mule-riding and mountain-viewing a few weeks\nI should have got quite built up, but the children's coughs made it\nimpossible to take any more journeys. Mr. de Pal\u00e8zieux, our landlord,\ncalled Monday to see if I would sell him my sewing-machine, as his wife\nwas crazy to have one, and didn't feel as if she could wait to get one\nfrom New York. I told him I would, and all night could not sleep for\nteaching him how to use it--for his wife is in Germany, and he had to\nlearn for her. I invited him to come to dinner on Wednesday and take his\nlessons. On Tuesday George said he wanted me to make a pair of sleeves\nfor Mrs. Tholuck before the machine went off, so I went to town to get\nthe stuff, at three o'clock began the sleeves and worked like a lion for\na little over two hours, when they were done, beautifully. This morning\nI made four collars, which I shall want for Christmas presents, and a\nshirt for Jules (our old hired man), who never had one made of linen,\nand will go off the handle when he gets it. So I am tolerably used up,\nand shall be almost glad to send away the tempter to-morrow, though I\ndare say I shall miss it. I wish you could look out of my window this\nminute, and see how beautiful the autumnal foliage is already beginning\nto look. But my poor old head, what shall I do with it! You ask about\nmy health; I am as well as I can be without sleep. I have had only one\nreally good night since the baby came, to say nothing of those before;\nsome worse than others, to be sure; but all wakeful to a degree that\ntries my faith not a little. I don't see what is to hinder my going\ncrazy one of these days. However, I won't if I can help it. George goes\nto Germany this week. Well, my dear, good-bye.\n\n_To Mrs. Stearns, Dec. 12th._\n\nGeorge got home a fortnight ago, after his three weeks' absence; looking\nnicely, and more like himself than I have seen him in a long time. He\nhad a most refreshing time in Germany among his old friends. It does my\nheart good to see him so cheery and hopeful. I have just seen the three\nbabies safely in bed, after no little scampering and carrying-on, and\nnow am ready for a little chat with you and dear mother. George sits by\nme, piously reading \"Adam Bede.\" I was disappointed in the \"Minister's\nWooing,\" which he brought from Germany, and can not think Mrs. Stowe\ncame up to herself this time, whatever the newspapers may say about it;\nand as for the plot, I don't see why she couldn't have let Mary\nmarry good old Dr. Hopkins, who was vastly more of a man than that\nharum-scarum James. As to \"Adam Bede,\" I think it a wonderful book,\nbeyond praise. I hope these literary observations will be blessed to\nyou, my dear. Mrs. Tholuck sent me a very pretty worsted cape to wear\nabout house, or under a cloak. We went to Lausanne last Wednesday\n(George, A. and I) to do a little shopping for Christmas, and had quite\na good time, only as life is always mingled in sweet and bitter, bitter\nand sweet, we had the melancholy experience of finding, when we got\nready to come home, that Jules had taken a drop too much, and was in a\nstate of ineffable silliness, which made George prefer to drive himself.\n\nWe begin now to think and talk about Paris. We have been buying this\nafternoon some Swiss ch\u00e2lets and other things, brought to the door by\ntwo women, and I had hard work to keep George from taking a bushel or\ntwo. He got leaf-cutters enough to stab all his friends to the heart.\nMost of our lady friends will receive a salad-spoon and fork from one\nor the other of us. In fact, I have no doubt we shall be seized at the\nCustom-house as merchants in disguise. Well, I must bid you good night.\n\nThe latter part of December her husband was requested to go to Paris and\ntake the temporary charge of the American chapel there. He decided to do\nso, with the understanding that she and the children should soon follow\nhim. But scarcely had he left Geneva, when first one and then another of\nthe children was seized with scarlet fever. Here are a few extracts from\nher letters on the subject:\n\n_Dec. 31st._--Jules had hardly gone to the office, when I became\nsatisfied that G. had scarlet fever beyond a doubt, and therefore sent\nJeanette instantly to town to tell the doctor so, and to ask him to come\nup. He came, and said at once I was quite right.... As to our leaving\nhere, he said decidedly that it _could_ not be under less than forty\ndays. I can not tell you, my darling, how grieved I am for you to hear\nthis news. Now I know your first impulse will be to come home, and\nperhaps to renounce the chaplaincy, but I beg you to think twice--thrice\nbefore you decide to do so.... How one thing hurries on after another!\nBut it is the universal cry, everywhere; everybody is groaning and\ntravailing in pain together; and we shall doubtless learn, in eternity,\nthat our lot was not peculiar, but that we had millions of unknown\nfellow-sufferers on the way. Don't be too disappointed, but let us\nrather be thankful, that if our poor children must be sick, it was here\nand not in Paris, and now, good night. Betake yourself to your knees,\nwhen you have read this, and pray for us with all your might.\n\nJan. 5, 1860.--The doctor has been here and says the other children\nmust not meet G. till the end of this month, unless they are taken sick\nmeantime. Poor M. melted like a snow-flake in the fire, when she heard\nthat; she begins to miss her little playmate, and keeps running to say\nthings to him through the key-hole, and to serenade him with singing,\naccompanied with a rattling of knives. I see but one thing to be done;\nfor you to stay and preach and me to stay and nurse, each in the place\nGod has assigned us.... You must pray for me, that I may be patient and\nwilling to have my coming to Europe turn out a failure as far as my\nspecial enjoyment of it is concerned. There are better things than going\nto Paris, being with you and hearing you preach; pray that I may have\nthem in full measure. I can't bear to stop writing--good-bye, my dearest\nlove!\n\n_Jan. 15th_--If you could look in upon us this evening, you would be not\na little surprised to see me writing in the corner of my room, close to\nthe wash-stand where my lamp is placed; but you would see at a glance\nthat the curtain of the bed is let down to shade our darling little M.'s\neyes, as she lies close at my side. How sorry I am, as you can not see\nall this, to have to tell it to you! I have let her decide for me, and\nshe wants dear papa to know that she is sick. Oh, why need I add another\ncare to those you already suffer on our account!... As to baby, we are\ndisposed to think that _he has had the fever_. Of course we do not know,\nbut it is pleasant to hope the best.... And now, my precious darling,\nyou see there is more praying work to do, as I hinted in my Saturday's\nnote when my heart was pretty heavy within me. I need not tell you what\nto ask for the dear child; but for me do pray that I may have no will of\nmy own. All these trials and disappointments are so purely Providential\nthat it frightens me to think I may have much secret discontent about\nthem, or may like to plan for myself in ways different from God's plans.\nYet in the midst of so much care and fatigue I hardly know how I\ndo feel; I am like a feather blown here and there by an unexpected\nwhirlwind and I suppose I ought not to expect much of myself. \"Though He\nslay me yet will I trust in Him,\" I keep saying over and over to myself,\nand if you are going to write a new sermon this week, suppose you take\nthat for your text. I have not had one regret that you went to Paris,\nand as to your coming on, I do hope you will not think of it, unless\nyou are sent for. You could do nothing and would be very lonely and\nuncomfortable. The doctor told me to tell you to stay where you were,\nand that you ought to rejoice that the children are not sick in Paris.\nI do trust that in the end we shall come forth from this troublous time\nlike gold from the furnace. So far I have been able to do all that was\nnecessary and I trust I shall continue so. God bless you, and bring us\nto a happy meeting in His own good time!\n\n_To Mrs. Stearns, Genevrier, Jan. 21, 1860._\n\n... Boiling over does one good of itself, and I am sure you feel the\nbetter for having done so. I do not know why _men_ seem to get along\nwithout such reliefs as women almost always seek in this way; whether\nthere is less water in their kettles or whether their kettles are bigger\nthan ours and boil with more safety. It is a comfort to believe that,\nwhatever our troubles, in the end all will work together for our good.\nThe new year has opened upon us here at Genevrier pretty gloomily, as\nGeorge has told you. You will not be surprised, therefore, to hear that\nM. is also quite sick, much sicker than G. She is one of those meek,\nprecious little darlings whom it is painful to see suffer, and I have\nhardly known what I was about, or where I was, since she was taken down.\nMy baby is deserted by us all; I have only seen him in _moments_ for\nthree weeks. You can not think how lonely poor A. is; half the time she\neats alone in the big solitary dining-room; nobody has any time to walk\nout with her, what few children she knew are afraid to come here or to\nhave her come nigh them, and I feel as if I should fly, when I think of\nit--for she is not strong or well and her life here in Switzerland has\nbeen a series of disappointments and anxieties. The only leisure moments\nI can snatch in the course of the twenty-four hours I have to spend in\nwriting to George; but the last few evenings M. has slept, so that I\ncould play a game of chess with her and try to cheer and brace her up\nagainst next day's dreariness. All her splendid dreams of getting off\nfrom this solitude to the life and stir of Paris have been dissipated,\nbut she has never uttered one word of complaint; I have not heard her\nsay as much as \"Isn't it too bad!\" And indeed we ought none of us to say\nso or to feel so, for the doctor assures me that for three such delicate\nchildren as he considers ours, to pass safely through whooping-dough and\nscarlet-fever, is a perfect wonder and that he is sure it is owing to\nthe pure country air. And when I think how different a scene our house\nmight present if our three little ones had been snatched away, as three\nor four even have been from other families, I am ashamed of myself that\nI dare to sigh, that I am lonely and friendless here, or that I have\nanything to complain of. It has been no small trial, however, to pass\nthrough such anxieties in so remote a place, with George gone; while on\nthe other hand I have been most thankful that he has been spared all\nthe details of the children's ailments, and permitted once more to feel\nhimself about his Master's business. Providence most plainly called him\nto Paris, and I trust he will stay there and get good till we can join\nhim. But I feel uneasy about him, too, lest his anxiety about the\nchildren should hang as a dead weight on his not quite rested head and\nheart. At any rate, I shall be tolerably glad to see him again at the\nend of our two months' separation. How I should love to drop in on you\nto-night! Doesn't it seem as if one _could_ if one tried hard enough!\nWell, good night to you.\n\n_To Mrs. Smith, Genevrier, Jan. 29, 1860._\n\nI believe George has written you about our private hospital. He had not\nbeen gone to Paris forty-eight hours when G. was taken sick; that was a\nmonth ago, and I have only tasted the air twice in all that time. G. had\nthe disease lightly. M., poor little darling, was much sicker than he\nwas. It is a fortnight since she was taken and she hardly sits up at\nall; an older child would be in bed, but little ones never will give up\nif they can help it; I suppose it is because they can be held in the\narms and rocked, and carried about. I have passed through some most\nanxious hours on account of M., and it seems little less than a miracle\nthat she is still alive. The baby is well, and he is a nice little rosy\nfellow. It was a dreadful disappointment to us to be detained here\ninstead of going to Paris. I felt that I couldn't live longer in such\nentire solitude; and just then, lo and behold, George was whisked off\nand I was shut up closer than ever. It is a great comfort to me that he\ngot off just when he did, and has had grace to stay away; on the other\nhand, I need not say how his absence has aggravated my cares, how\nsolitary the season of anxiety has been, and how, at times, my faith and\ncourage have been put to their utmost stretch. The whole thing has\nbeen so evidently ordered and planned by God that I have not dared to\ncomplain; but, my dear child, if you had come in now and then with a\nlittle of your strengthening talk, I can't deny I should have been most\nthankful. It has been pretty trying for George to hear such doleful\naccounts from home, but I hope the worst is over, and that we shall be\nthe wiser and the better for this new lesson of life. Dr. Curchod's rule\nis the same as Dr. Buck's--forty days confinement to one room; so we\nhave a month more to spend here. I am afraid I am writing a gloomy\nletter. If I am, you must try to excuse me and say, \"Poor child, she\nisn't well, and she hasn't had any good sleep lately, and she's tired,\nand I don't believe she _means_ to grumble.\" Do so much for me, and\nI'll do as much for you sometime. I hear your husband has taken up a\nBible-class. It is perfectly shocking. Does he _want_ to kill himself,\nor what ails him? The pleasantest remembrance we shall have of this\nplace is his visit.... Our doctor and his family stand out as bright\nlights in this picture; he has been like a brother in sympathy and\nkindness. We shall never forget it. God has been so good to you and to\nme in sparing our children when assailed by so fearful a disease, that\nwe ought to love Him better than we ever did. I do so want my weary\nsolitude to bear that fruit.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIV.\n\nParis. Sight-seeing. A sick Friend. London and its Environs. The Queen\nand Prince Albert. The Isle of Wight. Homeward.\n\n\nOn the 20th of February the family gladly bade adieu to Switzerland\nand set out for Paris, arriving there on the morning of the 22d. Mrs.\nPrentiss was overjoyed to find herself once more in the world. On the\n23d she wrote to Mrs. Smith:\n\nWe have got here safe and sound with our little batch of invalids. They\nbore the journey very well and are heartily glad to get into the world\nagain. I am chock-full of worldliness. All I think of is dress and\nfashion, and, on the whole, I don't know that you are worth writing to,\nas you were never in Paris and don't know the modes, and have perhaps\nfoolishly left off hoops and open sleeves. I long, however, to hear from\nyou and your new babby, and will try to keep a small spot swept clear of\nfinery in my heart of hearts, where you can sit down when you've a mind.\nOur little fellow is getting to be a sweet-looking baby, with what his\nnurse calls a most \"gracieuse\" smile--if you can guess what kind of a\nsmile that is. But he is getting teeth and is looking delicate and soft,\nand your Hercules will knock him down, I know.\n\nBut Paris was far from fulfilling to her or to the children the bright\nanticipations with which it had been looked forward to from lonely\nGenevrier. The weather could hardly have been worse; the house soon\nbecame another hospital; and sight-seeing was a task. Friends, however,\nsoon gathered about her, and by their hospitality and little kindnesses,\nrelieved the tedium of the weary days.\n\n_To Mrs. Stearns, Paris, March 27, 1860._\n\nWe pass many lonely hours in this big city, and often long for you and\nMr. Stearns to drop in, or for a chance to run in to see dear mother.\nGetting nearer home makes it attractive. It works in the natural life\njust as it does in the spiritual in that respect. The weather is\n_dreadful_ and has been for five months--scarcely one cheery day in that\nwhole time. What with this and the children's ill-health, I should not\nwonder if we left Paris as ignorant of its beauties as when we came. But\nI hope we shall not let that worry us too much, but rather be thankful\nthat, bad as things are, they are not so bad as they might be. Our\nsympathies are greatly excited now for the Rev. Mr. Little, formerly of\nBangor, who is in Paris--alone, friendless, and sick. If we could\nby any miraculous power stretch our scanty accommodations, we should\ncertainly take him home and nurse him till his wife could be got here.\nYou know, perhaps, that Mrs. Little is a daughter of Dr. Cornelius; and,\nwhen I recall the love and honor I was taught to feel towards him when I\nwas a little girl, my heart quite yearns towards her, especially in this\ntime of fearful anxiety about her husband. How insignificant my own\ntrials look to me, when I think of the sorrow which is probably before\nher.\n\n_April 26th._--Our patience is still tried by the cold, damp, and most\nunwholesome weather, which prevents the children from going to see\nanything. But we do not care so much for ourselves or for them as for\npoor Mr. Little, who is exceedingly feeble, chiefly confined to his\nroom, and so forlorn in this strange, homeless land. While George was\nwith him last evening, he had a bad fit of coughing, which resulted in\nthe raising of a gill or so of blood. I know you will feel interested\nto hear about him, and will not wonder that our hearts are so full of\nsympathy for him and for his poor wife, that we can hardly talk of\nanything else. He expects her in about a week. What a coming to Europe\nfor her! How little those who stand on the shore to watch the\ndeparture of a foreign steamer, know what they do when they envy its\npassengers!... We buckled on our armor and began sight-seeing the other\nday, going to see the Sainte Chapelle and the galleries and museum of\nthe Louvre among the rest. The Sainte Chapelle is quite unlike anything\nI ever saw and delighted us extremely. As to the Louvre, one needs\nseveral entire days to do justice to it, besides an amount of youthful\nenthusiasm and bodily strength which we do not possess; for, amid\nmidnight watchings over our sick children and the like, the oil of\ngladness has about burnt out, and we find sight-seeing a weary task.\n\n_May 25th._--It does seem as if George's preaching was listened to with\nmore and more serious attention, and it may be seen long after he has\nrested from his labors on earth, that he has done a good work here. We\nboth are much interested in Professor [6] Huntington's sermons, [7] sent\nus by Miss W. This is a great deal for me to say, because I do not like\nto read sermons. During the last three weeks, before Mr. and Mrs. Little\nleft, we accomplished very little. It was not that we did or could do so\nvery much for them, but they had nobody to depend on but us, and George\nwas constantly going back and forth trying to make them comfortable,\narranging all their affairs, etc. She had a weary, anxious two weeks\nhere, and now has set her face homewards, not knowing but Mr. L. may\nsink before reaching America. It is a great comfort to us to have been\nable to soothe them somewhat as long as they stayed in Paris. George\nsays it was worth coming here for that alone. I say _we,_ but I _mean_\nGeorge, for what was done he did. The most I could do was to feel\ndreadfully for them. [8]\n\nWe are now to begin sight-seeing again, and do all we can as speedily as\npossible, for only two weeks remain. The children are now pretty well.\nThe baby is at that dangerous age when they are forever getting upon\ntheir feet and tumbling over backward on their heads. M. is the oddest\nlittle soul. Belle says she would rather go to a funeral than see all\nthe shops in Paris, and, when they are out, she can hardly keep her from\nfollowing every such procession they meet. I asked her the last time\nthey went out if she had had a nice walk. She said not very nice, as she\nhad only seen _one_ pretty thing, and that was a police-officer taking a\nman to jail. The idea of going to England is very pleasant, and, if we\nonly keep tolerably well, I think it will do us all good. What is dear\nmother doing about these times? I always think of her as sitting by the\nlittle work-table in her room, knitting and watching the children. Give\nlots of love and kisses to her, and tell her we long to see her face to\nface. Kiss all the children for us--I suppose they'll let _you_! boys\nand all--and you may do as much for Mr. S. if you want to. Good-bye.\n\nOn the 7th of June the family left Paris for London. A first visit to\nEngland--\n\n    That precious stone set in the silver sea--\n\nis always an event full of interest to children of the New England\nPuritans. The \"sceptered isle\" is still in a sense their mother-country,\nand a thousand ancestral ties attract them to its shores. There is no\nother spot on earth where so many lines of their history, domestic\nand public, meet. And in London, what familiar memories are for them\nassociated with almost every old street and lane and building!\n\nThe winter and spring of 1860 had been cold, wet and cheerless well-nigh\nbeyond endurance; and the summer proved hardly less dreary. It rained\nnearly every day, sometimes all day and all night; the sun came out only\nat long intervals, and then often but for a moment; the atmosphere, much\nof the time, was like lead; the moon and stars seemed to have left the\nsky; even the English landscape, in spite of its matchless verdure and\nbeauty, put on a forbidding aspect. All nature, indeed, was under a\ncloud. This, added to her frail health, made the summer a very trying\none to Mrs. Prentiss, and yet it afforded her not a little real delight.\nSome of her pleasantest days in Europe were spent in England. The\nfollowing extracts are from a little journal kept by her in London:\n\n_June 10th._--We went this morning to hear Dr. Hamilton, and were\ngreatly edified by the sermon, which was on the text: \"Hitherto hath the\nLord helped us.\" In the afternoon we decided to go to Westminster Abbey.\nIt began to rain soon after we got out, and we had a two miles' walk\nthrough the mud. The old abbey looked as much like its picture as it\ncould, but pictures can not give a true idea of the grandeur of such a\nbuilding. We were a little late, and every seat was full and many were\nstanding, as we had to do through the whole service. The sermon struck\nme as a very ordinary affair, though it was delivered by a lord. But the\nmusic was so sweet, performed for aught I know by angel--for the choir\nwas invisible--and we stood surrounded by such monuments and covered by\nsuch a roof, that we were not quite throwing away our time. Albert B----\ndined with us, and in the evening, with one accord, we went to hear Dr.\nHamilton again. We had good seats and heard a most beautiful as well as\nedifying discourse on the first verses of the 103d Psalm. Some of the\nimages were very fine, and the whole tone of the sermon was moderate,\nsensible, and serious. I use these words advisedly, for I had an\nimpression that he was a flowery, popular man whom I should not relish.\nAt the close of the service a little prayer-meeting of half an hour was\nheld, and we came home satisfied with our first English Sunday, feeling\nsome of our restless cravings already quieted as only contact with God's\nown people could quiet them.\n\n_11th._--Went to see the Crystal Palace. It proved a fine day, and we\ntook M. with us. None of us felt quite well, but we enjoyed this new and\nbeautiful scene for all that. It is a little fairy land.\n\n_14th._--Went to Westminster Abbey, and spent some time there. On coming\nout we made a rapid, but quite amusing passage through several courts\nwhere we saw numerous great personages in stiff little gray wigs. To my\nuntrained, irreverent eyes they all looked perfectly funny. George was\ngreatly interested and edified. It has been raining and shining by turns\nall day, and is this evening very cold.\n\n_15th._--Another of those days which the English so euphoniously term\n\"_nasty_.\" Not knowing what else to do with it, we set off in search of\nNo. 5 Sermon Lane, a house connected with a stereoscopic establishment\nin Paris, which we reached after many evolutions and convolutions, and\nfound it to be a wholesale concern only. Pitying us for the trouble we\nhad been at in seeking them, they let us have what views we wanted, but\nat higher prices than they sell them at Paris. We then went to the Tract\nHouse, and while selecting French and other tracts, a gentleman came and\nasked for a quantity of the \"Last Hours of Dr. Payson.\"\n\n_16th._--Went to the Tower, and had a most interesting visit there. We\nwere particularly struck by some spots shown us by one of the wardens,\nafter the regular round had been gone through with, and the other\nvisitors dispersed--namely, the cell where prisoners were confined with\nthumbscrews attached to elicit confession, and the floor where Lady Jane\nGrey was imprisoned. We looked from the window where she saw her husband\ncarried to execution, and A. was locked up in the room so as to be able\nto say she had been a prisoner in the Tower.\n\n_17th._--Heard Dr. Hamilton again. Met Dr. and Mrs. Adams of New York\nthere, and had a most kind and cordial greeting from them. Dr. A.\nintroduced us to Dr. Hamilton. In the evening we went to hear Dr. Adams\nat Dr. H.'s church, and came home quite proud of our countryman, who\ngave us a most excellent sermon. At the close of the service Dr. H.\ninvited us to take tea with him next week, and introduced us to his\nwife; a young, quiet little lady, looking as unlike most of us American\nparsonesses as possible, her parochial cares being, perhaps, less\nweighty than ours.\n\n_18th._--Two things made this day open pleasantly. One was a decided\nattempt on the part of the sun to come out and shine. The second was Dr.\nAdams' dropping in and taking breakfast with us. We also got letters\nfrom home, and the news that Mr. Little had reached New York in safety.\nAfter lunch, George went off in glory to the House of Commons, hinting\nthat he might stay there till to-morrow morning, and begging for a\nnight-key to let himself in. The rest of us went to the Zoological\nGarden, which is much more ample and interesting than the Jardin des\nPlantes.\n\n_20th._--Yesterday it poured in torrents all day, so that going out was\nnot possible. To-day we went out in the drops and between the drops, to\ndo a little shopping in the way of razors, scissors, knives, needles,\nand such like sharp and pointed things. We stepped into Nesbit's and\ntook a view of Little Susy, who looked as usual, bought a few books,\nsubscribed to a library, coveted our neighbor's property, and came home\ncovered with mud and mire.\n\n_22d._--Went out to Barnet to call on Miss Bird. On reaching the\nstation, we found Miss B. awaiting us with phaeton and pony. We were\ndriven over a pretty three miles route to \"Hurst Cottage,\" where we were\nintroduced to Mrs. Bird and a younger daughter, and I had a nice little\nlunch, together with pleasant chat about America in general and E. L. S.\nin particular. Miss Bird said she showed her likeness to a gentleman,\nwho is a great physiognomist, and asked his opinion of her. He replied,\n\"She is a genius, a poetess, a Christian, and a true wife and mother.\"\nWe then went up-stairs, and looked at Miss B.'s little study, after\nwhich she took us to see the church in Hadley, a very old building\ndating back to 1494. It has been repaired and restored and is a\nbeautiful little church. On leaving it Miss Bird came with us a part of\nthe way to the station and we got home in good season for dinner. The\nweather, true to its rule, could not last fine, and so this evening it\nis raining again. [9]\n\n_24th._--No rain all day! Can it be true? George went in the morning to\nhear Mr. Binney, and A. and I to Dr. Hamilton's, who preached a very\ngood sermon on a favorite text of mine, \"I beseech Thee show me Thy\nglory.\" In the evening Dr. Patton, of New York, induced us to go with\nhimself and wife to a meeting at a theatre three miles off. The Rev. Mr.\nGraham preached. It was an interesting, but touching and saddening sight\nto look upon the congregation; to wonder why they came, and whether they\nwould come again, and whether under those stolid and hardened faces\nthere yet lay humanity. Many came with babies in their arms, who made\nthemselves very much at home; some were in dirty week-day clothes; \"some\nin rags and some in jags.\" Coming home we passed the spot where John\nRogers was burned, and that where in time of the plague dead bodies were\nthrown in frightful heaps into one grave.\n\n_25th._--We took tea at Dr. Hamilton's, where we had a very pleasant\nevening, meeting Dr. and Mrs. Adams, as well as all Dr. H.'s session.\nDr. H. strikes one most agreeably, and seems as genial and as full of\nlife as a boy.\n\n_26th._--Visited Windsor Castle with Dr. Adams and his party, ten of us\nin all. We drove afterward to see the country church-yard, where Grey\nwrote his elegy and where he now lies buried. This was a most charming\nlittle trip and we all enjoyed it exceedingly. The young folks gathered\nleaves and flowers for their books.\n\n_29th._--Last evening we had a nice time and a cup of tea with the\nAdamses. To-day--another nasty day--they lunched with us, which broke\nup its gloom and we went with them to see Sloan's museum, a most\ninteresting collection. We all enjoyed its novelty as well as its\nbeauty.\n\nShe also records the pleasure with which she visited the National\nGallery, Madame Tussaud's Collection, the British Museum, Richmond, the\nKew Gardens, and Bunhill Fields Burying-Ground, and, in particular, the\ngrave of \"Mr. John Bunyan.\"\n\nNot long before leaving London she attended a Sunday evening service\nfor the people in Westminster Abbey, which interested her deeply. It\nsuggested--or rather was the original of--the scene in The Story Lizzie\nTold:\n\nWhen we first got into that grand place, I was scared, and thought they\nwould drive us poor folks out. But when I looked round, most everybody\nwas poor too. At last I saw some of them get down on their knees, and\nsome shut their eyes, and some took off their hats and held them over\ntheir faces. Father couldn't, because he had me in his arms; and so I\ntook it off, and held it for him.\n\n\"What's it for?\" says I.\n\n\"Hush,\" says father, \"the parson's praying.\"\n\nWhen I showed IT to God, the room seemed full of Him. But that's a small\nroom. The church is a million and a billion times as big, isn't it,\nma'am? But when the minister prayed, that big church seemed just as\nfull as it could hold. Then, all of a sudden, they burst out a-singing.\nFather showed me the card with large letters on it, and says he, \"Sing,\nLizzie, Sing!\"\n\nAnd so I did. It was the first time in my life. The hymn said,\n\n  Jesus, lover of my soul,\n  Let me to Thy bosom fly,\n\nand I whispered to father, \"Is Jesus God?\" \"Yes, yes,\" said he, \"Sing,\nLizzie, sing!\"\n\nAfter the praying and the singing, came the preaching, I heard every\nword. It was a beautiful story. It told how sorry Jesus was for us when\nwe did wrong, bad things, and how glad He was when we were good and\nhappy. It said we must tell Him all our troubles and all our joys, and\nfeel sure that He knew just how to pity us, because He had been a poor\nman three and thirty years, on purpose to see how it seemed.\n\nThe most stirring sight by far which she witnessed while in London, was\na review of 20,000 volunteers by the Queen in Hyde Park, on the 23d of\nJune. She waited for it several hours, standing much of the time upon a\ncamp-stool. As her Majesty appeared, accompanied by Prince Albert,\nthe curiosity of the immense crowd \"rose to such a pitch that every\nconceivable method was resorted to, to catch a glimpse of the field. Men\nclimbed on each other's shoulders, gave 'fabulous prices' for chairs,\nboxes, and baskets, raised their wives and sweethearts high in the air,\nand so by degrees our view was quite obstructed.\" [10] The scene did\nnot, perhaps, in numbers or in the brilliant array of fashion, rank, and\nbeauty surpass, nor in military pomp and circumstance did it equal, a\ngrand review she had witnessed not long before in the Champ de Mars; but\nin other respects it was far more impressive. Among the volunteers were\nthousands of young men in whose veins ran the best and most precious\nblood in England. And then to an American wife and mother, Queen\nVictoria was a million times more interesting than Louis Napoleon. She\nstood then, as happily she still stands, at the head of the Christian\nwomanhood of the world; and that in virtue not solely of her exalted\nposition and influence, but of her rare personal and domestic virtues as\nwell. She was then also at the very height of her felicity. How little\nshe or any one else in that thronging multitude dreamed, that before the\nclose of the coming year the form of the noble Prince, who rode by her\nside wearing an aspect of such manly beauty and content, and who was so\nworthy to be her husband, would lie mouldering in the grave! [11]\n\nAbout the middle of July Mrs. Prentiss with her husband and children\nleft London for Ventnor on the Isle of Wight, where, in spite of cold\nand rainy weather, she passed two happy months. With the exception of\nChateau d'Oex, no place in Europe had proved to her such a haven of\nrest. Miss Scott, the hostess, was kindness itself. The Isle of Wight in\nsummer is a little paradise; and in the vicinity of Ventnor are some of\nits loveliest scenes. Her enjoyment was enhanced by the society of Mr.\nand Mrs. Jacob Abbott, who were then sojourning there. An excursion\ntaken with Mr. Abbott was doubly attractive; for, as might be inferred\nfrom his books, he was one of the most genial and instructive of\ncompanions, whether for young or old. A pilgrimage to the home and grave\nof the Dairyman's Daughter and to the grave of \"Little Jane,\" and a\nday and night at Alum Bay, were among the pleasantest incidents of the\nsummer at Ventnor.\n\nOf the visit to \"Little Jane's\" grave she gives the following account in\nher journal:\n\n_Aug. 10th._--To-day being unusually fine, we undertook our\nlong-talked-of expedition to Brading. On reaching the churchyard we\nasked a little boy who followed us in if he could point out \"Little\nJane's\" grave; he said he could and led us at once to the spot. How\nlittle she dreamed that pilgrimages would be made to her grave! Our\npigmy guide next conducted us to the grave-stones, where her task was\nlearned. \"How old are you, little fellow?\" I asked. \"_Getting an\nto five_,\" he replied. \"And does everybody who comes here give you\nsomething?\" \"_Some_ don't.\" \"That's very naughty of them,\" I continued;\n\"after all your trouble they ought to give you something.\" A shrewd\nsmile was his answer, and George then gave him some pennies. \"What do\nyou do with your pennies?\" I asked. \"I puts them in my pocket.\" \"And\nthen what do you do?\" \"I saves them up.\" \"And what then?\" \"My mother\nbuys shoe's when I get enough. She is going to buy me some soon with\n_nails_ in them! These are dropping to pieces\" (no such thing). \"If that\nis the case,\" quoth George, \"I think I must give you some more pennies.\"\n\"Thank you,\" said the boy. \"Do you see my sword?\" George then asked him\nif he went to church and to Sunday-school. \"Oh, yes, and there was\nan organ, and they learned to sing psalms.\" \"And to love God?\" asked\nGeorge. \"Yes, yes,\" he answered, but not with much unction, and so we\nturned about and came home.\n\n_To Mrs. Stearns, Ventnor, Aug. 24, 1860._\n\nAs this is to be our last letter home, it ought to be a very brilliant\none, but I am sure it won't; and when I look back over the past two\nyears and think how many stupid ones I have written you, I feel almost\nashamed of myself. But on the other hand I wonder I have written no\nduller ones, for our staying so long at a time in one place has given\nsmall chance for variety and description. It is raining and blowing at a\nrate that you, who are roasting at home, can hardly conceive; we agreed\nyesterday that if you were blindfolded and suddenly set down here and\ntold to guess what season of the year it was, you would judge by your\nfeelings and the wind roaring down the chimney, that it was December.\nHowever disagreeable this may be it is more invigorating than hot\nweather, and George and the children have all improved very much. George\nenjoys bathing and climbing the \"downs\" and the children are out nearly\nall day when it does not rain. You may remember that the twilight is\nlate in England, and even the baby is often out till half-past eight or\nnine.... I just keep my head above water by having no cares or fatigue\nat night. I feel _dreadfully_ that I am so helpless a creature, but I\nbelieve God keeps me so for my mortification and improvement, and that I\nought to be willing to lead this good-for-nothing life if He chooses.\nWe have had the pleasure of meeting Mr. and Mrs. Abbott here. They have\ngone now to spend the winter in Paris. Mrs. A. sent her love to you\nagain and again, and I was very glad to meet her for your sake as well\nas her own, and to know Mr. A. better than I did before, and it was very\npleasant to George to chat with him. We walked together to see Shanklin\nChine. A. went with us, and Mr. Abbott amused her so on the way that she\ncame home quite dissatisfied with her stupid papa and mamma.\n\nWe are talking of little else now but getting home, and it is a pity you\ncould not take down the walls of our hidden souls and see the various\nwishes and feelings we have on the subject. I forgot to say how glad we\nwere that you found George Prentiss such a nice boy. [12] I always loved\nhim for Abby's sake and he certainly was worthy of the affection she\nfelt for him as the most engaging child I ever knew; he is a thorough\nPrentiss still, it seems. What is he going to be? You must feel queer\nto have a boy in college; it is like a strange dream. Our boys are two\nspunky little toads who need, or will need, all our energies to bring\nup. I have quite got my hand out, M. is so good--and hate to begin. But\ngood-bye, with love to mother, Mr. S. and the children.\n\nThe family embarked at Cowes on the magnificent steamship \"Adriatic,\"\nSeptember 13th, and, after a rough voyage, reached New York on the 24th\nof the same month. Old friends awaited their coming and welcomed them\nhome again with open arms. It was a happy day for Mrs. Prentiss, and\nin the abundance of its joy she forgot the anxious and solitary months\nthrough which she had just been passing. She came back with four\nchildren instead of three; her husband was, partially at least, restored\nto health; and she breathed once more her native air.\n\n\n[1] A most faithful servant, to whom Mrs. P. was greatly attached.\n\n[2] The Hon. Benjamin F. Butler, of New York, was one of the most\nhonored members of the Mercer street church. He was known throughout the\ncountry as an eminent lawyer and patriotic citizen. In the circle of his\nfriends he was admired and beloved for his singular purity of character,\nhis scholarly tastes, the kindness of his heart, and all the other fine\nqualities that go to form the Christian gentleman. During a portion of\nPresident Jackson's administration Mr. Butler was Attorney-General of\nthe United States. He died in the sixty-third year of his age.\n\n[3] Referring to the death of Dr. Stearns' mother, Mrs. Abigail Stearns,\nof Bedford, Mass.\n\n[4] Mrs. Wainwright and her husband, the late Eli Wainwright, were\nmembers of the old Mercer street Presbyterian church, and both of them\nunwearied in their kindness to Mrs. Prentiss and her husband.\n\n[5]\n\n  \"Far along,\n  From peak to peak, the rattling crags among,\n\n  Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud,\n  But every mountain now hath found a tongue,\n\n  And Jura answers, through her misty shroud,\n  Back to the joyous Alps, which call to her aloud!\"\n\n[6] Now Bishop of the P. E. Church of Central New York.\n\n[7] \"Christian Believing and Living.\"\n\n[8] The Rev. George B. Little was born in Castine, Maine, December\n21, 1821. He was graduated at Bowdoin College in 1843. Having studied\ntheology at Andover, he was ordained in 1849 pastor of the First\nCongregational church in Bangor, Me. In 1850 he married Sarah Edwards,\ndaughter of that admirable and whole-souled servant of Christ, the Rev.\nElias Cornelius, D.D. In November, 1857, Mr. Little was installed as\npastor of the Congregational church in West Newton, Mass. Early in\nMarch, 1860, he went abroad for his health, but returned home again in\nMay, and died among his own people, July 20, 1860. The last words he\nlittered were, \"I shall soon be with Christ.\" Mr. Little was a man\nof superior gifts, full of scholarly enthusiasm, and devoted to his\nMaster's work.\n\n[9] Miss Bird is known to the world by her remarkable books of travel in\nJapan and elsewhere.\n\n[10] An account of the Volunteer Review in Hyde Park is given in Sir\nTheodore Martin's admirable Life of the Prince Consort, Vol. V., pp.\n105-6, Am. Ed. The Prince himself, in responding to a toast the same\nevening, speaks of it as \"a scene which will never fade from the memory\nof those who had the good fortune to be present.\"\n\n[11] It is hardly possible to allude to the great affliction of this\nillustrious lady without thinking also of the persistent acts of womanly\nsympathy by which, during the anguish and suspense of the past two\nmonths, she has tried to minister comfort to the stricken wife of our\nsuffering and now sainted President. Certainly, the whole case is\nunique in the history of the world. By this most tender and Christ-like\nsympathy, she has endeared herself in a wonderful manner to the heart\nof the American people. God bless Queen Victoria! they say with one\nvoice.--_New York, September_ 24, 1881.\n\n[12] The eldest son of her brother-in-law, Mr. S. S. Prentiss, a youth\nof rare promise, and who had especially endeared himself to his Aunt\nAbby. He died of fever at Tallahoma, Tennessee, during the war.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nTHE STRUGGLE WITH ILL-HEALTH.\n\n1861-1865.\n\nI.\n\nAt Home again in New York. The Church of the Covenant. Increasing\nIll-health. The Summer of 1861. Death of Louisa Payson Hopkins. Extracts\nfrom her Journal. Summer of 1862. Letters. Despondency.\n\n\nWe come now to a new phase of Mrs. Prentiss' experience as a pastor's\nwife. Before her husband resigned his New York charge, during the winter\nof 1857-8, the question of holding a service in the upper part of the\ncity, with the view to another congregation, was earnestly discussed in\nthe session and among the leading members of the church, but nothing\nthen came of it. Soon after his return from Europe, however, the project\nwas revived, and resulted at length in the formation of the Church of\nthe Covenant. In consequence of the great civil war, which was then\nraging, the undertaking encountered difficulties so formidable, that\nnothing but extraordinary zeal, liberality, and wise counsel on the part\nof his friends and the friends of the movement could overcome them. For\ntwo or three years the new congregation held service in what was then\ncalled Dodworth's Studio Building at the corner of Fifth avenue and\nTwenty-sixth street, but in 1864 it entered the chapel on Thirty-fifth\nstreet, and in 1865 occupied the stately edifice on Park avenue. In the\nmanifold labors, trials, and discouragements connected with this work,\nMrs. Prentiss shared with her husband; and, when finally crowned with\nthe happiest success, it owed perhaps as much to her as to him. This\nbrief statement seems needful in order to define and render clear her\nposition, as a pastor's wife, during the next twelve years.\n\nAfter spending some weeks in Newark and Portland, she found herself once\nmore in New York in a home of her own and surrounded by friends, both\nold and new. The records of the following four or five years are\nsomewhat meagre and furnish few incidents of special significance. The\nwar, with its terrible excitement and anxieties, absorbed all minds\nand left little spare time for thought or feeling about anything else.\nDomestic and personal interests were entirely overshadowed by the one\nsupreme interest of the hour--that of the imperiled National life. It\nwas for Mrs. Prentiss a period also of almost continuous ill-health. The\nsleeplessness from which she had already suffered so much assumed more\nand more a chronic character, and, aggravated by other ailments and\nby the frequent illness of her younger children, so undermined her\nstrength, that life became at times a heavy burden. She felt often that\nher days of usefulness were past. But the Master had yet a great work\nfor her to do, and--\n\n  In ways various,\n  Or, might I say, contrarious--\n\nHe was training her for it during these years of bodily infirmity and\nsuffering.\n\nThe summer of 1861 was passed at Newport. In a letter to Mrs. Smith,\ndated July 28th, she writes:\n\nWe find the Cliff House delightful, within a few minutes' walk of the\nsea, which we have in full view from one of our windows. And we have no\nlack of society, for the Bancrofts, Miss Aspinwall and her sister, as\nwell as the Skinners, are very friendly. But I am so careworn and out of\nsorts, that this beautiful ocean gives me little comfort. I seem to\nbe all the time toting one child or another about, or giving somebody\nparegoric or rhubarb, or putting somebody to sleep, or scolding somebody\nfor waking up papa, who is miserable, and his oration untouched. There,\ndon't mind me; it's at the end of a churchless Sunday, and I dare say I\nam \"only peevis',\" as the little boy said.\n\nBut in a few weeks the children were well again and her own health so\nmuch improved, that she was able to indulge in surf-bathing, which she\n\"enjoyed tremendously,\" and early in the fall the whole family returned\nto town greatly refreshed by the summer's rest.\n\nOn the 24th of January, 1862, her sister, Mrs. Hopkins, died. This event\ntouched her deeply. She hurried off to Williamstown, whence she wrote to\nher husband, who was unable to accompany her:\n\nIf you had known that I should not get here till half-past nine last\nnight, and that in an open sleigh from North Adams, you would not have\nlet me come. But so far I am none the worse for it; and, when I came in\nand found the Professor and T. and Eddy sitting here all alone and so\nforlorn in their unaccustomed leisure, I could not be thankful enough\nthat a kind Providence had allowed me to come. It is a very great\ngratification to them all, especially to the Professor, and even more\nso than I had anticipated. In view of the danger of being blocked up by\nanother snow-storm, I shall probably think it best to return by another\nroute, which they all say is the best. I hope you and my precious\nchildren keep well.\n\nNo picture of Mrs. Prentiss' life would be complete, in which her\nsister's influence was not distinctly visible. To this influence she\nowed the best part of her earlier intellectual training; and it did much\nto mould her whole character. Mrs. Hopkins was one of the most learned,\nas well as most gifted, women of her day; and had not ill-health early\ndisabled her for literary labors, she might, perhaps, have won for\nherself an enduring name in the literature of the country. There were\nstriking points of resemblance between her and Sara Coleridge; the same\nearly intellectual bloom; the same rare union of feminine delicacy and\nsensibility with masculine strength and breadth of understanding; the\nsame taste for the beautiful in poetry, in art, and in nature, joined to\nsimilar fondness for metaphysical studies; the same delight in books of\ndevotion and in books of theology; and the same varied erudition. Only\none of them seems to have been an accomplished Hebraist, but both were\ngood Latin and Greek scholars; and both were familiar with Italian,\nSpanish, French, and German. Even in Sara Coleridge's admiration and\nreverence for her father, Mrs. Hopkins was in full sympathy with her.\nShe lacked, indeed, that poetic fancy which belonged to the author of\n\"Phantasmion;\" nor did she possess her mental self-poise and firmness of\nwill; but in other respects, even in physical organization and certain\nfeatures of countenance, they were singularly alike. And they both died\nin the fiftieth year of their age.\n\nLouisa Payson was born at Portland, February 24, 1812. Even as a child\nshe was the object of tender interest to her father on account of her\nremarkable intellectual promise. He took the utmost pains to aid and\nencourage her in learning to study and to think. The impression he made\nupon her may be seen in the popular little volume entitled \"The Pastor's\nDaughter,\" which consists largely of conversations with him, written out\nfrom memory after his death. She was then in her sixteenth year. The\nrecords of the next eight years, which were mostly spent in teaching,\nare very meagre; but a sort of literary journal, kept by her between\n1835 and 1840, shows something of her mental quality and character, as\nalso of her course of reading. She was twenty-three years old when the\njournal opens. Here are a few extracts from it:\n\nBOSTON, Nov. 18, 1835.\n\nLast evening I passed in company with Mr. Dana. [1] I conversed with him\nonly for a few moments about Mr. Alcott's school, and had not time to\nask one of the ten thousand questions I wished to ask. I have been\ntrying to analyse the feeling I have for men of genius, Coleridge,\nWordsworth and Dana, for example. I can understand why I feel for them\nunbounded admiration, reverence and affection, but I hardly know why\nthere should be so much excitement--painful excitement--mingled with\nthese emotions. Next to possessing genius myself would be the pleasure\nof living with one who possessed it.\n\n_Nov. 19th._--I have read to-day one canto of Dante's Inferno and eight\nor ten pages of Cicero de Amicitia. In this, as well as in de Senectute\nwhich I have just finished, I am much interested. I confess I am not a\nlittle surprised to find how largely the moderns are indebted to the\nancients; how many wise observations on life, and death, the soul, time,\neternity, etc, have been repeated by the sages of every generation since\nthe days of Cicero.\n\n_Jan. 14th, 1836._--I spent last evening with Mr. Dana, and the\nconversation was, of course, of great interest. We talked of some of the\nleading Reviews of the day, and then of the character of our literature\nas connected with our political institutions. This led to a long\ndiscussion of the latter subject, but as the same views are expressed in\nMr. D.'s article on Law, I shall pass it over. [2] I differed from him\nin regard to the French comedies, especially those of Moliere; however,\nhe allowed that they contain genuine humor, but they are confined to the\nexhibition of _one_ ridiculous point in the character, instead of giving\nus the whole man as Shakespeare does.\n\n_Sept, 22d._--This morning I have had one of the periods of _insight,_\nwhen the highest spiritual truths pertaining to the divine and human\nnatures, become their own light and evidence, as well as the evidence of\nother truths. No speculations, no ridicule can shake my faith in that\nwhich I thus see and feel. I was particularly interested in thinking of\nthe regeneration of the spirit and the part which Faith, Hope, and Love,\nhave in effecting it.\n\n_Sab. 23d._--It seems to me that this truth alone, there is a God, is\nsufficient, rightly believed, to make every human being absolutely and\nperfectly happy.\n\n_Jan. 14th, 1839._--Wednesday evening attended Mr. Emerson's lecture on\nGenius, of which I shall _attempt_ to say nothing except that it was\nmost delightful. Thursday morning Mr. Emerson [3] called to see me and\ngave me a ticket for his course. Afterwards Mr. Dana called. It seems to\nme that I have lived _backwards;_ in other words, the faculties of my\nmind which were earliest developed, were those which in other minds come\nlast--reflection and solidity of judgment; while fancy and imagination,\nin so far as I have any at all, have followed.\n\n_Sat. Jan. 26th._--My occupations in the way of books at present,\nconsist in reading \"Antigone,\" Guizot's \"History,\" Lockhart's \"Scott,\"\nand _sundries._ I am also translating large extracts from Claudius, with\na view to writing an article about him, if the fates shall so will it.\n[4]\n\n_Thurs. Jan. 1st._--Mr. Emerson's lecture last night was on Comedy. He\nprofessed to enter on the subject with reluctance, as conscious of a\ndeficiency in the organ of the ludicrous--a profession, however, that\nwas not substantiated very well by the lecture itself, which convulsed\nthe audience with laughter. He spoke in the commencement of the silent\nhistory written in the faces of an assembly, making them as interesting\nto a spectator as if their lives were written in their features.\n\n_25th._--I began yesterday Schleiermacher's \"Christliche Glaube\"--a\nprofound, learned, and difficult work, I am told--Jouffroy's\n\"Philosophical Writings,\" Landor's \"Pericles and Aspasia,\" and \"The\nGurney Papers.\" Considering that I was already in the midst of several\nbooks, this is rather too much, but I could not help it; the books were\nlent me and must be read and returned speedily. I have been all the\nmorning employed in writing an abstract of the Report of the Prison\nDiscipline Society, and am wearied and stupefied.\n\n_Jan. 7th, 1840._--Went to Mr. Ripley's where I met Dr. Channing, and\nlistened to a discussion of Spinoza's religious opinions. This afternoon\nMr. D. came again; talked about the Trinity and other theological\npoints. This evening, heard Prof. Silliman. I have nearly finished\nFichte, and like him on the whole exceedingly, though I think he errs in\nplacing the roots of the speculative in the practical reason. It seems\nto me that neither grows out of the other, but that they are coincident\nspheres. Still, there is a truth, a great truth, in what he says. It is\ntrue that action is often the most effectual remedy against speculative\ndoubts and perplexities. When you are in the dark about this or\nthat point, ask what command does conscience impose upon me at this\nmoment--obey it and you will find light.\n\nThese extracts will suffice to show the quality and extent of her\nreading. What sort of fruit her reading and study bore may be seen by\nher articles on Claudius and Goethe, in the New York Review. No abler\ndiscussion of the genius and writings of Goethe had at that time\nappeared in this country; while the article on Claudius was probably the\nfirst to make him known to American readers.\n\nDuring many of the later years of her life Mrs. Hopkins was a martyr to\nill-health. The story of her sufferings, both physical and mental, as\nartlessly told in little diaries which she kept, is \"wondrous pitiful;\"\nno pen of fiction could equal its simple pathos. Again and again, as she\nherself knew, she was on the very verge of insanity; nothing, probably,\nsaving her from it but the devotion of her husband, who with untiring\npatience and a mother's tenderness ministered, in season and out of\nseason, to her relief. Often would he steal home from his beloved\nObservatory, where he had been teaching his students how to watch the\nstars, and pass a sleepless night at her bedside, reading to her and by\nall sorts of gentle appliances trying to soothe her irritated nerves.\nAnd this devotion ran on, without variableness or shadow of turning,\nyear after year, giving itself no rest until her eyes were closed in\ndeath. [5]\n\nLet us now resume our narrative. A portion of the summer of 1862 was\npassed by Mrs. Prentiss at Newport. Her season of rest was again invaded\nby severe illness among her children. Under date of August 3d, she\nwrites to Mrs. Smith:\n\nI can see that our landlady, who has good sense and experience, thinks\nG. will not get well. Sometimes, in awful moments, I think so too; but\nthen I cheer up and get quite elated. Last night as I lay awake, too\nweary to sleep, I heard a harsh, rasping sound like a large saw. I\nthought some animal unknown to me must be making it, it was so regular\nand frequent. But after a time I found it was a dying young soldier who\nlives farther from this house than Miss H. does from our house in New\nYork. His fearful cough! Oh, this war! this war! I never hated and\nrevolted against it as I did then. I had heard some one say such a young\nman lay dying of consumption in this street, but till then was too\nabsorbed with my own incessant cares to hear the cough, as the rest had\ndone. I never realised how I felt about our country till I found the\nterror of losing, a link out of that little golden chain that encircles\nmy sweetest joys, was a _kindred_ suffering. Have the times ever looked\nso black as they do now? We seem to be drifting round without chart or\npilot.\n\nTwo weeks later, August 17th, she writes to her cousin, Miss Shipman:\n\nG. is really up and about, looking thin and white, and feeling hungry\nand weak; but little H. has been sick with the same disease these ten\ndays past. I got your letter and the little cat, for which G. and I\nthank you very much. I should think it would about kill you to cook all\nday even for our soldiers, but on the whole can not blame any one who\nwants to get killed in their service. I am impressed more and more\nwith their claims upon us, who confront every danger and undergo every\nsuffering, while we sit at home at our ease. However, the ease I have\nenjoyed during the last five weeks has not been of a very luxurious\nkind, and I have felt almost discouraged, as day after day of\nconfinement and night after night of sleeplessness has pulled down my\nstrength. But, what am I doing? Complaining, instead of rejoicing that I\nam not left unchastised.\n\nAfter a careworn summer at Newport, she went with the children to\nWilliamstown, where a month was passed with her brother-in-law,\nProfessor Hopkins. The following letters relate to this visit:\n\n_To her Husband, Williamstown, Sept. 19, 1862._\n\nI am glad to find that you place reliance on the reports of our late\nvictory, for I have been in great suspense, seeing only The World, which\nwas throwing up its hat and declaring the war virtually ended. I have no\nfaith in such premature assertions, of which we have had so many, but\nwas most anxious to know your opinion. Do not fail to keep me informed\nof what is going on. The children are all out of doors and enjoying\nthemselves. The Professor has gone on horseback to see about his\nbuckwheat. He took me up there yesterday afternoon, and I crawled\nthrough forty fences (more or less) and got a vast amount of exercise,\nwhich did not result in any better sleep, however, than no exercise\ndoes. Caro. H. read me yesterday a most interesting letter from her\nbrother Henry, describing the scene at Bull Run when he went there five\ndays after the battle. It is very painful to find such mismanagement as\nhe deplores. He gave a most touching account of a young fellow who lay\nmortally wounded, where he had lain uncared-for with his companions the\nfive days, and whom they were obliged to decline removing, as they had\nonly room for a portion of the hopeful cases. After beseeching Mr. H. to\nsee that he was removed, and entreating to know when and how he was ever\nto get home if they left him, he was told that it was not possible to\nmake room for him in this train of ambulances. As Mr. H. tore himself\naway, he heard him say,\n\n  \"Here, Lord, I give myself away;\n  'Tis all that I can do.\"\n\nThe torture of the wounded men in the ambulances was so frightful, that\nMr. H. gave each of them morphine enough to kill three well men. They\n\"cried for it like dogs and licked my hands lest they should lose a\ndrop,\" he adds. As a contrast to this letter, some of the new recruits\ncame into the Professor's grounds yesterday to get bouquets, and thought\nif _their_ folks had a \"yard\" so gayly decked with flowers they would\nfeel set up.\n\n_To Mrs. Smith, Williamstown, Sept. 25, 1862._\n\nI have been feeling languid, or lazy, ever since I came here, and for a\nfew days past have been miserable; but I am better to-day. This place\nis perfectly lovely and grows upon me every day. But the Professor is\nentirely absorbed in his loss. He does not know it, or else thinks he\ndoes not show it, for he makes no complaint, but it is in every tone and\nword and look. It is plain that Louisa's ill-health, which might have\nweaned a selfish man from her, only endeared her to him; she was so\nentirely his object day and night, that he misses her and the _care_ of\nher, as a mother does her sick child. If we ride out he says, \"Here I\noften came with _her_;\" if a bird sings, \"That is a note she used to\nlove;\" if we see a flower, \"That is one of the flowers she loved.\" He\nhas an astonishing amount of journal manuscripts, and I think may in\ntime prepare something from them.... Isn't it frightful how cotton goods\nhave run up! I gave twenty cents for a yard of silicia (is that the way\nto spell it?) and suppose everything else has rushed up too. I hope you\nare prepared to tell me exactly what to buy and instruct me in the way I\nshould go.\n\n_To her Husband, Williamstown, Sept. 26._\n\nI spent yesterday forenoon looking over Louisa's papers and found an\nenormous mass of manuscript; journals, extract books, translations,\nand work enough planned and begun for many lifetimes. It was very\ndepressing. One's only refuge is faith in God, and in the certainty that\nher lingering illness was more acceptable to Him than years of active\nusefulness, and such extraordinary usefulness even as she was so fitted\nfor. I read over some of my own letters written many, many years ago;\nand the sense this gave me of lost youth and vivacity and energy, was,\nfor a time, most painful.... I have felt for a long while greatly\ndiscouraged and depressed, yes, weary of my life, because it seems to me\nthat broken down and worn out as I am, and full of faults under which I\ngroan, being burdened, I could not make you happy. But your last letter\ncomforted me a good deal. I see little for us to do but what you\nsuggest: to cheer each other up and wear out rather than rust out. It is\nmore and more clear to me, that patience is our chief duty on earth, and\nthat we can not rest here.\n\nI am anxious to know what you think of the President's Proclamation. [6]\nThe Professor likes it. He seems able to think of little but his loss.\nEven when speaking in the most cheerful way, tears fill his eyes, and\nthe other day putting a letter into my hands to read, he had to run\nout of the room. The letter stated that fifty young persons owed their\nconversion to Louisa's books; it was written some years ago. His mother\nspent Saturday here. She is very bright and cheerful and full of\nsly humor; he did everything to amuse her and she enjoyed her visit\namazingly. I long to see you. Letters are more and more unsatisfactory,\ndelusive things. M. is going to have a \"party\" this afternoon, and is\ngoing to one this forenoon. The others are bright and busy as bees.\nGood-bye.\n\nA tinge of sadness is perceptible in most of her letters during this\nyear. Her sister's death, the fearful state of the country, protracted\nsickness among her children, and her own frequent ill-turns and\nincreasing sense of feebleness, all conspired to produce this effect.\nBut in truth her heart was still as young as ever and a touch of\nsympathy, or an appeal to her love of nature, instantly made it\nmanifest. An extract from a letter to Miss Anna Warner, dated New York,\nDecember 16th, may serve as an instance: I wanted to write a book when\nthe trunk came this afternoon; that is, a book full of thanks and\nexclamation marks. You could not have bought with money anything for my\nChristmas present, that could give half the pleasure. I shut myself up\nin my little room up-stairs (I declare I don't believe you saw that\nroom! did you?), and there I spread out my mosses and my twigs and my\ncones and my leaves and admired them till I had to go out and walk to\ncompose myself. Then the children came home and they all admired too,\nand among us we upset my big work-basket and my little work-basket, and\ndidn't any of us care. My only fear is that with all you had to do you\ndid too much for me. Those little red moss cups are _too_ lovely! and as\nto all those leaves how I shall leaf out! G. asked me who sent me all\nthose beautiful things. \"Miss Warner,\" quoth I absently. \"Didn't Miss\nAnna send any of them?\" he exclaimed. So you see you twain do not pass\nas one flesh here. I have read all the \"Books of Blessing\" [7] save\nGertrude and her Cat--but though I like them all very much, my favorite\nis still \"The Prince in Disguise.\" If you come across a little book\ncalled \"Earnest,\" [8] published by Randolph, do read it. It is one of\nthe few _real_ books and ought to do good. I have outdone myself in\npicture-frames since you left. I got a pair of nippers and some wire,\nwhich were of great use in the operation. I am now busy on Mr. Bull, for\nMr. Prentiss' study.\n\nTo one of her sisters-in-law she wrote, under the same date:\n\nI do not know as I ever was so discouraged about my health as I have\nbeen this fall. Sometimes I think my constitution is quite broken down,\nand that I never shall be good for anything again. However, I do not\nworry one way or the other but try to be as patient as I can. I have\nbeen a good deal better for some days, and if you could see our house\nyou would not believe a word about my not being well, and would know my\nsaying so was all a sham. To tell the truth, it does look like a garden,\nand when I am sick I like to lie and look at what I did when I wasn't;\nmy wreaths, and my crosses, and my vines, and my toadstools, and other\nfixins. Yesterday I made a bonnet of which I am justly proud; to-morrow\nI expect to go into mosses and twigs, of which Miss Anna Warner has just\nsent me a lot. She and her sister were here about a fortnight. They grow\ngood so fast that there is no keeping track of them. Does any body in\nPortland take their paper? [9] The children are all looking forward to\nChristmas with great glee. It is a mercy there are any children to keep\nup one's spirits in these times. Was there ever anything so dreadful as\nthe way in which our army has just been driven back! [10] But if we had\nhad a brilliant victory perhaps the people would have clamored against\nthe emancipation project, and anything is better than the perpetuation\nof slavery.\n\nOur congregation is fuller than ever, but there is no chance of building\neven a chapel. Shopping is pleasant business now-a-days, isn't it? We\nshall have to stop sewing and use pins.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nII.\n\nAnother care-worn Summer. Letters from Williamstown and Rockaway. Hymn\non Laying the Corner-stone of the Church of the Covenant.\n\n\nThe records of 1863 are confined mostly to her letters written during\nthe summer. In June she went again with the younger children to\nWilliamstown, where she remained a month. The family then proceeded\nto Rockaway, Long Island, and spent the rest of the season there in a\ncottage, kindly placed at their disposal by Mrs. William G. Bull. They\npassed through New York barely in time to escape the terrible riots,\nwhich raged there with such fury in the early part of July. A few\nextracts from her letters belonging to this period follow:\n\n_To her Husband, Troy, June 10._\n\nI hope you'll not be frightened to get a letter mailed here; anyhow I\ncan't resist the temptation to write, though standing up in a little\nnewspaper office. We were routed up at half past five this morning by\npounds and yells about taking the \"Northern Railroad.\" On reaching Troy\nthe captain bid us hurry or we should lose the train, and we did hurry,\nthough I pretty well foresaw our fate, and after a running walk of a\nquarter of a mile, we had the felicity of finding the train had left and\nthat the next one would not start till twelve. The little darlings are\nbearing the disappointment sweetly.\n\n4 P.M.--After depositing my note in the Post-office, we strolled about\nawhile and then came across to a hotel, where I ordered a lunch-dinner.\nWe got through at twelve and marched to the station, expecting to start\nat once, when M. came running up to me declaring there was no train to\nWilliamstown till five o'clock. My heart fairly turned over; however,\nI did not believe it, but on making inquiries it proved to be only too\ntrue. For a minute I sat in silent despair. Just then the landlord of\nthe hotel drew nigh and said to me, \"You don't look very healthy, Mrs.;\nif you'll walk over to my house, I will give you a bedroom free of\ncharge and you can lie down and rest awhile.\" Over to his house we went,\nweary enough. After awhile, finding them all forlorn, I got a carriage\nand we drove out; on coming back I ordered some ice-cream, which built\nus all up amazingly. The children are now counting the minutes till\nfive. One of the boys is perched on a wash-stand with his feet dangling\ndown through the hole where the bowl should be; the other is eating\ncrackers; the landlord is anxious I should take a glass of wine; and M.\nis everywhere at once, having nearly worn out my watch-pocket to see\nwhat time it was.\n\n_Monday, June 21st._--It is now going on a fortnight since we left home.\nOh, if it were God's will, how I should love to get well, pay you back\nsome of the debts I owe you, be a better mother to my children, write\nsome more books, and make you love me so you wouldn't know what to do\nwith yourself! Just to see how it would seem to be well, and to show\nyou what a splendid creature I could be, if once out of the harness! A\nmodest little list you will say!... I said to myself, Is it after all\nsuch a curse to suffer and to be a source of suffering to others? Isn't\nit worth while to pay something for warm human sympathies and something\nfor rich experience of God's love and wisdom? And I felt, that for you\nto have a radiant, cheerful, health-happy wife was not, perhaps, so good\nfor you, as a minister of Christ's gospel, as to have the poor feeble\ncreature whose infirmities keep you anxious and off the top of the wave.\n\nSaturday afternoon the Professor took me off strawberrying again. Can\nyou believe that till this June I never went strawberrying in my life?\nI don't eat them, so the fun is in the picking. Do you realise how kind\nthe Professor is to me? I am afraid I don't. He works very hard, too\nhard, I think; but perhaps he does it as a refuge from his loneliness.\nHis heart seems still full of tenderness toward Louisa. Yesterday he\ntook me aside and told me, with much emotion, that he dreamed the night\nbefore that she floated towards him with a leaf in her hand, on which\nshe wrote the words \"Sabbath peacefulness.\" I love him much, but am\nafraid of him, as I am of all men--even of you; you need not laugh, I\nam.\n\nTo Mrs. Smith she writes from Rockaway, July 24th:\n\nWe were glad to hear that you were safely settled at Prout's Neck, far\nfrom riots, if not from rumors thereof. We have as convenient and roomy\nand closetty a cottage as possible. We are within three minutes or so\nof the beach, and go back and forth, bathe, dig sand, and stare at the\nocean according to our various ages and tastes. I really do not know how\nelse we spend our time. I sew a little, and am going to sew more when my\nmachine comes; read a little, doze a little, and eat a good deal. The\nbutcher calls every morning, and so does the baker with excellent bread;\ntwice a week clams call at thirty cents the hundred; we get milk,\nbutter, and eggs without much trouble; and ice and various vegetables\nwithout any, as Mrs. Bull sends them to us every day, with sprinklings\nof fruit, pitchers of cream, herring and whatever is going. We either\nsit on the beach looking and listening to the waves, every evening, or\nwe run in to Mrs. Bull's; or gather about our parlor-table reading. By\nten we are all off to bed. George does nothing but race back and forth\nto New York on Seminary business; he has gone now. I went with him the\nother day. The city looks pinched and wo-begone. We were caught in that\ntornado and nearly pulled to pieces.\n\n_27th._--You will be sorry to hear that our last summer's siege with\ndysentery bids fair to be repeated. Yesterday, when the disease declared\nitself, I must own that for a few hours I felt about heart-broken. My\nown strength is next to nothing, and how to face such a calamity I knew\nnot. Ah, how much easier it is to pray daily, \"Oh, Jesus Christus, wachs\nin mir!\" than to consent to, yea rejoice in, the terms of the grant!\nWell, George went for the doctor. His quarters at this season are right\nopposite; he is a German and brother of the author Auerbach. We brought\nG.'s cot into our room and George and I took care of him till three\no'clock, when for the first time since we had children, I gave out and\nleft the poor man to get along as nurse as he best could. I can tell\nyou it comes hard on one's pride to resign one's office to a half-sick\nhusband. I think I have let the boys play too hard in the sun. I long to\nhave you see this pretty cottage and this beach.\n\n_Aug. 3d._--The children are out of the doctor's hands and I do about\nnothing at all. I hope you are as lazy as I am. Today I bathed, read the\npaper and finished John Halifax. I wish I could write such a book!\n\nTo Miss Gilman she writes, August 10th:\n\nWe have the nicest of cottages, near the sea. I often think of you as I\nsit watching the waves rush in and the bathers rushing out. I have not\nyet thanked you for the hymns you sent me. The traveller's hymn sounds\nlike George Withers. Mr. P. borrowed a volume of his poems which\ndelights us both. I am glad you are asking your mother questions about\nyour father. I am amazed at myself for not asking my dear mother many\na score about my father, which no human being can answer now. I do not\nlike to think of you all leaving New York. Few families would be so\nmissed and mourned.\n\nI can sympathise with you in regard to your present Sunday \"privileges.\"\nWe have a long walk in glaring sunshine, sit on bare boards, live\nthrough the whole (or nearly the whole) Prayer-book, and then listen, if\nwe can, to a sermon three-quarters of an hour long, its length not being\nits chief fault. I am utterly unable to bear such fatigue, and spend my\ntime chiefly at home, with some hope of more profit, at any rate. How\ntrue it is that our Master's best treasures are kept in earthen vessels!\nHumanly speaking, we should declare it to be for His glory to commit the\npreaching of His gospel to the best and wisest hands. But His ways are\nnot as our ways.... I feel such a longing, when Sunday conies, to spend\nit with good people, under the guidance of a heaven-taught man. A\nminister has such wonderful opportunity for doing good! It seems\ndreadful to see the opportunity more than wasted. The truth is, we all\nneed, ministers and all, a closer walk with God. If a man comes down\nstraight from the mount to speak to those who have just come from the\nsame place, he must be in a state to edify and they to be edified.\n\nFrom New York she writes to Miss Shipman, October 24th:\n\nYour letter came just as we started for Poughkeepsie. The Synod met\nthere and I was invited to accompany George, and, quite contrary to my\nusual habits, I went. We had a nice time. I feel that you are in the\nbest place in the world. Next to dying and going home one's self, it\nmust be sweet to accompany a Christian friend down to the very banks\nof the river. Isn't it strange that after such experiences we can ever\nagain have a worldly thought, or ever lose the sense of the reality of\ndivine things! But we are like little children--ever learning and ever\nforgetting. Still, it is well to be learning, and I envy you your\nfrequent visits to the house of mourning. You will miss your dear friend\nvery much. I know how you love her. How many beloved ones you have\nalready lost for a season!... Don't set me to making brackets. I am\nas worldly now as I can be, and my head full of work on all sorts of\nthings. I made two cornucopias of your pattern and filled them with\ngrasses and autumn leaves, and they were magnificent. I got very large\ngrasses in the Rockaway marshes. The children are all well and as gay as\nlarks.\n\nEarly in November the corner-stone of the Church of the Covenant was\nlaid. She wrote the following hymn for the occasion:\n\n  A temple, Lord, we raise;\n  Let all its walls be praise\n      To Thee alone.\n  Draw nigh, O Christ, we pray,\n  To lead us on our way,\n  And be Thou, now and aye,\n      Our corner-stone.\n\n  In humble faith arrayed,\n  We these foundations laid\n      In war's dark day.\n  Oppression's reign o'erthrown,\n  Sweet peace once more our own,\n  Do Thou the topmost stone\n      Securely lay.\n\n  And when each earth-built wall\n  Crumbling to dust shall fall,\n      Our work still own.\n  Be to each faithful heart\n  That here hath wrought its part,\n  What in Thy Church Thou art--\n      The Corner-stone.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIII.\n\nHappiness in her Children. The Summer of 1864. Letters from Hunter.\nAffliction among Friends.\n\n\nIn the early part of 1864 she was more than usually afflicted with\nneuralgic troubles and that \"horrid calamity,\" as she calls it,\nsleeplessness. \"I know just how one feels when one can't eat or sleep or\ntalk. I declare, a good deal of the time pulling words out of me is like\npulling out teeth.\"\n\nStill (she writes to a sister-in-law, Jan. 15th), we are a happy family\nin spite of our ailments. I suffer a great deal and cause anxiety to my\nhusband by it, but then I enjoy a great deal and so does he, and\nour younger children--to say nothing of A.--are sources of constant\nfelicity. Do not you miss the hearing little feet pattering round the\nhouse? It seems to me that the sound of my six little feet is the very\npleasantest sound in the world. Often when I lie in bed racked with pain\nand exhausted from want of food--for my digestive organs seem paralysed\nwhen I have neuralgia--hearing these little darlings about the house\ncompensates for everything, and I am inexpressibly happy in the mere\nsense of possession. I hate to have them grow up and to lose my pets, or\nexchange them for big boys and girls. I suppose your boys are a great\nhelp to you and company too, but I feel for you that you have not also\na couple of girls.... Poor Louisa! It is very painful to think what she\nsuffered. Her death was such a shock to me, I can hardly say why, that I\nhave never been since what I was before. I suppose my nervous system was\nso shattered, that so unexpected a blow would naturally work unkindly.\n\nEarly in the following summer she was distressed by the sudden\nbereavement of dear friends and by the death of her nephew, who fell in\none of the battles of the Wilderness. In a letter to Miss Gilman, dated\nJune 18th, she refers to this:\n\nYour dear little flowers came in excellent condition, but at a moment\nwhen I could not possibly write to tell you so. The death of Mrs. R. H.\nbroke my heart. I only knew her by a sort of instinct, but I sorrowed in\nher mother's sorrow and in that of her sisters. Death is a blessed thing\nto the one whom it leads to Christ's kingdom and presence, but oh, how\nterrible for those it leaves fainting and weeping behind! We expect to\ngo off for the summer on next Thursday. We go to Hunter, N. Y., in the\nregion of the Catskills. My husband's mother has been with me during the\nlast six weeks and has just gone home, and I have now to do up the last\nthings in a great hurry. You may not know that my A. and M. S., and a\nnumber of other young people of their age, joined our church on last\nSunday. I can hardly realise my felicity. I seem to myself to have a new\nchild. Your sister may have told you of the loss of Professor Hopkins'\nson. He was the first grandchild in our family and his father's _all_.\nWe may never hear what his fate was, but the suspense has been dreadful.\n\nHer interest in the national struggle was intense and her conviction of\nits Providential character unwavering. To a friend, who seemed to her a\nlittle lukewarm on the subject, she wrote at this time:\n\nFor my part, I am sometimes afraid I shall die of joy if we ever gain a\ncomplete and final victory. You can call this spunk if you choose.\nBut my spunk has got a backbone of its own and that is deep-seated\nconviction, that this is a holy war, and that God himself sanctions it.\nHe spares nothing precious when He has a work to do. No life is too\nvaluable for Him to cut short, when any of His designs can be furthered\nby doing so. But I could talk a month and not have done, you wicked\nunbeliever.\n\n_To her Husband, Hunter, June 27, 1864._\n\nThis morning, after breakfast, I sallied out with six children to take a\nmost charming walk, scramble, climb, etc. We put on our worst old duds,\ntuck up our skirts June 27, knee-high, and have a regular good time of\nit. If you were awake so early as eight o'clock--I don't believe you\nwere! you might have seen us with a good spy-glass, and it would have\nmade your righteous soul leap for joy to see how we capered and laughed,\nand what strawberries we picked, and how much of a child A. turned into.\nThey all six \"played run\" till they had counted twelve and then they\ntumbled down and rolled in the grass, till I wondered what their bones\nwere made of. I do not see that we could have found a better place for\nthe children. What with the seven calves, the cows, the sheep, the two\npet lambs, the dogs, hens, chickens, horses, etc., they are perfectly\nhappy. Just now they have been to see the butter made and to get a drink\nof buttermilk. We have lots of strawberries and cream, pot-cheese,\nJohnny-cakes, and there are always eggs and milk at our service. From\ndiplomatic motives I advise you not to say too much about Hunter to\npeople asking questions. It would entirely spoil its only great charm if\na rush of silly city folks should scent it out. It is really a primitive\nplace and that you can say. Mr. Coe preached an excellent sermon on\nSunday morning.\n\n_To Mrs. Smith, Hunter, July 4, 1864._\n\nI have just been off, all alone, foraging, and have come home bringing\nmy sheaves with me: ground pine and red berries, with which I have made\na beautiful wreath. I have also adorned the picture of Gen. Grant with\nfestoons of evergreens, conjuring him the while not to disappoint our\nhopes, but to take Richmond. Alas! you may know, by this time, that he\ncan't; but in lack of news since a week ago, I can but hope for the\nbest. I've taken a pew and we contrive to squeeze into it in this wise:\nfirst a child, then a mother, then a child, then an Annie, then a child,\nthe little ones being stowed in the cracks left between us big ones. Mr.\nR., the parson, looking fit to go straight into his grave, was up here\nto get a wagon as he was going for a load of chips. His wife was at\nhome sick, without any servant, had churned three hours and the butter\nwouldn't come, and has a pew full of little ones. Oh, my poor sisters in\nthe ministry! my heart aches for them. Mr. R. gave us a superior sermon\nlast Sunday.... I know next to nothing about what is going on in the\nworld. But George writes that he feels decidedly pleased with the look\nof things. He has been carrying on like all possessed since I left,\nhaving company to breakfast, lunch, dinner, and finally went and had Chi\nAlpha all himself.\n\n_July 25th._--We went one day last week on a most delightful excursion,\ntwenty-one of us in all. Our drive was splendid and the scenery sublime;\neven we distinguished Swiss travellers thought so! We came to one spot\nwhere ice always is found, cut out big pieces, ate it, drank it, threw\nit at each other and carried on with it generally. We had our dinner\non the grass in the woods. We brought home a small cartload of natural\nbrackets; some of them beautiful.\n\n_August 1st._--You have indeed had a \"rich experience.\" [11] We all read\nyour letter with the deepest interest and feel that it would have been\ngood to be there. Your account of Caro shows what force of character she\npossessed, as well as what God's grace can do and do quickly. This is\nnot the first time He has ripened a soul into full Christian maturity\nwith almost miraculous rapidity. A veteran saint could not have laid\ndown his armor and adjusted himself to meet death with more calmness\nthan did this young disciple. I do not wonder her family were borne, for\nthe time, above their sorrow, but alas! their bitter pangs of anguish\nare yet to meet them. Her poor mother! How much she has suffered and has\nyet to suffer! all the more because she bears it so heroically.\n\n_To Miss Emily S. Gilman, Hunter, Aug 1, 1864._\n\nYou must have wondered why I did not answer your letter and your book,\nfor both of which I thank you. Well, it has been such dry, warm weather,\nthat I have not felt like writing; besides, for nurse I have only a\nlittle German girl fourteen years old, who never was out of New York\nbefore, and whom I have been so determined on spoiling that I couldn't\nbear to take her off from her play to mend, patch, darn, wash faces,\nnecks, feet, etc., and unconsciously did every thing there was to do\nfor the children and a little more besides. I like the little book very\nmuch. You have the greatest knack, you girls, of lighting on nice books\nand nice hymns. We are right in the midst of most charming walks. Here\nis a grove and there is a brook; here is a creek, almost a river (big\nenough at any rate to get on to the map) and there a mountain. As to\nferns and mosses for your poetical side, and as for raspberries and\nblackberries for your t'other side, time would fail me if I should begin\nto speak of them. I think a great deal of you and your sisters when off\non foraging expeditions, and wish you were here notwithstanding you are\nmossy and ferny there. We have as yet made only one excursion. That was\ndelightful and gave us our first true idea of the Catskills. Before\nMr. P. came I usually went off on my forenoon walk alone, unless the\nchildren trooped after, and came home a miniature Birnam wood, with all\nsorts of things except creeping things and flying fowl.\n\nI have just finished reading to M. and a little girl near her age, a\nlittle French book you would like, called \"Augustin.\" I never met with\na sweeter picture of a loving child anywhere. Well, I may as well stop\nwriting. Remember me lovingly to all your dear household.\n\nTo Mrs. Stearns she writes, Sept. 16:\n\nHow much faith and patience we poor invalids do need! The burden of life\nsits hard on our weary shoulders. I think the mountain air has agreed\nwith our children better than the seaside has done, but George craves\nthe ocean and the bathing. He spent this forenoon, as he has a good many\nothers, in climbing the side of the mountain for exercise, views, and\nblackberries. I go with him sometimes. We had a few days' visit from\nProf. Hopkins. He has heard confirmation of the rumors of poor Eddy's\ndeath and burial. He means to go to Ashland as soon as the state of the\ncountry makes it practicable, but has little hope of identifying E.'s\nremains. It is a great sorrow to him to _lose all he had_ in this\nhorrible way, but he bears it with wonderful faith and patience, and\nsays he never prayed for his son's life after he went into action. Some\nletters received by him, give a pleasant idea of the Christian stand E.\ntook after entering the army. I believe this is Lizzie P----'s wedding\nday. There is a beautiful rainbow smiling on it from our mountain home,\nand I hope a real one is glorifying hers.\n\n_To Miss Gilman, Hunter, Sept. 17._\n\nOh, I wish you were here on this glorious day! The foliage has begun to\nturn a little, and the mountains are in a state bordering on perfection.\nIt is wicked for me stay in-doors even to write this, but it seems as if\na letter from here would carry with it a savor of mountain air, and must\ndo you more good than one from the city could. I wish I had thought\nsooner to ask you if you would like some of our mosses. I _thought_ I\nhad seen mosses before, but found I had not. I will enclose some dried\nspecimens. I thought, while I was in the woods this morning, that I\nnever had thanked God half enough for making these lovely things and\ngiving us tastes wherewith to enjoy them.\n\nYou ask if I have spilled ink all down the side of this white house.\nYes, I have, wo be unto me. I was sick abed and got up to write to Mr.\nP., not wanting him to know I was sick, and one of the children came in\nand I snatched him up in my lap to hug and kiss a little, and he, of\ncourse, hit the pen and upset the inkstand and burst out crying at my\ndismay. Then might have been seen a headachy woman catching the apoplexy\nby leaning out of the window and scrubbing paint, sacrificing all her\nnice rags in the process, and dreadfully mortified into the bargain....\nYesterday we were all caught in a pouring rain when several miles from\nhome on the side of the mountain, blackberrying. We each took a child\nand came rolling and tearing down through the bushes and over stones,\nH.'s little legs flying as little legs rarely fly. We nearly died with\nlaughing, and if I only knew how to draw, I could make you laugh by\ngiving you a picture of the scene. You will judge from this that we are\nall great walkers; so we are. I take the children almost everywhere, and\nthey walk miles every day. Well, I will go now and get you some scraps\nof pressed mosses.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIV.\n\nThe Death of President Lincoln. Dedication of the Church of the\nCovenant. Growing Insomnia. Resolves to try the Water-cure. Its\nbeneficial Effects. Summer at Newburgh. Reminiscence of an Excursion\nto Paltz Point. Death of her Husband's Mother. Funeral of her Nephew,\nEdward Payson Hopkins.\n\n\nTwo events rendered the month of April, 1865, especially memorable to\nMrs. Prentiss. One was the assassination of President Lincoln on the\nevening of Good Friday. She had been very ill, and her husband, on\nlearning the dreadful news from the morning paper, thought it advisable\nto keep it from her for a while; but one of the children, going into her\nchamber, burst into tears and thus betrayed the secret. Her state of\nnervous prostration and her profound, affectionate admiration for Mr.\nLincoln, made the blow the most stunning by far she ever received from\nany public calamity. It was such, no doubt, to tens of thousands;\nindeed, to the American people. No Easter morning ever before dawned\nupon them amid such a cloud of horror, or found them so bowed down with\ngrief. The younger generation can hardly conceive of the depth and\nintensity, or the strange, unnatural character, of the impression made\nupon the minds of old and young alike, by this most foul murder. [12]\n\nThe other event was of a very different character and filled her with\ngreat joy. It was the dedication, on the last Sunday in April, of the\nnew church edifice, whose growth she had watched with so much interest.\n\nIn the spring of 1865 she was induced, by the entreaty of friends who\nhad themselves tested his skill, to consult Dr. Schieferdecker, a noted\nhydropathist, and later to place herself under his care. In a letter to\nher cousin, Miss Shipman, she writes: \"I want to tell you, but do\nnot want you to mention it to anyone, that I have been to see Dr.\nSchieferdecker to know what he thought of my case. He says that I might\ngo on dieting to the end of my days and not get well, but that his\nsystem could and would cure me, only it would take a _long_ time. I have\nnot decided whether to try his process, but have no doubt he understands\nmy disease.\" Dr. Schieferdecker had been a pupil and was an enthusiastic\ndisciple of Priesnitz. He had unbounded faith in the healing properties\nof water. He was very impulsive, opinionated, self-confident, and\naccustomed to speak contemptuously of the old medical science and those\nwho practised it. But for all that, he possessed a remarkable sagacity\nin the diagnosis and treatment of chronic disease. Mrs. Prentiss went\nthrough the \"cure\" with indomitable patience and pluck, and was rewarded\nby the most beneficial results. Her sleeplessness had become too\ndeep-rooted to be overcome, but it was greatly mitigated and her general\ncondition vastly improved. She never ceased to feel very grateful to Dr.\nSchieferdecker for the relief he had afforded her, and for teaching her\nhow to manage herself; for after passing from under his care, she still\ncontinued to follow his directions. \"No tongue can tell how much I am\nindebted to him,\" she wrote in 1869. \"I am like a ship that after poking\nalong twenty years with a heavy load on board, at last gets into port,\nunloads, and springs to the surface.\"\n\n_To Miss E. S. Gilman, New York, Feb. 23, 1865._\n\nIt is said to be an ill wind that blows nobody good, and as I am\nstill idling about, doing absolutely nothing but receive visits from\nneuralgia, I have leisure to think of poor Miss ----. I wrote to ask\nher if there was anything she wanted and could not get in her region;\nyesterday I received her letter, in which she mentions a book, but says\n\"anything that is useful for body or mind\" would be gratefully received.\nNow I got the impression from that article in the Independent, that she\ncould take next to no nourishment. Do you know what she _does_ take, and\ncan you suggest, from what you know, anything she would like? What's the\nuse of my being sick, if it isn't for her sake or that of some other\nsuffering soul? I want, very much, to get some things together and send\nher; nobody knows who hasn't experienced it, how delightfully such\nthings break in on the monotony of a sick-room. Just yet I am not strong\nenough to do anything; my hands tremble so that I can hardly use even a\npen; yet you need not think I am much amiss, for I go out every pleasant\nday, to ride, and some days can take quite a walk. The trouble is that\nwhen the pain returns, as it does several times a day, it knocks my\nstrength out of me. I hope when all parts of my frame have been visited\nby this erratic sprite, it may find it worth while to beat a retreat.\nOnly to think, we are going to move to No. 70 East Twenty-seventh\nstreet, and you have all been and gone away! The rent is _enormous_,\n$1,000 having been just added to an already high price. Our people\nhave taken that matter in hand and no burden of it will come on us. I\nreceived your letter and am much obliged to you for writing to Miss\n----, for me; the reason I did not do it was, that it seemed like\nhurrying her up to thank me for the little drop of comfort I sent her.\nDear me! it's hard to be sick when people send you quails and jellies,\nand fresh eggs, and all such things--but to be sick and suffer for\nnecessaries must be terrible.\n\n_To the Same, New York, March 9, 1865._\n\nI thank you for the details of Miss ----'s case, as I wished to describe\nthem to some friends. I sent her ten dollars yesterday for two of my\nfriends. I also sent off a box by express, for the contents of which I\nhad help. The things were such as I had persuaded her to mention; a new\nkind of farina, figs, two portfolios (of course she didn't ask for two,\nbut I had one I thought she would, perhaps, like better than the one I\nbought), a few crackers, and several books. Mr. P. added one of those\nbeautiful large-print editions of the Psalms which will, I think, be a\ncomfort to her. I shall also send Adelaide Newton by-and-by; I thought\nshe had her hands full of reading for the present, and the great thing\nis not to heap comforts on her all at once and then leave her to her\nfate, but keep up a stream of such little alleviations as can be\nprovided. She said, she had poor accommodations for writing, so I\ngreatly enjoyed fitting up the portfolio which was none the worse for\nwear, with paper and envelopes, a pencil with rubber at the end, a\ncunning little knife, some stamps, for which there was a small box, a\nfew pens, etc. I know it will please you to hear of this, and as the\nmoney was furnished me for the purpose, you need not set it down to my\ncredit.\n\nI meant to go to see your sister, but my head is still in such a weak\nstate that though I go to walk nearly every day, I can not make calls.\nIt is five weeks since I went to church, for the same reason. It is a\npart of God's discipline with me to keep me shut up a good deal more\nthan the old Adam in me fancies; but His way is _absolutely perfect_,\nand I hope I wouldn't change it in any particular, if I could. Have you\nPusey's tract, \"Do all to the Lord Jesus\"? If not, I must send it to\nyou. It seems as if I had a lot of things I wanted to say, but after\nwriting a little my hands and arms begin to tremble so that I can hardly\nwrite plainly. You never saw such a lazy life as I lead now-a-days; I\ncan't do _any_ thing. I advise you to do what you have to do for Christ\n_now_; by the time you are as old as I am perhaps you will have the will\nand not the power. Well, good-bye till next time.\n\nThe summer of this year was passed at Newburgh in company with the\nMisses Butler--now Mrs. Kirkbride, of Philadelphia, and Mrs. Booth,\nof Liverpool--and the families of Mr. William Allen Butler, Mr. B.\nF. Butler, and Mr. John P. Crosby, to all of whom Mrs. Prentiss was\nstrongly attached. The late Mr. Daniel Lord, the eminent lawyer, with\na portion of his family, had also a cottage near by and was full of\nhospitable kindness. In spite of the exacting hydropathic treatment, she\nfound constant refreshment and delight in the society of so many dear\nfriends. \"The only thing I have to complain of\" she wrote, \"is everybody\nbeing too good to me. How different it is being among friends to being\namong strangers!\"\n\nIn a letter to her husband, dated New York, Sept. 15, 1879, Mr. William\nAllen Butler gives the following reminiscence of an excursion to Paltz\nPoint and an evening at Newburgh:\n\nFrom the date you, give in your note (to which I have just recurred)\nof our trip to Paltz Point, it seems that in writing you to-day I have\nunwittingly fallen on the anniversary of that pleasant excursion.\nWithout this reminder I could not have told the day or the year, but\nof the excursion itself I have always had a vivid and delightful\nrecollection; and, if I am not mistaken, Mrs. Prentiss enjoyed it as\nfully as any one of the merry party. It was only on that jaunt and in\nour summer home at Newburgh that I had the opportunity of knowing her\nreadiness to enter into that kind of enjoyment, which depends upon the\nco-operation of every member of a circle for the entertainment of all.\nThe elements of our group were well commingled, and the bright things\nevoked by their contact and friction were neither few nor far between.\nThe game to which you allude of \"Inspiration\" or \"Rhapsody\" was a\nfavorite. The evening at Paltz Point called out some clever sallies, of\nwhich I have no record or special recollection; but I know that then, as\nalways, Mrs. Prentiss seemed to have at her pencil's point for instant\nuse the wit and fancy so charmingly exhibited in her writings. She\npublished somewhere an account of one of our inspired or rhapsodical\nevenings, but greatly to my regret failed to include in it her own\ncontribution which was the best of all. I distinctly remember the time\nand scene--the September evening--the big, square sitting-room of the\nold Seminary building in which you boarded--the bright faces whose\nradiance made up in part for the limitations of artificial light--the\npuzzled air which every one took on when presented with the list of\nunmanageable words, to be reproduced in their consecutive order in prose\nor verse composition within the next quarter or half hour--the stillness\nwhich supervened while the enforced \"pleasures\" of \"poetic pains\" or\nprose agony were being undergone--the sense of relief which supplemented\nthe completion of the batch of extempore effusions--and the fun which\ntheir reading provoked. Mrs. Prentiss had contrived out of the odd and\nincoherent jumble of words a choice bit of poetic humor and pathos,\nwhich I never quite forgave her for omitting in the publication of the\nnonsense written by other hands. These trifles as they seemed at the\ntime, and as in fact they were, become less insignificant in the\nretrospect, as we associate them with the whole character and being\nwe instinctively love to place at the farthest remove from gloom or\nsadness, and as they rediscover to us in the distance the native\nvivacity and grace of which they were the chance expression. Since that\nsummer of 1865, having lived away from New York, I saw little of Mrs.\nPrentiss, but I have a special remembrance of one little visit you made\nat our home in Yonkers which she seemed very much to enjoy--saying of\nthe reunion which made it so pleasant to the members of our family and\nall who happened to be together at the time, that it was \"like heaven.\"\n[13]\n\nDuring the summer of 1865 the sympathies of Mrs. Prentiss were much\nwrought upon by the sickness and death of her husband's mother, who\nentered into rest on the 9th of August, in the eighty-fourth year of her\nage. On the 12th of the previous January, she with the whole family\nhad gone to Newark to celebrate the eighty-third birthday of this aged\nsaint. Had they known it was to be the last, they could have wished\nnothing changed. It was a perfect winter's day, and the scene in the old\nparsonage was perfect too. There, surrounded by children and children's\nchildren, sat the venerable grandmother with a benignant smile upon her\nface and the peace of God in her heart. As she received in birthday\ngifts and kisses and congratulations their loving homage, the measure of\nher joy was full, and she seemed ready to say her _Nunc dimittis_. She\nbelonged to the number of those holy women of the old time who trusted\nin God and adorned themselves with the ornament of a meek and quiet\nspirit, and whose children to the latest generation rise up and call\nthem blessed.\n\nIn the course of this year her sympathies were also deeply touched by\nrepeated visits from her brother-in-law, Professor Hopkins, on his way\nto and from Virginia. Allusion has been made already to the death of her\nnephew, Lieutenant Edward Payson Hopkins. He was killed in battle while\ngallantly leading a cavalry charge at Ashland, in Virginia, on the 11th\nof May, 1864. In June of the following year his father went to Ashland\nwith the hope of recovering the body. Five comrades had fallen with\nEdward, and the negroes had buried them without coffins, side by side,\nin two trenches in a desolate swampy field and under a very shallow\ncovering of earth. The place was readily discovered, but it was found\nimpossible to identify the body. The disappointed father, almost\nbroken-hearted, turned his weary steps homeward. When he reached\nWilliamstown his friends said, \"He has grown ten years older since he\nwent away.\"\n\nSeveral months later he learned that there were means of identification\nwhich could not fail, even if the body had already turned to dust.\nAccordingly he again visited Ashland, attended this time by soldiers, a\nsurgeon, and Government officials. His search proved successful, and,\nto his joy, not only was the body identified, but, owing to the swampy\nnature of the ground, it was found to be in an almost complete state of\npreservation. There was something wonderfully impressive in the grave\naspect and calm, gentle tone of the venerable man, as with his precious\ncharge he passed through New York on his way home. In a letter to Mrs.\nPrentiss, dated January 2d, 1866, he himself tells the story of the\nre-interment at Williamstown:\n\n... After stopping a minute at my door the wagon passed at once to\nthe cemetery, and the remains were deposited in the tomb. This was on\nThursday. After consulting with my brother and his son (the chaplain) I\ndetermined to wait till the Sabbath before the interment. Accordingly,\nat 3 o'clock--after the afternoon service--the remains of my dear boy\nwere placed beside those of his mother. The services were simple, but\nsolemn in a high degree. They were opened by an address from Harry.\nPrayer followed by Rev. Mr. Noble, now supplying the desk here. He\nprefaced his prayer by saying that he never saw Edward but once, when he\npreached at Williamstown at a communion and saw him sitting beside me\nand partaking with me. Singing then followed by the choir of which Eddy\nwas for a long time a member. The words were those striking lines of\nMontgomery:\n\n  Go to the grave in all thy glorious prime, etc.\n\nAfter which the coffin was lowered to its place by young men who were\nfriends of Edward in his earlier years.\n\nThe state of the elements was exceedingly favorable to the holding of\nsuch an exercise in the open air at a season generally so inclement.\nThe night before there was every appearance of a heavy N. E. storm. But\nSabbath morning it was calm. As I went to church I noticed that the sun\nrested on the Vermont mountains just north of us, though with a mellowed\nlight as if a veil had been thrown over them. In the after part of the\nday the open sky had spread southward--so that the interment took place\nwhen the air was as mild and serene as spring, just as the last sun\nof the year was sinking towards the mountains. Almost the entire\ncongregation were present.... Thus, dear sister, I have given you a\nbrief account of the solemn but peaceful winding up of what has been to\nme a sharp and long trial, and I know to yourself and family also. In\neternity we shall more clearly read the lesson which even now, in the\nlight of opening scenes, we are beginning to interpret.\n\n\n[1] Richard H. Dana, the poet.\n\n[2] The article referred to appeared in The Biblical Repository and\nQuarterly Observer for January, 1835. Vol V., pp. 1-32. It is entitled,\n\"What form of Law is best suited to the individual and social nature of\nman?\"\n\n[3] Mr. Ralph Waldo Emerson.\n\n[4] The article appeared in the New York Review for July, 1839.\n\n[5] Some passages from the little diaries referred to, together with\nfurther extracts from her literary journal, will be found in appendix D,\np. 541.\n\n[6] The Proclamation of Emancipation.\n\n[7] By Anna Warner.\n\n[8] By her friend, Mrs. Frederick G. Burnham.\n\n[9] \"The Little Corporal.\"\n\n[10] At Fredericksburg.\n\n[11] Referring to the sudden death of a young niece of Mrs. S.\n\n[12] This was written before the assassination of President Garfield.\n\n[13] The \"Rhapsody,\" referred to by Mr. Butler was preserved by a young\nlady of the party, and will be found in appendix E, p. 555.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nTHE PASTOR'S WIFE AND DAUGHTER OF CONSOLATION.\n\n1866-1868.\n\nI.\n\nHappiness as a Pastor's Wife. Visits to Newport and Williamstown\nLetters. The great Portland Fire. First Summer at Dorset. The new\nParsonage occupied. Second Summer at Dorset. _Little Lou's Sayings and\nDoings_. Project of a Cottage. Letters. _The Little Preacher_. Illness\nand Death of Mrs. Edward Payson and of Little Francis.\n\n\nWe now enter upon the most interesting and happiest period of Mrs.\nPrentiss's experience as a pastor's wife. The congregation of the Church\nof the Covenant had been slowly forming in \"troublous times\"; it was\ncomposed of congenial elements, being of one heart and one mind; some of\nthe most cultivated families and family-circles in New York belonged to\nit; and Mrs. Prentiss was much beloved in them all. What a help-meet\nshe was to her husband and with what zeal and delight she fulfilled her\noffice, especially that of a daughter of consolation, among his people,\nwill soon appear.\n\nHow ignorant we often are, at the time, of the turning-points in our\nlife! We inquire for a summer boarding-place and decide upon it without\nany thought beyond the few weeks for which it was engaged; and yet,\nperhaps, our whole earthly future or that of those most dear to us,\nis to be vitally affected by this seemingly trifling decision. So it\nhappened to Mrs. Prentiss in 1866. Early in May her husband and his\nbrother-in-law, Dr. Stearns, went, at a venture, to Dorset, Vt., and\nthere secured rooms for their families during the summer. But little did\neither she, or they, dream that Dorset was to be henceforth her summer\nhome and her resting-place in death! [1]\n\nThe Portland fire, to which reference is made in the following letters,\noccurred on the 4th of July, and consumed a large portion of the city.\n\n_To Miss Mary B. Shipman, Dorset, July 25, 1866._\n\nNever in my life did I live through such a spring and early summer as\nthis! As to business and bustle, I mean. You must have given me up as a\nlost case! But I have thought of you every day and longed to hear\nhow you were getting on, and whether you lived through that dreadful\nweather. Annie went with the children to Williamstown about the middle\nof June; I nearly killed myself with getting them ready to go and could\nsee the flesh drop off my bones. George and I went to Newport on what\nMrs. Bronson called our \"bridal trip,\" and stayed eleven days. Mr. and\nMrs. McCurdy were kindness personified. We came home and preached on\nthe first Sunday in July, and then went to Greenfield Hill to spend the\nFourth with Mrs. Bronson. [2] That nearly finished me, and then I went\nto Williamstown on that hot Friday and was quite finished on reaching\nthere, to hear about the fire in Portland. Did you ever hear of anything\nso dreadful? I did not know for several days but H. and C. were burnt\nout of house and home; most of my other friends I knew were, and can\nthere be any calamity like being left naked, hungry and homeless,\neverything gone forever.... But let no one say a word that has a roof\nover his head. All my father's sermons were burned, the house where\nmost of us were born, his church, etc. Fancy New Haven stripped of its\nshade-trees, and you can form some idea of the loss of Portland in\nthat respect. Well, I might go on talking forever, and not have said\nanything. [3] The heat upset G. and we have been fighting off sickness\nfor a week, I getting wild with loss of sleep. We are enchanted with\nDorset. We are so near the woods and mountains that we go every day and\nspend hours wandering about among them. If there is any difference, I\nthink this place even more beautiful than Williamstown; it suits us\nbetter as a summer retreat, from its great seclusion. I am, that is we\nare, mean enough to want to keep it as quiet and secluded as it is\nnow, by not letting people know how nice it is; a very few fashionably\ndressed people would just spoil it for us. So keep our counsel, you dear\nchild.\n\nA few days later she writes to Mrs. Smith, then in Europe:\n\nOn the sixth, a day of fearful heat, I went to Williamstown, where I\nfound all the children as well as possible, but heard the news of the\nPortland fire which almost killed me. All my father's manuscripts are\ndestroyed; we always meant to divide them among us and ought to have\ndone it long ago. I heard of any number of injudicious babies as taking\nthe inopportune day succeeding the fire to enter on the scene of\ndesolation; all born in tents. I am sorry my children will never see my\nfather's church, nor the house where I was born; but private griefs are\nnothing when compared with a calamity that is so appalling and that must\nsend many a heart homeless and aching to the grave. I spent two weeks at\nWilliamstown, when George came for me, and the weather cooling off, we\nhad a comfortable journey here. We are perfectly delighted with Dorset;\nthe sweet seclusion is most soothing, and the house is very pleasant.\nMr. and Mrs. F. are intelligent, agreeable people, and do all they can\nto make us comfortable. The mountains are so near that I hear the\ncrows cawing in the trees. We are making pretty things and pressing an\nunheard-of quantity of ferns. We go to the woods regularly every morning\nand stay the whole forenoon. In the afternoon we rest, read, write,\netc.; sometimes we drive and always after tea George walks with me about\ntwo miles. I hope the war is not impeding your movements. I suppose you\nwill call this a short letter, but I think it is as long as is good for\nyou. All my dear nine pounds gained at Newburgh have gone by the board.\n_August 20th._--I am sorry you had such hot weather in Paris, but hope\nit passed off as our heat did. Dr. Hamlin's two youngest daughters have\nbeen here, and came to see me; they are both interesting girls, and the\nelder of the two really brilliant. They had never been here before, and\nwere carried away with the beauties of their mother's birthplace. I wish\nyou could see my room. Every pretty thing grows here and has come to\ncheer and beautify it. The woods are everywhere, and as for the views,\noh my child! However, I do not suppose anything short of Mt. Blanc will\nsuit you now.\n\nIn April, 1867, the parsonage on Thirty-fifth street was occupied. It\nhad been built more especially for her sake, and was furnished by the\ngenerosity of her friends. Her joy in entering it was completed by a\n\"house-warming,\" at the close of which a passage of Scripture was read\nby Prof. Smith, \"All hail the power of Jesus's name\" sung, and then the\nblessing of Heaven invoked upon the new home by that holy man of God,\nDr. Thomas H. Skinner. Here she passed the next six years of her life.\nHere she wrote the larger portion of \"Stepping Heavenward.\" And here the\ncup of her domestic joy, and of joy in her God and Saviour often ran\nover. Here, too, some of her dearest Christian friendships were formed\nand enjoyed.\n\nThe summer of 1867 was passed at Dorset. In less than a month of it\nshe wrote one of her best children's books, _Little Lou's Sayings and\nDoings_; and much of the remainder was spent in discussing with her\nhusband the project of building a cottage of their own. In a letter to\nher cousin, Miss Shipman, dated Sept. 21, she writes:\n\nWe have had our heads full all summer, of building a little cottage\nhere. We are having a plan made, and have about fixed on a lot. We are\nrather tired of boarding; George hates it, and Dorset suits us as well,\nI presume, as any village would. It is a lovely spot, and the people\nare as intelligent as in other parts of New England. The Professor is\ndisappointed at our choosing this rather than Williamstown, but it would\nbe no rest to us to go there. We have not decided to build; it may turn\nout too expensive; but we have taken lots of comfort in talking about\nit. We have been on several excursions, one of them to the top of\nEquinox. It is a hard trip, fully six miles walking and climbing. I have\namused myself with writing some little books of the Susy sort: four in\nless than a month, A.'s sickness taking a good piece of time out of that\nperiod. They are to appear, or a part of them, in the Riverside next\nwinter, and then to be issued in book-form by Hurd and Houghton. This\nwill a good deal more than furnish our cottage and what trees and shrubs\nwe want, so that I feel justified in undertaking that expense. We had\ntwo weeks at Newport before we came here, and Mr. and Mrs. McCurdy\noverwhelmed us with kindness, paying our traveling expenses, etc., and\nkeeping up one steady stream of such favors the whole time. I never\nsaw such people. How delightful it must be to be able to express such\nbenevolence! Well; you and I can be faithful in that which is least, at\nany rate.\n\nWe have all had plenty to read all summer, and have sat out of doors\nand read a good deal. I am going now to carry a little wreath to a\nmissionary's wife who is spending the summer here; a nice little woman;\nthis will give me a three miles walk and about use up the rest of the\nforenoon. In the afternoon I have promised to go to the woods with the\nchildren, all of whom are as brown as Indians. My room is all aflame\nwith two great trees of maple; I never saw such a beautiful velvety\ncolor as they have. We have just had a very pleasant excursion to a\nmountain called Haystack, and ate our dinner sitting round in the grass\nin view of a splendid prospect.... I have thus given you the history of\nour summer, as far as its history can be written. Its ecstatic joys have\nnot been wanting, nor its hours of shame and confusion of face; but\nthese are things that can not be described. What a mystery life is, and\nhow we go up and down, glad to-day and sorrowful to-morrow! I took real\nsolid comfort thinking of you and praying for you this morning. I love\nyou dearly and always shall. Good-bye, dear child.\n\nThe \"four little books\" afford a good illustration of the ease and\nrapidity with which she composed. When once she had fixed upon a\nsubject, her pen almost flew over the paper. Scarcely ever did she\nhesitate for a thought or for the right words to express it. Her\nmanuscript rarely showed an erasure or any change whatever. She\ngenerally wrote on a portfolio, holding it upon her knees. Her pen\nseemed to be a veritable part of herself; and the instant it began to\nmove, her face glowed with eager and pleasurable feeling. \"A kitten\n(she wrote to a maiden friend) a kitten without a tail to play with,\na mariner without a compass, a bird without wings, a woman without a\nhusband (and fifty-five at that!) furnish faint images of the desolation\nof my heart without a pen.\" But although she wrote very fast, she never\nbegan to write without careful study and premeditation when her subject\nrequired it.\n\nAbout this time _The Little Preacher_ appeared. The scene of the story\nis laid in the Black Forest. Before writing it she spent a good deal of\ntime in the Astor Library, reading about peasant life in Germany. In a\nletter from a literary friend this little work is thus referred to:\n\nI want to tell you what a German gentleman said to me the other day\nabout your \"Little Preacher.\" He was talking with me of German peasant\nlife, and inquired if I had read your charming story. He was delighted\nto find I knew you, and exclaimed enthusiastically: \"I wish I knew her!\nI would so like to thank her for her perfect picture. It is a miracle of\ngenius,\" he added, \"to be able thus to portray the life of a _foreign_\npeople.\" He is very intelligent, and so I know you will be pleased with\nhis appreciation of your book. He said if he were not so poor, he would\nbuy a whole edition of the \"Little Preacher\" to give to his friends.\n\nDuring the autumn of this year her sister-in-law, Mrs. Edward Payson,\ndied after a lingering, painful illness. The following letter, dated\nOctober 28, was written to her shortly before her departure:\n\nI have been so engrossed with sympathy for Edward and your children,\nthat I have but just begun to realise that you are about entering on a\nstate of felicity which ought, for the time, to make me forget them.\nDear Nelly, _I congratulate you with all my heart._ Do not let the\nthought of what those who love you must suffer in your loss, diminish\nthe peace and joy with which God now calls you to think only of Himself\nand the home He has prepared for you. Try to leave them to His kind,\ntender care. He loves them better than you do; He can be to them more\nthan you have been; He will hear your prayers and all the prayers\noffered for them, and as one whom his mother comforteth, so will He\ncomfort them. We, who shall be left here without you, can not conceive\nthe joys on which you are to enter, but we know enough to go with you to\nthe very gates of the city, longing to enter in with you to go no more\nout. All your tears will soon be wiped away; you will see the King in\nHis beauty; you will see Christ your Redeemer and realise all He is and\nall He has done for you; and how many saints whom you have loved on\nearth will be standing ready to seize you by the hand and welcome you\namong them! As I think of these things my soul is in haste to be gone;\nI long to be set free from sin and self and to go to the fellowship\nof those who have done with them forever, and are perfect and entire,\nwanting nothing. Dear Nelly, I pray that you may have as easy a journey\nhomeward as your Father's love and compassion can make for you; but\nthese sufferings at the worst can not last long, and they are only the\nmessengers sent to loosen your last tie on earth, and conduct you to the\nsweetest rest. But I dare not write more lest I weary your poor worn\nframe with words. May the very God of peace be with you every moment,\neven unto the end, and keep your heart and mind stayed upon Him!\n\nMrs. Payson had been an intimate friend of her childhood, and was\nendeared to her by uncommon loveliness and excellence of character. The\nbereaved husband, with his little boy, passed a portion of the ensuing\nwinter at the parsonage in New York. There was something about the\nchild, a sweetness and a clinging, almost wild, devotion to his father,\nwhich, together with his motherless state, touched his aunt to the quick\nand called forth her tenderest love. Many a page of Stepping Heavenward\nwas written with this child in her arms; and perhaps that is one secret\nof its power. When, not very long afterwards, he went to his mother,\nMrs. Prentiss wrote to the father:\n\nOnly this morning I was trying to invent some way of framing my little\npicture of Francis, so as to see it every day before my eyes. And now\nthis evening's mail brings your letter, and I am trying to believe what\nit says is true. If grief and pain could comfort you, you would be\ncomforted; we all loved Francis, and A. has always said he was too\nlovely to live. How are you going to bear this new blow? My heart aches\nas it asks the question, aches and trembles for you. But perhaps you\nloved him so, that you will come to be willing to have him in his dear\nmother's safe keeping; will bear your own pain in future because through\nyour anguish your lamb is sheltered forever, to know no more pain, to\nsuffer no more for lack of womanly care, and is already developing into\nthe rare character which made him so precious to you. Oh do try to\nrejoice for him while you can not but mourn for yourself. At the longest\nyou will not have long to suffer; we are a short-lived race.\n\nBut while I write I feel that I want some one to speak a comforting word\nto me; I too am bereaved in the death of this precious child, and my\nsympathy for you is in itself a pang. Dear little lamb! I can not\nrealise that I shall never see that sweet face again in this world; but\nI shall see it in heaven. God bless and comfort you, my dear afflicted\nbrother. I dare not weary you with words which all seem a mockery; I can\nonly assure you of my tenderest love and sympathy, and that we all feel\nwith and for you as only those can who know what this child was to you.\nI am going to bed with an aching heart, praying that light may spring\nout of this darkness. Give love from us all to Ned and Will. Perhaps Ned\nwill kindly write me if you feel that you can not, and tell me all about\nthe dear child's illness.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nII.\n\nLast Visit from Mrs. Stearns. Visits to old Friends at Newport and\nRochester. Letters. Goes to Dorset. _Fred and Maria and Me_. Letters.\n\n\nThe life of a pastor's wife is passed in the midst of mingled gladness\nand sorrow. While somebody is always rejoicing, somebody, too, is always\nsick or dying, or else weeping. How often she goes with her husband from\nthe wedding to the funeral, or hurries with him from the funeral to the\nwedding. And then, perhaps, in her own family circle the same process\nis repeated. The year 1868 was marked for Mrs. Prentiss in an unusual\ndegree by the sorrowful experience. The latter part of May Mrs. Stearns,\nthen suffering from an exhausting disease, came to New York and spent\nseveral weeks in hopes of finding some relief from change of scene. But\nher case grew more alarming; she passed the summer at Cornwall on the\nHudson in great pain and feebleness, and was then carried home to lie\ndown on her dying bed.\n\n_To Mrs. Stearns, Newport, July 7, 1868._\n\nWe had a dreadful time getting here; I did not sleep a wink; there\nwere 1,250 passengers on board, almost piled on each other, and such\nscreaming of babies it would be hard to equal. There are lots of people\nhere we know; ever so many stopped to speak to us after church. We are\nin the midst of a perfect world of show and glitter. But how many empty\nhearts drive up and down in this gay procession of wealth and fashion!\n\nI shall think of you a good deal to-day, as setting forth on your\njourney and reaching your new home. I do hope you will find it\nrefreshing to go up the river, and that your rooms will be pleasant and\nairy. We shall be anxious to hear all about it.\n\nIt is a constant lesson to be with Mrs. McCurdy. I think she is a true\nChristian in all her views of life and death. Her sweet patience,\ncheerfulness and contentment are a continual reproof to me. Here she\nis so lame that she can go nowhere--a lameness of over twenty\nyears--restricted to the plainest food, liable to die at any moment, yet\nthe very happiest, sunniest creature I ever saw. She says, with tears,\nthat God has been _too good_ to her and given her too much; that\nshe sometimes fears He does not love her because He gives her such\nprosperity. I reminded her of the four lovely children she had lost.\n\"Yes,\" she says, \"but how many lovely ones I have left!\" She says that\nthe long hours she has to spend alone, on account of her physical\ninfirmities, are never lonely or sad; she sings hymns and thinks over to\nherself all the pleasures she has enjoyed in the past, in her husband\nand children and devoted servants. She goes up to bed singing, and I\nhear her singing while she dresses. She said, the other day, that at\nher funeral she hoped the only services would be prayers and hymns of\npraise. I think this very remarkable from one who enjoys life as she\ndoes. [4]\n\n_To the Same, Newport, July 20._\n\nGeorge and I went to Rochester, taking M. with us, last Wednesday and\ngot back Friday night. We had one of those visits that make a mark in\none's life; seeing Mr. and Mrs. Leonard, and Mrs. Randall, and Miss\nDeborah, [5] so fond of us, and all together we were stirred up as we\nrarely are, and refreshed beyond description. We rowed on Mr. Leonard's\nbeautiful, nameless lake, fished, gathered water-lilies, ate black\nHamburg grapes and broiled chickens, and wished you had them in our\nplace. Mr. L.'s mother is a sweet, calm old lady, with whom I wanted to\nhave a talk about Christian perfection, in which she believes; but there\nwas no time. It was a great rest to unbend the bow strung so high here\nat Newport, where there is so much of receiving and paying visits. I\nhave been reading a delightful French book, the history of a saintly\nCatholic family of great talent and culture, six of whom, in the course\nof seven years, died the most beautiful, happy deaths. I am going to\nmake an abstract of it, for I want everybody I love to get the cream of\nit. You would enjoy it; I do not know whether it has been translated.\n\n_To the Same, Dorset, July 26._\n\nHere begins my first letter to you from your old room, whence I hope to\nwrite you regularly every week. That is the one only little thing I can\ndo to show how truly and constantly I sympathise with you in your sore\nstraits. It distresses me to hear how much you are suffering, and at the\nsame time not to be near enough to speak a word of good cheer, or to do\nanything for your comfort. It grieves me to find how insecure my health\nis, for I had promised to myself to be your loving nurse, should any\nturn in your disease make it desirable. Miss Lyman boards here, but\nrooms at the Sykes', and her friend Miss Warner is also here, but rooms\nout. Miss W. is in delicate health, takes no tea or coffee, and is full\nof humor. We have run at and run upon each other, each trying to get\nthe measure of the other, and shall probably end in becoming very good\nfriends.\n\nIt is a splendid day, and we feel perfectly at home, only missing you\nand finding it queer to be occupying your room. What a nice room it is!\nHow I wish you were sitting here with me behind the shade of these maple\ntrees, and that I could know from your own lips just how you are in body\nand mind. But I suppose the weary, aching body has the soul pretty well\nenchained. Never mind, dear, it won't be so always; by and by the tables\nwill be turned, and you will be the conqueror. I like to think that far\nless than a hundred years hence we shall all be free from the law of sin\nand death, and happier in one moment of our new existence, than through\na whole life-time here. Rest must and will come, sooner or later, to you\nand to me and to all of us, and it will be glorious. You may have seen a\nnotice of the death of Prof. Hopkins' mother at the age of ninety-five.\nBut for this terribly hot weather, I presume she might have lived to be\none hundred.\n\nI shall not write you such a long letter again, as it will tire you, and\nif you would rather have two short ones a week, I will do that. Let me\nknow if I tire you. Now good-bye, dear child; may God bless and keep you\nand give you all the faith and patience you need.\n\n_To Miss Mary B. Shipman, Dorset, Aug. 2, 1868._\n\nWe spent rather more than two weeks at Newport, taking two or three days\nto run to Rochester, Mass., to see some of our old New Bedford friends.\nWe had a charming time with them, as they took us up just where they\nleft us nearly twenty years ago. Oh, how our tongues did fly! We left\nNewport for home on Tuesday night about two weeks ago. I went on board\nand went to bed as well as usual, tossed and turned a few hours, grew\nfaint and began to be sick, as I always am now if I lose my sleep; got\nout of bed and could not get back again, and so lay on the floor all\nthe rest of the night without a pillow, or anything over me and nearly\nfrozen. The boys were asleep, and anyhow it never crossed my mind to let\nthem call George, who was in another state-room. He says that when he\ncame in, in the morning, I looked as if I had been ill six months, and I\nam sure I felt so. Imagine the family picture we presented driving from\nthe boat all the way home, George rubbing me with cologne, A. fanning\nme, the rest crying! On Saturday more dead than alive I started for this\nplace, and by stopping at Troy four or five hours, getting a room and a\nbed, I got here without much damage.\n\nOur house is very pretty, and I suppose it will be done by next year.\nOh, how they do poke! George is so happy in watching it, and in working\nin his woods, that I am perfectly delighted that he has undertaken this\nproject. It may add years to his life. Imagine my surprise at receiving\nfrom Scribner a check for one hundred and sixty-four dollars for six\nmonths of Fred and Maria and Me. The little thing has done well, hasn't\nit? I feel now as if I should never write, any more; letter-writing is\nonly talking and is an amusement, but book-writing looks formidable.\nExcuse this horrid letter, and write and let me know how you are.\nMeanwhile collect grasses, dip them in hot water, and sift flour over\nthem. Good-bye, dear.\n\n_Fred and Maria and Me_ first appeared anonymously in the Hours at Home,\nin 1865. It had been written several years before, and, without the\nknowledge of Mrs. Prentiss, was offered by a friend to whom she had\nlent the manuscript, to the Atlantic Monthly and to one or two other\nmagazines, but they all declined it. She herself thus refers to it in\na letter to Mrs. Smith, July 13: \"I have just got hold of the Hours at\nHome. I read my article and was disgusted with it. My pride fell below\nzero, and I wish it would stay there.\" But the story attracted instant\nattention. \"Aunt Avery\" was especially admired, as depicting a very\nquaint and interesting type of New England religious character in the\nearlier half of the century. Such men as the late Dr. Horace Bushnell\nand Dr. William Adams were unstinted in their praise. In a letter to\nMrs. Smith, dated a few months later, Mrs. Prentiss writes: \"Poor old\nAunt Avery! She doesn't know what to make of it that folks make so much\nof her, and has to keep wiping her spectacles. I feel entirely indebted\nto you for this thing ever seeing the light.\" When published as a book,\n_Fred and Maria and Me_ was received with great favor, and had a wide\ncirculation. In 1874 a German translation appeared. [6] Although no\nattempt is made to reproduce the Yankee idioms, much of the peculiar\nspirit and flavor of the original is preserved in this version.\n\n_To Mrs. H. B. Smith, Dorset, August 4, 1868._\n\nMiss Lyman says I have no idea of what Miss W. really is; she looks as\nif she would drop to pieces, can not drive out, far less walk, and every\nword she speaks costs her an effort. Miss Lyman is not well either; and\nwhat with their health and mine, and A.'s, I see little of them. But\nwhat I do see is delightful, and I feel it to be a real privilege to get\nwhat scraps of their society I can. Our house proves to be far prettier\nand more tasteful than I supposed. I am writing up lots of letters, and\nif I ever get well enough, shall try to begin on my Katy once more. But\nsince reading the R\u00e9cit d'une Soeur, I am disgusted with myself and my\nwritings. I ache to have you read it. Miss Lyman and Miss Warner send\nlove to you. I do not like Miss L.'s hacking cough, and she says she\ndoes not believe Miss W. will live through the winter. Among us we\ncontrive to keep up a vast amount of laughter; so we shall probably live\nforever.\n\n_August 18th._--I have enjoyed Miss Lyman wonderfully, but want to\nget nearer to her. I see that she is one who does not find it easy to\nexpress her deepest and most sacred feelings. I read Katy to her and\nMiss W., as they were kind enough to propose I should, and they made\nsome valuable suggestions to which I shall attend if I ever get to\nfeeling able to begin to write again. I am as well as ever save in one\nrespect, and that is my sleep; I do not sleep as I did before I left\nhome, while I ought to sleep better, as I work several hours a day in\nthe woods, in fact do almost literally nothing else.... But after all,\nwe are having the nicest time in the world. I have not seen George so\nlike himself for many years; he lives out of doors, pulls down fences,\npicks up brushwood, and keeps happy and well. I feel it a real mercy\nthat his thoughts are agreeably occupied this summer, as otherwise he\nwould be incessantly worried about Anna. We work together a good deal;\nthis morning I spoiled a new hatchet in cutting down milkweed where our\nkitchen garden is to be and we are literally raising our Ebenezer, which\nwe mean to conceal with vines in due season. George is just as proud of\nour woods as if he created every tree himself. The minute breakfast is\nover the boys dart down to the house like arrows from the bow, and there\nthey are till dinner, after which there is another dart and it is as\nmuch as I can do to get them to bed; I wonder they don't sleep down\nthere on the shavings. The fact is the whole Prentiss family has got\nhouse on the brain. There, this old letter is done, and I am going to\nbed, all black and blue where I have tumbled down, and as tired as tired\ncan be.\n\n_Aug. 28th._--I made a fire in MY woods yesterday, and another to-day,\nwhen I melted glue, and worked at my rustic basket, and felt extremely\nhappy and amiable.\n\n_Sept. 13th._--Miss Warner told me to-night that she thought my Katy\nstory commonplace at the beginning, but that she changed her mind\nafterward. Of course I wrote a story about that marigold of G----\nW----'s and I am dying to inflict it on you. Then if you like it,\nhurrah!\n\n_To Miss Woolsey, Dorset, Aug. 13, 1868._\n\nI was right glad to get your letter yesterday, and to learn a little\nof your whereabouts and whatabouts. You may imagine \"him\" as seated,\nspectacles on nose, reading The Nation at one end of the table, and\n\"her\" as established at the other. This table is homely, but has a\nliterary look, got up to give an air to our room; books and papers are\nartistically scattered over it; we have two bottles of ink apiece, and a\nbox of stamps, a paper cutter and a pen-wiper between us. Two inevitable\nvases containing ferns, grasses, buttercups, etc., remind us that we are\nin the country, and a \"natural bracket\" regales our august noses with\nan odor of its own. A can of peaches without any peaches in it, holds\na specimen of lycopodium, and a marvelous lantern that folds up into\nnothing by day and grows big at night, brings up the rear. But the most\nwonderful article in this room is a bookcase made by \"him,\" all himself,\nin which may be seen a big volume of Fenelon, Taylor's Holy Living and\nDying, the R\u00e9cit d'une Soeur, which have you read? Les Soir\u00e9es de Saint\nPetersbourg, Prayers of the Ages, a volume of Goethe, Aristotle's Ethics\nand some other Greek books; the Life of Mrs. Fry, etc. etc. Such a queer\nhodge-podge of books as we brought with us, and such a book-case! The\nfirst thing \"he\" ever made for \"her\" in his mortal life.\n\nOur house isn't done, and what fun to watch it grow, to discuss its\nmerits and demerits, to grab every check that comes in from magazine and\nelsewhere, and turn it into chairs and tables and beds and blankets!\nThen for \"them boys,\" what treasures in the way of bits of boards, and\nwhat feats of climbing and leaping! Above all, think of \"him\" in an old\nbanged-in hat, and \"her\" in a patched old gown, gathering brushwood in\ntheir woods, making it up into heaps, and warming themselves by the\nfires it is agoing for to make.\n\n\"Stick after stick did Goody pull!\"\n\nMr. P. is unusually well. His house is the apple of his eye, and he is\nrenewing his youth. Thus far the project has done him a world of good.\n\n_To Mrs. Stearns, Dorset, September 13, 1863._\n\nYesterday Mr. F. and George drove somewhere to look at sand for mortar,\nand the horse took fright and wheeled round and pitched George out,\nbruising him in several places, but doing no serious harm. But I shudder\nwhen I think how the meaning might be taken out of everything in this\nworld, for me, at least, by such an accident. He preached all day\nto-day; in the afternoon at Rupert. I find my mission-school a good deal\nof a tax on time and strength, and it is discouraging business, too. One\nof the boys, fourteen years old, found the idea that God loved him so\nirresistibly ludicrous, that his face was a perfect study. I often think\nof you as these \"active limbs of mine\" take me over woods and fields,\nand remind myself that the supreme happiness of my father's life came to\nhim when he called himself what you call yourself--a cripple. If it is\nnot an expensive book, I think you had better buy A Sister's Story, of\nwhich I wrote to you, as it would be a nice Sunday book to last some\ntime; the Catholicism you would not mind, and the cultivated, high-toned\nChristian character you would enjoy.\n\nThe boys complain, as George and I do, that the days are not half long\nenough. They have got their bedsteads and washstands done, and are now\ngoing to make couches for George and myself, and an indefinite number of\nother articles.\n\n_Sept. 20th._--I am greatly relieved, my dear Anna, to hear that you\nhave got safely into your new home, and that you like it, and long to\nsee you face to face. George has no doubt told you what a happy summer\nwe have had. It has not been unmingled happiness--that is not to be\nfound in this world--but in many ways it has been pleasant in spite of\nwhat infirmities of the flesh we carry with us everywhere, our anxiety\nabout and sympathy with you, and the other cares and solicitudes that\nare inseparable from humanity. I had a great deal of comfort in seeing\nMiss Lyman while she was here, and in knowing her better, and now I am\nfinding myself quite in love with her intimate friend, Miss Warner, who\nhas been here all summer. A gentler, tenderer spirit can not exist.\nMrs. F.'s brother was here with his wife, some weeks ago, and they were\nsummoned home to the death-bed of their last surviving child. Mrs. F.\nread me a letter yesterday describing her last hours, which were really\ntouching and beautiful, especially the distributing among her friends\nthe various pretty things she had made for them during her illness, as\nparting gifts. I suppose this will be my last letter from Dorset and\nfrom your old room. Well, you and I have passed some happy hours under\nthis roof. Good-bye, dear, with love to each and all of your beloved\nones.\n\n_To Miss Eliza A. Warner, Dorset, Sept. 27, 1868._\n\nI was so nearly frantic, my dear Fanny, from want of sleep, that I could\nnot feel anything. I was perfectly stupid, and all the way home from\nEast Dorset hardly spoke a word to my dear John, nor did he to me. [7]\nThe next day he said such lovely things to me that I hardly knew whether\nI was in the body or out of it, and then came your letter, as if to make\nmy cup run over. I longed for you last night, and it is lucky for your\nfrail body that can bear so little, that you were not in your little\nroom at Mrs. G.'s; but not at all lucky for your heart and soul. I hope\nGod will bless us to each other. It is not enough that we find in our\nmutual affection something cheering and comforting. It must make us more\nperfectly His. What a wonderful thing it is that coming here entire\nstrangers to each other, we part as if we had known each other half a\ncentury!\n\nI am not afraid that we shall get tired of each other. The great point\nof union is that we have gone to our Saviour, hand in hand, on the\nsupreme errand of life, and have not come away empty. All my meditations\nbring me back to that point; or, I should rather say, to Him. I came\nhere praying that in some way I might do something for Him. The summer\nhas gone, and I am grieved that I have not been, from its beginning to\nits end, so like Him, so full of Him, as to constrain everybody I met to\nlove Him too. Isn't there such power in a holy life, and have not some\nlived such a life? I hardly know whether to rejoice most in my love for\nHim, or to mourn over my meagre love; so I do both.\n\nWhen I think that I have a new friend, who will be indulgent to my\nimperfections, and is determined to find something in me to love, I am\nglad and thankful. But when, added to that, I know she will pray for me,\nand so help my poor soul heavenward, it does seem as if God had been\ntoo good to me. You can do it lying down or sitting up, or when you are\namong other friends. It is true, as you say, that I do not think much of\n\"lying-down prayer\" in my own case, but I have not a weak back and do\nnot need such an attitude. And the praying we do by the wayside, in cars\nand steamboats, in streets and in crowds, perhaps keeps us more near to\nChrist than long prayers in solitude could without the help of these\nlittle messengers, that hardly ever stop running to Him and coming back\nwith the grace every moment needs. You can put me into some of these\nsilent petitions when you are too tired to pray for me otherwise.\n\nI have been writing this in my shawl and bonnet, expecting every instant\nto hear the bell toll for church, and now it is time to go. Good-bye,\ndear, till by and by.\n\nWell, I have been and come, and--wonder of wonders!--I have had a little\ntiny bit of a very much needed nap. Mr. Pratt gave us a really good\nsermon about living to Christ, and I enjoyed the hymns. We have had a\ntalk, my John and I, about death, and I asked him which of us had better\ngo first, and, to my surprise, he said he thought _I_ should. I am sure\nthat was noble and unselfish in him. But I am not going to have even a\nwish about it. God only knows which had better go first, and which stay\nand suffer. Some of His children _must_ go into the furnace to testify\nthat the Son of God is there with them; I do not know why I should\ninsist on not being one of them. Sometimes I almost wish we were not\nbuilding a house. It seems as if it might stand in the way, if it should\nhappen I had a chance to go to heaven. I should almost feel mean to do\nthat, and disappoint my husband who expects to see me so happy there.\nBut oh, I do so long to be perfected myself, and to live among those\nwhose one thought is Christ, and who only speak to praise Him!\n\nI like you to tell me, as you do in your East Dorset letter, how you\nspend your time, etc. I have an insatiable curiosity about even the\nouter life of those I love; and of the inner one you can not say too\nmuch. Good-bye. We shall have plenty of time in heaven to say all we\nhave to say to each other.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIII.\n\nReturn to Town. Death of an old Friend. Letters and Notes of Love and\nSympathy. An Old Ladies' Party. Scenes of Trouble and Dying Beds. Fifty\nYears old. Letters.\n\n\nHer return to town brought with it a multitude of cares. The following\nmonths drew heavily upon her strength and sympathies; but for all that\nthey were laden with unwonted joy. The summer at Dorset had been a very\nhappy one. While there she had finished _Stepping Heavenward_ and on\ncoming back to her city home, the cheery, loving spirit of the book\nseemed still to possess her whole being. Katy's words at its close were\nevidently an expression of her own feelings:\n\nYes, I love everybody! That crowning joy has come to me at last. Christ\nis in my soul; He is mine; I am as conscious of it as that my husband\nand children are mine; and His Spirit flows forth from mine in the\ncalm peace of a river, whose banks are green with grass, and glad with\nflowers.\n\n_To Miss Eliza A. Warner, New York, Oct. 5, 1868_\n\nThis is the first moment since we reached home, in which I could write\nto you, but I have had you in my heart and in my thoughts as much as\never. We had a prosperous journey, but the ride to Rupert was fearfully\ncold. I never remember being so cold, unless it was the night I reached\nWilliamstown, when I went to my dear sister's funeral.... I have told\nyou this long story to try to give you a glimpse of the distracted life\nthat meets us at our very threshold as we return home. And now I'm going\nto trot down to see Miss Lyman, whom I shall just take and hug, for I am\nso brimful of love to everybody that I must break somebody's bones, or\nburst. John preached _delightfully_ yesterday; I wanted you there to\nhear. But all my treasures are in earthen vessels; he seems all used up\nby his Sunday and scarcely touched his breakfast. I don't see how his or\nmy race can be very long, if we live in New York. All the more reason\nfor running it well. And what a blessed, blessed life it is, at the\nworst! \"Central peace subsisting at the heart of endless agitation.\"\nGood-bye, dear; consider yourself embraced by a hearty soul that\nheartily loves you, and that soul lives in E. P.\n\nOn the 25th of October Mr. Charles H. Leonard, an old and highly\nesteemed friend, died very suddenly at his summer home in Rochester,\nMass. He was a man of sterling worth, generous, large-hearted, and\nendeared to Mrs. Prentiss and her husband by many acts of kindness. He\nwas one of the founders of the Church of the Covenant and had also aided\nliberally in building its pleasant parsonage.\n\n_To Miss Eliza A. Warner, New York, Oct. 26, 1868._\n\nI am reminded as I write my date, that I am fifty years old to-day. My\nJohn says it is no such thing, and that I am only thirty; but I begin to\nfeel antiquated, dilapidated, and antediluvian, etc., etc.\n\nI write to let you know that we are going to Rochester, Mass., to attend\nthe funeral of a dear friend there. It seems best for me to risk the\nwear and tear of the going and the coming, if I can thereby give even a\nlittle comfort to one who loves me dearly, and who is now left without\na single relative in the world. For twenty-four years these have been\nfaithful friends, loving us better every year, members of our church\nin New Bedford, Mercer street, and then here. They lived at Rochester\nduring the summer and we visited them there (you may remember my\nspeaking of it) just before we went to Dorset. Mrs. Leonard was then\nfeeling very uneasy about her husband, but he got better and seemed\nabout as usual, till last Tuesday, when he was stricken down with\nparalysis and died on Saturday. Somebody said that spending so large a\nportion of my time as I do in scenes of sorrow, she wondered God did not\ngive me more strength. But I think He knows just how much to give. I\nhave been to Newark twice since I wrote you. Mrs. Stearns is in a very\nsuffering condition; I was appalled by the sight; appalled at the\nweakness of human nature (its physical weakness). But I got over that,\nand had a sweet glimpse at least of the _eternal_ felicity that is to be\nthe end of what at longest is a brief period of suffering. I write her\na little bit of a note every few days. I feel like a ball that now is\ntossed to Sorrow and tossed back by Sorrow to Joy. For mixed in with\nevery day's experience of suffering are such great, such unmerited\nmercies.\n\nTwo or three of the little notes follow:\n\nMY DEAREST ANNA :-I long to be with you through the hours that are\nbefore you, and to help cheer and sustain you in the trial of faith and\npatience to which you are called. But unless you need me I will not\ngo, lest I should be the one too many in your state of excitement and\nsuspense. We all feel anxiety as to the result of the incision, but\ntake comfort in casting our care upon God. May Christ Jesus, our dear\nSaviour, who loves and pities you infinitely more than any of us do,\nbe very near you in this season of suspense. I would gladly exchange\npositions with you if I might, and if it were best; but as I may not,\nand it is not best, because God wills otherwise, I earnestly commend\nyou to His tender sympathy. If He means that you shall be restored to\nhealth, He will make you happy in living; if He means to call you home\nto Himself, He will make you happy in dying. Dear Anna, stay yourself\non Him: He has strength enough to support you, when all other strength\nfails. Remember, as Lizzy Smith said, you are \"encompassed with\nprayers.\"\n\n_Friday Afternoon_,\n\nMY DEAR ANNA :-I send you a \"lullaby\" for next Sunday, which I met with\nat Dorset, and hope it will speak a little word and sing a little song\nto you while the rest are at church. How I do wish I could see you every\nday! I feel restless with longing; but you are hardly able to take any\ncomfort in a long visit and it is such a journey to make for-a short\none! But, as I said the other day, if at any time you feel a little\nstronger and it would comfort you even a little bit to see me, I will\ndrop everything and run right over. It seems hard to have you suffer\nso and do nothing for you. But don't be discouraged; pain can't last\nforever.\n\n  \"I know not the way I am going\n  But well do I know my Guide!\n  With a childlike trust I give my hand,\n  To the mighty Friend at my side.\n  The only thing that I say to Him\n  As He takes it, is, 'Hold it fast.\n  Suffer me not to lose my way,\n  And bring me home at last!'\"\n\nMY DEAR ANNA:-I feel such tender love and pity for you, but I know you\nare too sick to read more than a few words.\n\n  \"In the furnace God may prove thee,\n  Thence to bring thee forth more bright\n  But can never cease to love thee:\n  Thou art precious in His sight!\"\n            Your ever affectionate LIZZY.\n\n_To Mrs. Lenard, Friday, Oct. 30, 1858._\n\nWe got home safely last evening before any of the children had gone to\nbed, and they all came running to meet us most joyfully. This morning I\nam restless and can not set about anything. It distresses me to think\nhow little human friendship can do for such a sorrow as yours. When a\nsufferer is on the rack he cares little for what is said to him though\nhe may feel grateful for sympathy. I found it hard to tear myself away\nfrom you so soon, but all I could do for you there I could do all along\nthe way home and since I have got here: love you, be sorry for you, and\nconstantly pray for you. I am sure that He who has so sorely afflicted\nyou accepts the patience with which you bear the rod, and that when this\nfirst terrible amazement and bewilderment are over, and you can enter\ninto communion and fellowship with Him, you will find a joy in Him that,\nhard as it is to the flesh to say so, transcends all the sweetest and\nbest joys of human life. You will have nothing to do now but to fly to\nHim. I have seen the time when I could hide myself in Him as a little\nchild hides in its mother's arms, and so have thousands of aching\nhearts. In all our afflictions He is afflicted. But I must not weary you\nwith words. May God bless and keep you, and fully reveal Himself unto\nyou!\n\n_To Miss. E. A. Warner, New York, Nov. 2, 1868._\n\nI have been lying on the sofa in my room, half asleep, and feeling\nrather guilty at the lot of gas I was wasting, but too lazy or too tired\nto get up to turn it down. Your little \"spray\" hangs right over the head\nof my bed, an it was it was slightly dilapidated by its journey hither,\nI have tucked in a bit of green fern with it to remind me that I was not\nalways in the sere and yellow leaf, but had a spring-time once. To think\nof your going for to go and write verses to me in my old age! I have\njust been reading them over and think it was real good of you to up and\nsay such nice things in such a nice way. I'd no idea you _could!_ We did\nnot come home from Rochester through Boston; if we had done so I meant\nto go and see you. I made it up in many loving thoughts to you on our\ntwelve hours' journey. Poor Mrs. L. met me with open arms, and I was\nthankful indeed that I went, though every word I said in the presence\nof her terrible grief, sounded flat and cold and dead. How little\nthe tenderest love and sympathy can do, in such sorrows! She was so\nbewildered and appalled by her sudden bereavement, that it was almost a\nmockery to say a word; and yet I kept saying what I _know_ is true, that\nChrist in the soul is better than any earthly joy. Both Mr. Prentiss and\nmyself feel the reaction which must inevitably follow such a strain.\n\nYou ask if I look over the past on my birthdays. I suppose I used to do\nit and feel dreadfully at the pitiful review, but since I have had the\nchildren's to celebrate, I haven't thought much of mine. But this time,\nbeing fifty years old, did set me upon thinking, and I had so many\nmercies to recount and to thank God for, that I hardly felt pangs of any\nsort. I suppose He controls our moods in such seasons, and I have done\ntrying to force myself into this or that train of thought. I am sure\nthat a good deal of what used to seem like repentance and sorrow for sin\non such occasions, was really nothing but wounded pride that wished it\ncould appear better in its own eyes. God has been so good to me! I wish\nI could begin to realise how good! I think a great many thoughts to you\nthat I can't put on paper. Life seems teaching some new, or deepening\nthe impression of some old, lesson, all the time.\n\nYou think A. may have looked scornfully at your little \"spray.\" Well,\nshe didn't; she said, \"What's that funny little thing perched up there?\nWell, it's pretty anyhow.\" Among the rush of visitors to-day were Miss\nHaines and the W----s. I fell upon Miss W. and told her about you,\nfuriously; then we got upon Miss Lyman, and it did my very soul good\nto hear Miss Haines praise and magnify her. Never shall I cease to be\nthankful for being with her at Dorset, to say nothing, dear, of you! Do\nyou know that there are twelve cases of typhoid fever at Vassar? and\nthat Miss Lyman is not as well as she was? I feel greatly concerned\nabout her, not to say troubled. I don't suppose I shall ever hear her\npray. But I shall hear her and help her praise. I don't believe a word\nabout there being different grades of saints in heaven. Some people\nthink it modest to say that they don't expect to get anywhere near so\nand so, they are so--etc., etc. But I expect to be mixed all up with the\nsaints, and to take perfect delight in their testimony to my Saviour.\n\nCan you put up with this miserable letter? Folks can't rush to Newark\nand to Rochester and agonise in every nerve at the sufferings of others,\nand be quite coherent. I have sense enough left to know that I love you\ndearly, and that I long to see you and to take sweet counsel with you\nonce more. Don't fail to give me the helping hand.\n\nThe following was written to Mrs. Stearns on her silver-wedding day,\nNov. 15:\n\nMY DEAREST ANNA: I have thought of you all day with the tenderest\nsympathy, knowing how you had looked forward to it, and what a contrast\nit offers to your bridal day twenty-five years ago. But I hope it has\nnot been wholly sad. You have a rich past that can not be taken from\nyou, and a richer future lies before you. For I can see, though through\nyour tears you can not, that the Son of God walks with you in this\nfurnace of affliction, and that He is so sanctifying it to your soul,\nthat ages hence you will look on this day as better, sweeter, than the\nday of your espousals. It is hard now to suffer, but after all, the\n_light_ affliction is nothing, and the _weight_ of glory is everything.\nYou may not fully realise this or any other truth, in your enfeebled\nstate, but truth remains the same whether we appreciate it or not; and\nso does Christ. Your despondency does not prove that He is not just as\nnear to you as He is to those who see Him more clearly; and it is better\nto be despondent than to be self-righteous. Don't you see that in\nafflicting you He means to prove to you that He loves you, and that you\nlove Him? Don't you remember that it is His son--not His enemy--that He\nscourgeth?\n\nThe greatest saint on earth has got to reach heaven on the same terms\nas the greatest sinner; unworthy, unfit, good-for-nothing; but saved\nthrough grace. Do cheer and comfort yourself with these thoughts, my\ndearest Anna, and your sick-room will be the happiest room in your\nhouse, as I constantly pray it may be! Your ever affectionate Lizzy.\n\n_To Miss E.A.W., New York, Nov. 17, 1868_\n\nYou ask how I sleep. I always sleep better at home than elsewhere; this\nis one great reason why we decided to have a home all the year round. I\nhave to walk four or five miles a day, which takes a good deal of time,\nthese short days, but there is no help for it. I do not think the time\nis lost when I am out of doors; I suppose Christ may go with us, _does_\ngo with us, wherever we go. But I am too eager and vehement, too anxious\nto be working all the time. Why, no, I don't think it _wrong_ to want to\nbe at work provided God gives us strength for work; the great thing is\nnot to repine when He disables us. I don't think, my dear, that you need\ntrouble yourself about my dying at present; it is not at all likely that\nI shall. I feel as if I had got to be _tested_ yet; this sweet peace, of\nwhich I have so much, almost startles me. I keep asking myself whether\nit is not a stupendous delusion of Satan and my own wicked heart. How I\nwish I could see you to-night! There is so much one does not like to put\non paper that one would love to say.\n\n_Thursday, 4 P.M._--Well, my lunch-party is over, and my sewing society\nis re-organised, and before I go forth to tea, let me finish and\nsend off this epistle. We had the Rev. Mr. and Mrs. Washburn, of\nConstantinople, Dr. Chickering, and Prof, and Mrs. Smith; gave them cold\nturkey, cold ham, cold ice-cream and hot coffee; that was about all, for\nsociety in New York is just about reduced down to eating and drinking\ntogether, after which you go about your business.\n\nI am re-reading Leighton on 1st Peter; I wonder if you like it as much\nas my John and I do! I hope your murderous book goes on well; then you\ncan take your rest next summer. Now I must get ready for my long walk\ndown and over to Ninth st., to see a tiny little woman, and English at\nthat. Her prayer at our meeting yesterday moved us all to tears.\n\n_To Miss Eliza A. Warner, New York, Nov. 25, 1868_\n\nMr. Prentiss complained yesterday that no letters came, an unheard-of\nevent in our family history, and this morning found _twelve_ sticking in\nthe top of the box; among them was yours, but I was just going off to my\nPrayer-meeting, and had to put it into my pocket and let it go too. I\nam glad you sent me Mrs. Field's letter and poem; she is a genius, and\nwrites beautifully. And how glad you must be to hear about your books. I\ncan't imagine what better work you want than writing. In what other way\ncould you reach so many minds and hearts? You must always send me such\nletters. Before I forget it, let me tell you of a real Thanksgiving\npresent we have just had; three barrels of potatoes, some apples, some\ndried apples, cranberries, celery, canned corn, canned strawberries, and\ntwo big chickens.\n\n_After church, Thursday._--I must indulge myself with going on with my\nletter, for after dinner I want to play with the children, and make this\nday mean something to them besides pies. For everybody spoke for pies\nthis year (you know we almost never make such sinful things) and they\nall said ice-cream wouldn't do at all, so yesterday I made fourteen of\nthese enormities, and mean to stuff them (the children, not the pies!)\nso that they won't want any more for a year. I want to tell you about\nsome pretty coincidences; we went to church in a dismal rain, and Mr.\nPrentiss preached on the _beauty_ of holiness, and every time he said\nanything that made sunshine particularly appropriate, the sun came in in\nfloods, then disappeared till the next occasion. For instance, he spoke\nof the sunshine of a happy home as so much brighter than that of the\nnatural sun, and the whole church was instantly illuminated; then he\nsaid that if we had each come there with ten million sorrows, Christ\ncould give us light, when, lo, the church glowed again; and so on\nhalf-a-dozen times, till at last he quoted the verse _\"And the Lamb\nis the light thereof,\"_ when a perfect blaze of effulgence made those\nmysterious, words almost startling. And then he wound up by describing\nthe Tyrolese custom on which Mrs. Field's poem is founded, which he\nhad himself seen and enjoyed, and of which, it seems, he spoke at East\nDorset last summer at the Sunday-school. [8] I read the poem and letter\nto him the instant we got home, and he admired them both. It was a\nlittle singular that her poem and his sermon came to me at almost the\nidentical moment, wasn't it?\n\nI must tell you about an old ladies' party given by Mrs. Cummings, wife\nof him who prepared my father's memoir. [9] She had had a fortune left\nto her and was all the time doing good with it, and it entered her head\nto get up a very nice supper for twenty-six old ladies, the youngest\nof whom was seventy-five (the Portland people rarely die till they're\nninety or so). She sent carriages for all who couldn't walk, and when\nthey all got together, the lady who described the scene to me, said it\nwas indescribably beautiful, all congratulating each other that they\nwere so far on in their pilgrimage and so near heaven! Lovely, wasn't\nit? I wish I could spend the rest of my life with such people! Then she\nspoke of Mrs. C.'s face during the last six months of her life, when it\nhad an expression so blest, so seraphic, that it was a delight to look\nupon it--and how she had all the members of the ladies' prayer-meeting\ncome and kiss her good-bye after she was too weak to speak.\n\nAnd now the children have got together again, and I must go and stay\nwith them till their bed-time, when, partly for the sake of the walk,\npartly because they asked us, we twain are going to see the Smiths.\nI rather think, my dear, that if, as you say, you could see all my\nthoughts, you would drop me as you would a hot potato. You would see\nmany good thoughts, I won't deny that, and some loving ones; but you\nwould also see an abominable lot of elated, conceited, horrid ones;\nself-laudation even at good planned to do, and admired before done. But\nGod can endure what no mortal eye could; He does not love us because we\nare so lovely, but because He always loves what He pities. I fall back\nupon this thought whenever I feel discouraged; I was going to say _sad_,\nbut that isn't the word, for I never do feel sad except when I've been\neating something I'd no business to! Good-bye, dearie.\n\n_To the Same, New York, Dec. 3, 1868._\n\nI think I must indulge myself, my dear, in writing to you to-night,\nit being really the only thing I want to do, unless it be to lie half\nasleep on the sofa. And that I can't do, for there's no sofa in the\nroom! The cold weather has made it agreeable to have a fire in the\ndining-room grate, and this makes it a cheerful resort for the children,\nespecially as the long table is very convenient for their books,\nmap-drawing, etc. And wherever the rest are the mother must be; I\nsuppose that is the law of a happy family, in the winter at least.\nThe reason I am so tired to-night is that I have been unexpectedly to\nNewark. I went, as soon as I could after breakfast, to market, and then\non a walk of over two miles to prepare myself for our sewing-circle! I\nmet our sexton as I was coming home, and asked him to see what ailed one\nof the drawers of my desk that wouldn't shut. We had a terrible time\nwith it, and I had to take everything out, and turn my desk topsy-turvy,\nand your letters and all my other papers got raving distracted, and all\nmixed up with bits of sealing-wax, old pens, and dear knows what not,\nwhen down comes A. from the school-room, to say that Mrs. Stearns had\nsent for me to come right out, thinking she was dying. I knew nothing\nabout the trains, always trusting to Mr. Prentiss about that, but in\nfive minutes I was off, and on reaching the depot found I had lost a\ntrain by ten minutes, and that there wouldn't be another for an hour.\nThen I had leisure to remember that Mr. P. was to get home from Dorset,\nthat I had left no message for him, had hid away all the letters that\nhad come in his absence, where he couldn't find them; that if it was\nnecessary for me to stay at Newark all night he would be dreadfully\nfrightened, etc., etc. Somehow I felt very blue, but at last concluded\nto get rid of a part of the time by hunting up some dinner at a\nrestaurant.\n\nWhen I at last got to Newark, I found that Mrs. Stearns' disease had\nsuddenly developed several unfavorable symptoms. She had made up her\nmind that all hope was over, had taken leave of her family, and now\nwanted to bid me good-bye. She held my hands fast in both hers, begging\nme to talk. I spoke freely to her about her death; she pointed up once\nto an illumination I gave her last spring: SIMPLY TO THY CROSS I CLING.\n\"That,\" she said, \"is all I can do.\" I said all I could to comfort her,\nbut I do not know whether God gave me the right word or not.\n\nOn my return, as I got out of the stage near the corner of our street,\nwhom should my weary eyes light on but my dear good man, just got\nhome from Dorset; how surprised and delighted we were to meet so\nunexpectedly! M. rushed to meet us, and afterward said to me, \"I have\nthree great reliefs; you have got home; papa has got home; and Aunt Anna\nis still alive.\" My children were never so lovely and loving as they\nare this winter; my home is almost too luxurious and happy; such\nthings don't belong to this world. We have just heard of the death in\nSwitzerland of Mr. Prentiss' successor at New Bedford, classmate of one\nof my brothers, and some one has sent a plaintive, sweet little dying\nsong written at Florence by him. Now I am too fagged to say another\nword.\n\n_Dec. 4th._--\"I do not get _any_ time to write; each day brings its own\nspecial work that can't be done to-morrow; as to letters, I scratch them\noff at odd moments, when too tired to do anything else. What a resource\nthey are! They do instead of crying for me. And how many I get every\nweek that are loving and pleasant!\n\nWhat do you think of this? I hope it will make you laugh--a lady told me\nshe never confessed her sins aloud (in prayer) lest Satan should find\nout her weak points and tempt her more effectually! And I want to ask\nyou if you ever offer to pray with people? I never do, and yet there are\ncases when nothing else seems to answer. Oh, how many questions of\nduty come up every hour, and how many reasons we have every hour to be\nashamed of ourselves!\n\n_Monday morning._--It was a shame to write to you, when I was so tired\nthat I could not write legibly, but my heart was full of love, and I\nlonged to be near you. Now Monday has come, a lowering, forbidding day,\nyet all is sunshine in my soul, and I hope that may make my home light\nto my beloved ones, and even reach you, wherever you are. I am going\nto run out to see how Mrs. Stearns is. Our plan is for me to make\narrangements to stay with her, if I can be of any use or comfort. I\nliterally love the house of mourning better than the house of feasting.\nAll my long, long years of suffering and sorrow make sorrow-stricken\nhomes homelike, and I can not but feel, because I know it from\nexperience, that Christ loves to be in such homes. So you may\ncongratulate me, dear, if I may be permitted to go where He goes. I\nwish you could have heard yesterday's sermon about God's having as\n_characteristic, individual_ a love to each of us as we have to our\nfriends. Think of that, dear, when you remember how I loved you in Mrs.\nG.'s little parlor! Can you realise that your Lord and Saviour loves you\ninfinitely more? I confess that such conceptions are hard to attain....\nCan't you do M---- S---- up in your next letter, and send her to me on\napprobation? Instead of being satisfied that I've got you, I want her\nand everybody else who is really good, to fill up some of the empty\nrooms in my heart. This is a rambling, scrambling letter, but I don't\ncare, and don't believe you do. Well, good-bye; thank your stars that\nthis bit of paper hasn't got any arms and can't hug you!\n\n_To Mrs. Leonard, New York, Dec. 13, 1868._\n\nThere is half an hour before bed-time, and I have been thinking of and\npraying for you, till I feel that I _must_ write. I forgot to tell you,\nhow the verses in my Daily Food, on the day of your dear husband's\ndeath, seem meant for you:\n\n\"Thou art my refuge and portion.\"--Ps. cxliii. 5.\n\n  'Tis God that lifts our comforts high,\n    Or sinks them in the grave;\n  He gives, and blessed be His name!\n    He takes but what He gave.\n\nThe Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away.--JOB i. 21.\n\nI have had this little book thirty-three years, it has travelled with me\nwherever I have been, and it has been indeed my song in the house of my\npilgrimage. This has been our communion Sunday, and I have been very\nglad of the rest and peace it has afforded, for I have done little\nduring the last ten days but fly from one scene of sorrow to another,\nfrom here to Newark and from Newark to Brooklyn.... So I have alternated\nbetween the two dying beds; yesterday Jennie P. went into a convulsion\njust as I entered the room, and did not fully come out of it for an hour\nand a half, when I had to come away in order to get home before pitch\ndark. What a terrible sight it is! They use chloroform, and that has a\nvery marked effect, controlling all violence in a few seconds. Whether\nthe poor child came out of that attack alive I do not know; I had no\ndoubt she was dying till just before I came away, when she appeared\neasier, though still unconscious. The family seem nearly frantic, and\nthe sisters are so upset by witnessing these turns, that I shall feel\nthat I must be there all I can. I am in cruel doubt which household to\ngo to, but hope God will direct.\n\nMr. Prentiss is a good deal withered and worn by his sister's state; he\nhad never, by any means, ceased to hope, and he is much afflicted. She\nand Jennie may live a week or more, or go at any moment. In my long\nhours of silent musing and prayer, as I go from place to place, I think\noften of you. I think one reason why we do not get all the love and\nfaith we sigh for is that we try to force them to come to us, instead of\nrealising that they must be God's free gifts, to be won by prayer....\nAnd now Mr. P. has come up-stairs rolled up in your afghan, and we have\ndecided to go to both Newark and Brooklyn to-morrow, so I know I ought\nto go to bed. You must take this letter as a great proof of my love to\nyou, though it does not say much, for I am bewildered by the scenes\nthrough which I am passing, and hardly fit therefore to write. What I\ndo not say I truly feel, real, deep, constant sympathy with you in your\nsorrow and loneliness. May God bless you in it.\n\n\n[1] Dorset is situated in Bennington county, about sixty miles from\nTroy and twenty-five miles from Rutland. Its eastern portion lies in a\ndeep-cut valley along the western slope of the Green Mountain range, on\nthe line of the Bennington and Rutland railroad. Its western part--the\nvalley in which Mrs. Prentiss passed her summers--is separated from East\nDorset by Mt. Aeolus, Owl's Head, and a succession of maple-crested\nhills, all belonging to the Taconic system of rocks, which contains the\nrich marble, slate, and limestone quarries of Western Vermont. In the\nnorth this range sweeps round toward the Equinox range, enclosing the\nbeautiful and fertile upland region called The Hollow. Dorset belonged\nto the so-called New Hampshire Grants, and was organised into a township\nshortly before the Revolutionary War. Its first settlers were largely\nfrom Connecticut and Massachusetts. They were a hardy, intelligent,\nliberty-loving race, and impressed upon the town a moral and religious\ncharacter, which remains to this day.\n\n[2] Mrs. Arthur Bronson, of New York. A life of Mrs. Prentiss would\nscarcely be complete without a grateful mention of this devoted friend\nand true Christian lady. She was the centre of a wide family circle, to\nall of whose members, both young and old, she was greatly endeared by\nthe beauty and excellence of her character. She died shortly after Mrs.\nPrentiss.\n\n[3] While supposing that her brothers had been burnt out and had,\nperhaps, lost everything, she wrote to her husband with characteristic\ngenerosity: \"If they did not kill themselves working at the fire, they\nwill kill themselves trying to get on their feet again. Every cent I\nhave I think should be given them. My father's church and everything\nassociated with my youth, gone forever! I can't think of anything else.\"\n\n[4] Mrs. McCurdy died at her home in New York in December, 1876. A few\nsentences from a brief address at the funeral by her old pastor will not\nbe here out of place. \"Her natural character was one of the loveliest\nI have ever known. Its leading traits were as simple and clear as\ndaylight, while its cheering effect upon those who came under its\ninfluence was like that of sunshine. She was not only very happy\nherself--enjoying life to the last in her home and her friends--but she\nwas gifted with a disposition and power to make others happy such as\nfalls to the lot of only a select few of the race. Her domestic and\nchurch ties brought her into relations of intimate acquaintance and\nfriendship with some of the best men of her times. I will venture to\nmention two of them: her uncle, the late Theodore Frelinghuysen, one of\nthe noblest men our country has produced, eminent alike as statesman,\nscholar, and Christian philanthropist; and the sainted Thomas H.\nSkinner, her former pastor. Her sick-room--if sick-room is the proper\nname--in which, during the last seventeen years, she passed so much of\nher time, was tinged with no sort of gloom; it seemed to have two doors,\none of them opening into the world, through which her family and friends\npassed in and out, learning lessons of patience and love and sweet\ncontentment: the other opening heavenward, and ever ajar to admit the\nmessenger of her Lord, in whatever watch he should come to summon her\nhome. The place was like that upper chamber facing the sunrising, and\nwhose name was _Peace_, in which Bunyan's Pilgrim was lodged on the way\nto the celestial city. How many pleasant and hallowed memories lead back\nto that room!\"\n\n[5] Old New Bedford friends.\n\n[6] Fritz und Maria und Ich. Von Mrs. Prentiss. Deutsche autorisirte\nAusgabe. Von Marie Morgenstern. Itzchoe, 1874.\n\n[7] She gave me the pet-name of \"Fanny\" because she did not like mine,\nand there was an old joke about \"John.\"--E. A. W.\n\n[8] The custom related to a pious salutation, with which two _friends_,\nor even _strangers_, greet each other, when meeting on the mountain\nhighways and passes in certain districts of Tyrol. _\"Gelobt sei Jesu\nChrist!\"_ cries one; _\"In Ewigkeit, Amen!\"_ answers the other (_i.e._,\n\"Praised be Jesus Christ!\" \"For evermore, Amen!\") The following lines\nare from Mrs. F.'s Poem:\n\n  \"When the poor peasant, alpenstock in hand,\n      Toils up the steep,\n  And finds a friend upon the dizzy height\n      Amid his sheep,\n\n  \"They do not greet each other as in our\n      Kind English way,\n  Ask not for health, nor wish in cheerful phrase\n       prosperous day;\n\n  \"Infinite thoughts alone spring up in that\n      Great solitude,\n  Nothing seems worthy or significant\n      But heavenly good;\n\n  \"So in this reverent and sacred form\n      Their souls outpour,--\n  Blessed be Jesus Christ's most holy name!\n      'For evermore!'\"\n\n[9] Rev. Asa Cummings, D.D., of Portland, for many years editor of the\nChristian Mirror; one of the weightiest, wisest and best men of his\ngeneration.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\nSTEPPING HEAVENWARD.\n\n1869.\n\nI.\n\nDeath of Mrs. Stearns. Her Character. Dangerous Illness of Prof. Smith.\nDeath at the Parsonage. Letters. A Visit to Vassar College. Letters.\nGetting ready for General Assembly. \"Gates Ajar.\"\n\n\nA little past three o'clock on Saturday afternoon, January 2, 1869, Anna\nS. Prentiss, wife of the Rev. Jonathan F. Stearns, D.D., fell asleep in\nJesus. The preceding pages show what strong ties bound Mrs. Prentiss to\nthis beloved sister. Their friendship dated back thirty years; it was\ncemented by common joys and common sorrows in some of their deepest\nexperiences of life; and it had been kept fresh and sweet by frequent\nintercourse and correspondence. Mrs. Stearns was a woman of uncommon\nattractions and energy of character. She impressed herself strongly\nupon all who came within the sphere of her influence; the hearts of her\nhusband's people, as well as his own and those of her children, trusted\nin her; and the whole community where she dwelt mourned her loss. She\nhad been especially endeared to her brother Seargent, with whom she\nspent several winters in the South prior to her marriage. Her influence\nover him, at a critical period of his life, was alike potent and happy;\ntheir relation to each other was, in truth, full of the elements of\nromance; and some of his letters to her are exquisite effusions of\nfraternal confidence and affection. [1] Her letters to him, beginning\nwhen she was a young girl and ending only with his life, would form a\nlarge volume. \"You excel any one I know,\" he wrote to her, \"in the\nkind and gentle art of letter-writing.\" In the midst of his early\nprofessional triumphs he writes:\n\nYou do not know what obligations I am under to you; I owe all my success\nin this country to the fact of having so kind a mother and such sweet\naffectionate sisters as Abby and yourself. It has been my only motive to\nexertion; without it I should long since have thrown myself away. Even\nnow, when, as is frequently the case, I feel perfectly reckless both\nof life and fortune, and look with contempt upon them both, the\nrecollection that there are two or three hearts that beat for me with\nreal affection, even though far away--comes over me as the music of\nDavid did over the dark spirit of Saul. I still feel that I have\nsomething worth living for.\n\nFor years her letters helped to cherish and deepen this feeling. He thus\nrefers to one of them:\n\nI can not tell how much I thank you for it. I cried like a child while\nreading it, and even now the tears stand in my eyes, as I think of its\nexpressions of affection, sympathy, and good sense.... I wish you were\nhere now--oh, how I do wish it! But you will come next fall, won't you?\nand be to me\n\n  The antelope whose feet shall bless\n  With her light step my loneliness.\n\n\nBut my candle burns low, and it is past the witching hour of night.\nWhether sleeping or waking, God bless you and our dear mother, and all\nof you. Good-night--good-night. My love loads this last line.\n\nTo Mrs. Prentiss and her husband, the death of Mrs. Stearns was an\nirreparable loss. It took out of their life one of its greatest earthly\nblessings.\n\nThe new year opened with another painful shock--the sudden and dangerous\nillness of her husband's bosom friend, Henry Boynton Smith. Prof. Smith\nwas to have made one of the addresses at the funeral of Mrs. Stearns;\nbut instead of doing so, he was obliged to take to his bed, and, soon\nafterwards, to flee for his life beyond the sea. To this affliction the\nreader is indebted for the letters to Mrs. Smith, contained in this\nchapter. On the 16th of February another niece of her husband, a sweet\nchild of seventeen, was brought to the parsonage very ill and died\nthere before the close of the month. Her letters will show how she was\naffected by these troubles.\n\n_To Mrs. Leonard, New York, Jan. 9, 1869._\n\nSo many unanswered letters lie piled on my desk that I hardly know which\nto take up first, but my heart yearns over you, and I can not help\nwriting you. No wonder you grow sadder as time passes and the beloved\none comes not, and comes not. I wish I could help you bear your burden,\nbut all I can do is to be sorry for you. The peaceable fruits of sorrow\ndo not ripen at once; there is a long time of weariness and heaviness\nwhile this process is going on; but I do not, will not doubt, that you\nwill taste these fruits, and find them very sweet. One of the hard\nthings about bereavement is the physical prostration and listlessness\nwhich make it next to impossible to pray, and quite impossible to feel\nthe least interest in anything. We must bear this as a part of the pain,\nbelieving that it will not last forever, for nothing but God's goodness\ndoes. How I wish you were near us, and that we could meet and talk and\npray together over all that has saddened our lives, and made heaven such\na blessed reality!\n\nThere is not much to tell about the last hours of our dear sister. She\nhad rallied a good deal, and they all thought she was getting well; but\nthe day after Christmas typhoid symptoms began to set in. I saw her on\nthe Monday following, found her greatly depressed, and did not stay\nlong. On Saturday morning, we got a dispatch we should have received\nearly on New Year's day, saying she was sinking. We hurried out, found\nher flushed and bright, but near her end, having no pulse at either\nwrist, and her hands and feet cold. She had had a distressing day and\nnight, but now seemed perfectly easy; knew us, gave us a glad welcome,\nreminded me that I had promised to go with her to the end, and kissed us\nheartily. Every time we went near her she gave us such a glad smile that\nit was hard to believe she was going so soon. She talked incessantly,\nwith no signs of debility, but it was the restlessness of approaching\ndeath.\n\nAt three in the afternoon they all came into the room, as they always\ndid at that hour. She said a few things, and evidently began to lose her\nsight, for as Lewis was about to leave the room, she said, \"Good-night,\nL.,\" and then to me, \"Why, Lizzy dear, you are not going to stay all\nnight?\" I said, \"Oh yes, don't you know I promised to stay with A., who\nwill be so lonely?\" She looked pleased, but greatly surprised, her mind\nbeing so weak, and in a few seconds she laid her restless hands on her\nbreast, her eyes became fixed, and the last gentle breaths began to come\nand go. \"Is the doctor here?\" she asked. We told her no, and then Mr. S.\nand the nurse, who were close each side of her, began to repeat a verse\nor two of Scripture; then seeing she was apparently too far gone to\nhear, Mr. S. leaned over and whispered, \"My darling!\" She made no\nresponse, on which he said, \"She can make no response,\" and she said,\n\"But I hear,\" gave one or two more gentle little breaths, and was gone.\nI forgot to say that after her eyes were fixed, hearing Mr. S. groan,\nshe _stopped dying_, turned and gave a parting look! I never saw an\neasier death, nor such a bright face up to the very last. One of the\ndoctors coming in, in the morning, was apparently overcome by the\nextraordinary smile she gave him, for he turned away immediately without\na word, and left the house. I staid, as they wished me to do, till\nMonday night, when I came home quite used up. Your sorrow, and the\nsorrow at Brooklyn, and now this one, have come one after another until\nit seemed as if there was no end to it; such is life, and we must bear\nit patiently, knowing the end will be the more joyful for all that\nsaddened the way.\n\nI shall always let you know if anything of special interest occurs in\nthe church or among ourselves. After loving you so many years, I am\nnot likely to forget you now. The addresses at Mrs. S.'s funeral will\nprobably be published, and we will send you a copy. Mr. P. is bearing\nup bravely, but feels the listlessness of which I spoke, and finds\nsermonising hard work. He joins me in love to you. Do write often.\n\n_To Miss Eliza A. Warner, New York, Feb. 16, 1869._\n\nOn coming home from church on Sunday afternoon I found one of the\nBrooklyn family waiting to tell us that another of the girls was very\nill, that they were all worn out and nearly frantic, and asking if she\nmight be brought here to be put under the care of some German doctor,\nas Dr. Smith had given her up. In the midst of my sorrow for the poor\nmother, I thought of myself. How could I, who had not been allowed to\ninvite Miss Lyman here, undertake this terrible care? You know what a\nfearful disease it is--how many convulsions they have; but you don't\nknow the harm it did me just seeing poor Jennie P. in one. Yesterday I\ntried hard to let God manage it, but I know I wished He would manage it\nso as to spare me; it takes so little to pull me down, and so little to\ndestroy my health. But I wasn't in a good frame, couldn't write a Percy\nfor the Observer, got a letter from some house down town, asking me to\nwrite them Susy books, got a London Daily News containing a nice notice\nof Little Lou, but nought consoled me. [2] In fact, I dawdled so long\nover H.'s lessons, which I always hear after breakfast, that I had not\nmy usual time to pray; and that, of itself, would spoil any day. After\ndinner came two of the Prentiss sisters to say that Dr. [Horatio] Smith\nsaid Eva's one chance of getting well was to come here for change of air\nand scene--would I take her and her mother? Of course I would. They\nthen told me that Dr. Smith had said his brother's case was perfectly\nhopeless. This upset me. My feet turned into ice and my head into a ball\nof fire. As soon as they left, I had the spare room arranged, and then\nwent out and walked till dark to cool off my head, but to so little\npurpose that I had a bad night; the news about Prof. S. was so dreadful.\nMr. Prentiss was appalled, too. I had to make this a day of rest--not\ndaring to work after such a night. Got up at seven or so, took my bath,\nrung the bell for prayers at twenty minutes of eight. After breakfast\nheard H.'s lessons, then read the 20th chapter of Matthew; and mused\nlong on Christ's coming to minister--not to be ministered unto. Prayed\nfor poor Mrs. Smith and a good many weary souls, and felt a little bit\nbetter. Then went down to Randolph's at the request of a lady, who\nwanted him to sell some books she had got up for a benevolent object. He\nsaid he'd take twelve. Then to the Smiths, burdened with my sad secret.\nGot home tired and depressed. Tried to get to sleep and couldn't, tried\nto read and couldn't.\n\nAt last they came with the sick girl, and one look at the poor, half-\nfainting child, and her mother's \"Nobody in the world but you would have\nlet us come,\" made them welcome; and I have rejoiced ever since that\n_God let_ them come. One of the first things they said took my worst\nburden off my back; the whole story about Prof. Smith was a dream! Can\nyou conceive my relief? We had dinner. Eva ate more than she had done\nfor a long time. We had a long talk with her mother after dinner; then I\nwent up to the sick-room and stayed an hour or so; then had a call; then\nran out to carry a book to a widowed lady, that I hoped would comfort\nher; then home, and with Eva till tea-time. Then had some comfort in\nlaying all these cares and interests in those loving Arms that are\nalways so ready to take them in. I enjoy praying in the morning best,\nhowever--perhaps because less tired; but sometimes I think it is owing\nto a sort of night-preparation for it; I mean, in the wakeful times of\nnight and early morning.\n\n_Wednesday, 17th_--While I was writing the above all the Brooklyn\nPrentisses went to bed, and we New York Prentisses went to the Sunday-\nschool rooms next door to a church-gathering. There are three rooms that\ncan be thrown together, and they were bright and fragrant with flowers,\nmost of which the young men sent me afterwards, exquisite things. I had\na precious talk with Dr. Abbot, one of whose feet, to say the least, is\nalready on the topmost round. I only wish he was a woman. The church was\nopen, and we all went in and listened to some fine music. Coming out\nI said to a gentleman who approached me, \"How is little baby?\" \"Which\nlittle baby?\" \"Why, the youngest.\" \"Oh, we haven't any baby.\" And lo! I\nhad mistaken my man! Imagine how _he_ felt and how _I_ felt! We got home\nat eleven P.M., and so ended my day of rest. I have 540 things to say,\nbut there is so much going on that I shall defraud you of them--aren't\nyou glad? Have you read the \"Gates Ajar\"? I have, with real pain. I do\nnot think you will be so shocked at it as I am, but hope you don't like\nit. It is full of talent, but has next to no Christ in it, and my heaven\nis full of Him. I have finished Faber. How queer he is with his 3's and\n5's and 6's and 7's! I feel all done up into little sums in addition,\nand that's about all I know of myself--he's bewildered me so. There are\nfine things in it, and I took the liberty of making a wee cross against\nsome of them, which you can rub out. Miss L. sent me another of his\nbooks, which I am reading now--\"All for Jesus.\"\n\n_To Mrs. Henry B. Smith, New York, March 22, 1869_\n\nWe were gladdened early this morning by the arrival of your letter,\nand the good news it contained. I had a dreadful fright on the day you\nreached Southampton. Mr. Moore sent up a cable dispatch announcing the\nfact, and as it came directed to both of us, and I supposed it to be\nfrom you, I thought some terrible thing had happened. I paraded down to\nM. with your letter, and she, at the same time, paraded up here with the\none to her and the rest. So we got all the news there was, and longed\nfor more. I hope the worst is now over. I have just got home from a\nvisit of four days and nights to Miss Lyman. I enjoyed it exceedingly,\nand wish I could tell you all about it, but can't in a letter. She has\nturns of looking absolutely _aged_, and seems a good deal of the time in\na perfect worry, I don't know what about. Otherwise she is better than\nlast summer. I never saw her when at work before, and perhaps she always\nappears so. We had two or three good rousing laughs, however, and that\ndid us both good. I did not know she was so fond of flowers; she buys\nthem and keeps loads of them about her parlors, library, and bedroom.\nWhat a world it is there! I only wish she was happier in her work, but\nperhaps if we could get behind the scenes, we should find all human\nworkers have their sorrows and misgivings and faintings. According to\nher I had an \"inquiry meeting\" once or twice; believe it if you can and\ndare. It was certainly very pleasant to get into such an intelligent\nChristian atmosphere, and on the whole I've got rather converted to\nVassar.\n\nI have been greatly delighted with a present of one of my father's cuff-\nbuttons (which I well remember), and a lock of his hair.... I haven't\ngot anything more to say. Oh, Mrs. ---- left that on her card here the\nother day, and we called on her this afternoon. What a jolly old lady\nshe is! Of course, anybody could believe in perfection who was as fat\nand well as she!\n\n_To Mrs. Leonard, New York, April 5, 1869_\n\nIf I should send you a letter every time I send you a thought, you would\nbe quite overwhelmed with them. Now that Mrs. S. has gone away, and some\nof my pressing cares are over, I miss you more than ever. We have had a\ngood deal to sadden us this winter, beginning with your sorrow, which\nwas also ours; and Eva P.'s death, occurring as it did in our house, was\na distressing one. She was here about a fortnight, and the first week\ncame down to her meals, though she kept in her room the rest of the\ntime. On Tuesday night of the second week she was at the tea-table, and\nplayed a duet with A. after tea. Soon after she was taken with distress\nfor breath, and was never in bed again, but sat nearly double in a\nchair, with one of us supporting her head. It was agonizing suffering\nto witness, and the care of her was more laborious than anyone can\nconceive, who did not witness or participate in it. We had at last to\nhave six on hand to relieve each other. She died on Saturday, after four\nterrible days and nights. We knew she would die here when they first\nproposed her coming, but did not like to refuse her last desire, and are\nvery glad we had the privilege of ministering to her last wants.... For\nyou I desire but one thing--a full possession of Christ. Let us turn\naway our eyes from everything that does not directly exalt Him in\nour affections; we are poor without Him, no matter what our worldly\nadvantages are; rich with Him when stripped of all besides. Still I know\nyou are passing through deep waters, and at times must well nigh sink.\nBut your loving Saviour will not let you sink, and He never loved you\nso well as He does now. How often I long to fly to you in your lonely\nhours! But I can not, and so I turn these longings into prayers. I hope\nyou pray for me, too. You could not give me anything I should value so\nmuch, and it is a great comfort to me to know that you love me. I care\nmore to be loved than to be admired, don't you? I hope that by next\nwinter you may feel that you can come and see us; I want to see you, not\nmerely to write to you and get answers. I send you a picture of our nest\nat Dorset. Good-bye.\n\n_To Miss E. A. Warner, New York, April 20, 1869_\n\nI opened your letter in the street, and was at once confronted with a\nworldly-looking bit of silk! How _can_ you! Why don't you follow my\nexample and dress in sackcloth and ashes? I think however, if you _will_\nbe worldly you have done it very prettily, and on the whole don't know\nthat it is any wickeder than I have been in translating a \"dramatic\npoem\" in five acts from the German, only you've got your dress done and\nI'm only half through my play; and there's no knowing how bad I shall\nget before I am through. I wonder if you are sitting by an open window,\nas I am, and roasting at that? I had a drive with A. and M. through the\nPark yesterday, and saw stacks of hyacinths in bloom, and tulips and\nviolets and dandelions; a willow-tree not far from my window has put\non its tender green, and summer seems close at hand. I have been to an\nauction and got cheated, as I might have known I should; and the\nother day I had my pocket picked. As to \"Gates Ajar,\" most people are\nenchanted with it; but Miss Lyman regards it as I do, and so do some\nother elect ladies. I have just written to see if she will come down and\nget a little rest, now the weather is so fine. Mr. P. has gone to Dorset\nto be gone all the week, and I am buying up what is to be bought,\nbegrudging every cent! mean wretch that I am.\n\nI have looked through and read parts of \"Patience Strong's Outings\"--an\nugly title, and a transcendental style, but beautiful in conception, and\ntaken off the stilts, in execution. I do not like the cant of Unitarians\nany better than they like ours, but I like what is elevating in any\nsect. I have had a present of a lot of table-linen, towels, etc., for\nDorset, and feel a good deal like a young housekeeper. I wonder how soon\nyou go back to Northampton? How queer it must be to be able to float\nround! It is a pity you could not float to New York, and get a good\nhugging from this old woman. We expect 250 ministers here in May at\ngeneral assembly (I ought to have spelt it with a big G and a big A). My\ndear child, what makes you get blue? I don't much believe in any blue\ndevils save those that live in the body and send sallies into the mind.\nPerhaps I should, though, if I had not a husband and children to look\nafter; how little one can judge for another!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nII.\n\nHow she earned her Sleep. Writing for young Converts about speaking the\nTruth. Meeting of the General Assembly in the Church of the Covenant.\nReunion. D.D.s and Strawberry Short-cake. \"Enacting the Tiger.\" Getting\nready for Dorset. Letters.\n\n\nThis year was one of the busiest of her life; and it were hard to say\nwhich was busiest, her body or mind; her hand, heart, or brain. This\nrelentless activity was caused in part by the increasing difficulty of\nobtaining sleep. Incessant work seemed to be, in her case, a sort of\nsubstitute for natural rest and a solace for the loss of it. She alludes\nto this constant struggle with insomnia in a letter to Miss Warner,\ndated May 9th:\n\nIf you knew the whole story you would not envy my power of driving about\nso much. You can lie down and sleep when you please; I must earn my\nsleep by hard work, which uses up so much time that I wonder I ever\naccomplish anything. I believe that God arranges our various burdens and\nfits them to our backs, and that He sets off a loss against a gain, so\nthat while some seem more favored than others, the mere aspect deceives.\nI have to make it my steady object throughout each day, so to spend time\nand strength as to obtain sleep enough to carry me through the next; it\nis thus I have acquired the habit of taking a large amount of exercise,\nwhich keeps me out of doors when I am longing to be at work within. You\nsay I seem to be always in a flood of joy; well, that too is _seems_. I\nthink I know what joy in God means, though perhaps I only begin to know;\nbut I am a weak creature; I fall into snares and get entangled--not\nnearly so often as I used to do, but still do get into them. I have a\nperfect horror of them; the thought of having anything come between God\nand my soul makes me so restless and uneasy that I hardly know which way\nto turn. I have been very much absorbed of late in various interests,\nand am sure they have contrived to occupy me too much; pressing cares do\nsometimes, and oh, how ashamed I am!\n\nDo write for young inquirers, if your heart prompts you to do it. I\ndon't know what to think of your suggestion that in writing for young\nconverts I should impress it upon them to speak the truth. It seems\nto me just like telling them not to commit murder; and that would be\nabsurd. Do Christians cheat and tell lies? I have a great aversion to\nwriting about such things; if children are not trained _at home_ to be\nupright and full of integrity, it can't be that books can rectify that\nloss. You may reply that home-training is defective in thousands of\ncases; yes, that is true, but I have a feeling that truth and honesty\nmust spring from a soil early prepared for them, and that a young person\nwho is in the _habit_ of falsehood is not a Christian and needs to go\nback to first principles. I can't endure subterfuges, misrepresentation,\nand the like; the whole foundation looks wrong when people indulge\nthemselves in them, and to say to a Christian, \"I hope you are\ntruthful,\" is to my mind as if I should say to him, \"I hope you wash\nyour face and hands every day.\" Now if your observation says I am wrong,\nlet's know; I am open to conviction.\n\n_To Mrs. H. B. Smith, New York, May 24, 1869._\n\nIt has just come to me that the true way to enjoy writing and to have\nyou enjoy hearing, is to keep a sort of journal, where little things\nwill have a chance to speak for themselves.\n\nWe are now in the midst of General Assembly. Mr. Stearns is here, and\nwe have sprinklings of ministers to dine and to tea at all sorts of odd\nhours.... I can't help loving what is Christlike in people, whether I\nlike their natural characters or not; after all, what else is there in\nthe world worth much love? My Katy seems to be ploughing her way with\nmore or less success, and making friends and foes. You, who helped\nme fashion her, would be interested in the letters I get from wives,\nshowing that the want of demonstration in men is a wide-spread evil,\nunder which women do groan being burdened. _Entre nous_, Mrs. Dr. ---- is\none, and I got a letter to-day from Michigan to the same effect. We are\nhaving delightful weather for the meetings. Yesterday morning Dr. John\nHall preached in our church, and it was crammed full to Overflowing....\nLew. S. [3] has decided to study theology. We are all glad. He and I\nhave got quite acquainted of late and talk most learnedly together. Did\nI tell you I have translated a German dramatic poem in five acts? Miss\nAnna Nevins says I have done it extremely well. I don't know about that,\nbut my whole soul got into it somehow, and I did not know whether I\nwas in the body or out of it for two or three weeks. I wish I could do\nthings decently and in order. There is to be a great party at Apollo\nHall this evening for both Assemblies. I am going and expect to get\ntired to death.\n\n_26th_--It was a brilliant scene at Apollo Hall. Everybody was there,\nand the hall was finely adapted to the purpose of accommodating the\n2,000 people present. The speeches were very poor. I went to the\nprayer-meeting this morning. The church was full, galleries and all, and\nthe spirit was excellent. Many men shed tears in speaking for reunion,\nand, from what Mr. Stearns reports of the meeting of the Committee\nlast night, union may be considered as good as restored. You will hear\nnothing else from me; it is all I hear talked about. _Monday, 3l_.--Hot\nas need be. Dr. B., of Brooklyn, dined with us; said he never ate\nstrawberry short-cake before, and was reading Katy. It is awful to think\nhow many D.D.s are doing it (eating short-cake, I mean, of course!) Hope\nthe Assembly will wind up to-night. _June 5_.--We are so glad you have\ngot to La Tour and find it so pleasant there, and that you have met Dr.\nand Mrs. Guthrie, and that they have met you instead of the blowsy-towsy\nAmerican women, who make one so ashamed of them. If I wasn't going to\nDorset, I should wish I were going where you are; but then, you see, I\n_am_ going to Dorset!... I have been to the Central Park with Mrs.\n---, who talked in one steady stream all the way. I was sleepy and\nthe carriage very noisy; and take it altogether, what a farce life is\nsometimes! the intercourse of human beings outsides touching outsides,\nthe heart and soul lying to all intents and purposes as dead as a\ndoor-nail. Do you ever feel mentally and spiritually alone in the world?\nPerhaps everybody does.\n\n_To Miss E. A. Warner, New York, June 4, 1869._\n\nI concluded you had gone and died and got buried without letting me\nknow, when your letter reached me _via_ Dorset. What possessed you\nto send it there when you knew, you naughty thing! that I was\nhaving General Assembly, I can't imagine; but I suppose, being a\nCongregationalist, you thought General Assembly wasn't nothing, and that\nI could entertain squads of D.D.s for a fortnight more or less, just as\nwell at Dorset as I could here. My dear, read the papers and go in the\nway you should go, and behave yourself! As if 250 ministers haven't worn\nstreaks in the grass round the church, haven't (some of 'em) been here\nto dinner and eaten my strawberry short-cake and cottage puddings and\npraised my coffee and drank two cups apiece all round, and as if I\nhadn't been set up on end for those of 'em to look at who are reading\nKaty, and as if going furiously to work, after they'd all gone,\ndidn't use me up and send me \"lopping\" down on sofas, sighing like a\nwhat's-its-name. Well, well; the ignorance of you country folks and the\nwisdom of us city folks! We hope to get to Dorset by the 17th of this\nmonth; it depends upon how many interruptions I have and how many days\nI have to lie by. I can't imagine why I break down so, for I don't know\nwhen I've been so well as during this spring; but Mr. P. and A. say I\nwork like a tiger, and I s'pose I do without knowing it. I am so glad\nyou had a pleasant Sunday. No doubt you had more bodily strength with\nwhich to enjoy spiritual things. A weak body hinders prayer and praise\nwhen the heart would sing, if it were not in fetters that cramp and\nexhaust it.\n\n_Monday_--To-day I have been enacting the tiger again, and worked\nfuriously. A. half scolds and half entreats, but I can't help it; if I\nwork I work, and so there it is. I have bought a dinner-set, and had a\nlong visit from my old Mary, who wept over and kissed me, and am going\nout to call on Mrs. Woolsey this evening. To-morrow A.'s scholars are to\ncome and make an address to her and give her a picture. She is not to\nknow it till they arrive. It is really cold after the very hot weather,\nand some are freezing and some have internal pains. I wish you could\nhave seen me this forenoon at work in the attic--a mass of dust,\nfeathers, and perplexity. I got hold of one of my John's innumerable\ntrunks of papers, and found among them the MSS. of several of my books\nlaid up in lavender, which I pitched into the ash-barrel. I suppose he\nthinks I may distinguish myself some time, and that the discerning world\nwill be after a scratch of my gifted pen! Have you read \"Gates Off the\nHinges\"? The next thing will be, \"There Aint no Gates.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIII.\n\nThe new Home in Dorset. What it became to her. Letters from there.\n\n\nA notable incident of this year was the entering upon housekeeping at\nDorset under her own roof. As is usual in such cases, the process was\nsomewhat wearisome and trying, but the result was most happy. All the\nbright anticipations, with which the event had been so long looked\nforward to, were more than realised. For the next ten summers the Dorset\nhome was to her a sweet haven of rest from the agitations, cares, and\nturmoil of New York life. It seemed at the time a venturesome, almost a\nrash thing, to build it; but when she left it for her home above, the\nbuilding of the house seemed to have been an inspiration of Providence.\nWhile contributing greatly to her happiness, it probably added several\nyears to her life. The four months which she passed each season at\nDorset were spent largely in the open air, and in such varied and\npleasant exercise as exerted the most healthful, soothing influence upon\nboth body and soul. It was just this fruit her husband hoped might, by\nthe blessing of Heaven, blossom out of the new home, and in later years\nhe used often to say to her, that if the place should be of a sudden\nannihilated, he should still feel that it had paid for itself many times\nover.\n\n_To Mrs. Smith, Dorset, July 19, 1869._\n\nHow many times during the last month I have been reminded of your saying\nyou had lived through the agony of getting your house ready to rent. I\ncan sum up all I have been through by saying that almost everything has\nturned out the reverse of what I expected. In the first place, I broke\ndown just as we were to start to come here, and had to be left behind to\npick up life enough to undertake the journey; then the car we chartered\ndid not get here for a week, and nobody but A. had anything to wear, and\nall my flowers died for want of water. The car, too, was broken into and\nmy idols of tin pans all taken, with some other things, and when it did\narrive it was unpacked, and our goods brought here, in a regular deluge,\nthe like of which has not been seen since the days of Noah. For days\neverything was in dire confusion; but for all that our own home was\ndelightful, and we had the most outrageous appetites you ever heard\nof. George is in ecstasies with his house, his land, his pig, and his\nhorse.... I hope you are not sick and tired of all this rigmarole;\nit isn't in human nature to move into a house of its own and talk of\nanything else. I got a warm-hearted letter a few days ago from the city\nof Milwaukee, from an unknown western sister, beginning, \"Whom not\nhaving seen I love,\" and going on to say that Katy describes herself\nand her lot exactly, only she had no Martha on hand. I get so many such\ntestimonies. I am going to spare your eyes and brains by winding up this\nepistle and going to bed. I do not think your husband ought to come home\ntill he has recovered his power of sleeping. I know how to pity him, if\nanybody does, and I know how loss of sleep cripples. Good-night, dear\nchild.\n\n  \"God bless me and my wife;\n  You and your wife,\n  Us four\n  And no more.\"\n\n_To Mrs. Leonard, Dorset, August 3, 1869._\n\nYour last letter endeared you to me more than ever, and I have longed to\nanswer it, but we have been in such a state of confusion that writing\nhas been a task. The whole house has been painted inside and out since\nwe entered it, and I dare say you know what endless uproar the flitting\nfrom room to room to accommodate painters, causes. We have just been\nadmitted to our parlor, but it is in no order, and the dining-room is\nstill piled with trunks. But the house is lovely, and we shall feel well\nrepaid for the severe labor it has cost us, when it is done and we can\nsettle down in it. I write to ask you to send me by express what numbers\nof Stepping Heavenward you have on hand. I would not give you the\ntrouble to do this if I could get them in any other way, but I can not,\nas all back numbers are gone, and the copy I have has been borrowed and\nworn, so as to be illegible in many places. Randolph is to publish the\nwork and says he wants it soon. I am constantly receiving testimonies as\nto its usefulness, and hope it will do good to many who have not seen it\nin the Advance.\n\nHow I do long to see you! I think of you many times every day, and thank\nGod that He enables you to glorify Him in bearing your great sorrow.\nSometimes I feel as if I _must_ see Mr. L.'s kind face once more, but I\nremind myself that by patiently waiting a little while, I shall see it\nand the faces of all the sainted ones who have gone before. Next to\nfaith in God comes patience; I see that more and more, and few possess\nenough of either to enable them to meet the day of bereavement without\ndismay. We are constantly getting letters from afflicted souls that can\nnot see one ray of light, and keep reiterating, \"I am not reconciled.\"\nHow fearful it must be to kick thus against the pricks, already sharp\nenough! I believe fully with you that there is no happiness on earth, as\nthere is none in heaven, to be compared with that of losing all things\nto possess Christ. I look back to two points in my life as standing out\nfrom all the rest of it as seasons of peculiar joy, and they are the\npoints where I was crushed under the weight of sorrow. How wonderful\nthis is, how incomprehensible to those who have not learned Christ!\nDo write me oftener; you are very dear to me, and your letters always\nwelcome. I love you for magnifying the Lord in the midst of your\ndistress; you could not get so into my heart in any other way.\n\n_To Mrs. Smith, Dorset, August 8, 1869._\n\nHalf of your chickens are safely here, well and bright, and settled I\nhope, for the summer. A., and M., who seems as joyous as a lark, are\nlike Siamese twins, with the advantage of untying at night and sleeping\nin different beds. I have not been well, and did not go to church\nto-day; but Prof. Robinson of Rochester, N. Y., preached a very superior\nsermon, George says. They have gone to our woods together. We took tea a\nfew nights ago at the Pratts, being invited to meet him and Mrs. R. They\nasked many questions about you and your husband. We find the Pratts\ncharming neighbors in their way, modest, kind, and good. They take the\nAdvance, read Katy, and like it.\n\n_Aug. 21st_--As we have only had sixteen in our family of late, I have\nnot had much to do. Yesterday we made up a party to the quarry and had\njust got seated, twenty-nine in all, to eat a very nice dinner, when it\nbegan to rain in floods. Each grabbed his plate, if he could, and rushed\nto a blacksmith's shop not far off; twenty or thirty workmen rushed\nthere too, and there we were, cooped up in the dirt, to finish our meal\nas we best could. It soon stopped pouring and we had a delightful drive\nhome. Mr. B. F. B., with two of his boys, was with us. He is charmed\nwith our house and its views. Katy has made her last appearance in the\nAdvance, but I keep getting letters about her from all quarters, and the\neditors say they have had hundreds. [4] H. has caught up with Hal and\nthey are exactly of a height, and I feel as if I had a dear little pair\nof twins. Last Sunday evening the three boys laid their heads in my lap\ntogether, all alike content.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIV.\n\nReturn to Town. Domestic Changes. Letters. \"My Heart sides with God in\neverything.\" Visiting among the Poor. \"Conflict isn't Sin.\" Publication\nof _Stepping Heavenward_. Her Misgivings about it. How it was received.\nReminiscences by Miss Eliza A. Warner. Letters. The Rev. Wheelock Craig.\n\n\nEarly in October she returned to town and began to make ready for the\ndeparture of her eldest daughter to Europe, where she was to pass the\nnext year with the family of Prof. Smith. The younger children had thus\nfar been taught by their sister, and her leaving home was fraught with\nno little trial both to them and to the mother.\n\n_To Mrs. Smith, New York, October 12._\n\nI can fully sympathise with the sad toss you are in about staying abroad\nanother year, but we feel that there is no doubt you have decided wisely\nand well. But the bare mention of your settling down at Vevay has driven\nus all wild. What hallucination could you have been laboring under?\nWhy, your husband would go off the handle in a week! To be sure it is\nbeautiful for situation as Mount Zion itself, but one can't live on\nbeauty; one must have life and action, and stimulus; in other words,\nhuman beings. They're all horrid (except you), but we can't do without\n'em. What I went through at lonely Genevrier!\n\n  \"Oh Solitude, where are the charms\n  That sages have seen in thy face!\"\n\nWe took it for granted that you would settle in some German city, near\nold friends; it is true, they mayn't be all you want, but anything is\nbetter than nothing, and you would stagnate and moulder all away at\nVevay. What is there there? Why, a lake and some mountains, and you\ncan't spend a year staring at them. Well, I dare say light will be let\nin upon you. I hope A. will behave herself; you must rule it over her\nwith a rod of iron (as if you could!), and make her stand round. Her\ngoing plunges us into a new world of care and anxiety and tribulation;\nwe have thrust our children out into, or on to, the great ocean, and are\nabout ready to sink with them. If I could sit down and cry, it would do\nme lots of good, but I can't. Then how am I to spare my twin-boy, and my\nA. and my M.? Who is to keep me well snubbed? Who is to tell me what to\nwear? Who is to keep Darby and Joan from settling down into two fearful\nold pokes?\n\nYour husband suggests that \"if I have a husband, etc.\" I have had one\nwith a vengeance. He has worked like seventeen mad dogs all summer, and\nI have hardly laid eyes on him. When I have, it has been to fight with\nhim; he would come in with a hoe or a rake or a spade in his hand, and\nfind me with a broom, a shovel, or a pair of tongs in mine, and without\na word we would pitch in and have an encounter. Of all the aggravating\ncreatures, hasn't he been aggravating! Sometimes I thought he had run\nraving distracted, and sometimes I dare say, he thought I had gone\nmelancholy mad. He persists to this day that the work did him good, and\nthat he enjoyed his summer. Well, maybe he did; I suppose he knows.\n\nHow glad I am for you that you are to have the children go to you. It\nseems to be exactly the right thing. I hope to get a copy of Katy to\nsend by the girls, but can't think of anything else. As A. is to be\nwhere you are, you will probably be kept well posted in the doings of\nour family. I do hope she will not be a great addition to your cares,\nbut have some misgivings as to the effect so long absence from home may\nhave upon her. What a world this is for shiftings and siftings!\n\n_To G. S. P. October, 1869._\n\nI always thought George McDonald a little audacious, though I like him\nin the main. There is a fallacy in this cavil, you may depend. Some\nyears ago, when I was a little befogged by plausible talk, Dr. Skinner\ncame to our house, got into one of his best moods, and preached a\nregular sermon on the glory of God, that set me all right again. I am\nnot skilled in argument, but my heart sides with God in everything, and\nmy conception of His character is such a beautiful one that I feel that\nHe can not err. I do not like the expression, \"He's aye thinking about\nhis own glory\" (I quote from memory); it belittles the real fact, and\nalmost puts the Supreme Being on a level with us poor mortals. The more\ntime we spend upon our knees, in real communion with God, the better\nwe shall comprehend His wonderful nature, and how impossible it is to\nsubmit that nature to the rules by which we judge human beings. Every\nturn in life brings me back to this--_more prayer_.... I shall go with\nmuch pleasure to see Mrs. G. and may God give me some good word to say\nto her. I almost envy you your sphere of usefulness, but unless I give\nup mine, can not get fully into it. I want you to know that next to\nbeing with my Saviour, I love to be with His sufferers; so that you can\nbe sure to remember me, when you have any on your heart.... P. S. I have\nhunted up Mrs. G. and had such an interesting talk with her that she has\nhardly been out of my mind since. It is a very unusual case, and the\nfact that her husband is a Jew, and loves her with such real romance, is\nan obstacle in her way to Christ. When you can get a little spare time\nI wish you would run in and let us talk her case over. I'm ever so glad\nthat I'm growing old every day, and so becoming better fitted to be the\ndear and loving friend to young people I want to be.\n\nI wish we both loved our Saviour better, and could do more for Him. The\ndays in which I do nothing specifically for Him seem such meagre, such\nlost days. You seemed to think, the last time I saw you, that you were\nnot so near Him as you were last year. I think we can't always know our\nown state. It does not follow that a season of severe conflict is a sign\nof estrangement from God. Perhaps we are never dearer to Him than when\nwe hate ourselves most, and fancy ourselves intolerable in His sight.\n_Conflict isn't sin._\n\n_To Miss E. A. Warner, New York, October 11, 1869._\n\nI hear with great concern that Miss Lyman's health is so much worse,\nthat she is about to leave Vassar. Is this true? I can not say I should\nbe very sorry if I should hear she was going to be called up higher. It\nseems such a blessed thing to finish up one's work when the Master\nsays we may, and going to be with Him. I can fully sympathise with the\nfeeling that made Mrs. Graham say, as she closed her daughter's eyes, \"I\nwish you joy, my darling!\" But I should want to see her before she went;\nthat would be next best to seeing her after she got back. If you meet\nwith a dear little book called \"The Melody of the 23d Psalm,\" do read\nit; it is by Miss Anna Warner, and shows great knowledge of, and love\nfor, the Bible. In a few weeks I shall be able to send you a copy of\nStepping Heavenward.\n\nWe have been home rather more than a week and the house is all upside\ndown, outwardly and inwardly. For A. sails for Europe on the 21st with\nM. and Hal Smith, to be gone a year, and this involves sending the other\nchildren to school, and various trying changes of the sort. Tossing my\nlong sheltered lambs into the world has cost me inexpressible pain; only\na mother can understand how much and why; and they, on their part, go\ninto it shrinking and quivering in every nerve. To their father, as well\nas to me, this has been a time of sore trial, and we are doing our best\nto keep each other up amid the discouragements and temptations that\nconfront us. For each new phase of life brings more or less of both.\n\n_Stepping Heavenward_ was published toward the end of October, having\nappeared already as a serial in the Chicago Advance. The first number of\nthe serial was printed February 4, 1869. The work was planned and the\nlarger part of it composed during the winter and spring of 1867-8.\nReferring more especially to this part of it, she once said to a friend:\n\"Every word of that book was a prayer, and seemed to come of itself.\nI never knew how it was written, for my heart and hands were full of\nsomething else.\" By \"something else\" she had in mind the care of little\nFrancis. The ensuing summer the manuscript was taken with her to Dorset,\ncarefully revised and finished before her return to the city. In\nrevising it she had the advantage of suggestions made by her friends,\nMiss Warner and Miss Lyman, both of them Christian ladies of the best\nculture and of rare good sense.\n\nNotwithstanding the favor with which the work had been received as\nissued in The Advance, Mrs. Prentiss had great misgiving about its\nsuccess--a misgiving that had haunted her while engaged in writing it.\nBut all doubt on the subject was soon dispelled:\n\nThe response to \"Stepping Heavenward\" was instant and general. Others of\nher books were enjoyed, praised, laughed over, but this one was taken by\ntired hands into secret places, pored over by eyes dim with tears, and\nits lessons prayed out at many a Jabbok. It was one of those books which\nsorrowing, Mary-like women read to each other, and which lured many a\nbustling Martha from the fretting of her care-cumbered life to ponder\nthe new lesson of rest in toil. It was one of those books of which\npeople kept a lending copy, that they might enjoy the uninterrupted\ncompanionship of their own. The circulation of the book was very large.\nNot to speak of the thousands which were sold here, it went through\nnumerous editions in England. From England it passed into Australia. It\nfell into the family of an afflicted Swiss pastor, and the comfort which\nit brought to that stricken household led to its translation into French\nby one of the pastor's daughters. It passed through I know not how many\neditions in French. [5] In Germany it came into the hands of an invalid\nlady who begged the privilege of translating it. The first word of a\nfavorite German hymn,\n\n  \"Heavenward doth our journey tend;\n  We are strangers here on earth,\"\n\nfurnished the title for the German translation--\"Himmelan.\" It appeared\njust after the French war, and went as a comforter into scores of the\nhomes which war had desolated, and frequent testimony came back to\nher of the deep interest excited by the book, and of the affectionate\ngratitude called out toward the author. She seemed to have inspired her\ntranslator, whose letters to her breathe the warmest affection and the\nmost enthusiastic admiration. It would be easy to fill up the time that\nremains with grateful testimonies to the work of this book. From among\na multitude I select only one: A manufacturer in a New England town, a\nstranger, wrote to her expressing his high appreciation of the book,\nand saying that he had four thousand persons in his employ, and a\ncirculating library of six thousand volumes for their use, in which were\ntwo copies of \"Stepping Heavenward.\" He adds, \"I hear in every direction\nof the good it is doing, and a wealthy friend has written to me saying\nthat she means to put a copy into the hand of every bride of her\nacquaintance.\" [6]\n\nSeveral chapters might be filled with letters received by Mrs. Prentiss,\nexpressing the gratitude of the writers for the spiritual help and\ncomfort _Stepping Heavenward_ had given them. These letters came from\nall parts of this country, from Europe, and even from the ends of the\nearth; and they were written by persons belonging to every class in\nsociety. Among them was one, written on coarse brown grocery paper,\nfrom a poor crippled boy in the interior of Pennsylvania, which she\nespecially prized. It led to a friendly correspondence that continued\nfor several years. The book was read with equal delight by persons not\nonly of all classes, but of all creeds also; by Calvinists, Arminians,\nHigh Churchmen, Evangelicals, Unitarians, and Roman Catholics. [7] It\nwas, however, wholly unnoticed by most of the organs of literary opinion\nin this country; although abroad it attracted at once the attention of\nmen and women well known in the world of letters, and was praised by\nthem in the highest terms. [8]\n\nMiss Eliza A. Warner, in the following Reminiscences, gives some\ninteresting incidents in reference to _Stepping Heavenward_.\n\nThat summer in Dorset--the summer of 1868--is one full of bright and\npleasant memories which it is delightful to recall. I had heard much of\nMrs. Prentiss from mutual friends, and been exceedingly interested in\nher books, so that when I found we were to be fellow-boarders for the\nsummer I was greatly pleased; yet I felt a little shy at meeting one of\nwhose superiority in many lines I had heard so much.\n\nHow well I remember that bright morning in July on which we first met on\nour way to the breakfast-table! I can hear now the frank, cheery voice\nwith which she greeted me, and see her large dark eyes, so full of\nanimation and kindly interest, which a moment after sparkled with fun as\nshe recalled an old joke familiar to my friends, and, it seemed, to her\nalso. I was put at my ease at once, and from that moment onward felt the\nwonderful fascination of a manner so peculiarly her own; it was a frank,\nwhole-souled, sincere manner, with a certain indescribable piquancy\nand sprightliness blending with the earnestness which made her very\nindividual and very charming.\n\nFor the next two months we were a good deal together. I think it was a\nvery happy summer to her. You were building the house in Dorset for a\nsummer home, and the planning for this and watching its progress was a\npleasant occupation. And she was such an enthusiastic lover of nature\nthat the out-of-door life she led was a constant enjoyment. She would\nspend hours rambling in the woods, collecting ferns, mosses, trailing\nvines, and every lovely bit of blossom and greenery that met her\neye--and nothing pretty escaped it--and there was always an added\nfreshness and brightness in her face when she came home laden with these\ntreasures, and eager to exhibit them. \"Oh, you don't go crazy over such\nthings as I do,\" she would say as she held them up for our admiration.\nShe filled her room with these woodland beauties, and pressed quantities\nof them to carry to her city home.\n\nIn that beautiful valley among the Green Mountains, some of whose near\nsummits rise to the height of three thousand feet, her enthusiasm for\nfine scenery had full scope. She would watch with delight the sunset\nglow as it spread and deepened along those mountain peaks, suffusing\nthem with a glory which we likened to that of the New Jerusalem; and as\nwe sat and watched this glory slowly fade, tint by tint, into the gray\ntwilight, her talk would be of heaven and holiness and Christ.\n\nWhatever she felt, she felt intensely, and she threw her whole heart and\nsoul into all she said or did; this was one great secret of the power of\nher personal presence; she felt so keenly herself, she made others feel.\n\nThose summer days were long and bright and beautiful, but none too long\nfor her. She was one of the most industrious persons I have ever known,\nand her writing, reading and sewing, and the care of her children,\nover the formation of whose characters she watched closely and wisely,\noccupied every moment of her time, except when she was out of doors,\ntrying by exercise in the open air to secure a good night's sleep; not\nan easy thing for her to do in those days.\n\nEarly in August we were joined by Miss Hannah Lyman, of Vassar College,\na mutual friend and a most delightful addition to our little party.\n\nWe knew Mrs. Prentiss spent a part of every day in writing, but she\nsaid nothing of the nature of her work. Do you remember coming into the\nparlor one morning, where Miss Lyman and I were sitting by ourselves,\nand telling us that she was writing a story, but had become so\ndiscouraged she threatened to throw it aside as not worth finishing?\n\"I like it myself,\" you added, \"it really seems to me one of the best\nthings she has ever written, and I am trying to get her to read it to\nyou and see what you think of it.\"\n\nOf course, both Miss Lyman and myself were eager to hear it, and\npromised to tell her frankly how we liked it. The next morning she came\nto our room with a little green box in her hand, saying, with her merry\nlaugh, \"Now you've got to do penance for your sins, you two wicked\nwomen!\" and, sitting down by the window, while we took our sewing, she\nbegan to read us in manuscript the work which was destined to touch and\nstrengthen so many hearts--\"which,\" to use the words of another, \"has\nbecome a part of the soul-history of many thousands of Christian\nwomen--young and old--at home and abroad.\"\n\nIt was a rare treat to listen to it, with comments from her\ninterspersed; some of them droll and witty, others full of profound\nreligious feeling. Now and then, as we queried if something was not\nimprobable or unnatural, she would give us bits of history from her own\nexperience or that of her friends, going to show that stranger things\nhad occurred in real life. I need not say we insisted on its being\nfinished, feeling sure it would do great good; though I must confess\nthat I do not think either of us, much as we enjoyed it, was fully aware\nof its great merits.\n\nI was much impressed by her singleness of purpose; her one great desire\nso evidently being that her writings should help others to know and to\nlove Christ and His truth, that she thought little or nothing of her own\nreputation.\n\nShe went on with her work, occasionally reading to us what she had\nadded. In those days she always spoke of it as her \"Katy book,\" no\nother title having been given to it. But one morning she came to the\nbreakfast-table with her face all lighted up. \"I've got a name for my\nbook,\" she exclaimed; \"it came to me while I was lying awake last night.\nYou know Wordsworth's Stepping Westward? I am going to call it Stepping\nHeavenward--don't you like it? I do.\" We all felt it was exactly the\nright name, and she added, \"I think I will put in Wordsworth's poem as a\npreface.\"\n\nOf the heart-communings on sacred things that made that summer so\nmemorable to me I can not speak; and yet, more than anything else, these\ngave a distinctive character to our intercourse. Her faith and love were\nso ardent and persuading, so much a part of herself, that no one could\nbe with her without recognising their power over her life. She was\ninterested in everything about her, without a particle of cant, full\nof playful humor and bright fancies; but the love of Christ was the\nabsorbing interest of her life--almost a passion, it might be called, so\nfervent and rapturous was her devotion to Him, so great her longing for\ncommunion with Him and for a more complete conformity to His perfect\nwill.\n\nAs I have said, all her emotions were intense and her religious\naffections had the same warmth and glow. Believing in Christ was to her\nnot so much a duty as the deepest joy of her life, heightening all other\njoys, and she was not satisfied until her friends shared with her in\nthis experience. She believed it to be attainable by all, founded on a\ncomplete submitting of the human to the Divine will in all things, great\nand small.\n\nTruly of her it might be said, if of any human being, \"_she hath loved\nmuch_.\"\n\n_To Mrs. Smith, New York, Nov. 16, 1869._\n\nYour arrangements at Heidelberg seem to me to be as delightful as\nanything can be in a world where nothing is ideal. Be sure to let A.\nbear her full share of the expense, and be a mother to her if you can.\nThe gayest outside life has an undertone of sadness, and I do not doubt\nshe will have hours of unrest which she will hardly know how to account\nfor. I am afraid Heidelberg will be rather narrow bounds for your\nhusband, and hope he may decide to go to Egypt in case his ear gets\nquite well. How fortunate that he is near a really good aurist. I am\nalways nervous about ear-troubles. Fancy your having to shout your love\nto him! In a letter written about two weeks ago, Miss Lyman says, \"How\nam I? Longing for a corner in which to stop trying to live, and lie down\nand die,\" and adds that she is now too feeble to travel. I suppose she\nis liable to break down at any moment, but I do hope she won't be left\nto go abroad. I judge from what you say of Mr. H. that he is slipping\noff. I always look at people who are going to heaven with a sort of\ncuriosity and envy; it is next best to seeing one who has just come\nthence. Get all the good out of him you can; there is none too much\nsaintliness on earth. I wonder how you spend your time? Do, some time,\nwrite the history of one day; what you said to that funny cook, and what\nshe said to you; what you thought and what you did; and what you didn't\nthink and didn't did.\n\n_Friday, 19th._--Thanksgiving has come and gone beautifully. It was a\nperfect day as to weather. Our congregation joined Dr. Murray's, and he\ngave us an excellent sermon. The four Stearnses came in to dinner and\nseemed to enjoy it. I suppose you all celebrated the day in Yankee\nfashion and got up those abominations--mince pies. When I told L. about\n----'s fourth marriage, he said it reminded him of a place he had\nseen, where a man lay buried in the midst of a lot of women, the sole\ninscription on his gravestone being \"Our Husband.\" Mrs. ---- says the\ntiffs between my Katy and her husband are exactly like those she had\nwith hers, and Mrs. ---- said very much the same thing--after hearing\nwhich, I gave up.\n\nTell A. I had a call yesterday from Mrs. S----, who came to town to\nspend Thanksgiving at her father's, and fell upon my neck and ate me up\nthree several times. I tell you what it is, it's nice to have people\nlove you, whether you deserve it or not, and this warm-hearted,\nenthusiastic creature really did me good. Dr. Skinner sent us an\nextraordinary book to read called \"God's Furnace.\" There is a good deal\nof egotism in it and self-consciousness, and a good deal of genuine\nChristian experience. I read it through four times, and, when I carried\nit back and was discussing it with him, he said he had too. It seems\nalmost incredible that a wholly sanctified character could publish such\na book, made up as it is of the author's own letters and journal and\nmost sacred joys and sorrows; but perhaps when I get sanctified I\nshall go to printing mine--it really seems to be a way they have. The\nHitchcocks sailed yesterday, and it must have cheered them to set forth\non so very fine a day. Give my love to everybody straight through from\nHal up to your husband and Mr. H.\n\n_Later_.--Of course, my letters to A. are virtually to you, too, as far\nas you can be interested in the little details of which they are made\nup. Randolph showed George a letter about Katy, which he says beats\nanything we have heard yet, which is saying a good deal. One lady said\nEarnest was _exactly_ like her husband, another that he was _painfully_\nso; indeed, many sore hearts are making such confessions. So I begin to\nthink there is even more sorrowfulness and unrest in the world than I\nthought there was. You would get sick unto death of the book if I\nshould tell a quarter of what we hear about it, good and bad. It quite\nrefreshed me to hear that a young lady wanted to punch me.\n\nCraig's Life is very touching. His delight in Christ and in close\nfellowship with Him is beautiful; but it is painful to see that dying\nman wandering about Europe alone, when he ought to have been breathing\nout his life in the arms he loved so well. How did poor Mrs. C. live\nthrough the week of suspense that followed the telegram announcing his\nillness? for one must love such a man very deeply, I think. Well,\nhe doesn't care now where he died or when, and he has gone where he\nbelonged. I miss you all ever so much, and George keeps up one constant\nhowl for your husband. It is a mystery to me what any of you find in my\nletters, they do seem so flat to me. What fun it would be if you would\n_all_ write me a round letter! I would write a rouser for it. Lots of\nlove.\n\nThe Rev. Wheelock Craig, whose Life is referred to by Mrs. Prentiss in\nthe preceding letter, was her husband's successor in the pastorate of\nthe South Trinitarian church, New Bedford. [9]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nV.\n\nRecollections by Mrs. Henry B. Smith.\n\nThe following Recollections from the pen of Mrs. Smith may fitly close\nthe present chapter:\n\n\nNORTHAMPTON, _January 2, 1879_.\n\nMY DEAR DR. PRENTISS:--I have been trying this beautiful snowy day,\nwhich shuts us in to our own thoughts, to recall some of my impressions\nof your dear wife, but I find it very difficult; there was such\nvariety to her, and so much of her, and the things which were most\ncharacteristic are so hard to be described.\n\nI read \"Stepping Heavenward\" in MS. before we went to Europe in 1869. I\nremember she used to say that I was \"Katy's Aunt,\" because we talked her\nover with so much interest. She sent me a copy to Heidelberg, where I\nbegan at once translating it into German as my regular exercise. I was\ndelighted to give my copy to Mrs. Prof. K. in Leipsic, as _the_ American\nstory which I was willing to have her translate into German, as she had\nasked for one. There is no need of telling you about the enthusiasm\nwhich the book created. Women everywhere said, \"It seems to be myself\nthat I am reading about\"; and the feeling that they, too, with all their\nimperfections, might be really stepping heavenward, was one great secret\nof its inspiration. One little incident may interest you. My niece,\nMrs. Prof. Emerson, was driving alone toward Amherst, and took into her\ncarriage a poor colored woman who was walking the same way. The woman\nsoon said, \"I have been thinking a good deal of you, Mrs. E., and of\nyour little children, and I have been reading a book which I thought\nyou would like. It was something about walking towards heaven.\" \"Was it\n'Stepping Heavenward'?\" \"Yes, that was it.\"\n\nHow naturally, modestly, almost indifferently, she received the tributes\nwhich poured in upon her! Yet, though she cared little for praise, she\ncared much for love, and for the consciousness that she was a helper and\ncomforter to others.\n\nOn reading the book again this last summer, I was struck by seeing how\ntrue a transcript of herself, in more than one respect, was given in\nKaty. \"Why can not I make a jacket for my baby without throwing into\nit the ardor of a soldier going into battle?\" How ardently she threw\nherself into everything she did! In friendship and love and religion\nthis outpouring of herself was most striking.\n\nHer earlier books she always read or submitted to me in manuscript, and\nshe showed so little self-interest in them, and I so much, that they\nseemed a sort of common property. I think that I had quite as much\npleasure in their success and far more pride, than herself. The Susy\nbooks I always considered quite as superior in their way as Stepping\nHeavenward. They are still peerless among books for little children.\n\"Henry and Bessie,\" too, contains some of the most beautiful religious\nteaching ever written. \"Fred and Maria and Me\" she used to talk about\nalmost as if I had written it, for no other reason than that I liked it\nso much.\n\nMy sister says that her daughter Nettie read \"Little Susy\" through\n_twelve times_, getting up to read it before breakfast. She printed\n(before she could write) a little letter of thanks to your wife, who\nsent her the following pretty note in reply: NEW YORK, _January 10,\n1854._\n\nMY DEAR \"NETTIE\":--What a nice little letter you wrote me! It pleased\nme very much. I shall keep it in my desk, and when I am an old woman, I\nshall buy a pair of spectacles, and sit down in the chimney-corner, and\nread it. When you learn to write with your own little fingers, I hope\nyou will write me another letter.\n\nYour friend, with love, AUNT SUSAN.\n\nShe did nothing for effect, and made little or no effort merely to\nplease; she was almost too careless of the impression which she made\nupon others, and, on this account, strangers sometimes thought her\ncold and unsympathetic. But touch her at the right point and the right\nmoment, and there was no measure to her interest and warmth. She hated\nall pretense and display, and the slightest symptom of them in others\nshut her up and kept her grave and silent, and this, not from a severe\nor Pharisaic spirit, but because the atmosphere was so foreign to her\nthat she could not live in it. \"I pity people that have any _sham_ about\nthem when I am by,\" she said one day. \"I am dreadfully afraid of young\nladies,\" she said at another time. She could not adapt herself to the\nartificial and conventional. Yet with young ladies who loved what she\nloved she was peculiarly free and playful and _forth-giving_, and such\nwere among her dearest and most lovingly admiring friends.\n\nWhen we met, there were no preliminaries; she plunged at once into the\nsubject which was interesting her, the book, the person, the case of\nsickness or trouble, the plan, the last shopping, the game, the garment,\nthe new preparation for the table--in a way peculiarly her own. One\ncould never be with her many minutes without hearing some bright fancy,\nsome quick stroke of repartee, some ludicrous way of putting a thing.\nBut whether she told of the grumbler who could find nothing to complain\nof in heaven except that \"his halo didn't fit,\" or said in her quick\nway, when the plainness of a lady's dress was commended, \"Why, I\ndidn't suppose that anybody could go _to heaven_ now-a-days without an\noverskirt,\" or wrote her sparkling impromptu rhymes for our children's\ngames, her mirth was all in harmony with her earnest life. Her quick\nperceptions, her droll comparisons, her readiness of expression, united\nwith her rare and tender sympathies, made her the most fascinating of\ncompanions to both young and old. Our little Saturday tear, with our\nchildren, while our husbands were at Chi Alpha, were rare times. My\nchildren enjoyed \"Aunt Lizzy\" almost as much as I did. She was usually\nin her best mood at these times. When you and Henry came in, on your\nreturn from Chi Alpha, you looked in upon, or, rather, you completed a\nhappier circle than this impoverished earth can ever show us again.\n\nHer acquisitions were so rapid, and she made so little show of them,\nthat one might have doubted their thoroughness, who had no occasion to\ntest them. Her beautiful translation of Griselda was a surprise to many.\nI remember her eager enthusiasm while translating it. The writing of\nher books was almost an inspiration, so rapid, without copying, almost\nwithout alteration, running on in her clear, pure style, with here and\nthere a radiant sparkle above the full depths.\n\nIt sometimes seemed as if she were interested only in those whom\nshe knew she could benefit. If so, it was from her ever-present\nconsciousness of a consecrated life. She constantly sought for ways of\nshowing her love to Christ, especially to His sick and suffering and\nsorrowing ones. Life with her was peculiarly intense and earnest; she\nlooked upon it more as a discipline and a hard path, and yet no one had\na quicker or more admiring eye for the flowers by the wayside. I always\nthought that her great _forte_ was the study of character. She laid bare\nand dissected everybody, even her nearest friends and herself, to find\nwhat was in them; and what she found, reproduced in her books, was what\ngave them their peculiar charm of reality. The growth of the religious\nlife in the heart was the one most interesting subject to her.\n\nI never could fully understand the deep sadness which was the groundwork\nof her nature. It certainly did not prevent the most intense enjoyment\nof her rich temporal and spiritual blessings, while it indicated\ndepths which her friends did not fathom. It was partly constitutional,\ndoubtless, and partly, I suppose, from her keener sensitiveness, her\nlarger grasp, her stronger convictions, her more vivid vision, and more\nardent desires. Even the glowing, almost seraphic love of Christ which\nwas the chief characteristic of her later life was, in her words, \"but\nlonging and seeking.\" She was an exile yearning for her home, \"stepping\nheavenward,\" and knowing better than the rest of us what it meant.\n\nThese things come to me now, and yet how much I have omitted--her\nindustry so varied and untiring, her generosity (so many gifts of former\ndays are around me now), her interest in my children, her delight in\nflowers and colors and all beautiful things, her ready sympathy--but it\nis an almost inexhaustible subject. She comes vividly before me now,\nseated on the floor in her room, with her work around her, making\nsomething for such and such a person. What the void in your life must\nbe those who knew most of her manifold, exalted, inspiring life can but\nimagine.\n\n  \"Nay, Hope may whisper with the dead\n  By bending forward where they are;\n  But Memory, with a backward tread,\n  Communes with them afar!\n\n  \"The joys we lose are but forecast,\n  And we shall find them all once more;\n  We look behind us for the past,\n  But, lo! 'tis all before!\"\n\n\n[1] See _Memoir of S. S. Prentiss_, edited by his Brother, and published\nby Charles Scribner's Sons. New Edition. 1879.\n\n[2] The following is part of the notice in the London Daily News:\n\n\"We are, unfortunately, ignorant of _Little Susy's Six Birthdays_, but\nif that book be anything like as good as the charming volume before\nus by the same author, ycleped _Little Lou's Sayings and Doings_, it\ndeserves an extraordinary popularity.... _Little Lou._ is one of the\nmost natural stories in the world, and reads more like a mother's record\nof her child's sayings and doings than like a fictitious narrative.\nLittle Lou, be it remarked, is a true baby throughout, instead of being\na precocious little prig, as so many good children are in print. The\nchild's love for his mother and his mother's love for him is described\nin the prettiest way possible.\"\n\n[3] Now Professor of Theology at Bangor.\n\n[4] The following is an extract from a letter of one of the editors of\nThe Advance, Mr. J. B. T. Marsh, dated Chicago, August 10,1869:--\"You\nwill notice that the story is completed this week; I wish it could have\ncontinued six months longer. I have several times been on the point\nof writing you to express my own personal satisfaction--and more\nthan satisfaction--in reading it, and to acquaint you with the great\nunanimity and _volume_ of praise of it, which has reached us from our\nreaders. I do not think anything since the National Era and 'Uncle Tom's\nCabin' times has been more heartily received by newspaper readers. I am\nsure it will have a great sale if rightly brought before the public.\nA publisher from London was in our office the other day, signifying a\ndesire to make some arrangement to bring it out there. I have heard\nalmost no unfavorable criticism of the story--nothing which you could\nmake serviceable in its revision. I have heard Dr. P. criticise\nErnest--of course the character and not your portrayal. For myself I\nconsider the character a natural and consistent one. Perhaps few men\nare found who are quite so blind to a wife's wants and yet so devoted,\nbut--I don't know what the wives might say. We have had hundreds of\nletters of which the expression has been, 'We quarrel to see who shall\nhave the first reading of the story.' I congratulate you most heartily\nupon its great success and the great good it has done and will yet do.\nI think if you should ever come West my wife would overturn almost any\nstone for the sake of welcoming you to the hospitality of our cottage on\nthe Lake Michigan shore.\"\n\n[5] _Marchant vers le Ciel_ is the title of the French translation.\n\n[6] _Memorial discourse_ by the Rev. Marvin R. Vincent, D.D.\n\n[7] The following is an extract from a letter, dated New Orleans, and\nwritten after Mrs. Prentiss' death:\n\n\"We called one day to see a poor dressmaker who was dying of\nconsumption. She was an educated woman, a devout Roman Catholic, and a\nperson whom we had long respected and esteemed for her integrity, her\nlove of independence, and her extraordinary powers of endurance. Her\nhusband, a prosperous merchant, had died suddenly, and his affairs being\nmismanaged, she was obliged, although a constant invalid, to earn a\nsupport for many years by the most unremitting labor. We found her\nreading; 'Stepping Heavenward,' which she spoke of in the warmest terms.\nWe told her about the authoress, of her suffering from ill-health, and\nof her recent death. She listened eagerly and asked questions which\nshowed the deepest interest in the subject. Soon after she left the\ncity, and a few weeks later we heard of her death.\"\n\n[8] One of them--said to have been an eminent German theologian--used\nthis strong language respecting it: \"Schon manche gute, edle,\nsegensreiche Gabe ist uns aus Nordamerika gekommen, aber wir stehen\nnicht au, diese als die beste zu bezeichnen unter allen, die uns von\ndort zu Gesichte gekommen.\"\n\n[9] See A Memorial of the Character, Work, and Closing Days of Rev.\nWheelock Craig, New Bedford.\n\nMr. Craig was born in Augusta, Maine, July 11, 1824. He entered Bowdoin\nCollege in 1839, and was graduated with honor in the class of 1843. He\nthen entered the Theological Seminary at Bangor, where he graduated in\n1847. After preaching a couple of years at New Castle, Me., he accepted\na call to New Bedford, and was installed there December 4, 1850. In 1859\nhe received a call to the chair of Modern Languages in Bowdoin College,\nwhich he declined. After an earnest and faithful ministry of more than\nseventeen years, he went abroad for his health in May, 1868. He visited\nIreland, England, Scotland, and then passing over to the Continent,\ntravelled through Belgium, Holland, Switzerland, and so southward as far\nas Naples, where he arrived the last of September. Here he was taken\nseriously ill, and advised to hasten back to Switzerland. In great\nweakness he passed through Rome, Florence, Turin, Geneva, and reached\nNeuchatel on the 4th of November in a state of utter exhaustion. There,\nencompassed by newly-made friends and tenderly cared for, he gently\nbreathed his last on the 28th of November. Two names, in particular,\ndeserve to be gratefully mentioned in connection with Mr. Craig's last\nhours, viz.: that of his countryman, Mr. W. C. Cabot, and that of the\nRev. Dr. Godet, of Neuchatel. Of the former he said the day before his\ndeath: \"He saw me coming from Geneva a perfect stranger--lying sick,\nhelpless, wretched, and miserable in the ears--and spoke to me, inquired\nwho I was, and took care of me. Anybody else would have gone by on the\nother side. He brought me to this hotel, and remained with me, and did\neverything for me; and, fearing that I might be ill some time, and\nuneasy about money matters, he sent me a letter of credit for two\nhundred pounds. Such noble and generous conduct to an entire stranger\nwas never heard of.\" To Dr. Godet he had a letter from Prof. Henry B.\nSmith, of New York. But he needed no other introduction to that warm-\nhearted and eminent servant of God than his sad condition and his love\nto Christ. \"From the first quarter of an hour,\" wrote Dr. Godet to Mrs.\nCraig, \"we were like two brothers who had known each other from infancy.\nHe knew not a great deal of French, and I not more of English; but the\nLord was between him and me.\" \"Prof. Godet and family are like the very\nangels of God,\" wrote Mr. Craig to his wife. His last days were filled\nwith inexpressible joy in his God and Saviour. Shortly before his\ndeparture he said to Dr. Godet and the other friends who were by his\nbedside, \"_There shall be no night there, but the Lamb which is in the\nmidst of the throne shall be their light._\"\n\nMr. Craig had a highly poetical nature, refined spiritual sensibilities,\nand a soul glowing with love to his Master. He was also a vigorous and\noriginal thinker. Some passages in his letters and journal are as racy\nand striking as anything in John Newton or Cecil. Mrs. Prentiss greatly\nenjoyed reading them to her friends. Some of them she copied and had\npublished in the Association Monthly.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\nON THE MOUNT.\n\n1870.\n\nI.\n\nA happy Year. Madame Guyon. What sweetens the Cup of earthly Trials and\nthe Cup of earthly Joy. Death of Mrs. Julia B. Cady. Her Usefulness.\nSickness and Death of other Friends. \"My Cup runneth over.\" Letters.\n\"More Love to Thee, O Christ.\"\n\n\nIn every earnest life there usually comes a time when it reaches its\nhighest point, whether of power or of enjoyment; a time when it is in\n\n  --the bright, consumate flower.\n\nThe year 1870 formed such a period in the life of Mrs. Prentiss. None\nthat went before, or that followed after, equalled it, as a whole, in\nrich, varied and happy experiences. It was full of the genial, loving\nspirit which inspired the Little Susy books and Stepping Heavenward;\nfull, too, of the playful humor which runs through Fred and Maria and\nMe; and full, also, of the intense, overflowing delight in her God and\nSaviour that breathes in the Golden Hours. From its opening to its close\nshe was--to borrow an expression from her Richmond journal--\"one great\nlong sunbeam.\" Everywhere, in her home, with her friends, by sick and\ndying beds, in the house of mourning, in the crowded street or among her\nflowers at Dorset, she seemed to be attired with constant brightness. Of\ncourse, there were not wanting hours of sadness and heart-sinking;\nnor was her consciousness of sin or her longing to be freed from it,\nperhaps, ever keener and more profound; but still the main current of\nher existence flowed on, untroubled, to the music of its own loving,\ngrateful and adoring thoughts. Often she would say that God was too good\nto her; that she was _satisfied_ and had nothing more to ask of life;\nher cup of domestic bliss ran over; and as to her religious joy, it was\nat times too much for her frail body, and she begged that it might be\ntransferred to other souls. Her letters give a vivid picture of her\nstate of mind during this memorable year; and yet only a picture. The\nsweet reality was beyond the power of words.\n\nIn the early part of this year the correspondence of Madame Guyon and\nFenelon fell into her hands, and was eagerly read by her. The perusal\nof this correspondence led, somewhat later, to a careful study of the\nSelect Works, Autobiography, and Spiritual Letters of Madame Guyon, thus\nforming an important incident in her religious history. Heretofore she\nhad known Madame Guyon chiefly through the Life by Prof. Upham and the\nlittle treatise entitled A Short and very Easy Method of Prayer; and\nboth seem rather to have repelled her. In 1867 she wrote to a friend:\n\nThere is a book I would be glad to have you read, and which I think you\nwould wish to own; 'Thoughts on Personal Religion,' by Goulburn. I never\nread a modern religious book that had in it so much, that really edified\nme. I take for granted you have Thomas \u00e0 Kempis; on that and on Fenelon\nI have feasted for years every day; I like strengthening food and\nwhatever deals a blow at this monster Self. Madame Guyon I do not\nunderstand.\n\nBut now she began to feel, as so many earnest seekers after holiness had\nfelt before her, the strong attraction of this remarkable woman. While\nnever becoming to her what Fenelon was, Madame Guyon for several years\nexerted a decided influence upon her views of the Christian life; nor\nis there reason to think that this influence was not, on the whole,\nsalutary. Notwithstanding her grave errors and the extravagances which\nmarred her career, Madame Guyon was no doubt one of the holiest, as she\nwas certainly one of the most gifted, women of her own or any other age.\n[1]\n\n_To Mrs. J Elliot Condict, New York, Jan. 2, 1870._\n\nIt has been a real disappointment not to see you. How quickly we learn\nto lean on earthly things! I am afraid I prize Christian fellowship too\nmuch, and that I am behaving in a miserly way about all divine gifts,\nshutting myself up here in this room, which often seems like the gate of\nheaven, and luxuriating in it, instead of going about preaching the glad\ntidings to other souls. Yet work for Christ, when He gives it, is sweet,\ntoo, and if answering your note is the little tiny bit He offers me at\nthis moment, how glad I am. Though I am not, just now, in the furnace as\nyou are, there is no knowing how soon I shall be, and I remember well\nenough how the furnace feels, to have deep sympathy with you in your\ntrials. Sympathy, but not regret; I can't make myself be very sorry for\nChrist's disciples when He takes them in hand--He does it so tenderly,\nso wisely, so lovingly; and it can hardly be true, can it? that He is\njust as near and dear to me when my cup is as full of earthly blessings\nas it can hold, as He is to you whose cup He is emptying?\n\nI have always thought they knew and loved Him best who knew Him in His\ncharacter of Chastiser; but perhaps one never loses the memory of His\nrevelations of Himself in that form, and perhaps that tender memory\nsaddens and hallows the day of prosperity. At any rate, you and I seem\nto be in full sympathy with each other; your empty cup isn't empty, and\nmy full one would be bitter if love to Christ did not sweeten it. It\nmatters very little on what paths we are walking, since we find Him in\nevery one. How ashamed we shall be when we get to heaven, of our talk\nabout our trials here! Why don't we sing songs instead? We know how, for\nHe has put the songs into our mouths. I think I know something about the\nland of Beulah, but I don't quite _live_ in it yet; and yet what is this\njoy if it isn't beatitude, if it is not a foretaste of that which is to\ncome? It isn't joy in what He has done for me, a sinner, but adoring joy\nfor what He is, though I do not _begin to know_ what He is. It will take\nan eternity to learn that lesson.\n\nDo you really mean to say that Miss K. is going to pray for _me_? How\ndelightful! I am _greedy_ for prayer; nobody is rich enough to give me\nanything I so long for; indeed when my husband begged me to tell him\nwhat I wanted at Christmas, I couldn't think of a thing; but oh, what\nunutterable longing I have for more of Christ. Why should we not speak\nfreely to each other of Him? Don't apologise for it again. The wonder is\nthat we have the heart to speak of anything else. Sometimes I am almost\nfrightened at the expressions of love I pour out upon Him, and wonder if\nI am really in earnest; if I really mean all I say. Is it even so\nwith you? It is not foolish, is it? Perhaps He likes to hear our poor\nstammerings, when we can not get our emotions and our thoughts into\nwords.\n\n_To Miss E. A. Warner, New York, Jan. 7, 1870._\n\nI find letters more and more unsatisfactory. How little I know of your\nreal life, how little you know of mine! So much is going on all the time\nthat I should run and tell you about if you lived here, but which it\nwould take too long to write. I have very precious Christian friends\nwithin six months, who take, or rather to whom I give, more time than I\ncould or would spare for any ordinary friendship; one of them has spent\nfour hours in my room with me at a time, and we had wonderful communings\ntogether. Then two dear friends have died. One of the two, of whom you\nhave heard me speak, was the most useful woman in our church; my husband\nand I both wept over her death. The other directed in dying that a copy\nof Stepping Heavenward should be given to each of her Sunday scholars;\na lifelong fear of death was taken away, and she declared it pleasanter\nand easier to die than to live; her last words, five minutes before\nshe drew her last gentle breath, came with the upward, dying look,\n\"Wonderful love!\"\n\nYou can't think how sweet it is to be a pastor's wife; to feel the\n_right_ to sympathise with those who mourn, to fly to them at once, and\njoin them in their prayers and tears. It would be pleasant to spend\none's whole time among sufferers, and to keep testifying to them what\nChrist can and will become to them, if they will only let Him.... No, I\nnever \"Dialed\" or was transcendental. I don't think knowledge will come\nto us by intuition in heaven, though knowledge enough to get started\nthere, will. But I don't much care how it will be. I know we shall learn\nChrist there. I have read lately Prof. Phelps on the Solitude of Christ;\nit is a suggestive little book which I like much. Have you ever read the\nLife of Mrs. Hawkes? It is interesting because she records so many\nof Cecil's wonderful remarks--such, e.g., as these: \"a humble, kind\nsilence often utters much.\" \"To-morrow you and I shall walk together in\na garden, when I hope to talk with you about everything but sadness.\" I\nam going to ask a favor of you, though I hate to put you to the trouble.\nIn writing a telegram in great haste and sorrow, I accidentally used and\ncut into the lines you copied for me--Sabbath hymn in sickness. It was a\nreal loss, and if you ever feel a little stronger than usual, will you\nmake me another copy? I so often want to comfort sick persons with it.\n\nI have half promised to write a serial for a magazine, the organ of the\nYoung Men's Christian Association, though I know nothing of young men\nand hate to write serials. I wish I could hide in some hole. I get\nbright letters from A., who is having a very nice time. I write her\nevery day; wretched letters, which she thinks delightful, fortunately.\nWe have a quiet time this winter, but such nice things can't last, and I\nam afraid of this world anyhow. I know you pray for me, as I do for you\nand Miss L. every day. I have a thousand things to say that I shall have\nto put off till I see you. Good-bye, dearie.\n\n_To Mrs. Condict, Sunday, March 6, 1870._\n\nI have had some really sweet days, shut up with my dear little boy. He\nis better, and I am comparatively at leisure again, and so happy in\nmeditating on the character of my Saviour, and in the sense of His\nnearness, that I _ache_, and have had to beg Him to give me no more,\nbut to carry this joy to you and to Miss K. and to two friends, who,\nlanguishing on dying beds, need it so much. [2] If I could shed tears I\nshould not have to tell you this, and indeed it is nothing new; but one\nmust have vent in some way. And this reminds me to explain to you why\nto three dear Christian friends I now and then send verses; they are my\ntears of joy or sorrow, and when I feel most deeply it is a relief to\nversify, and a pleasure to open my heart to those who feel as I do. I\nhave been in print ever since I was sixteen years old, and admiration\nis an old story; I care very little for it; but I do crave and value\nsympathy with those who love Christ. And it is such a new thing to open\nmy heart thus! I have written any number of verses that no human being\nhas ever seen, because they came from the very bottom of my heart.\n\nI wish I could put into words all the blessed thoughts I had last week\nabout God's dear will: it was a week of such sweet content with the work\nHe gave me to do; naturally I hate nursing, and losing the air makes me\nfeel unwell; but what can't God do with us? I love, dearly, to have a\n_Master_. I fancy that those who have strong wills, are the ones to\nenjoy God's sovereignty most. I wonder if you realise what a very happy\ncreature I am? and how much _too good_ God is to me? I don't see how He\ncan heap such mercies on a poor sinner; but that only shows how little I\nknow Him. But then, I am learning to know Him, and shall go on doing it\nforever and ever; and so will you. I am not sure that it is best for us,\nonce safe and secure on the Rock of Ages, to ask ourselves too closely\nwhat this and that experience may signify. Is it not better to be\nthinking of the Rock, not of the feet that stand upon it? It seems to me\nthat we ought to be unconscious of ourselves, and that the nearer we get\nto Christ, the more we shall be taken up with Him. We shall be like a\nsick man who, after he gets well, forgets all the old symptoms he used\nto think so much of, and stops feeling his pulse, and just enjoys his\nhealth, only pointing out his _physician_ to all who are diseased. You\nwill see that this is in answer to a portion of your letter, in which\nyou say Miss K. interprets to you certain experiences. If I am wrong I\nam willing to be set right; perhaps I have not said clearly what I meant\nto say. I certainly mean no _criticism_ on you or her, but am only\nthinking aloud and querying.\n\n_To Miss E. A. Warner, New York, March 27, 1870._\n\nYou ask if I revel in the Pilgrim's Progress. Yes, I do. I think it an\namazing book. It seems to me almost as much an inspiration as the Bible\nitself. [3] I am glad you liked that hymn. I write in verse whenever I\nam deeply stirred, because, though as full of tears as other people, I\ncan not shed them. But I never showed any of these verses to any one,\nnot even my husband, till this winter. But if I were more with you no\ndoubt I should venture to let you run over some of them, at least those\nmy dear husband has seen and likes. I have felt about hymns just as you\nsay you do, as if I loved them more than the Bible. But I have got over\nthat; I prayed myself out of it, not loving hymns the less, but the\nBible more. I wonder if you sing; I can't remember; if you do, I will\nsend you, sometime, a hymn to sing for my sake, called \"More love to\nThee, O Christ.\" Only to think, our silver wedding comes next month, and\nA. and the Smiths away!\n\nI have been interrupted by callers, and must have been in the parlor\nseveral hours. You can't think what a sweet, peaceful winter this has\nbeen, nor how good the children are. My cup has just run over, and at\ntimes I am too happy to be comfortable, if you know what that means;\nnot having a strong body, I suppose you do. Mrs. B. has been in a very\ncritical state of late, but she is rallying, and I may, perhaps, have\nthe privilege of seeing her again. I have had some precious times with\nher in her sick-room; last Friday, a week ago, she prayed with me in the\nsweetest temper of mind, and came with me when I took leave, to the head\nof the stairs, full of love and smiles.\n\n_To a Young Friend, April 5, 1870._\n\nI wish that hymn for the sick-room were mine, but it is not. I will\nenclose one that is, which my dear husband has kindly had printed;\nperhaps you will like to sing it to the tune of \"Nearer, my God, to\nThee.\" There is not much in it, but you can put everything into it as\nyou make it your prayer. I can't help feeling that every soul I meet, of\nwhom I can ask, What think you of Christ? and get the glad answer, \"He\nis the chiefest among ten thousand, _the One_ altogether lovely\"--is a\nblessing as well as a comfort to mine; and whenever you can and do say\nit, you will become more dear to me. Your God and Saviour won you as an\neasy victory, but He had to fight for me. It seems to me now that He\nought to have all there is of me--which, to be sure, isn't much--and I\nhope He is taking it. His ways with me have been perfectly beautiful and\ninfinite in long-suffering and patience.\n\n_April 11th._--Your note has reawakened a question I have often had\noccasion to ask myself before. Why do my friends speak of my letters as\ngiving more pleasure or profit than anything that goes to them from me\nin print? Is human nature so selfish? Must everybody have everything\nto himself? It might seem so at first blush, but I think there are two\nsides to this question. May it not be possible that God sends a message\ndirectly from _one_ heart to _another_ as He does not to the _many?_\nDoes He not speak through the living voice and the pen that is that\nvoice, as He does not do in the less unconstrained form of print? At any\nrate, I love to believe that He directs each word and look and tone;\n_inspires_ rather, I should say.\n\nI should like you to offer a special prayer for us on Saturday. That day\ncompletes twenty-five years of married life to us, and, though it has\nits shades as well as its lights, I do not think I can do better for you\nthan ask that you may have such years,\n\n  \"For who the backward scene hath scanned\n  But blessed the Father's guiding hand?\"\n\nI can more truly thank Him for His chastisements than for His worldly\nindulgences; the latter urge from, the former drive to Him. I am saying\na great thing in a feeble way, and you may multiply it by ten thousand,\nand it will still be weak.\n\nThe hymn, \"More Love to Thee, O Christ,\" belongs, probably, as far back\nas the year 1856. Like most of her hymns, it is simply a prayer put into\nthe form of verse. She wrote it so hastily that the last stanza was left\nincomplete, one line having been added in pencil when it was printed.\nShe did not show it, not even to her husband, until many years after it\nwas written; and she wondered not a little that, when published, it met\nwith so much favor.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nII.\n\nHer Silver Wedding. \"_I have Lived, I have Loved_.\" No Joy can put her\nout of Sympathy with the Trials of Friends. A Glance backward. Last\nInterview with a dying Friend. More Love and more Likeness to Christ.\nFuneral of a little Baby. Letters to Christian Friends.\n\n\nIf 1870 was the crowning year in Mrs. Prentiss' life, the 16th of April\nwas that year's most precious jewel. As the time drew nigh, a glow of\ntender, grateful recollection suffused her countenance.\n\nHer eyes are homes of silent prayer.\n\nShe talked of the past, like one lost in wonder, while the light and\nbeauty of the vanished years appeared still to rest upon her spirit.\nThe day itself, which had been kept from the knowledge of most of her\nfriends, was full of sweet content, rehearsing, as it were, all the days\nof her married life; and, at its close, the measure of her earthly joy\nseemed to be perfect and entire, wanting nothing.\n\n_To Mrs. Leonard, New York, April 16, 1845-1870._\n\nDo you know that it is just twenty-five years since we first met? How\ngladly would I spend the day of our silver wedding with you! You will\nsee that I am near in spirit, at all events. My thoughts have been busy\nthe past week with reviewing the years through which I have travelled,\nhand in hand, with my dear husband; years full of sin, full of\nsuffering, full of joy; brimful of the loving-kindness and tender mercy\nthat smote often and smote surely. Your last letter only confirms what I\nalready knew, but am never tired of hearing repeated, the faithfulness\nof God to those whom He afflicts. When we once find out what He is to\nan aching, empty heart, we want to make everybody see just what we see,\nand, until we try in vain, think we can. I had very peculiar feelings in\nrelation to you when your dear husband was, for a time, parted from you.\nI knew God would never afflict you so, if He had not something beautiful\nand blissful to give in place of what He took. And what can we ask for\nthat compares for one instant with \"the almost constant felt presence of\nour Saviour's sympathy and support\"? Our human nature would like to have\nthe earthly and the divine friendship at once; but, if we must choose\nbetween the twain, surely you and I would choose Christ without one\nmoment's hesitation. I hope you mention my name every day to Him as I do\nyours, as I _love_ to do.\n\nI enclose, and want you, when by yourself, to sing for my sake a little\nhymn that I am sure is the language of your heart. My dear husband had\na few copies struck off to give friends. Write soon and often. Oh,\nthat you lived here or at Dorset. Good-bye, with warmest love, now\n_twenty-five_ years old!\n\n_To Mrs. Condict, New York, April 20, 1870._\n\nLast Saturday was the twenty-fifth anniversary of our marriage, and a\nvery happy day to us both. My dear husband wrote me a letter that made\nme tremble, lest he should get such hold of me as no human being must\nhave. I have a very curious feeling about life; a _satisfied_ one, and\nas if it could not possibly give me much more than I now have. _\"I have\nlived, I have loved.\"_ [4] People often say they have so much to live\nfor; I can't feel so, though I am not only willing, but glad to live\nwhile my husband and children need me; and yet--and yet--to have this\nproblem solved, and to be forever with the Lord! I want to see you. I\ncan no longer see my dear Mrs. B.; she is too ill, and that makes me\nmiss you the more. I hope that little MS. of mine did not task your\nsympathies; I don't want you to pity me, but to magnify Him who took\nsuch pains with me, and is carrying on just such work in thousands of\nhearts and lives. What goodness! What condescension! The least we can\ndo who have suffered much is to love much.... I have been studying the\nBible on the subject of giving personal testimony, and think it makes\nthis a plain duty. There is nothing like the influence of one living\nsoul on another. Then why should we not naturally speak to everybody who\nwill listen, of what fills our thoughts; our Saviour, His beauty, His\ngoodness, His faithfulness, His wisdom! I don't believe a full heart\n_can help_ running over.\n\n_To a young Friend, April 21, 1870._\n\nI was right sorry to lose your Saturday's call. It was a happy day to\nme, but I can conceive of no enjoyment of any sort that would put me out\nof sympathy with the trials of friends:\n\n  \"Old and young are bringing troubles,\n    Great and small, for me to hear;\n  _I have often blessed by sorrows\n    That drew other's grief so near.\"_\n\nI thought I was saying a very ordinary thing when I spoke of thanking\nGod for His long years of discipline, but very likely life did not look\nto me at your age as it does now. I was rather startled the other day,\nto find it written in German, in my own hand, \"I can not say the will is\nthere,\" referring to a hymn which says, \"Der Will ist da, die Kraft ist\nklein, Doch wird dir nicht zuwider seyn.\" I suppose there was some great\nstruggle going on when this foolish heart said that, just as if God did\nnot _invariably_ do for us the very best that can be done. [5] You speak\nof having your love to Jesus intensified by interviews with me. It can\nhardly be otherwise, when those meet together who love Him, and it is a\nrule that works both ways; acts and reacts. I should be thankful if no\nhuman being could ever meet me, even in a chance way, and not go away\nclasping Him the closer, and if I could meet no one who did not so stir\nand move me. It is my constant prayer. I have such insatiable longings\nto know and love Him better that I go about hungering and thirsting for\nthe fellowship of those who feel so too; when I meet them I call them\nmy \"benedictions.\" Next best to being with Christ Himself, I love to\nbe with those who have His spirit and are yearning for more of His\nlikeness. You speak of putting \"deep and dark chasms between\" yourself\nand Christ. He lets us do this that we may learn our nothingness, our\nweakness, and turn, disgusted, from ourselves to Him. May I venture\nto assure you that the \"chasms\" occur less and less frequently as one\npresses on, till finally they turn into \"mountains of light.\" Get and\nkeep a will for God, and everything that will is ready for will come.\nThis is about a tenth part of what I might say.\n\n_To Miss E. A. Warner, New York, April 25, 1870._\n\nI wish I could describe to you my last interview with Mrs. B. She had\naltered so in two weeks in which I had not seen her, that I should not\nhave known her. She spoke with difficulty, but by getting close to her\nmouth I could hear all she said. She went back to the first time she met\nme, told me her heart then knitted itself to mine, and how she had\nloved me ever since, etc., etc. I then asked her if she had any parting\ncounsel to give me: \"No, not a word.\".... Some one came in and wet her\nlips, gave her a sprig of citronatis, and passed out. I crushed it and\nlet her smell the bruised leaves, saying, \"You are just like these\ncrushed leaves.\" She smiled, and replied, \"Well, I haven't had one pain\ntoo many, not one. But the agony has been dreadful. I won't talk about\nthat; I just want to see your sunny face.\" I asked if she was rejoicing\nin the hope of meeting lost friends and the saints in heaven. She said,\nwith an expressive look, \"Oh, no, I haven't got so far as _that_. I\nhave only got as far as Christ.\" \"For all that,\" I said, \"you'll see my\nfather and mother there.\" \"Why, so I shall,\" with another bright smile.\nBut her lips were growing white with pain, and I came away.\n\nDid I tell you it was our silver wedding-day on the 16th? We had a very\nhappy day, and if I could see you I should like to tell you all about\nit. But it is too long a story to tell in writing. I don't see but I've\nhad everything this life can give, and have a curious feeling as if I\nhad got to a stopping-place. I heard yesterday that two of M.'s teachers\nhad said they looked at her with perfect awe on account of her goodness.\nI really never knew her to do anything wrong.\n\n_To a young Friend New York, May 1, 1870._\n\nI could write forever on the subject of Christian charity, but I must\nsay that in the case you refer to, I think you accuse yourself unduly.\nWe are not to part company with our common sense because we want to\nclasp hands with the Love that thinketh no evil, and we can not help\nseeing that there are few, if any, on earth without beams in their eyes\nand foibles and sins in their lives. The fact that your friend repented\nand confessed his sin, entitled him to your forgiving love, but not\nto the ignoring of the fact that he was guilty.... Temptations come\nsometimes in swarms, like bees, and running away does no good, and\nfighting only exasperates them. The only help must come from Him who\nunderstands and can control the whole swarm.\n\nYou ask for my prayers, and I ask for yours. I long ago formed the habit\nof praying at night individually, if possible, for all who had come to\nme through the day, or whom I had visited; but you contrive to get a\nmuch larger share than that. I love to think of your future holiness and\nusefulness as even in the very least linked to my prayers. Oh, I ought\nto know how to pray a great deal better than I do, for forty years ago,\nsave one, I this day publicly dedicated myself to Christ. I write to you\nbecause I like to do so, recognising no difference between writing and\ntalking. When no better work comes to me, I am glad to give the little\npleasure I can, in notes and letters. He who knows how poor we are, how\nlittle we have to give, does not disdain even a note like this, since it\nis written in love to Him and to one of His own dear ones.\n\n_May 23d._--Your last letter was like a fragrant breath of country air,\nredolent of flowers, and all that makes rural scenes so sweet. But\nbetter still, it was fragrant with love to Him who is the bond between\nus, in whose name and for whose sake we are friends. I wish I loved Him\nbetter and were more like Him; perhaps that is about as far as we get in\nthis world, for no matter how far we advance, we are never satisfied;\nthere is always something ahead; I doubt if any one ever said, even in a\nwhisper and to himself, \"Now I love my Saviour as much as a human soul\ncan.\"\n\nYou speak of my having given you \"counsels.\" Have I had the presumption\nto do that? Two-thirds of the time I feel as if I wanted somebody to\ncounsel me; the only thing I really know that you do not, is what it is\nto be beaten with persistent, ceaseless stripes, year after year, year\nafter year, with scarcely breathing time between. I don't know whether\nthis is most an argument against me, or for God; on the whole it is most\nfor Him, who was so good and kind as never to spare me for my writhing\nand groaning. Truly as I value this discipline, I want you to give\nyourself to Him so unreservedly that you will not need such sharp\ntreatment. I am not going to keep writing and getting you in debt. All I\nask is if you ever feel a little under the weather and want a specially\nloving or cheering word, to give me the chance to speak or write it.\n\nA chapter might be written about Mrs. Prentiss' love for little\nchildren, the enthusiasm with which she studied all their artless ways,\nher delight in their beauty, and the reverence with which she regarded\nthe mystery of their infant being. Her faith in their real, complete\nhumanity, their susceptibility to spiritual influences, and, when called\nfrom earth, their blessed immortality in and through Christ, was very\nvivid; and it was untroubled by any of those distressing doubts, or\nmisgivings, that are engendered by the materialistic spirit and science\nof the age. Contempt for them shocked her as an offence against the Holy\nChild Jesus, their King and Saviour. Her very look and manner as she\ntook a young infant, especially a sick or dying infant, in her arms and\ngave it a loving kiss, seemed to say:\n\n  Sweet baby, little as thou art,\n    Thou art a human whole;\n  Thou hast a little human heart,\n    Thou hast a deathless soul. [6]\n\nThe following letter to a Christian mother, dated May 13th, will show\nher feeling on this subject:\n\nThis morning we attended the funeral of a little baby, eight months old.\nMy husband, in his remarks, said that though born and ever continuing to\nbe a sufferer, it was never saddened by this fellowship with Christ; and\nthat he believed it was a partaker of His holiness, and glad through His\nindwelling, even though unconscious of it. During the last days of\nits life, after each paroxysm of coughing, it would look first at its\nmother, then at its father, for sympathy, and then look upward with a\nface radiant beyond description. I can't tell you how it touched me to\nthink that I had in that baby a little Christian _sister_--not merely\nredeemed, but sanctified from its birth--and I know it will touch and\nstrengthen you to hear of it. I felt a reverence for that tiny, lifeless\nform, that I can not put into words. And, indeed, why should it be\nharder for God to enter into the soul of an infant than into our\n\"unlikeliest\" ones? ... I see more and more that if we have within us\nthe mind of Christ, we must bear the burden of other griefs than our\nown; He did not merely _pity_ suffering humanity; He _bore_ our griefs,\nand in all our afflictions He was afflicted.\n\n_To Mrs. Condict, June 6, 1870._\n\nIf you can get hold of the April number of the Bibliotheca Sacra, read\nan article in it called \"Psychology in the Life, Work and Teachings of\nJesus.\" I think it very striking and very true. Praying for Dr. ----\nthis morning, I had such a peaceful feeling that he was safe. Do you\nfeel so about him? I had a very different experience about another man\nwho has been to see me since I began this letter, and who said I was\nthe first _happy_ person he ever met. May God lay that to his heart!...\nRummaging among dusty things in the attic this forenoon with great\nrepugnance, I found such a beautiful letter from my husband, written for\nmy solace in Switzerland when he was in Paris (he wrote me every day,\nsometimes twice a day, during the two months of our enforced separation)\nthat even the drudgery of getting my hands soiled and my back broken was\nsweetened. That's the way God keeps on spoiling us; one good thing after\nanother till we are ashamed. Well, let us step onward, hand in hand. I\nwonder which of us will outrun the other and step in first? I am so glad\nI'm willing to live.\n\nIn the course of this spring _The Percys_ was published. The story first\ncame out as a serial in the New York Observer. It was translated into\nFrench under the title _La Famille Percy_. In 1876 a German version\nappeared under the title _Die Familie Percy_. It was also republished in\nLondon. [7]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIII.\n\nLines on going to Dorset. A Cloud over her. Faber's Life. Loving Friends\nfor one's own sake and loving them for Christ's sake. The Bible and the\nChristian Life. Dorset Society and Occupations. Counsels to a young\nFriend in Trouble. \"Don't stop praying for your Life!\" Cure for the\nHeart-sickness caused by a Sight of human Imperfections. Fenelon's\nTeaching about Humiliation and being patient with Ourselves.\n\n\nThe following lines, found among her papers after her death, show in\nwhat spirit she went to Dorset:\n\n  Once more I change my home, once more begin\n    Life in this rural stillness and repose;\n  But I have brought with me my heart of sin,\n    And sin nor quiet nor cessation knows.\n\n  Ah, when I make the final, blessed change,\n    I shall leave that behind, shall throw aside\n  Earth's soiled and soiling garments, and shall range\n    Through purer regions like a youthful bride.\n\n  Thrice welcome be that day! Do thou, meanwhile,\n    My soul, sit ready, unencumbered wait;\n  The Master bides thy coming, and His smile\n    Shall bid thee welcome at the golden gate.\n                 DORSET, June 15, 1870.\n\n_To Mrs. Condict, Dorset, June 18, 1870._\n\nI would love to have you here with me in this dear little den of mine\nand see the mountains from my window. My husband has gone back to town,\nand my only society is that of the children, so you would be most\nwelcome if you should come in either smiling or sighing. I have had a\ncloud over me of late. Do you know about Mr. Prentiss' appointment by\nGeneral Assembly to a professorship at Chicago? His going would involve\nnot only our tearing ourselves out of the heart of our beloved church,\nbut of my losing you and Miss K., and of our all losing this dear little\nhome. Of course, he does not want to go, and I am shocked at the thought\nof his leaving the ministry; but, on the other hand, there is a right\nand a wrong to the question, and we ought to want to do whatever God\nchooses. The thought of giving up this home makes me know better how to\nsympathise with you if you have to part with yours. I do think it is\ngood for us to be emptied from vessel to vessel, and there is something\nawful in the thought of having our own way with leanness in the soul. I\nam greatly pained in reading Faber's Life and Letters, at the shocking\nway in which he speaks of Mary, calling her his mamma, and praying to\nher and to Joseph, and nobody knows who not. It seems almost incredible\nthat this is the man who wrote those beautiful strengthening hymns. It\nsets one to praying \"Hold Thou me up and I shall be safe.\" ... I should\nhave forgotten the lines of mine you quote if you had not copied them.\nGod give to you and to me a thousandfold more of the spirit they\nbreathe, and make us wholly, wholly His own! My repugnance to go to\nChicago makes me feel that perhaps that is just the wrench I need. Well,\ngood-bye; at the longest we have not long to stay in this sphere of\ndiscipline and correction.\n\n_To Mr. G. S. P., Dorset, July 13, 1870._\n\nI had just come home from a delicious little tramp through our own woods\nwhen your letter came, and now, if you knew what was good for you, you\nwould drop in and take tea and spend the evening with us. I should like\nyou to see our house and our mountains, and our cup that runs over till\nwe are ashamed. Had I not known you wouldn't come I should have given\nyou a chance, especially as my husband was gone and I was rather lonely;\nthough to be sure he always writes me every day. On the way up here I\nwas glad of time to think out certain things I had been waiting for\nleisure to attend to. One had some connection with you, as well as one\nor two other friends. I had long felt that there was a real, though\nsubtle, difference between human--and, shall I say divine?--affection,\nbut did not see just what it was. Turning it over in my mind that\nday, it suddenly came to me as this. Human friendship may be entirely\nselfish, giving only to receive in return, or may be partially so--yet\nstill selfish. But the love that grows out of the love of Christ, and\nthat delights in His image wherever it is seen, claims no response;\nloves because it is its very nature to do so, because it can not help\nit, and this without regard to what its object gives. I dare not pretend\nthat I have fully reached this state, but I have entered this land, and\nknow that it is one to be desired as a home, an abiding place. I have\nthought painfully of the narrow quarters and the hot nights endured by\nso many in New York, during this unusually warm weather--especially of\nMrs. G. with three restless children in bed with her and her poor lonely\nheart. I can not but believe that Christ has real purposes of mercy to\nher soul. I feel interested in Mr. H.'s summer work in a hard field. In\nplace of aversion to young men, I am beginning to realise how true work\nfor Christ one may do by praying persistently for them, especially those\nconsecrated to the ministry of His gospel. I do hope Christ will have\nthe whole of you, and that you will have the whole of Him. When you\nwrite, let me know how you like my beloved Fenelon. Still, you may\nnot like him. Some Christians never get to feeding on these mystical\nwriters, and get on without them.\n\n_To Mrs. Condict, Dorset, July 18, 1870._\n\nI was greatly struck with these words yesterday: \"As for God His way is\nperfect\"; think of reading the Bible through four times in one year, and\nnobody knows how many times since, and never resting on these words.\nSomehow they charmed me. And these words have been ringing in my ears,\n\n  \"Earth looks so little and so low,\"\n\nwhile conscious that when I can get ferns and flowers, it does not look\nso \"little\" or so \"low,\" as it does when I can't. My cook, who is a\nRomanist, has been prevented from going to her own church seven miles\noff, by the weather, ever since we came here, and last Sunday said\nshe meant to go to ours. Mr. P. preached on God's character as our\nPhysician, and she was delighted. I think it was hearing one of his\nlittle letters to the children that made her realise, that he was a\nChristian man whom she might safely hear; at any rate, I feel greatly\npleased and comforted that she could appreciate such a subject. I fear\nyou are suffering from the weather; we never knew anything like it here.\nWe do not suffer, but wake up every morning _bathed_ in a breeze that\nrefreshes for the day; I mean we do not suffer while we keep still. I am\nastonished at God's goodness in giving us this place; not His goodness\nitself, but towards _us_. If Mrs. Brinsmade [8] left much of such\nmaterial as the extract you sent me, I wonder Dr. B. did not write\nher memoir. The more I read of what Christ said about faith, the more\nimpressed I am. Just now I am on the last chapters in the gospel of\nJohn, and feel as if I had never read them before. They are just\nwonderful. We have to read the Bible to understand the Christian life,\nand we must penetrate far into that life in order to understand the\nBible. How beautifully the one interprets the other! I want you to let\nme know, without telling her that I asked you, if Miss K. could make me\na visit if it were not for the expense?\n\n_To Miss E. A. Warner, Dorset, July 20, 1870._\n\nDid you ever use a fountain pen? I have had one given me, and like it so\nmuch that I sent for one for my husband, and one for Mr. Pratt. When one\nwants to write in one's lap, or out of doors, it is delightful. Mrs.\nField came over from East Dorset on Sunday to have her baby baptized.\nThey had him there in the church through the whole morning service, and\nhe was as quiet as any of us. The next day Mrs. F. came down and spent\nthe morning with me, sweeter, more thoughtful than ever, if changed at\nall. Dr. and Mrs. Humphrey, of Philadelphia, are passing the summer here\nat the tavern, and we spend most of our evenings there, or they come\nhere. Mrs. H. is a very superior woman, and though I was determined not\nto like her, because I have so many people on hand already, I found I\ncould not help it. She is as furious about mosses and lichens and all\nsuch things as I am, and the other day took home a _bushel-basket_ of\nthem. She is an earnest Christian, and has passed through deep waters;\nI ought to have reversed the order of those clauses. Excuse this rather\nhasty letter; I feared you might fancy your book lost. If you are alive,\nlet me know it, also if you are dead.\n\n_To a young Friend, Dorset, Aug. 8, 1870._\n\nI dare not answer your letter, just received, in my own strength, but\nmust pray over it long. It is a great thing to learn how far our doubts\nand despondencies are the direct result of physical causes, and another\ngreat thing is, when we can not trace any such connexion, to bear\npatiently and quietly what God _permits_, if He does not authorise. I\nhave no more doubt that you love Him, and that He loves you, than that\nI love Him and that He loves me. You have been daily in my prayers.\nTemptations and conflict are inseparable from the Christian life; no\nstrange thing has happened to you. Let me comfort you with the assurance\nthat you will be taught more and more by God's Spirit how to resist; and\nthat true strength and holy manhood will spring up from this painful\nsoil. Try to take heart; there is more than one foot-print on the\nsands of time to prove that \"some forlorn and shipwrecked brother\" has\ntraversed them before you, and come off conqueror through the Beloved.\n_Don't stop praying for your life._ Be as cold and emotionless as you\nplease; God will accept your naked faith, when it has no glow or warmth\nin it; and in His own time the loving, glad heart will come back to you.\nI deeply feel for and with you, and have no doubt that a week among\nthese mountains would do more towards uniting you to Christ than a mile\nof letters would. You can't complain of any folly to which I could not\nplead guilty. I have put my Saviour's patience to every possible test,\nand how I love Him when I think what He will put up with.\n\nYou ask if I \"ever feel that religion is a sham\"? No, never. I _know_ it\nis a reality. If you ask if I am ever staggered by the inconsistencies\nof professing Christians, I say yes, I am often made heartsick by them;\nbut heartsickness always makes me run to Christ, and one good look at\nHim pacifies me. This is in fact my panacea for every ill; and as to my\nown sinfulness, that would certainly overwhelm me if I spent much time\nin looking at it. But it is a monster whose face I do not love to see;\nI turn from its hideousness to the beauty of His face who sins not, and\nthe sight of \"yon lovely Man\" ravishes me. But at your age I did this\nonly by fits and starts, and suffered as you do. So I know how to feel\nfor you, and what to ask for you. God purposely sickens us of man and of\nself, that we may learn to \"look long at Jesus.\"\n\nAnd this brings me to what you say about Fenelon's going too far, when\nhe says we may judge of the depth of our humility by our delight in\nhumiliation, etc. No, he does not go a bit too far. Paul says, \"I will\n_glory_ in my infirmities\"--\"I take _pleasure_ in infirmities, in\nreproaches, in necessities, in persecution, in distresses for Christ's\nsake; for when I am weak, then am I strong.\" I think this a great\nattainment; but that His disciples may reach it, though only through a\nhumbling, painful process. Then as to God's glory. We say, \"Man's chief\nend is to glorify God and enjoy Him forever.\" Now, can we enjoy Him till\nwe do glorify Him? Can we enjoy Him while living for ourselves, while\nindulging in sin, while prayerless and cold and dead? Does not God\ndirectly seek our highest happiness when He strips us of vainglory and\nself-love, embitters the poisonous draught of mere human felicity,\nand makes us fall down before Him lost in the sense of His beauty and\ndesirableness? The connexion between glorifying and enjoying Him is,\nto my mind, perfect--one following as the _necessary sequence_ of the\nother; and facts bear me out in this. He who has let self go and lives\nonly for the honor of God, is the free, the happy man. He is no longer a\nslave, but has the liberty of the sons of God; for \"him who honors me, I\nwill honor.\" Satan has befogged you on this point. He dreads to see you\nripen into a saintly, devoted, useful man. He hopes to overwhelm and\nruin you. But he will not prevail. You have solemnly given yourself to\nthe Lord; you have chosen the work of winning and feeding souls as your\nlife-work, and you can not, must not go back. These conflicts are the\nlot of those who are training to be the Lord's true yoke-fellows.\nChrist's sweetest consolations lie behind crosses, and He reserves His\nbest things for those who have the courage to press forward, fighting\nfor them. I entreat you to turn your eyes away from self, from man, and\nlook to Christ. Let me assure you, as a fellow-traveller, that I have\nbeen on the road and know it well, and that by and by there won't be\nsuch a dust on it. You will meet with hindrances and trials, but will\nfight quietly through, and no human ear hear the din of battle, no human\neye perceive fainting or halting or fall. May God bless you, and become\nto you an ever-present, joyful reality! Indeed He will; only wait\npatiently.\n\nIn glancing over this, I see that I have here and there repeated myself.\nDo excuse it. I believe it is owing to the way the flies harass and\ndistract me.\n\n_August 17th._--I feel truly grateful to God if I have been of any\ncomfort to you. I know only too well the shock of seeing professors of\neven sinless perfection guilty of what I consider sinful sin, and my\nwhole soul was so staggered that for some days I could not pray, but\ncould only say, \"O God, if there be any God, come to my rescue.\" ... But\nGod loves better than He knows us, and foresaw every infidelity before\nHe called us to Himself. Nothing in us takes Him, therefore, by\nsurprise. Fenelon teaches what no other writer does--to be \"patient with\nourselves,\" and I think as you penetrate into the Christian life, you\nwill agree with him on every point as I do.\n\n_August 19th._--I have had a couple of rather sickish days since writing\nthe above, but am all right again now. Hot weather does not agree with\nme. I used to reproach myself for religious stupidity when not well, but\nsee now that God Is my kind Father--not my hard taskmaster, expecting me\nto be full of life and zeal when physically exhausted. It takes long to\nlearn such lessons. One has to penetrate deeply into the heart of Christ\nto begin to know its tenderness and sympathy and forbearance.\n\nYou can't imagine how Miss K. has luxuriated in her visit, nor how good\nshe thinks we all are. She holds views to which I can not quite respond,\nbut I do not condemn or reject them. She is a modest, praying, devoted\nwoman; not disposed to obtrude, much less to urge her opinions; full\nof Christian charity and forbearance; and I am truly thankful that she\nprays for me and mine; in fact, she loves to pray so, that when she gets\nhold of a new case, she acts as one does who has found a treasure.\n\nI wish you were looking out with me on the beautiful array of mountains\nto be seen from every window of our house and breathing this delicious\nair.\n\n_September 25th._--We expect now to go home on Friday next, though if I\nhad known how early the foliage was going to turn this year, I should\nhave planned to stay a week longer to see it in all its glory. It is\nlooking very beautiful even now, and our eyes have a perpetual feast. We\nhave had a charming summer, but one does not want to play all the time,\nand I hope God has work of some sort for me to do at home during the\nwinter. Meanwhile, I wish I could send you a photograph of the little\nden where I am now writing, and the rustic adornings which make it _sui\ngeneris_, and the bit of woods to be seen from its windows, that, taking\nthe lead of all other Dorset woods, have put on floral colors, just\nbecause they are ours and know we want them looking their best before we\ngo away. But this wish must yield to fate, like many another; and, as I\nhave come to the end of my paper, I will love and leave you.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIV.\n\n_The Story Lizzie Told._ Country and City. The Law of Christian\nProgress. Letters to a Friend bereft of three Children. Sudden Death of\nanother Friend. \"Go on; step faster.\" Fenelon and his Influence upon her\nreligious Life. Lines on her Indebtedness to him.\n\n\n_The Story Lizzie Told_ was published about this time. It had already\nappeared in the Riverside Magazine. The occasion of the story was a\npassage in a letter from London written by a friend, which described in\na very graphic and touching way the yearly exhibition of the Society for\nthe Promotion of Window Gardening among the Poor. The exhibition was\nheld at the \"Dean's close\" at Westminster and the Earl of Shaftesbury\ngave the prizes. [9]\n\nNo one of Mrs. Prentiss's smaller works, perhaps, has been so much\nadmired as _The Story Lizzie Told_. It was written at Dorset in the\ncourse of a single day, if not at a single sitting; and so real was\nthe scene to her imagination that, on reading it in the evening to\nher husband, she had to stop again and again from the violence of her\nemotion. \"What a little fool I am!\" she would say, after a fresh burst\nof tears. [10]\n\n_To Mrs. Leonard, New York, Oct. 16, 1870._\n\nYour letter came in the midst of the wear and tear of A.'s return to us.\nWe were kept in suspense about her from Monday, when she was due, till,\nFriday when she came, and it is years since I have got so excited and\nwrought up. They had a dreadful passage, but she was not sick at all.\nProf. Smith is looking better than I ever saw him, and we are all most\nhappy in being together once more. I can truly re-echo your wish that\nyou lived half way between us and Dorset, for then we should see you\nonce a year at least. I miss you and long to see you. How true it is\nthat each friend has a place of his own that no one else can fill! I do\nnot doubt that the 13th of October was a silvery wedding-day to your\ndear husband. His loss has made Christ dearer to you, and so has made\nyour union more perfect. I suppose you were never so much one as you are\nnow.\n\nWe have had a delightful summer, not really suffering from the heat;\nthough, of course, we felt it more or less. All our nights were cool....\nI can not tell you how Mr. P. and myself enjoy our country home. It\nseems as if we had slipped into our proper nook. But if we are going to\ndo any more brainwork, we must be where there is stimulus, such as we\nfind here. What a mixed-up letter! I have almost forgotten how to write,\nin adorning my house and sowing my seeds and the like.\n\n_To Mrs. Frederick Field, New York, Oct. 19th, 1870._\n\nI deeply appreciate the Christian kindness that prompted you to write me\nin the midst of your sorrow. I was prepared for the sad news by a dream\nonly last night. I fancied myself seeing your dear little boy lying very\nrestlessly on his bed, and proposing to carry him about in my arms to\nrelieve him. He made no objection, and I walked up and down with him a\nlong, long time, when some one of the family took him from me. Instantly\nhis face was illumined by a wondrous smile of delight that he was to\nleave the arms of a stranger to go to those familiar to him--such a\nsmile, that when I awoke this morning I said to myself, \"Eddy Field has\ngone to the arms of his Saviour, and gone gladly.\" You can imagine how\nyour letter, an hour or two later, touched me. But you have better\nconsolation than dreams can give; in the belief that your child will\ndevelop, without spot or wrinkle or any such thing, into the perfect\nlikeness of Christ, and in your own submission to the unerring will of\nGod. I sometimes think that patient sufferers suffer most; they make\nless outcry than others, but the grief that has little vent wears\nsorely.\n\n  \"Grace does not steel the faithful heart\n  That it should feel no ill,\"\n\nand you have many a pang yet before you. It must be so very hard to see\ntwin children part company, to have their paths diverge so soon. But the\nshadow of death will not always rest on your home; you will emerge from\nits obscurity into such a light as they who have never sorrowed can not\nknow. We never know, or begin to know, the great Heart that loves us\nbest, till we throw ourselves upon it in the hour of our despair.\nFriends say and do all they can for us, but they do not know what we\nsuffer or what we need; but Christ, who formed, has penetrated the\ndepths of the mother's heart. He pours in the wine and the oil that no\nhuman hand possesses, and \"as one whom his mother comforteth, so will He\ncomfort you.\" I have lived to see that God never was so good to me as\nwhen He seemed most severe. Thus I trust and believe it will be with you\nand your husband. Meanwhile, while the peaceable fruits are growing and\nripening, may God help you through the grievous time that must pass--a\ngrievous time in which you have my warm sympathy. I know only too well\nall about it.\n\n  \"I know my griefs; but then my consolations,\n  My joys, and my immortal hopes I know\"--\n\njoys unknown to the prosperous, hopes that spring from seed long buried\nin the dust.\n\nI shall read your books with great interest, I am sure, and who knows\nhow God means to prepare you for future usefulness along the path of\npain? \"Every branch that beareth fruit He purgeth it, that it may bring\nforth more fruit.\"\n\nWhat an epitaph your boy's own words would be--\"It is beautiful to be\ndead\"!\n\n_To the Same, New York, Nov 30th, 1870._\n\nI thank you so much for your letter about your precious children. I\nremember them well, all three, and do not wonder that the death of your\nfirst-born, coming upon the very footsteps of sorrow, has so nearly\ncrushed you. But what beautiful consolations God gave you by his dying\nbed! \"All safe at God's right hand!\" What more can the fondest mother's\nheart ask than such safety as this? I am sure that there will come to\nyou, sooner or later, the sense of Christ's love in these repeated\nsorrows, that in your present bewildered, amazed state you can hardly\nrealise. Let me tell you that I have tried His heart in a long\nstorm--not so very different from yours--and that I know something of\nits depths. I will enclose you some lines that may give you a moment's\nlight. Please not to let them go out of your hands, for no one--not even\nmy husband--has ever seen them. I am going to send my last book to your\nlonely little boy. You will not feel like reading it now, but perhaps\nthe 33d chapter, and some that follow, may not jar upon you as the\nearlier part would.\n\nTo go back again to the subject of Christ's love for us, of which I\nnever tire, I want to make you feel that His sufferers are His happiest,\nmost favored disciples. What they learn about Him---His pitifulness, His\nunwillingness to hurt us, His haste to bind up the very wounds He has\ninflicted---endear Him so, that at last they burst out into songs of\nthanksgiving, that His \"donation of bliss\" included in it such donation\nof pain. Perhaps I have already said to you, for I am fond of saying it,\n\n  \"The love of Jesus---what it is,\n  Only His sufferers know.\"\n\nYou ask if your heart will ever be lightsome again. Never again with the\nlightsomeness that had never known sorrow, but light even to gayety with\nthe new and higher love born of tribulation. Just as far as a heavenly\nis superior even to maternal love, will be the elevation and beauty of\nyour new joy; a joy worth all it costs. I know what sorrow means; I know\nit well. But I know, too, what it is to pass out of that prison-house\ninto a peace that passes all understanding; and thousands can say the\nsame. So, my dear suffering sister, look on and look up; lay hold on\nChrist with _both your poor, empty hands_; let Him do with you what\nseemeth Him good; though He slay you, still trust in Him; and I dare in\nHis name to promise you a sweeter, better life than you could have\nknown had He left you to drink of the full, dangerous cups of unmingled\nprosperity. I feel such real and living sympathy with you, that I would\nlove to spend weeks by your side, trying to bind up your broken heart.\nBut for the gospel of Christ, to hear of such bereavements as yours\nwould appall, would madden one. Yet, what a halo surrounds that word\n\"but\"!\n\n_To Miss E. A. Warner, New York, Dec 14, 1870._\n\nI have not behaved according to my wont, and visited the sick even by\nway of a letter. And by this time I hope you are quite well again, and\ndo not need ghostly counsels.... I have felt very badly about Miss\nLyman's dying at Vassar, but since Mrs. S.'s visit and learning how\nbeloved she is there, have changed my mind. What does it matter, after\nall, from what point of time or space we go home; how we shall smile,\nafter we get there, that we ever gave it one moment's thought! You ask\nwhat I am doing; well, I am taking a vacation and not writing anything\nto speak of, yet just as busy as ever; not one moment in which to\ndawdle, though I dare say I seem to the folks here at home to be sitting\nround doing nothing. I must give you a picture of one day and you must\nphotograph one of yours, as we have done before. Got up at seven and\nwent through the usual forms; had prayers and breakfast, and started off\nto school with M. Came home and had a nice quiet time reading, etc.;\nat eleven went to my meeting, which was a tearful one, as one of our\nmembers who knelt with us only a week before, was this day to be buried\nout of our sight. She was at church on Sunday afternoon at four P.M., to\npresent her baby in baptism, and at half-past two the following morning\nwas in heaven. We all went together to the funeral after the meeting,\nand gathered round the coffin with the feeling that she belonged to us.\nWhen I got home I found a despatch from Miss W., saying they should be\nhere right away. I had let one of my women go out of town to a sick\nsister, so I must turn chamber-maid and make the bed, dust, clear out\ncloset, cupboard, and bureau forthwith. This done, they arrived, which\ntook the time till half-past seven, when I excused myself and went to an\nevening meeting, knowing it would be devoted to special prayer for the\nhusband and children of her who had gone. Got home half an hour behind\ntime and found a young man awaiting me who was converted last June, as\nhe hopes, while reading Stepping Heavenward. I had just got seated by\nhim when our doctor was announced; he had lost his only grandchild and\nhad come to talk about it. He stayed till half-past nine, when I went\nback to my young friend, who stayed till half-past ten and gave a very\ninteresting history which I have not time to put on paper. He writes\nme since, however, about his Christian life that \"it gets sweeter and\nsweeter,\" and I know you will be glad for me that I have this joy.\n\n_Saturday Morning._--I was interrupted there, had visitors, had to go to\na fair, company again, so that I had not time to eat the food I needed,\nwent to see a poor sick girl, had more visitors, and at last, at eleven\nP.M., scrambled into bed. Now I am finishing this, and if nobody\nhinders, am going to mail it, and then go after a block of ice-cream\nfor that sick girl (isn't it nice, we can get it now done up in little\nboxes, just about as much as an invalid can eat at one time). Then I\nam going to see a poor afflicted soul that can't get any light on her\nsorrow. Here comes my dear old man to read his sermon, so good-bye.\n\n_To a young Friend, Dec. 20, 1870._\n\nI have been led, during the last month or two, to a new love of the Holy\nSpirit, or perhaps to more consciousness of the silent, blessed work He\nis doing in and for us? and for those whose souls lie as a heavy and\nyet a sweet burden upon our own. And joining with you in your prayers,\nseeking also for myself what I sought for you, I found myself almost\nstartled by such a response as I can not describe. It was not joy, but a\ndeep solemnity which enfolded me as with a garment, and if I ever pass\nout of it, which I never want to do, I hope it will be with a heart more\nthan ever consecrated and set apart for Christ's service. The more\nI reflect and the more I pray, the more life narrows down to one\npoint--What am I being for Christ, what am I doing for Him? Why do I\ntell you this? Because the voice of a fellow-traveller always stimulates\nhis brother-pilgrim; what one finds and speaks of and rejoices over,\nsets the other upon determining to find too. God has been very good to\nyou, as well as to me, but we ought to whisper to each other now and\nthen, \"Go on, step faster, step surer, lay hold on the Rock of Ages with\nboth hands.\" You never need be afraid to speak such words to me. I want\nto be pushed on, and pulled on, and coaxed on.\n\nThe allusion to her \"beloved Fenelon,\" in several of the preceding\nletters, renders this a suitable place to say a word about him and his\ninfluence upon her religious character. \"Fenelon I _lean_ on,\" she\nwrote. Her delight in his writings dated back more than a quarter of a\ncentury, and continued, unabated, to the end of her days. She regarded\nhim with a sort of personal affection and reverence. Her copy of\n\"Spiritual Progress,\" composed largely of selections from his works, is\ncrowded with pencil-marks expressive of her sympathy and approval; not\neven her Imitation of Christ, Sacra Privata, Pilgrim's Progress, Saints'\nEverlasting Rest, or Leighton on the First Epistle of Peter, contain so\nmany. These pencil-marks are sometimes very emphatic, underscoring or\ninclosing now a single word, now a phrase, anon a whole sentence or\nparagraph; and it requires but little skill to decipher, in these rude\nhieroglyphics, the secret history of her soul for a third of a century--\none side, at least, of this history. What she sought with the greatest\neagerness, what she most loved and most hated, her spiritual aims,\nstruggles, trials, joys and hopes, may here be read between the lines.\nAnd a beautiful testimony they give to the moral depth, purity and\nnobleness of her piety!\n\nThe story is not, indeed, complete; her religious life had other\nelements, not found, or only partially found, in Fenelon; elements\ncentering directly in Christ and His gospel, and which had their\ninspiration in her Daily Food and her New Testament. What attracted her\nto Fenelon was not the doctrine of salvation as taught by him--she found\nit better taught in Bunyan and Leighton--it was his marvellous knowledge\nof the human heart, his keen insight into the proper workings of nature\nand grace, his deep spiritual wisdom, and the sweet mystic tone of his\npiety. And then the two great principles pervading his writings--that\nof pure love to God and that of self-crucifixion as the way to perfect\nlove--fell in with some of her own favorite views of the Christian\nlife. In the study of Fenelon, as of Madame Guyon, her aim was a purely\npractical one; it was not to establish, or verify, a theory, but to get\naid and comfort in her daily course heavenward. What Fenelon was to her\nin this respect she has herself recorded in the following lines, found,\nafter her death, written on a blank page of her \"Spiritual Progress\":\n\n  Oh wise and thoughtful words! oh counsel sweet,\n  Guide in my wanderings, spurs unto my feet,\n  How often you have met me on the way,\n  And turned me from the path that led astray;\n  Teaching that fault and folly, sin and fall,\n  Need not the weary pilgrim's heart appall;\n  Yea more, instructing how to snatch the sting\n  From timid conscience, how to stretch the wing\n  From the low plane, the level dead of sin,\n  And mount immortal, mystic joys to win.\n  One hour with Jesus! How its peace outweighs\n  The ravishment of earthly love and praise;\n  How dearer far, emptied of self to lie\n  Low at His feet, and catch, perchance, His eye,\n  Alike content when He may give or take,\n  The sweet, the bitter, welcome for His sake!\n\n\n[1] John Wesley, after having pointed out what he considered the\ngrand source of all her mistakes; namely, the being guided by inward\nimpressions and the light of her own spirit rather than by the written\nWord, and also her error in teaching that God never purifies a soul but\nby inward and outward suffering--then adds: \"And yet with all this dross\nhow much pure gold is mixed! So did God wink at involuntary ignorance.\nWhat a depth of religion did she enjoy! How much of the mind that was in\nChrist Jesus! What heights of righteousness, and peace, and joy in the\nHoly Ghost! How few such instances do we find of exalted love to God,\nand our neighbor; of genuine humility; of invincible meekness and\nunbounded resignation! So that, upon the whole, I know not whether we\nmay not search many centuries to find another woman who was such a\npattern of true holiness.\"\n\n[2] See the lines MY CUP RUNNETH OVER, _Golden Hours_, p. 43.\n\n[3] \"I know of no book, the Bible excepted as above all comparison,\nwhich I, according to my judgment and experience, could so safely\nrecommend as teaching and enforcing the whole saving truth according to\nthe mind that was in Christ Jesus, as the Pilgrim's Progress. It is, in\nmy conviction, incomparably the best _summa theologi\u00e6 evangelic\u00e6_ ever\nproduced by a writer not miraculously inspired. I read it once as a\ntheologian--and let me assure you, there is great theological acumen in\nthe work--once with devotional feelings, and once as a poet. I could\nnot have believed beforehand that Calvinism could be painted in such\nexquisitely delightful colors.\"--COLERIDGE.\n\n[4] The allusion is to Thekla's song in Part I., Act iii., sc. 7 of\nSchiller's Wallenstein.\n\n  Du Heilige, rufe dein Kind zur\u00fcck!\n  Ich habe genossen das irdische Gl\u00fcck,\n  _Ich habe gelebt und gelibet._\n\n[5] The hymn referred to is Paul Gerhardt's, beginning:\n\n  Wir singen dir, Immanuel, Du Lebensf\u00fcrst und Gnadenquell.\n\nIt was one of her favorite German hymns. The lines she quotes belong to\nthe tenth stanza; \"Ich kann nicht sagen Der Will ist da,\" are the words\npencilled in the margin.\n\n[6] Hartley Coleridge's Poems. Vol. II., p. 139.\n\n[7] But greatly to Mrs. Prentiss' annoyance, with the title changed to\n_Ever Heavenward_--as if to make it appear to be a sequel to Stepping\nHeavenward.\n\n[8] Wife of the late Rev. Horatio Brinsmade, D.D., of Newark, N. J.\n\n[9] \"Polly\" was particularly happy; six years old, I should say, shabby,\nthough evidently washed up for the occasion, and very pretty and all\npink with excitement. \"Polly, I _knowed_ you'd get a prize,\" I heard a\nyoung woman, tired out with carrying her own big baby, say. And then she\ncame upon her own geranium with three blossoms on it and marked \"Second\nPrize,\" and said, \"I _can't_ believe it,\" when they told her that that\nmeant six shillings. But the plant which my companion and myself both\ncried over, was a little bit of a weedy marigold, the one poor little\nflower on it carefully fastened about with a paper ring, such as high\nand mighty greenhouse men sometimes put round a choice rose in bud. That\nwas all; just this one common, very single little flower, with \"Lizzie\"\nSomething's name attached and the name of her street. All the streets\nwere put upon the tickets and added greatly to the pathetic effect;\njust the poorest lanes and alleys in London. Nobody seemed to claim\nthe marigold. Perhaps it was the great treasure of some sick child who\ncouldn't come to look at it. It was certain not to get a prize, but\nthe child has found something by this time tucked down in the pot and\ncarefully covered over by F., when no one was looking, with a pinch of\nearth taken from a more prosperous plant alongside.\n\n[10] Miss W. showed me a very pleasant letter of Lady Augusta Stanley,\nthe wife of Dean Stanley, to a Miss C., through whom she received from\nMiss W.'s little niece a copy of _The Story Lizzie Told_. Lady Stanley\nis herself, I believe, at the head of the Society which holds the annual\nFlower Show. She says in her letter that she had just returned from\nScotland, reaching home quite late in the evening. Before retiring,\nhowever, she had read your story through. She praises it very warmly,\nand wonders how anybody but a \"Londoner\" could have written it.--_Letter\nto Mrs. P., dated New York, September, 1872._\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\nIN HER HOME.\n\n\nThe letters in the preceding chapters give a glimpse, here and there,\nof Mrs. Prentiss' home, but relate chiefly to the religious side of her\ncharacter. What was her manner of life among her children? How were her\ntemper and habits as a mother affected by the ardor and intensity of her\nChristian feeling? A partial answer to these questions is contained in\nletters written to her eldest daughter, while the latter was absent\nin Europe. These letters show the natural side of her character; and\nalthough far from reflecting all its light and beauty--no words could\ndo that!--they depict some of its most interesting traits. They are\nfrankness itself and betray not the least respect of persons; but if she\nspeaks her mind in them without much let or hindrance, it is always done\nin the pleasantest way. In the portions selected for publication the aim\nhas been to let her be seen, so far as possible, just as she appeared in\nher daily home-life, both in town and country.\n\nI.\n\nHome-life in New York.\n\nNew York, _October_ 22, 1869.\n\n\nI have promised to walk to school with M. this morning, and while I am\nwaiting for her to get ready, will begin my letter to you. We got home\nfrom seeing you off all tired out, and I lay on the sofa all the time\ntill I went to bed, except while eating my dinner, and I think papa\ndid pretty much the same. The moment we had done dinner, H. and Jane\nappeared, carrying your bureau drawer between them, and we had a great\ntime over the presents you were thoughtful enough to leave behind you.\nMy little sacque makes me look like 500 angels instead of one, and I\nam ever so glad of it, and the children were all delighted with their\nthings.\n\nWell, I have escorted M. to school, come home and read the Advance, and\nHearth and Home, and it is now eleven o'clock and the door-bell has only\nrung twice! Papa says you are out of sight of land, and as it is a warm\nday and we are comfortable, we hope you are. But it is dreadful to have\nto wait so long before hearing.\n\n_23d._--Papa says this must be mailed by nine o'clock; so I have hurried\nup from breakfast to finish it. Mr. and Mrs. S. spent most of last\nevening with us. They shouted over my ferrotypes. Mr.---- also called\nand expressed as much surprise at your having gone to Europe as if the\nsky had fallen. I read my sea-journal to the children last evening, and\nthough it is very flat and meagre in itself, H., to whom it was all\nbrand new, thought it ought to be published forthwith. No time for\nanother word but love to all the S.'s, big and little, high and low,\ngreat and small. Your affectionate Mammy.\n\n_Oct. 28th._--I can hardly believe that it is only a week today that we\nsaw you and your big steamer disappear from view. H. said last night\nthat it seemed to him one hundred years ago, and we all said amen. So\nhow do you suppose it will seem ten months hence? I hope you do not find\nthe time so long. I take turns waiting upon the children to school,\nwhich they are very strict about, and they enjoy their teachers\namazingly.\n\nI received this morning a very beautiful and touching letter from a\nyoung lady in England about the Susy books. They are associated in her\nmind and those of her family with a \"Little Pearlie\" whose cunning\nlittle photograph she enclosed, who taught herself to read in a\nfortnight from one of them, and was read to from it on her dying bed,\nand after she became speechless she made signs to have her head wet\nas Susy's was. I never received such a letter among all I have had.\nRandolph sent me twelve copies of Stepping Heavenward, and I have had\nmy hands full packing and sending them. M. is reading aloud to H. a\ncharming story called \"Alone in London.\" I am sure I could not read it\naloud without crying.\n\nThe following is the letter from England:\n\nTo THE AUTHOR OF \"LITTLE SUSY\":\n\nI feel as if I had a perfect right to call you \"My dear friend,\" so much\nhave I thought of you this last year and a half. Bear with me while I\ntell you why. A year ago last Christmas we were a large family--father,\nmother, and eight children, of whom I, who address you, am the eldest.\nThe youngest was of course the pet, our bright little darling, rather\nmore than five. That Christmas morning, of course, there were gifts for\nall; and among the treasures in the smallest stocking was a copy of\n\"Little Susy's Six Teachers,\" for which I desire to thank you now. Many\ntimes I have tried to do so, but I could not; the trouble which came\nupon us was too great and awful in its suddenness. Little Pearl, so\nfirst called in the days of a fragile babyhood--Dora Margaret was her\nreal name--taught herself to read from her \"Little Susy,\" during the\nfirst fortnight she had it. And she would sit for hours, literally,\namusing and interesting herself by it. She talked constantly of the\nSix Teachers, and a word about them was enough to quell any rising\nnaughtiness. \"Pearlie, what would Mr. Ought say?\" or \"Don't grieve Mrs.\nLove,\" was always sufficient. Do you know what it is to have one the\nyoungest in a large family? My darling was seventeen years younger than\nI. I left school when she was born to take the oversight of the nursery,\nwhich dear mamma's illness and always delicate health prevented her from\ndoing. I had nursed her in her illnesses, dressed her, made the little\nfrocks--now laid so sadly by--and to all the rest of us she had been\nmore like a child than a sister. Friends used to say, \"It is a wonder\nthat child is not spoiled\"; but they could never say she _was_. Merry,\nfull of life and fun she always was, quick and intelligent, full of\ndroll sayings which recur to us now with _such_ a pain. From Christmas\nto the end of February we often remarked to one another how good that\nchild was! laughing and playing from morning to night, yet never unruly\nor wild. That February we had illness in the house. Jessie, the next\nyoungest, had diphtheria, but she recovered, and we trusted all danger\nwas passed, when one Monday evening--the last in the month--our darling\nseemed ill. The next day we recognised the symptoms we had seen in\nJessie, and the doctor was called in. Tuesday and Wednesday he came and\ngave no hint of danger, but on Wednesday night we perceived a change and\non Thursday came the sentence: No hope. Oh friend, dear friend! how can\nI tell you of the long hours when we could not help our darling--of the\ndark night when, forbidden the room from the malignity of the case, we\nwent to bed to coax mamma to do so--of the grey February dawn when there\ncame the words, \"Our darling is _quite well_ now\"--quite well, forever\ntaken from the evil to come.\n\nThe Sunday night before, she came into the parlor with \"Susy\" under her\narm and petitioned for some one to read the \"Teachers' meeting.\" \"Why,\nyou read it twice this afternoon,\" said one. \"Yes, I know--but it's\nso nice,\" was the reply. \"Pearlie will be six in September,\" said the\ngentle mother; \"we must have a Teachers' meeting for her, I think.\" \"But\nperhaps I sha'n't ever be six,\" said the little one. \"Oh Pearlie, why\ndo you say so?\" \"Well, people don't all be six, you know,\" affirmed our\ndarling with solemn eyes and two dimples in the rosy cheeks, that were\nhid forever from us before the next Sabbath day.\n\nOn the Wednesday we borrowed from a little friend the other books of the\nseries, thinking they might afford some amusement for the weary hours of\nillness, and Annie, my next sister, read four of the birthdays to her\nand then wished to stop, fearing she might be too fatigued. \"No, read\none more,\" was the request, and \"That will do--I'm five, read the last\nto-morrow,\" she said, when it was complied with. Ah me! with how many\ntears we took up that book again. That Wednesday she sat up in bed, a\nglass of medicine in her hand. \"Mamma,\" she said, \"Miss Joy has gone\nquite away and only left Mr. Pain. She can't come back till my throat\nis well.\" \"But Mrs. Love is here, is she not?\" \"Oh, yes,\" and the dear\nheavy eyes turned from one to another. In the night, when she lay\ndying, came intervals of consciousness; in one of these she took her\nhandkerchief and gave it to papa, who watched by her, asking him to wet\nit and put it on her head. When he told us, we recollected the incident\nwhen Susy in the favorite book was ill. And can you understand how our\nhearts felt very tender toward you and we said you must be thanked.\nI should weary you if I told you all the incidents that presented\nthemselves of how sweet and good she was in her illness; how in the\nagony of those last hours, when no fear of infection could restrain the\npassionate kisses papa was showering on her, the dear voice said with a\nstop and an effort between each word, \"Don't kiss me on my mouth,\npapa; you may catch it\"; how everything she asked for was prefaced by\n\"please,\" how self was always last in her thoughts. \"I'm keeping you\nawake, you darling.\" \"Don't stand there--you'll be so tired--sit down or\ngo down-stairs, if you like.\"\n\nI will send you a photograph of little Pearlie; it is the best we have,\nbut was taken when she was only two years old. She was very small for\nher age and had been very delicate until the last year of her life.\n\nIn writing thus to thank you I am not only doing an act of justice to\nyourself, but fulfilling wishes now rendered binding. Often and often my\ndear mamma said, \"How I wish we knew the lady who wrote Little Susy!\"\nHer health, always delicate, never recovered from the shock of Pearlie's\ndeath, and suddenly, on the morning of the first of May, the Angel of\nDeath darkened our dwelling with the shadow of his wings. Not long did\nhe linger--only two hours--and our mother had left us. She was with her\ntreasure and the Saviour, who said so lovingly on earth, \"Come unto Me.\"\n\nBut words can not express such trouble as that. We have not realised it\nyet. Forgive me if my letter is abrupt and confused. I have only desired\nto tell you simply the simple tale--if by any chance it should make you\nthank God more earnestly for the great gift He has given you--a holy\ngift indeed; for can you think the lessons from \"Susy,\" so useful and\nso loved on earth, could be suddenly forgotten when the glories of heavens\nopened on our darling's view? I can not myself. I think, perhaps, our\nFather's home may be more like our human ones, where His love reigns,\nthan our wild hearts allow themselves to imagine; and I think the two,\non whose behalf I thank you now, may one day know you and thank you\nthemselves.\n\nDear \"Aunt Susan,\" believe me to be, your unknown yet grateful friend,\n\nLIZZIE WRAITH L----.\n\nMrs. Prentiss at once answered this letter, and not long after received\nanother from Miss L----, dated January 9, 1870, breathing the same\ngrateful feeling and full of interesting details. The following is an\nextract from it:\n\nI was so surprised, dear unknown friend, to receive your kind letter so\nsoon. Indeed, I hardly expected a reply at all. When I wrote to you, I\ndid not know that I was addressing a daughter of the \"Edward Payson\"\nwhose name is fragrant even on this side of the Atlantic. Had I known it\nI think I should not have ventured to write--so I am glad I did not. If\nyou should be able to write again, and have a carte-de-visite to spare,\nmay I beg it, that I may form some idea of the friend, \"old enough to be\nmy mother\"? Are you little and slight, like my real mother, I wonder, or\nstately and tall? I will send you a photograph of the monument which the\nladies of papa's church and congregation have erected to dear mamma, in\nour beautiful cemetery, where the snowdrops will be already peeping, and\nwhere roses bloom for ten months out of the twelve.\n\n_Nov. 3d._--Here beginneth letter No. 3. We heard of your arrival at\nSouthampton by a telegram last evening. We long to get a letter. Before\nI forget it let me tell you that Alice H. and Julia W. have both got\nbabbies. We are getting nicely settled for the winter; the children are\nall behaving beautifully.\n\n_Saturday, 6th._--Well, I have just been to see Mrs. F., and found her\na bright, frank young thing, fresh and simple and very pleasing. Her\ncomplexion is like M----'s, and the lower part of her face is shaped\nlike hers, dark eyebrows, light hair, _splendid_ teeth, and I suppose\nwould be called very pretty by you girls. Take her altogether I liked\nher very much. We hear next to nothing from Stepping Heavenward, and\nbegin to think it is going to fall dead.\n\n_Monday, 14th._--Your Southampton letter has just come and we are\ndelighted to hear that you had such a pleasant voyage, and found so many\nagreeable people on board.... Yesterday afternoon was devoted to hearing\na deeply interesting description from Dr. Hatfield, followed by Mr.\nDodge, of the re-union of the two Assemblies at Pittsburgh. Dr. H. made\nus all laugh by saying that as the New School entered the church where\nthey were to be received and united to the Old School, the latter rose\nand sang \"Return, ye ransomed sinners, home!\" Oh, I don't know but it\nwas just the other way; it makes no great difference, for as Dr. H.\nremarked, \"we're all ransomed sinners.\"\n\n_Nov. 30th._--Mr. Abbot dined here on Sunday. He came in again in the\nevening, and it would have done you good to hear what he said about the\nchildren. They are all well and happy, and give me very little trouble.\nI do not feel so well on the late dinner, and have awful dreams.----I\nwas passing the C----s, after writing the above, and she called me in to\nsee her new parlors. They are beautiful; a great deal of bright, rich\ncoloring, and various articles of furniture of his own designing.\n_Thursday._----You and M. will be shocked to hear that Julia W. died\nlast night. As Mr. W. was at church on Sunday, we supposed all danger\nwas over. We heard it through a telegram sent to your father.\n\n_December 4, 1869._--I need not tell you that we all remember that this\nis your birthday, dear child, and that the remembrance brings you very\nnear. I wish I could send you, for a birthday present, all that I have,\nthis morning, asked God to give you. You may depend upon it, that while\nsome people may get along through life at a certain distance from Him,\n_you_ are not one of that sort. You may find a feverish joy, but never\nabiding _peace_, out of Him. Remember this whenever you feel the\noppression of that vague sense of unrest, of which, I doubt not, you\nhave a great deal underneath a careless outside; this is the thirst of\nthe soul for the only fountain at which it is worth while to drink. You\nnever will be really happy till Christ becomes your dearest and most\nintimate friend. _7th._--We have had a tremendous fall of snow, and\nCulyer says M. ought to wait an hour before starting for school, but she\nis not willing and I am going with her to see that she is not buried\nalive. Good-bye again, dearie! Will begin a new letter right away.\n\n_Dec. 9th_--We went to see Mrs. W. this afternoon. Julia had typhoid\nfever, which ran twenty-one days, and was delirious a good deal of the\ntime. She got ready to die before her confinement, though she said she\nexpected to live. After she became so very ill Mrs. W. heard her\npraying for something \"for Christ's sake,\" \"for the sake of Christ's\n_sufferings_,\" and once asked her what it was she was asking for so\nearnestly. \"Oh, to get well for Edward's sake and the baby's,\" she\nreplied. A few days before her death she called Mrs. W. to \"come close\"\nto her, and said, \"I am going to die. I did not think so when baby was\nborn, dear little thing--but now it is impressed upon me that I am.\"\nMrs. W. said they hoped not, but added, \"Yet suppose you _should_ die,\nwhat then?\" \"Oh I have prayed, day and night, to be reconciled, and I\nam, _perfectly_ so. God will take care of Edward and of my baby. Perhaps\nit is better so than to run the risk--\" She did not finish the sentence.\nThe baby looks like her. Mrs. W. told her you had gone to Europe with\nM., and she expressed great pleasure; but if she had known where _she_\nwas going, and to what, all she would have done would have been to give\nthanks \"for Christ's sake.\" I do not blame her, however, for clinging to\nlife; it was natural she should.\n\n_10th_--We went, last evening, to hear Father Hyacinthe lecture on\n\"Charite\" at the Academy of Music. I did not expect to understand a\nword, but was agreeably disappointed, as he spoke very distinctly. Still\nI did not enjoy hearing as well as I did reading it this morning--for\nI lost some of the best things in a really fine address. It was a\nbrilliant scene, the very elite of intellectual society gathered around\none modest, unpretentious little man. Dr. and Mrs. Crosby were in the\nbox with us, and she, fortunately, had an opera glass with her, so that\nwe had a chance to study his really good face. The only book I expect to\nwrite this winter is to you; I am dreadfully lazy since you left, and\ndon't do anything but haze about. There is a good deal of lively talk at\nthe table; the children are waked up by going to school, and there is\nsome rivalry among them, each maintaining that his and hers is the best.\n\n_Dec. 15th._--We have cards for a \"Soiree musicale\" at Mrs. ----'s,\nwhich is to be a great smash-up. She called here to-day and wept and\nwailed over and kissed me. I have been to see how Mrs. C. is. She is a\nlittle worse to-day, and he and her father scarcely leave her. He wrung\nmy hand all to pieces, poor man. Her illness is exciting great sympathy\nin our church, and nobody seems willing to let her go. Dr. Adams spent\nlast evening here. He is splendid company; I really wish he would come\nonce a week. Everybody is asking if I meant in Katy to describe myself.\nI have no doubt that if I should catch an old toad, put on to her a\nshort gown and petticoat and one of my caps, everybody would walk up\nto her and say, \"Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Prentiss, you look more like\nyourself than common; I recognise the picture you have drawn of yourself\nin Stepping Heavenward and in the Percys,\" etc., etc., etc., _ad\nnauseam_. The next book I write I'll make my heroine black and everybody\nwill say, \"Oh, here you are again, black to the life!\"\n\n_Dec. 18th._--You and M. will not be surprised to hear that Mrs. C.'s\nsufferings are over. She died this morning. Papa and I are greatly\nshaken. With much hesitation I decided to go over there to see her\nmother, and the welcome I got from her and from Mr. C. are things to\nremember for a life-time. I will never hesitate again to fly to people\nin trouble. If you were here I would tell you all about my visit, but I\ncan't write it down. It seems so sad, just as they had got into their\nlovely new home--sad for _him_, I mean; as for her I can only wish her\njoy that she is not weeping here below as he is. I stayed till it was\ntime for church, and when I entered it I was met by many a tearful face;\npapa announced her death from the pulpit, and is going, this afternoon,\nto throw aside the sermon he intended to preach, and extemporise on \"the\nfirst Sunday in heaven.\" The children are going in, this noon, to sing;\nas to the Mission festival, that is to be virtually given up; the\nchildren are merely to walk in, receive their presents, and go silently\nout. It is a beautiful day to go to heaven in. Mrs. C. did not know\nshe was going to die, but that is of no consequence. Only one week ago\nyesterday she was at the Industrial school, unusually bright and well,\nthey all say. Well, I see everything double and had better stop writing.\n\n_Monday, 20th._--Your nice letter was in the letter-box as I started for\nschool with H.; I called to papa to let him know it was there and went\noff, begrudging him the pleasure of reading it before I did. When I got\nhome there was no papa and no letter to be found; I looked in every\nroom, on his desk and on mine, posted down to the letter-box and into\nthe parlor, in vain. At last he came rushing home with it, having\ncarried it to market, lest I should get and read it alone! So we sat\ndown and enjoyed it together.... I take out your picture now and then,\nwhen, lo, a big lump in my throat, notwithstanding which I am glad we\nlet you go; we enjoy your enjoyment, and think it will make the old nest\npleasanter to have been vacated for a while. Papa and I agreed before\nwe got up this morning that the only fault we had to find with God was,\nthat He was too good to us. I can't get over the welcome I got from Mr.\nC. yesterday. He said I seemed like a mother to him, which made me feel\nvery old on the one hand, and very happy on the other. If I were you I\nwouldn't marry anybody but a minister; it gives one such lots of people\nto love and care for. Old Mrs. B. is failing, and lies there as peaceful\nand contented as a little baby. I never got sweeter smiles from anybody.\nI have got each of the servants a pretty dress for Christmas; I feel\nthat I owe them a good deal for giving me such a peaceful, untroubled\nhome.\n\n_Dec. 23d._--It rained very hard all day yesterday till just about the\ntime of the funeral, half-past three, when the church was well filled,\nthe Mission-school occupying seats by themselves and the teachers by\nthemselves.... I thought as I listened to the address that it would\nreconcile me to seeing you lying there in your coffin, if such a record\nstood against your name. Papa read, at the close, a sort of prophetic\npoem of Mrs. C.'s, which she wrote a year or more ago, of which I should\nlike to send you all a copy, it is so good in every sense. He wants me\nto send you a few hasty lines I scribbled off on Sunday noon, with which\nhe closed his sermon that afternoon, and repeated again at the funeral,\nbut it is not worth the ink. After the service the mission children\nwent up to look at the remains, and passed out; then the rest of the\ncongregation. One of the mission children fainted and fell, and was\ncarried out in Mr. L.'s arms. After the rest dispersed papa took me in,\nand there we saw a most touching sight; a dozen poor women and children\nweeping about the coffin, offering a tribute to her memory, sweeter than\nthe opulent display of flowers did. _Evening._--The interment took place\nto-day, at Woodlawn. Mr. C. wished me to go, and I did. On the way home\na gentlemanly-looking man stepped up to your father, and taking his hand\nsaid, \"I never saw you till to-day, but I _love_ you; yes, there is no\nother word!\" Wasn't it nice of him?\n\n_Dec. 24th._--Papa went in last evening, for a half hour, to see ----\nand his bride, at their great reception, drank two glasses of \"coffee\nsangaree,\" and brought me news that overcame me quite,--namely, that\n---- was delighted with my book. Nesbit & Co. sent me a copy of their\nreprint of it. They have got it up beautifully with six colored\nillustrations, most of them very good; little Earnest is as cunning as\nhe can be, and the old grandpa is perfect. Katy, however, has her hair\nin a waterfall in the year 1835 and even after, wears long dresses, and\nalways has on a _sontag_ or something like one. She goes to see Dr.\nCabot in a red sacque, and a red hat, and has a muff in her lap. Mrs.\n---- was here the other day to say that I had drawn her husband's\nportrait _exactly_ in Dr. Elliot. I have been out with M. all the\nmorning, doing up our last shopping. We came home half frozen, and had\nlunch together, when lo, a magnificent basket of flowers from Mrs. D.\nand some candy from the party; papa and G. came home and we all fell to\nmaking ourselves sick.... I have bought lots of candy and little fancy\ncakes to put in the children's stockings. I know it is very improper,\nbut one can't be good always. Dr. P. is sick with pneumonia. Mrs. P.\nhas just sent me a basket of fresh eggs, and an illustrated edition of\nLongfellow's \"Building of the Ship.\"\n\n_25th._--I wish you a Merry Christmas, darling, and wonder what you\nare all doing to celebrate this day. We have had great times over our\npresents.... I got a note from Mr. Abbot saying that a friend of his in\nBoston had given away fourteen Katies, all he could get, and that the\nbookseller said he could have sold the last copy thirty times over.\nNeither papa nor I feel quite up to the mark to-day; we probably got\na little cold at Mrs. C.'s grave, as the wind blew furiously, and the\nhymn, and prayer, and benediction took quite a time.\n\n_26th._--Dr. P. is worse. Papa has been to see him since church, and Dr.\nB., who was there, said that Dr. Murray quoted from Katy in his sermon\nto-day, and then pausing long enough to attract everybody's attention,\nhe said he wished each of them to procure and read it. I hope you and\nMrs. Smith won't get sick hearing about it; I assure you I don't tell\nyou half I might. _Evening_.--Mr. C. has been here this evening to\nshow us a poem by his wife, just come out in the January number of the\nSabbath at Home, in which she asks the New Year what it has in store\nfor her, and says if it is _death_, it is only going home the sooner.\nNeither he, or anyone, had seen it or heard of it, and it came to them\nwith overwhelming power and consolation as the last utterance of her\nChristian faith. [1]\n\n_Dec. 30th, 1869._--Your letter came yesterday morning, after breakfast,\nand was read to an admiring audience of Prentisses by papa, who\noccasionally called for counsel as to this word and that. We like the\nplan made for the winter, and hope it will suit all round. You had such\na grand birth-day that I don't see what there was left for Christmas,\nand hope you got nothing but a leather button. My Percys end to-day, and\nI am shocked at the wretched way in which I ended them. I wish you would\nbuy a copy of Griseldis for me. Why don't you tell what you are reading?\nI got for M. \"A Sister's Bye Hours,\" by Jean Ingelow, and find it a\ndelightful book; such lots of quiet humor and so much good sense and\ngood feeling; you girls would enjoy reading it aloud together.\n\n_Jan. 3d, 1870._--You will want to hear all about New Year's day, and\nwhere shall I begin unless at the end thereof, when your and Mrs.\nSmith's letters came, and which caused papa ungraciously to leave me to\nentertain, while he greedily devoured them and his dinner. In spite of\nrain we had a steady flow of visitors. I will enclose a list for your\ndelectation, for as reading a cook-book sort of feeds one, reading\nfamiliar names sort of comforts one. Mr. ---- was softer and more\nlanguishing than ever, and appeared like a man who had been fed on honey\noff the tips of a canary bird's feather.... Papa and I agreed, talking\nit over last evening, that it is a bad plan for husbands and wives not\nto live and die together, as the one who is left is apt to cut up. He\nhinted that I was \"so fond of admiration\" that he was afraid I should,\nif he died. On questioning him as to what he meant by this abominable\nspeech, he said he meant to pay me a compliment!!! that he thought\nme very susceptible when people loved me and very fond of being\nloved--which I am by him; all other men I hate. My cousin G. dined with\nus on Friday and took me to the meeting held annually at Dr. Adams'\nchurch. I like him ever so much, though he _is_ a man. G. has brought\nme in some dandelions from the church-yard. We have not had one day\nof severe cold yet, and there is a great deal of sickness about in\nconsequence.\n\n_Friday._--I spent a part of last evening in writing an article about\nMrs. C.'s poem for the Sabbath at Home, and have a little fit of\nindigestion as my reward. Have been to see my sick woman with jelly and\nconsolation, and from there to Mrs. D., who gave me a beautiful account\nof Mrs. Coming's last days and of her readiness and gladness to go. I\nwas at the meeting at Dr. Rogers' yesterday afternoon and heard old Dr.\nTyng for the first time, and he spoke beautifully.... Well, Chi Alpha\n[2] is over; we had a very large attendance and the oysters were burnt.\nIt is dreadfully trying when Maria never once failed before to have them\nso extra nice. Dr. Hall came and told me he had been sending copies of\nFred and Maria and Me to friends in Ireland. Martha and Jane, and M. and\nH. were all standing in a row together when the parsons come out to tea,\nand one of them marched up to the row, saying to papa, Are these your\nchildren? when Martha and Jane made a precipitate retreat into the\npantry. Good-night, darling; lots of love to Mrs. Smith and all of them.\nYour affectionate \"Marm-er.\"\n\n_11th._--Yours came to-day, and papa and I had a brief duel with\nhair-pins and pen-knives as to which should read it aloud to the other,\nand I beat. I should have enjoyed Eigensinn, I am sure; you know I have\nread it in German.... The children all three are lovely, and what with\nthem and papa and other things my cup is running over tremendously. I\nhave just heard that a poor woman I have been to see a few times, died\nthis morning. I always came away from her crestfallen, thinking I was\nthe biggest poke in a sick-room there ever was, but she sent me a dying\nmessage that quite comforted me. She had once lived in plenty, but was\nfearfully destitute, and I fear she and her family suffered for want of\ncommon necessaries.\n\n_Thursday._--I had an early and a long call from one of our church, who\nwanted to tell me, among other things, that her husband scolded her for\nbumping her head in the night; she wept and I condoled; she went away at\nlast smiling. Then I went to the sewing circle and idled about till one;\nthen I had several calls. Then papa and I went out to make a lot of\ncalls. Then came a note from a sick lady, whom I shall go to see in\nspite of my horror of strangers. Papa got a letter from Prof. Smith\nwhich gave us great pleasure. Z. was here yesterday; I asked her to stay\nto lunch, bribing her with a cup of tea, and so she stayed and we had a\nreal nice time; when she went away I told her I was dead in love with\nher.\n\n_Friday Evening._--The children have all gone to bed; M. and G. have\nbeen reading all the evening; M. busy on Miss Alcott's \"Little Women,\"\nand G. shaking his sides over old numbers of the Riverside. Papa says\nour house ought to have a sign put out, \"Souls cured here\"; because so\nmany people come to tell their troubles. People used to do just so to my\nmother, and I suppose always do to parsons' wives if they'll let 'em.\n\n_Monday._--Papa preached delightfully yesterday. Mr. B. took a pew and\nMr. I don't know who took another. Your letter came this morning and was\nfull of interesting things. I hope Mrs. S. will send me her own and Jean\nIngelow's verses. What fun to get into a correspondence with her! I have\nhad an interesting time to-day. Dr. Skinner lent me some months ago a\nlittle book called \"God's Furnace\"; I didn't like it at first, but read\nit through several times and liked it better and better each time. And\nto-day Mrs. ---- brought the author to spend a few hours (she lives out\nof town), and we three black-eyed women had a remarkable time together.\nThere is certainly such a thing as a heaven below, only it doesn't last\nas the real heaven will. We had Mr. C. to tea last night; after tea he\nread us three poems of his wife, and papa was weak enough to go and read\nhim some verses of mine, which he ought not to have done till I am dead\nand gone. Then he played and sang with the children, and we had prayers,\nand I read scraps to him and papa from Faber's \"All for Jesus\" and\nCraig's Memoir. M. is lying on the sofa studying, papa is in his study,\nthe boys are hazing about; it snows a little and melts as it falls, and\nso, with love to all, both great and small, I am your loving \"ELDERLY\nLADY WITH GREY PUFFS.\"\n\n_February 8th, 1870._--We are having a tremendous snow-storm for a\nwonder. I started out this morning with G., and when we got to the Fifth\navenue clock he found he should be late unless he ran, and I was glad\nto let him go and turn back to meet M., who had heavy books besides her\numbrella. The wind blew furiously, my umbrella broke and flew off in a\ntangent, and when I got it, it turned wrong side out and I came near\nascending as in a balloon; M. soon came in sight and I convoyed her\nsafely to school. Mrs. ---- told a friend of ours that Mr. and Mrs.\nPrentiss really _enjoyed_ Mrs. C----'s death, and they seemed destitute\nof natural affection; and that as for Mrs. P. it was plain she had never\nsuffered in any way. Considering the tears we both shed over Mrs. C.,\nand some other little items in our past history, we must set Mrs. ----\ndown as wiser than the ancients.\n\n_Sunday Evening._--Yesterday Lizzy B. came to say that her mother was\n\"in a gully\" and wanted me to come and pull her out. I went and found\nher greatly depressed, and felt sure it was all physical, and not a case\nfor special spiritual pulling. So I coaxed her, laughed at her, and\ncheered her all I could. She said she had been \"a solemn pig\" for a\nweek, in allusion to some pictures Dr. P. had drawn for her and for me\nillustrating the solemn pig and the jolly pig. Mr. Randolph has sent\nup a letter from a man in Nice whose wife wants to translate Katy into\nFrench. I sent word they might translate it into Hottentot for all me.\nGood-night, my dear, I am sound asleep.\n\nYour affectionate Mother PRENTISS.\n\n_Tuesday._--On Sunday papa preached a sermon in behalf of the Mission,\nasking for $35,000 to build a chapel, for which Mr. Cady had made a\nplan. I got greatly stirred up, as I hope everybody did. Mr. Dodge will\ngive one-quarter of the sum needed. It is Washington's birthday, and the\nchildren are all at home from school, and are at the dining-room table\ndrawing maps. Mr. and Mrs. G. called, but I was out seeing a poor woman,\nwhose romance of love and sorrow I should like to tell you about if it\nwould not fill a book. She says Bishop S. has supported her and her\nthree children for seven months out of his own pocket.\n\n_Saturday, Feb. 26th._--Your two last letters, together with Mrs.\nSmith's, were all in the box as I was starting with M. for her music. My\nchildren pulled in opposite directions, but I pushed on, and papa saved\nthe letters to read to me when I got back. He reads them awfully, and\nwill puzzle over a word long enough for me to have leisure to go crazy\nand recover my sanity. However, nobody shall make fun of him save\nmyself; so look out. The boys have gone skating to-day for the third\ntime this winter, there has been so little cold weather.\n\n_Sunday Evening._--I did not mean to plague you with Stepping Heavenward\nany more, but we have had a scene to-day which will amuse you and Mrs.\nSmith. Just before service began, an aristocratic-looking lady seated in\nfront of Mrs. B. began to talk to her, whereupon Mrs. B. turned round\nand announced to the congregation that I was the subject of it by\npointing me out, and then getting up and bringing her to our pew. Once\nthere, she seized me by the hand and said, \"I am Mrs. ----. I have\njust read your book and been carried away with it. I knew your husband\nthirty-three years ago, and have come here to see you both,\" etc., etc.\nFinding she could get nothing out of me, she fell upon M., and asked her\nif I was her sister, which M. declared I was not. After church I invited\nher to step into the parsonage, and she stepped in for an hour and told\nthis story: She had had the book lent her, and yesterday, lunching at\nMrs. A.'s, asked her if she had read it, and finding she had not, made\nher promise to get it. She then asked who this E. Prentiss was, and a\nlady present enlightened her. \"What! my sister's beloved Miss Payson,\nand married to George Prentiss, my old friend!! I'll go there to church\nto-morrow and see for myself.\" So it turns out that she was a Miss ----,\nof Mississippi; that your father gallanted her to Louisville, when she\nwas going there to be married at sixteen years of age; that she was\nliving in Richmond at the time I was teaching there, her sister boarding\nin the house with me. Such talking, such life and enthusiasm you never\nsaw in a woman of forty-eight! \"Well,\" she winds up at last, \"I've found\ntwo _treasures_, and you needn't think I'm going to let you go. I'll go\nhome and tell Mr. ---- all about it.\" Papa and I have called each other\n\"two treasures\" ever since she went away. The whole scene worked him up\nand did him good, for he always loves to have his Southern friends drum\nhim up and talk to him of your Uncle Seargent and Aunt Anna. Mr. ---- is\none of our millionaires, and she married him a year ago after thirteen\nyears of widowhood. She says she still has 200 \"negroes,\" who won't\ngo away and won't work, and she has them to support. She talked very\nrationally about the war, and says not a soul at the South would have\nslavery back if they could.... I called at Mrs. B.'s yesterday--at\nexactly the right moment, she said; for five surgeons had just decided\nthat the operation had been a failure, and that she must die. Her\nhusband looked as white as this paper, and the girls were in great\ndistress, but Mrs. B. looked perfectly radiant.\n\n_Saturday, March 5th._--Yesterday I went to make a ghostly call on Mrs.\nB., and kept her and the girls screaming with laughter for an hour,\nwhich did me lots of good, and I hope did not hurt them. I have written\nthe 403d page of my serial to-day, and hope it is the last. It will soon\nbe time to think of the spring shopping. I don't know what any of us\nneed, and never notice what people are wearing unless I notice by going\nforth on a tour of observation.\n\n_Sunday Evening._--After church this afternoon Mrs. N. and Mrs. V. came\nin to tell us about the death of that servant of theirs, whom they\nnursed in their own house, who has been dying for seven months, of\ncancer. She died a most fearless, happy death, and I wish I knew I\nshould be as patient in my last illness as they represent her as being.\nYour letters to the children came yesterday afternoon to their great\ndelight. In an evil moment I told the boys that I had seen it stated, in\nsome paper, that _benzole_ would make paper transparent, and afterwards\nevaporate and leave the paper uninjured. They drove me raving distracted\nwith questions about it, so that I had to be put in a strait-jacket. The\ningenuity and persistence of these questions, asked by each, in separate\ninterviews, was beyond description.\n\n_Tuesday._--For once I have been caught napping, and have not mailed my\nweekly letter. But you will be expecting some irregularity about the\ntime of your flight to Berlin. I called at Mrs. M.'s to-day, and ran on\nat such a rate that Mrs. Woolsey, who was there, gave me ten dollars for\npoor folks, and said she wished I'd stay all day. Afterwards I went down\ntown to get Stepping Heavenward for Mr. C., and as he wanted me to write\nsomething in it, have just written this: \"Mr. C. from Mrs. Prentiss,\nin loving memory of one who 'did outrun' us, and stepped into heaven\nfirst.\" Mr. Bates showed me a half-column notice of it in the Liberal\nChristian, [3] of all places! by very far the warmest and best of all\nthat have appeared. Papa is at Dr. McClintock's funeral. I declare, if\nit isn't snowing again, and the sun is shining! Now comes a letter from\nUncle Charles, saying that your Uncle H. has lost that splendid little\ngirl of his; the only girl he ever had, and the child of his heart of\nhearts. Mrs. W. says she never saw papa and myself look so well, but\nsome gentleman told Mr. Brace, who told his wife, who told me, that I\nwas killing myself with long walks. I can not answer your questions\nabout Mr. ----'s call. So much is all the time going on that one event\nspeedily effaces the impression of another.\n\n_March 12th._--Julia Willis spent the evening here not long ago, and\nmade me laugh well. She took me on Friday to see Fanny Fern, who hugged\nand kissed me, and whom it was rather pleasant to see after nearly, if\nnot quite, thirty years' separation. She says nobody but a Payson could\nhave written Stepping Heavenward, which is absurd. _March 17th._--I went\nto the sewing circle [4] and helped tuck a quilt, had a talk with Mrs.\nW., got home at a quarter of one and ate two apples, and have been since\nthen reading the secret correspondence of Madame Guyon and Fenelon in\nold French.\n\n_Saturday, 19th._--Have just seen M. to the Conservatory; met Dr.\nSkinner on the way home, who said he had been reading Stepping\nHeavenward, and he hoped he should step all the faster for it. Z. has\noften invited us to come to see her new home, and as the 16th comes on\na Saturday, we are talking a little of all going up to lunch with her.\n_Evening_.--It has been such a nice warm day. I had a pleasant call from\nMrs. Dr. ----. She asked me if I did not get the theology of Stepping\nHeavenward out of my father's \"Thoughts,\" but as I have not read them\nfor thirty years, I doubt if I did, and as I am older than my father was\nwhen he uttered those thoughts, I have a right to a theology of my own.\n\n_Monday._--Yesterday, in the afternoon, we had the Sunday-school\nanniversary, which went off very well. Mr. C. came to tea; after it and\nprayers, we sat round the table and I read scraps from Madame Guyon\nand Fenelon, and we talked them over. Papa was greatly pleased at the\nlatter's saying he often stopped in the midst of his devotions to play.\n\nQuand je suis seul, je joue quelquefois comme un petit enfant, m\u00eame en\nfaisant oraison. Il m'arrive quelquefois de sauter et de rire tout seul\ncomme un fou dans ma chambre. Avant-hier, \u00e9tant dans la sacristie\net r\u00e9pondant \u00e0 une personne qui me questionnait, pour ne la point\nscandaliser sur la question, je m'embarrassai, et je fis une esp\u00e8ce de\nmensonge; cela me donna quelque r\u00e9pugnance \u00e0 dire la Messe, mais je ne\nlaissai pas de la dire.\n\nI do not advise _you_ to stop to play in the midst of your prayers, or\nto tell \"une esp\u00e8ce de mensonge!\" till you are as much of a saint as he\nwas. [5]\n\n_Saturday, 26th._--Your letter and Mrs. Smith's came together this\nafternoon. It is pleasant to hear from papa's old friends at Halle, and\nhe will be delighted, when he comes home from Chi Alpha, where he is\nnow. Lizzy B. called this afternoon; she wanted to open out her poor\nsick heart to me. She quoted to me several things she says I wrote her a\nfew weeks ago, but I have not the faintest recollection of writing them.\nThat shows what a harum-scarum life I lead.\n\n_March 31st._--We spent Tuesday evening at the Skinners. We had a\ncharming visit; no one there but Mrs. Sampson and her sister, and Dr. S.\nwide awake and full of enthusiasm. We did not get to bed till midnight.\nMrs. ---- came this morning and begged me to lend her some money, as she\nhad got behindhand. I let her have five dollars, though I do not feel\nsure that I shall see it again, and she wept a little weep, and went\naway. A lady told cousin C. she had heard I was so shy that once having\npromised to go to a lunch party, my courage failed at the last moment,\nso that I could not go. I shall expect to learn next that my hair is\nred.\n\n_Monday, April 4th._--Your presents came Saturday while I was out. We\nare all delighted with them, but I was most so, for two such darling\nlittle vases were surely never before seen. M. had Maggie to spend\nSaturday afternoon and take tea. She asked me if I did not make a\ndistinction between talent and genius, which papa thought very smart of\nher. I read aloud to them all the evening one of the German stories by\nJulius Horn. Mr. and Mrs. C. came in after church and I asked them to\nstay to tea, which they did. After it was over, and we had had prayers,\nwe had a little sing, Mrs. C. playing, and among other things, sang a\nlittle hymn of mine which I wrote I know not when, but which papa liked\nwell enough to have printed. If copies come to-day, as promised, I will\nenclose one or two. After the singing papa and I took turns, as we could\nsnatch a chance from each other, in reading to them from favorite books,\nwhich they enjoyed very much.\n\n_April 9th._--We called on Mrs. H. M. Field yesterday, and I never saw\n(or rather heard) her so brilliant. In the evening I read aloud to the\nchildren a real live, wide-awake Sunday-school book, called \"Old Stories\nin a New Dress\"; Bible stories, headed thus: \"The Handsome Rebel,\" \"The\nYoung Volunteer,\" \"The Ingenious Mechanics.\"\n\n_April 16th._--I can not go to bed, my dear chicken, till I have told\nyou what a charming day we have had. To go back to yesterday, my\nheadache entirely disappeared by the time the Skinners got here, and we\nhad a pleasant cosy evening with them, and at the end made Dr. Skinner\npray over us.... Everything went off nicely. The children enjoyed the\ntrip tremendously, and hated to come away. We picked a lot of \"filles\navant la m\u00e8re\" and they came home in good condition. Mr. Woolsey and Z.\ngave me a little silver figure holding a cup, on blue velvet, which\nis ever so pretty. We got home at half-past six. Later in the evening\nPresident Hopkins called to offer his congratulations. And now I am\ntired, I can tell you. It is outrageous for you and the Smiths to be\naway; I don't see how you can have the heart. You ought to come by\ndispatch as telegrams.\n\n_17th._--Dr. Hopkins preached a splendid sermon [6] for us this morning,\nand came in after it for a call. He asked me last night if I felt\nconceited about my book; so I said to him, \"I like to give people as\ngood as they send--don't you feel a little conceited after that sermon?\"\non which he gave me a good shaking.\n\n_18th._--I have been writing notes of thanksgiving, each of which dear\npapa reads through rose-colored spectacles and says, \"You do beat all!\"\nI have enjoyed writing them, instead of finding it a bore. We shall be\ncurious to hear how you celebrated our wedding-day. Well, good-bye, old\nchild. I shall begin another letter to-day, as like as not.\n\n_Monday, April 25th._--Friday morning, in the midst of my plans for\nhelping Aunt E. shop, came a message from Mrs. B. that she wanted to see\nme. I had not expected to see her again, and of course was glad to go.\nShe had altered so that I should not have known her, and it was hard to\nhear what she had to say, she is so feeble. She went back to the first\ntime she saw me, told me what I had on, and how her heart was knitted to\nme. She then spoke of her approaching death; said she had no ecstasies,\nno revelations, but had been in perfect peace, suffering agonies of\npain, yet not one pain too many. I asked her if she had any parting\ncounsel to give me. \"No, not a word; I only wanted to see your sunny\nface once more, and tell you what a comfort you have been to me in this\nsickness.\" This all came at intervals, she was so weak. She afterward\nsaid, \"I feel as if I never was acquainted with Christ till now. I tell\nmy sons to become INTIMATELY ACQUAINTED with Him.\" I asked her if she\ntook pleasure in thinking of meeting friends in heaven. With a sweet,\nsomewhat comical smile, she said, \"No, I haven't got so far as that. I\nthink only of meeting Christ.\" \"For all that,\" I said, \"you will soon\nsee my father and mother and other kindred souls.\" Her face lighted up\nagain. \"Why, so I shall!\" Her lips were growing white with pain while\nthis bright smile was on them, and I came away, though I should gladly\nhave listened to her by the hour, everything was so natural, sound,\nand-heavenly. Shopping after it did not prove particularly congenial;\nbut we must shop, as well as die.\n\n_April 29th._--Your first Dresden letter has just come; yes, it was long\nenough, though you did not tell us how the cat did. You speak as if you\nwere going to Paris, but papa is positive you are not. Yesterday was a\nlovely day, though very hot. Dr. Adams came and drove papa to the Park.\nLate in the afternoon I went to see Mrs. G., the woman whose husband\nis in jail. She is usually all in a muss, but this time was as nice as\ncould be, the floor clean and everything in order. The baby, a year old,\nhad learned to walk since I was last there, and came and planted herself\nin front of me, and stared at me out of two great bright eyes most of\nthe time. I had a nice visit, as Mrs. G. seems to be making a good use\nof her troubles. After I got home, Dr. and Mrs. C. arrived and we had\ndinner and a tremendous thunder shower, after which he went out to make\nforty-'leven calls. He was pleased to say that he wanted his wife to see\nthe lovely family picture we make! It is a glum, cold, lowering morning,\nbut the C.'s are going to see the Frenches at West Point, and Miss Lyman\nat Vassar.\n\n_Monday._--I went to Miss C.'s (the dressmaker) again to-day, and found\nher much out of health, and about reducing her business and moving. One\nof the old sisters had been reading Stepping Heavenward, and almost ate\nme up. I got a pleasant word about it last night, from Mrs. General\nUpton, who has just died at Nassau. I have seen Mrs. B. to-day; she did\nnot open her eyes, but besought me to pray for her release. She can't\nlast long. The boys are off rolling hoop again, and M. is out walking\nwith Ida. Papa informed me last night that I had got a very pretty\nbonnet. The bonnets now consist of a little fuss and a good many\nflowers. Papa has gone to Dorset, and has had a splendid day for his\njourney.\n\n_Thursday, May 12th._--Yesterday Miss ---- came to tell me about the\nkilling of her brother on the railroad, and to cry her very heart out on\nmy shoulder. In the midst of it came a note from Lizzy B., saying her\nmother had just dropped away. I called there early this morning. We then\nwent to the Park with your uncle and aunt; after which they left and I\nrushed out to get cap and collar to wear at Mrs. ----'s dinner. I got\nback in time to go to the funeral at four P.M. Dr. Murray made an\nexcellent, appreciative address; papa then read extracts from a paper of\nmine (things she had said), the prayer followed, and then her sons sang\na hymn. [7] I came home tired and laid me down to rest; at half-past six\nit popped into my head that I was not dressed, and I did it speedily. We\nsupposed we were only to meet the Rev. Dr. and Mrs. ----, of Brooklyn,\nbut, lo! a lot of people in full dress. We had a regular state dinner,\ncourse after course. Dr. ---- sat next me and made himself very\nagreeable, except when he said I was the most subtle satirist he ever\nmet (I did run him a little). Mrs. ---- is a picture. She had a way of\nlooking at me through her eyeglass till she put me out of countenance,\nand then smiling in a sweet, satisfied manner, and laying down her\nglass. We came home as soon as the gentlemen left the table, and got\nhere just as the clock was striking twelve.\n\n_Friday._--We began this day by going at ten A.M. to the funeral of Mrs.\nW.'s poor little baby, and the first words papa read, \"It is better\nto go to the house of mourning than to the house of feasting,\" etc.,\nexplained his and my state of mind after last night's dissipation. He\nmade a very touching address. Later in the day we went out to see Miss\n----, as we had promised to do. We went through the Park, lingered there\na while, and then went on and made a long call. When we rose to come\naway, she said she never let people go away without lunch and made us\ngo down to the following: buns, three kinds of cake, pies, doughnuts,\ncheese, lemonade, apples, oranges, pine-apples, a soup tureen of\nstrawberries, a quart of cream, two custard puddings, one hot and one\ncold, home-made wine, cold corned beef, cold roast beef, and for aught I\nknow 40 other things. We came away awfully tired, and papa complained of\nwant of appetite at dinner!! Good-bye, dearie. I forgot to tell you the\nboys have got a dog. He came of his own accord and has made them very\nhappy. We haven't let papa see him, you may depend.\n\n_Wed., May 18th._--Papa is packing his trunk for Philadelphia, and I am\nsitting at my new library table to write on my letter. I went yesterday\nto see that lady who has fits. She had one in the morning that lasted\nover an hour and a half. She is a very bright, animated creature and\ndoes not look older than you.\n\n_Thursday._--Papa got off yesterday at eleven for the General Assembly\nand I went to Mrs. D.'s and stayed four hours. She sent for Mr. S.'s\nbaby, who does not creep, but walks in the quaintest little way. I shall\nwrite a note to Mr. S., who feels anxious at its not creeping, fearing\nits limbs will not be strong, to tell him that I hitched along exactly\nso.\n\nNow let me give you the history of this busy day. We got up early and\nMiss F. called with M.'s two dresses. After prayers and breakfast I\nwrote to papa, went to school with H., and marketed. Came home and found\na letter from Cincinnati, urging for two hymns right away for a new\nhymn-book. They had several of mine already. I said, \"Go to, let us make\na hymn\" (Prof. Smith in his Review) and made and sent them. Then I wrote\nto Mr. S. and to Mrs. Charles W----. [8] Then Mrs. C. came and stayed\ntill nearly four, when she left and I went down to Twenty-second street\nto call on a lady at the Water Cure. Then I went to see Mrs. C. (the\nwife of the Rev. Mr. C.). I think I told you she had lost her little\nFlorence. I do not remember ever seeing a person so broken down by\ngrief; she seemed absolutely heart-broken. I could not get away till\nfive, and then I took two stages and got home as soon as I could,\nknowing the children would be famishing. So now count up my various\nprofessions, chaplain, marketer, hymnist, consoler of Mr. S., Mrs. W.,\nMrs. C., and let me add, of Dr. B., who came and made a long call. I am\nnow going to lie down and read till I get rested, for my brain has been\non the steady stretch for thirteen hours, one thing stepping on the\nheels of another. [9]\n\n_May 23d._--If your eyes were bright enough you might have seen me and\nmy cousin George P---- tearing down Broadway this afternoon, as if mad\ndogs were after us. He wanted me to have a fountain pen, and the only\nway to accomplish it was to take me down to the place where they are\nsold, below the Astor House. I wanted to walk, and so did he, but he had\ngot to be on a boat for Norwich at five P.M. and pack up between while;\nhowever, he concluded to risk it, hence the way we raced was a caution.\nI have just written him a long letter in rhyme with my new pen, and now\nbegin one in prose to you. I have just got a letter from an anonymous\nadmirer of Stepping Heavenward, enclosing ten dollars to give away; I\nwish it was a thousand! The children are in tribulation about their\nkitten, who committed suicide by knocking the ironing-board on to\nherself. H. made a diagram of the position of the board that I might\nfully comprehend the situation, and then showed me how the corpse lay.\nThey were not willing to part with the remains, and buried them in the\nyard.\n\n_Saturday._--I went to Yonkers with M. and H. to spend the day with Mrs.\nB. Her children are sweet and interesting as ever; but little Maggie,\nnow three years old, is the \"queen of the house.\" She is a perfect\nspecimen of what a child should be--gladsome, well, bright, and\nengaging. Her cheeks are rosy and shining, and she keeps up an incessant\nchatter. They are all wild about her, from papa and mamma down to the\nyoungest child.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nII.\n\nHome-Life in Dorset.\n\n\nDORSET, June 10, 1870.\n\nHere we are again in dear old Dorset. We got here about ten on Wednesday\nevening, expecting to find the house dark and forlorn, but Mrs. F.\nhad been down and lighted it up, and put on the dining-table bread,\nbiscuits, butter, cakes, eggs, etc., enough to last for days. Thursday\nwas hotter than any day we had had in New York, and not very good,\ntherefore, for the hard work of unpacking, and the yet harder work of\nsowing our flower-seeds in a huge bed shaped like a palm-leaf. But, with\nM.'s help, it was done before one o'clock to-day--a herculean task, as\nthe ground had to be thoroughly dug up with a trowel; stones, sticks,\nand roots got out, and the earth sifted in our hands. The back of my\nneck and my ears are nearly blistered. M. is standing behind me now\nanointing me with cocoa butter. Our place looks beautifully. Some of the\ntrees set out are twelve or fifteen feet high, and when fully leaved\nwill make quite a show. Papa is to be here about ten days, as he greatly\nneeds the rest; he will then go home till July 1st, when he will bring\nJane and Martha. I told Martha I thought it very good of Maria to be\nwilling to come with me, and she said she did not think it needed much\ngoodness, and that _anybody_ would go with me _any_where. The boys have\na little black and tan dog which Culyer gave them, and M.'s bird is a\nfine singer. Our family circle now consists of\n\n  Pa Prentiss,\n  Ma \"\n  Min.\"\n  Geo. \"\n  Hen. \"\n  Maria \"\n  (horse) Coco \"\n  (cow) Sukey \"\n  (dog) Nep \"\n  (bird) Cherry \"\n\nWe never saw Dorset so early, and when the foliage was in such\nperfection.\n\nLast Tuesday I reached our door perfectly and disgracefully loaded with\nparcels, and said to myself, \"I wonder what Mr. M. would say if he saw\nme with this load?\" when instantly he opened the door to let me in!\nAccount for this if you can. Why should I have thought of him among all\nthe people I know? Did his mind touch mine through the closed door? It\nmakes me almost shudder to think such things can be. Well, I must love\nand leave you. I am going to have a small basket on the table in the\nhall with ferns, mosses, and shells in it. They all send love from Pa\nPrentiss down to Sukey. What a pity you could not come home for the\nsummer and go back again! I believe I'll go to your bedroom door and\nsay, \"I wonder whether Annie would shriek out if she saw me in this old\nsacque, instead of her pretty one?\" and perhaps you'll open and let me\nin. Will you or won't you? Now I'm going to ride.\n\nI've been and I've got back, and I'm frozen solid, and am glad I've\ngot back to my den. G. and H. are now in the kitchen making biscuits.\nGood-bye, chicken. Mamma PRENTISS.\n\n_June 12th._--Everybody is in bed save Darby and Joan. We slept last\nnight under four blankets and a silk comforter, which will give you a\nfaint idea of the weather. It has been beautiful to-day, and we have sat\nout of doors a good deal. Papa and the boys went out to our hill after\ntea last evening and picked two quarts of strawberries, so as to have\na short-cake to-day. M. took me yesterday to see a nest in the orchard\nwhich was full of birds parted into fours--not a crack between, and one\nof them so crowded that it filled about no space at all. The hymn says,\n\"Birds in their little nests agree,\" and I should think they would, for\nthey have no room to disagree in. They all four stared at us with awful,\nalmost embarrassing solemnity, and each had a little yellow moustache. I\nhad no idea they lived packed in so--no wonder they looked melancholy.\nThe sight of them, especially of the one who had no room at all, made me\nquite low-spirited.\n\n_Wednesday._--Your letter reached us on Monday, and we all went out and\nsat in a row on the upper step, like birds on a telegraph wire, and papa\nread it aloud. I am lying by to-day--writing, reading, lounging, and\nenjoying the scenery. You ought to see papa eat strawberries!!! They are\nvery plentiful on our hill. The grass on the lawn is pricking up like\nneedles; easy to see if you kneel down and stare hard, but absolutely\ninvisible otherwise; yet papa keeps calling me to look out of the window\nand admire it, and shouts to people driving by to do the same. He has\njust come in, and I told him what I was saying about him, on which he\ngave me a good beating, doubled up his fist at me, and then kissed me to\nmake up.... _Don't sew_ Isn't it enough that I have nearly killed myself\nwith doing it? We have just heard of the death of Dickens and the\nsensation it is making in England.\n\n_Thursday._--This bird of ours is splendid. I have just framed the two\nbest likenesses of you and hung them up in front of my table. You would\nlaugh at papa's ways about coffee. He complains that he drank too much\nat Philadelphia, and says that with strawberries we don't need it, and\nthat I may tell Maria so. I tell her, and lo! the next morning there it\nis. I ask the meaning, and she says he came down saying I did not feel\nvery well and needed it! The next day it appears again. Why? He had been\ndown and ordered it because it was _good_. The next day he orders it\nbecause it is his last day here but one, and to-morrow it will be on the\ntable because it is the last! Dreadful man! and yet I hate to have him\ngo.\n\n_Friday._--I drove papa to Manchester, and as usual, this exploit\nbrought on a thunder shower, with a much needed deluge of rain. I had\na hard time getting home, and got wet to the skin. I had not only to\ndrive, but keep a roll of matting from slipping out, hold up the boot\nand the umbrella, and keep stopping to get my hat out of my eyes, which\nkept knocking over them. Then Coco goes like the wind this summer.\nFortunately I had my waterproof with me and got home safely. The worst\nof it is that, in my bewilderment, I refused to let a woman get in who\nwas walking to South Dorset. I shall die of remorse.. Well, well, how it\nis raining, to be sure.\n\n_Monday._--I hear that papa sent a dispatch to somebody to know how I\ngot here from Manchester. I do not wonder he is worried. I am such a\npoor driver, and it rained so dreadfully. M. follows me round like a\nlittle dog; if I go down cellar she goes down; if I pick a strawberry\nshe picks one; if I stop picking she stops. She is the sweetest lamb\nthat ever was, and I am the Mary that's got her. I don't believe anybody\nelse in the world loves me so well, unless it possibly is papa, and he\ndoesn't follow me down cellar, and goes off and picks strawberries all\nby himself, and that on Sunday, too, when I had forbidden berrypicking!\nWe are rioting in strawberries, just as we did last summer. We live a\ngood deal at sixes and sevens, but nobody cares. This afternoon I have\nbeen arranging a basket for the hall table, with mosses, ferns, shells\nand white coral; ever so pretty.\n\n_Wednesday._--It is a splendid day and I expect papa. The children have\nnot said a word about their food, though partly owing to no butcher and\npartly to the heat, I have had for two days next to nothing; picked fish\none day and fish picked the next. We regarded to-day's dinner as a most\nsumptuous one, and I am sure Victoria's won't taste so good to her.\nLetters keep pouring in, urging papa to accept the Professorship at\nChicago, and declaring the vote of the Assembly to be the voice of God.\nOf course, if he must accept, we should have to give up our dear little\nhome here. But to me his leaving the ministry would be the worst\nthing about it. After dinner the boys carried me off bodily to see\nstrawberries and other plants; then they made me go to the mill, and by\nthat time I had no hair-pins on my head, to say nothing of hair. The\nboys are working away like all possessed. A little bird, probably one\nof those hatched here, has just come and perched himself on the\npiazza, railing in front of me, and is making me an address which,\nunfortunately, I do not understand.... You have inherited from me a want\nof reverence for relics and the like. I wouldn't go as far as our barn\nto see the fig-leaves Adam and Eve wore, or all the hair of all the\napostles; and when people are not born hero-worshippers, they can't\neven worship themselves as heroes. Fancy Dr. Schaff sending me back the\nMS. of a hymn I gave him, from a London printing-office! What could I do\nwith it? cover jelly with it? He sent me a beautiful copy of his book,\n\"Christ in Song.\"\n\n_Thursday, June 30th._--Papa, with J. and M., came late last night, and\nwe all made as great a time as if the Great Mogul had come. They give\na most terrific account of the heat in the city. You ask how Stepping\nHeavenward is selling. So far 14,000. Nidworth has been a complete\nfailure, though the publishers write me that it is a \"gem.\" [10]\n\n_Monday, July 4th._--M. is so absorbed in the study of Vick's floral\ncatalogue that she speaks of seeing such a thing in the Bible or\nDictionary, when she means that she saw it in Vick. I did the same thing\nlast night. She and I get down on our knees and look solemnly at the\nbare ground and point out up-springing weeds as better than nothing. I\nhad a long call this morning from Mrs. F. Field, of East Dorset. They\nhad a dear little bright-eyed baby baptized yesterday, which sat through\nall the morning service and behaved even better than I did, for it had\nno wandering thoughts. Mrs. F. said some friends of hers in Brooklyn\nreceived letters from France and from Japan simultaneously, urging them\nto read Stepping Heavenward, which was the first they heard of it. We\nhave celebrated the glorious Fourth by making and eating ice-cream.\nPapa brought a new-fashioned freezer, that professed to freeze in two\nminutes. We screwed it to the wood-house floor--or rather H. did--put in\nthe cream, and the whole family stood and watched papa while he turned\nthe handle. At the end of two minutes we unscrewed the cover and gazed\ninside, but there were no signs of freezing, and to make a long story\nshort, instead of writing a book as I said I should, there we all were\nfrom half-past twelve to nearly two o'clock, when we decided to have\ndinner and leave the servants to finish it. It came on to the table at\nlast, was very rich and rather good. The boys spent the afternoon in the\nwoods firing off crackers. M. went visiting and papa took me to drive,\nit being a delightful afternoon. The boys have a few Roman candles which\nthey are going to send off as soon as it gets dark enough.\n\n_July 13th._--This is a real Dorset day, after a most refreshing rain,\nand M. and I have kept out of doors the whole morning, gardening and in\nthe woods. Dr. and Mrs. Humphrey came down and spent last evening. She\nis bright and wide awake, and admired everything from the scenery out of\ndoors to the matting and chintzes within. I told her there was nothing\nin the house to be compared with those who lived in it. Here comes a\nwoman with four quarts of black raspberries and a fuss to make change.\nPapa and the boys are getting in the last hay with Albert. M. has just\nbrought in your letter. We are glad you have seen those remarkable\nscenes [at Ober-Ammergau].One would fancy it would become an old story.\nI should not like to see the crucifixion; it must be enough to turn\none's hair white in a single night.\n\n_Saturday._--Yesterday I went with the children to walk round Rupert. We\nturned off the road to please the boys, to a brook with a sandy beach,\nwhere all three fell to digging wells, and I fell to collecting wild\ngrape-vine and roots for my rustic work, and fell into the brook\nbesides. We all enjoyed ourselves so much that we wished we had our\ndinners and could stay all day. On the way home, just as we got near\nCol. Sykes', we spied papa with the phaeton, and all got in. We must\nhave cut a pretty figure, driving through the village; M. in my lap, G.\nin papa's, and H. everywhere in general.\n\n_July 14th._--Miss Vance was in last evening after tea, and says our\nlawn is getting on extremely well and that our seeds are coming up\nbeautifully. This greatly soothed M.'s and my own uneasy heart, as we\nhad rather supposed the lawn ought to be a thick velvet, and the seeds\nwe sowed two weeks ago up and blooming. If vegetable corresponded to\nanimal life, this would be the case. Fancy that what were eggs long\nafter we came here, and then naked birds, are now full-fledged creatures\non the wing, all off getting to housekeeping, each on his own hook!\n\n_July 18th._--M. and I went on a tramp this forenoon and while we were\ngone Mrs. M. O. R. and Mary and Mrs. Van W. called. They brought news of\nthe coming war. Papa showed them all over the house, not excepting your\nroom, which I think a perfect shame--for the room looks forlorn. I think\nmen ought to be suppressed, or something done to them. Maria told me\nshe thought papa's sermon Sunday was \"ilegant.\" _21st._--I feel greatly\ntroubled lest this dreadful war should cut us off from each other. Mr.\nButler writes that he does not see how people are to get home, and we\ndo not see either. Papa says it will probably be impossible to have the\nEvangelical Alliance. And how prices of finery will go up!\n\n_July 27th._--M.'s and my own perseverance at our flower-bed is\nbeginning, at last, to be rewarded. We have portulaccas, mignonette,\nwhite candy-tuft, nasturtiums, eutocas, etc.; and the morning-glories,\nwhich are all behindhand, are just beginning to bloom. Never were\nflowers so fought for. It is the lion and the unicorn over again. I have\nnearly finished \"Soll und Haben,\" and feel more like talking German than\nEnglish. The Riverside Magazine has just come and completed my downfall,\nas it has a syllable left out of one of my verses, as has been the case\nwith a hymn in the hymn-book at Cincinnati and one in the Association\nMonthly. I am now fairly entitled to the reputation of being a jolty\nrhymster. It has been a trifle cooler to-day and we are all refreshed by\nthe change.\n\n_Friday._--Papa read me last evening a nice thing about Stepping\nHeavenward from Dr. Robinson in Paris and a lady in Zurich, and I went\nto bed and slept the sleep of the just--till daylight, when five hundred\nflies began to flap into my ears, up my nose, take nips off my face and\nhands, and drove me distracted. They woke papa, too, but he goes to\nsleep between the pecks.\n\n_August 4th._--Tuesday I went on a tramp with M. and brought home a\ngigantic bracket. We met papa as we neared the house, and he had had his\nfirst bath in his new tank at the mill, and was wild with joy, as were\nalso the boys. After dinner I made a picture frame of mosses, lichens,\nand red and yellow toadstools, ever so pretty; then proofs came, then we\nhad tea, and then went and made calls. Yesterday on a tramp with M.,\nwho wanted mosses, then home with about a bushel of ground-pine. Every\nminute of the afternoon I spent in trimming the grey room with the pine\nand getting up my bracket, and now the room looks like a bower of bliss.\nI was to go with M. on another tramp to-day, but it rains, and rain is\ngreatly needed. The heat in New York is said to exceed anything in the\nmemory of man, something absolutely appalling.\n\n_Friday._--Here I am on the piazza with Miss K. by my side, reading the\nLife of Faber. She got here last night in a beautiful moonlight, and as\nI had not told her about the scenery, she was so enchanted with it on\nopening her blinds this morning, that she burst into tears. I drove her\nround Rupert and took her into Cheney's woods, and the boys invited us\ndown to their workshop; so we went, and I was astonished to find that\nthe bath-house is really a perfect affair, with two dressing-rooms and\neverything as neat as a pink. Miss K. is charmed with everything, the\ncornucopias, natural brackets, crosses, etc., and her delusion as to all\nof us, whom she fancies saints and angels, is quite charming, only it\nwon't last.\n\n_13th._--There is a good deal of sickness about the village. I made\nwine-jelly for four different people yesterday, and the rest of the\nmorning Miss K., Mrs. Humphrey, and myself sat on a shawl in our woods,\ntalking. We have had a tremendous rain, to our great delight, and the\nair is cooler, but the grasshoppers, which are like the frogs of Egypt,\nare not diminished, and are devouring everything. I got a letter from\ncousin Mary yesterday, who says she has no doubt we shall get the ocean\nup here, somehow, and raise our own oysters and clams.\n\n_16th._--Papa and I went to Manchester to-day to make up a lot of calls,\nand among other persons, we saw Mrs. C. of Troy, a bright-eyed old lady\nwho was a schoolmate of my mother's. She could not tell me anything\nabout her except that she was very bright and animated, and that I knew\nbefore. Mrs. Wickham asked me to write some letters for a fair to be\nheld for their church to-morrow; so I wrote three in rhyme, not very\ngood.\n\n_August 20th._--After dinner papa went to Manchester, taking both boys,\nand I went off with M. to Cheney's woods, where we got baskets full\nof moss, etc., and had a good time. The children are all wild on the\nsubject of flowers and spend the evening studying the catalogues, which\nthey ought to know by heart. I wonder if I have told you how our dog\nhates to remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy? The moment the\nchurch-bell begins to ring, no matter where he is, or how soundly\nasleep, he runs out and gazes in the direction of the church, and as the\nlast stroke strikes, lifts his nose high in the air and sets up the most\nawful wails, howls, groans, despairing remonstrances you can imagine. No\ngames with the boys to-day--no romps, no going to Manchester, everybody\ntelling me to get off their Sunday clothes--aow! aow! aow!\n\nDr. Adams' house has been broken into and robbed, and so has Dr.\nField's. Mrs. H. gave us the history of a conflict in Chicago between\nher husband and a desperate burglar armed with a dirk, who wanted, but\ndid not get a large sum of money under his pillow; also, of his being\ngarroted and robbed, and having next day sent him a purse of $150, two\npistols, a slug, a loaded cane, and a watchman's rattle. Imagine him as\ngoing about loaded with all these things! I never knew people who had\nmet with such bewitching adventures, and she has the brightest way of\ntelling them.\n\nPapa has got a telegram from Dr. Schaff asking him to come on to his\nlittle Johnny's funeral. This death must have been very sudden, as Dr.\nSchaff wrote last Tuesday that his wife was sick, but said nothing of\nJohnny. He is the youngest boy, about nine years old, I think, and you\nwill remember they lost Philip, a beautiful child, born the same day as\nour G., the summer we were at Hunter. When the despatch came papa and M.\nthought it was bad news about you, and I only thought of Mr. Stearns!\nThere is no accounting for the way in which the human mind works. And\nnow for bed, you sleepy head.\n\n_Monday._--A splendid day, and we have all been as busy as bees, if\nnot as useful,--H. making a whip to chastise the cow with, M., Nep and\nmyself collecting mosses and toadstools; of the latter I brought home\n185! We were out till dinner-time, and after dinner I changed the\nmosses in my baskets and jardinet, no small job, and M. spread out her\ntreasures. She has at last found her enthusiasm, and I am so glad not\nonly to have found a mate in my tramps, but to see such a source of\npleasure opening before her as woods, fields and gardens have always\nbeen to me. We lighted this morning on what I supposed to be a\nhorned-headed, ferocious snake, and therefore took great pleasure in\nkilling. It turned out to be a common striped snake that had got a frog\npartly swallowed, and its legs sticking out so that I took them to be\nhorns. Nep relieved his mind by barking at it. I announced at dinner\nthat I was going to send for Vick's catalogue of bulbs, which news was\nreceived with acclamation. The fact is, we all seem to be born farmers\nor florists; and unless you bring us home something in the agricultural\nline, I don't know that you can bring us anything we would condescend to\nlook at. It is awful to read of the carnage going on in Europe.\n\n_Aug. 27th._--Papa got home Tuesday night. Johnny Schaff's death was\nfrom a fall; he left the house full of life and health, and in a few\nminutes was brought in insensible, and only lived half an hour.... I\ntake no pleasure in writing you, because we feel that you are not likely\nto get my letters. Still, I can not make up my mind to stop writing.\nNever was a busier set of people than we. In the evening I read to the\nchildren from the German books you sent them; am now on Thelka Von\nGrumpert's, which is a really nice book. I tell papa we are making an\nidol out of this place, but he says we are not.\n\n_Tuesday._--We all set out to climb the mountain near Deacon Kellogg's.\nWe snatched what we could for our dinner, and when we were ready to eat\nit, it proved to be eggs, bread and meat, cake, guava jelly, cider and\nwater. We enjoyed the splendid view and the dinner, and then papa and\nthe boys went home, and M., Nep and myself proceeded to climb higher,\nNep so affectionate that he tired me out hugging me with his \"arms,\"\nas H. calls them, and nearly eating me up, while M. was shaking with\nlaughter at his silly ways. We were gone from 10 A.M. to nearly 6 P.M.,\nand brought home in baskets, bags, pockets and bosom, about thirty\nnatural brackets, some very large and fearfully heavy. One was so heavy\nthat I brought it home by kicking it down the mountain. I have just got\nsome flower seeds for fall planting, and the children are looking them\nover as some would gems from the mine.\n\n_Thursday, September 1st._--Your letter has come, and we judge that\nyou have quite given up Paris; what a pity to have to do it! We spent\nyesterday at Hager brook with Mrs. Humphrey and her daughters; papa\ndrove us over in the straw wagon and came for us about 6 P.M. We had\nlobster salad and marmalade, bread and butter and cake, and we roasted\npotatoes and corn, and the H.'s had a pie and things of that sort. When\nthey saw the salad they set up such shouts of joy that papa came to see\nwhat was the matter. We had a nice time. Today I have had proofs to\ncorrect and letters to write, and berries to dry, but not a minute to\nsit down and think, everybody needing me at once. All are busy as bees\nand send lots of love. Give ever so much to the Smiths.\n\n_September 8th._--Here we are all sitting round the parlor table. The\nlast three days have each brought a letter from you, and to-day one came\nfrom Mrs. S. to me, and one from Prof. S. to papa. I have no doubt that\nthe decision for you to return is a wise one and hope you will fall in\nwith it cheerfully. Dr. Schaff is here, and yesterday papa took him\nto Hager brook, and to-day to the quarries; splendid weather for both\nexcursions, and Dr. S. seems to have enjoyed them extremely. Last\nevening he read to us some private letters of Bismarck, which were very\ninteresting and did him great credit in every way. I had a long call\nfrom M. H. to-day; she looked as sweet as possible and I loaded her with\nflowers. Papa is writing Mr. B. to thank him for a basket of splendid\npeaches he sent us to-day. H. has just presented me with three pockets\nfull of toadstools. M. walked with me round Rupert square this\nafternoon, and we met a crazy woman who said she wondered I did not go\ninto fits, and asked me why I didn't. In return I asked her where she\nlived, to which she replied, \"In the world.\" We are all on the _qui\nvive_ about the war news, especially Louis Napoleon's downfall, and\nyou may depend we are glad he has used himself up. You can not bring\nanything to the children that will please them as seeds would. It\ndelights me to see them so interested in garden work. Perhaps this will\nbe my last letter.\n\nYour loving Mammie.\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIII.\n\nFurther Glimpses of her Dorset Life.\n\n\nThe following Recollections of Mrs. Prentiss by her friend, Mrs.\nFrederick Field, now of San Jose, California, afford additional glimpses\nof her home life in Dorset. The picture is drawn in fair colors; but it\nis as truthful as it is fair:\n\nIt was the first Sunday in September, 1866. A quiet, perfect day among\nthe green hills of Vermont; a sacramental Sabbath, and we had come seven\nmiles over the mountain to go up to the house of the Lord. I had brought\nmy little two-months-old baby in my arms, intending to leave her during\nthe service at our brother's home, which was near the church. I knew\nthat Mrs. Prentiss was a \"summer-boarder\" in this home, that she was\nthe wife of a distinguished clergyman, and a literary woman of decided\nability; but it was before the \"Stepping Heavenward\" epoch of her life,\nand I had no very deep interest in the prospect of meeting her. We went\nin at the hospitably open door, and meeting no one, sat down in the\npleasant family living-room. It was about noon, and we could hear\ncheerful voices talking over the lunch-table in the dining-room.\nPresently the door opened, and a slight, delicate-featured woman, with\nbeautiful large dark eyes, came with rapid step into the room, going\nacross to the hall door; but her quick eye caught a glimpse of my little\n\"bundle of flannel,\" and not pausing for an introduction or word\nof preparatory speech, she came towards me with a beaming face and\noutstretched hands:--\n\n\"O, have you a baby there? How delightful! I haven't seen one for such\nan age,--please, may I take it? the darling tiny creature!--a girl? How\nlovely!\"\n\nShe took the baby tenderly in her arms and went on in her eager, quick,\ninformal way, but with a bright little blush and smile,--\"I'm not very\npolite--pray, let me introduce myself! I'm Mrs. Prentiss, and you are\nMrs. F---, I know.\"\n\nAfter a little more sweet, motherly comment and question over the\nbaby,--\"a touch of nature\" which at once made us \"akin,\" she asked,\n\"Have you brought the baby to be christened?\"\n\nI said, No, I thought it would be better to wait till she was a little\nolder.\n\n\"O, no!\" she pleaded, \"do let us take her over to the church now. The\nyounger the better, I think; it is so uncertain about our keeping such\ntreasures.\"\n\nI still objected that I had not dressed the little one for so public an\noccasion.\n\n\"O, never mind about that,\" she said. \"She is really lovelier in this\nsimple fashion than to be loaded with lace and embroidery.\" Then, her\nsweet face growing more earnest,--\"There will be more of us here to-day\nthan at the next communion--_more of us to pray for her._\"\n\nThe little lamb was taken into the fold that day, and I was Mrs.\nPrentiss' warm friend forevermore. Her whole beautiful character had\nrevealed itself to me in that little interview,--the quick perception,\nthe wholly frank, unconventional manner, the sweet motherliness, the\ncordial interest in even a stranger, the fervent piety which could not\nbear delay in duty, and even the quaint, original, forcible thought\nand way of expressing it, \"There'll be more of us here to pray for her\nto-day.\"\n\nFor seven successive summers I saw more or less of her in this \"Earthly\nParadise,\" as she used to call it, and once I visited her in her city\nhome. I have been favored with many of her sparkling, vivacious letters,\nand have read and re-read all her published writings; but that first\nmeeting held in it for me the key-note of all her wonderfully beautiful\nand symmetrical character.\n\nShe brought to that little hamlet among the hills a sweet and wholesome\nand powerful influence. While her time was too valuable to be wasted\nin a general sociability, she yet found leisure for an extensive\nacquaintance, for a kindly interest in all her neighbors, and for\nChristian work of many kinds. Probably the weekly meeting for\nBible-reading and prayer, which she conducted, was her closest link with\nthe women of Dorset; but these meetings were established after I had\nbidden good-bye to the dear old town, and I leave others to tell how\ntheir \"hearts burned within them as she opened to them the Scriptures.\"\n\nShe had in a remarkable degree the lovely feminine gift of\n_home-making_. She was a true decorative artist. Her room when she was\nboarding, and her home after it was completed, were bowers of beauty.\nEvery walk over hill and dale, every ramble by brookside or through\nwildwood, gave to her some fresh home-adornment. Some shy wildflower\nor fern, or brilliant-tinted leaf, a bit of moss, a curious lichen, a\ndeserted bird's-nest, a strange fragment of rock, a shining pebble,\nwould catch her passing glance and reveal to her quick artistic sense\npossibilities of use which were quaint, original, characteristic. One\nsaw from afar that hers was a poet's home; and, if permitted to enter\nits gracious portals, the first impression deepened into certainty.\nThere was as strong an individuality about her home, and especially\nabout her own little study, as there was about herself and her writings.\nA cheerful, sunny, hospitable Christian home! Far and wide its potent\ninfluences reached, and it was a beautiful thing to see how many\nanother home, humble or stately, grew emulous and blossomed into a new\nloveliness.\n\nMrs. Prentiss was naturally a shy and reserved woman, and necessarily a\npre-occupied one. Therefore she was sometimes misunderstood. But those\nwho--knew her best, and were blest with her rare intimacy, knew her as\n\"a perfect woman nobly planned.\" Her conversation was charming.\nHer close study of nature taught her a thousand happy symbols and\nillustrations, which made both what she said and wrote a mosaic of\nexquisite comparisons. Her studies of character were equally constant\nand penetrating. Nothing escaped her; no peculiarity of mind or manner\nfailed of her quick observation, but it was always a kindly interest.\nShe did not ridicule that which was simply ignorance or weakness, and\nshe saw with keen pleasure all that was quaint, original, or strong,\neven when it was hidden beneath the homeliest garb. She had the true\nartist's liking for that which was simple and _genre_. The common\nthings of common life appealed to her sympathies and called out all her\nattention. It was a real, hearty interest, too--not feigned, even in a\nsense generally thought praiseworthy. Indeed, no one ever had a more\nintense scorn of every sort of _feigning_. She was honest, truthful,\n_genuine_ to the highest degree. It may have sometimes led her into\nseeming lack of courtesy, but even this was a failing which \"leaned to\nvirtue's side.\" I chanced to know of her once calling with a friend on a\ncountry neighbor, and finding the good housewife busy over a rag-carpet.\nMrs. Prentiss, who had never chanced to see one of these bits of rural\nmanufacture in its elementary processes, was full of questions and\ninterest, thereby quite evidently pleasing the unassuming artist in\nassorted rags and home-made dyes. When the visitors were safely outside\nthe door, Mrs. Prentiss' friend turned to her with the exclamation,\n\"What tact you have! She really thought you were interested in her\nwork!\" The quick blood sprang into Mrs. Prentiss' face, and she turned\nupon her friend a look of amazement and rebuke. \"Tact!\" she said, \"I\ndespise such tact!--do you think _I would look or act a lie?_\"\n\nShe was an exceedingly practical woman, not a dreamer. A systematic,\nthorough housekeeper, with as exalted ideals in all the affairs which\npertain to good housewifery as in those matters which are generally\nthought to transcend these humble occupations. Like Solomon's virtuous\nwoman she \"looked well after the ways of her household.\" Methodical,\ncareful of minutes, simple in her tastes, abstemious, and therefore\nenjoying evenly good health in spite of her delicate constitution--this\nis the secret of her accomplishing so much. Yet all this foundation of\nexactness and diligence was so \"rounded with leafy gracefulness\" that\nshe never seemed angular or unyielding.\n\nWith her children she was a model disciplinarian, exceedingly strict, a\nwise law-maker; yet withal a tender, devoted, self-sacrificing mother.\nI have never seen such exact obedience required and given--or a more\nidolized mother. \"Mamma's\" word was indeed _Law_, but--O, happy\ncombination!--it was also _Gospel_!\n\nHow warm and true her friendship was! How little of selfishness in all\nher intercourse with other women! How well she loved to be of _service_\nto her friends! How anxious that each should reach her highest\npossibilities of attainment! I record with deepest sense of obligation\nthe cordial, generous, sympathetic assistance of many kinds extended by\nher to me during our whole acquaintance. To every earnest worker in any\nfield she gladly \"lent a hand,\" rejoicing in all the successes of others\nas if they were her own.\n\nBut if weakness, or trouble, or sorrow of any sort or degree overtook\none she straightway became as one of God's own ministering spirits--an\nangel of strength and consolation. Always more eager, however, that\n_souls should grow than that pain should cease_. Volumes could be made\nof her letters to friends in sorrow. One tender monotone steals through\nthem all,--\n\n  'Come unto me, my kindred, I enfold you\n    In an embrace to sufferers only known;\n  Close to this heart I tenderly will hold you,\n    Suppress no sigh, keep back no tear, no moan.\n\n  \"Thou Man of Sorrows, teach my lips that often\n    Have told the sacred story of my woe,\n  To speak of Thee till stony griefs I soften,\n    Till hearts that know Thee not learn Thee to know.\n\n  \"Till peace takes place of storm and agitation,\n    Till lying on the current of Thy will\n  There shall be glorying in tribulation,\n    And Christ Himself each empty heart shall fill.\"\n\nFew have the gift or the courage to deal faithfully yet lovingly with an\nerring soul, but she did not shrink back even from this service to those\nshe loved. I can bear witness to the wisdom, penetration, skill, and\nfidelity with which she probed a terribly wounded spirit, and then\nsaid with tender solemnity, \"_I think you need a great deal of good\npraying._\"\n\nO, \"vanished hand,\" still beckon to us from the Eternal Heights! O,\n\"voice that is still,\" speak to us yet from the Shining Shore!\n\n  \"Still let thy mild rebuking stand\n    Between us and the wrong,\n  And thy dear memory serve to make\n    Our faith in goodness strong.\"\n\n\n[1] See the poem in the appendix to Golden Hours, with the \"Reply of the\nNew Year,\" written by Mrs. Prentiss.\n\n[2] A clerical circle of New York.\n\n[3] A Unitarian paper, published in New York.\n\n[4] An association of ladies for providing garments and other needed\narticles in aid of families of Home and Foreign missionaries, especially\nof those connected in any way with their own congregation. Such a circle\nis found in most of the American churches.\n\n[5] The passage occurs in a letter to Madame Guyon, dated June 9, 1689.\nFor another extract from the same letter see appendix F, p. 557.\n\n[6] On the Resurrection of Christ.\n\n[7] Helen Rogers Blakeman, wife of W. N. Blakeman, M.D., was born on the\n20th of December, 1811, in the city of New York. She was a granddaughter\nof the Rev. James Caldwell, of Elizabethtown, New Jersey, the\nRevolutionary patriot. The tragical fate of her grandmother has passed\ninto history. When the British forces reached Connecticut Farms, on\nthe 7th of June, 1780, and began to burn and pillage the place, Mrs.\nCaldwell, who was then living there, retired with her two children--one\nan infant in her arms--to a back room in the house. Here, while engaged\nin prayer, she was shot through the window. Two bullets struck her in\nthe breast and she fell dead upon the floor. The infant in her arms was\nMrs. Blakeman's mother. On the father's side, too, she was of an old and\nGod-fearing family.\n\n[8] \"Your precious lamb was very near my heart; few knew so well as I\ndid all you suffered for and with her, for few have been over just the\nground I have. But that is little to the purpose; what I was going to\nsay is this,--'God never makes a mistake.' You know and feel it, I am\nsure, but when we are broken down with grief, we like to hear simple\nwords, oft repeated. On this anniversary of my child's death, I feel\ndrawn to you. It was a great blow to us because it came to hearts\nalready sore with sorrow for our boy, and because it came so like a\nthunderclap, and because she suffered so. Your baby's death brought it\nall back.\"--_From the Letter to Mrs. W._\n\n[9] \"I must tell you what a busy day I had yesterday, being chaplain,\nmarketer, mother, author, and consoler from early morning till nine at\nnight.... A letter came from Cincinnati from the editor of the hymn-book\nof the Y.M.C.A., saying he had some of my hymns in it, and had stopped\nthe press in order to have two more, which he wanted 'right away.' I was\nexactly in the mood; it was our little Bessie's anniversary, she had\nbeen in heaven _eighteen_ years; think what she has already gained by\nmy one year of suffering! and I wanted to spend it for others, not for\nmyself.\"--_Letter to her Husband, May 20_.\n\n[10] Nidworth, and His Three Magic Wands, published by Roberts Brothers.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\nTHE TRIAL OF FAITH.\n\n1871-1872.\n\nI.\n\nTwo Years of Suffering. Its Nature and Causes. Spiritual Conflicts.\nIll-health. Faith a Gift to be won by Prayer. Death-bed of Dr. Skinner.\nVisit to Philadelphia. \"Daily Food.\" How to read the Bible so as to love\nit more. Letters of Sympathy and Counsel. \"Prayer for Holiness brings\nSuffering.\" Perils of human Friendship.\n\n\nIf in the life of Mrs. Prentiss the year 1870 was marked with a white\nstone as one of great happiness, the two following years were marked by\nunusual and very acute suffering. Perhaps something of this was, sooner\nor later, to have been looked for in the experience of one whose\norganization, both physical and mental, was so intensely sensitive.\nTragical elements are latent in every human life, especially in the life\nof woman. And the finer qualities of her nature, her vast capacity of\nloving and of self-sacrifice, her peculiar cares and trials, as well as\noutward events, are always tending to bring these elements into action.\nWhat scenes surpassing fable, scenes both bright and sad, belong to\nthe secret history of many a quiet woman's heart! Then our modern\ncivilization, while placing woman higher in some respects than she ever\nstood before, at the same time makes her pay a heavy price for\nher advantages. In the very process of enlarging her sphere and\nopportunities, whether intellectual or practical, and of educating\nher for their duties, does it not also expose her to moral shocks and\ntroubles and lacerations of feeling almost peculiar to our times? Nor is\nreligion wholly exempt from the spirit that rules the age or the hour.\nThere is a close, though often very subtle, connexion between the\ntwo; just as there is between the working of nature and grace in the\nindividual soul.\n\nThe phase of her history upon which Mrs. Prentiss was now entering\ncan not be fully understood without considering it in this light. The\nmelancholy that was deep-rooted in her temperament, and her tender,\nall-absorbing sympathies, made her very quick to feel whatever of pain\nor sorrow pervaded the social atmosphere about her. The thought of what\nothers were suffering would intrude even upon her rural retreat among\nthe mountains, and render her jealous of her own rest and joy. And then,\nin all her later years, the mystery of existence weighed upon her heart\nmore and more heavily. In a nature so deep and so finely strung, great\nhappiness and great sorrow are divided by a very thin partition.\n\nBut spiritual trials and conflict gave its keenest edge to the suffering\nof these years. Such trials and conflict indeed were not wanting in the\nearliest stages of her religious life, nor had they been wanting all\nalong its course; but they came now with a power and in a manner almost\nwholly new; and, while not essentially different from those which have\nafflicted God's children in all ages, they are yet traceable, in no\nsmall degree, to special causes and circumstances in her own case. Early\nin 1870 she had fallen in with a book entitled \"God's Furnace,\" and a\nfew months later had made the acquaintance of its author--a remarkable\nwoman, of great strength of character, of deep religious experience, and\nfull of zeal for God. Her book was introduced to the Christian public by\na distinguished Presbyterian clergyman, and was highly recommended\nby other eminent divines. By means of this work, as well as by\ncorrespondence and an occasional visit, she exerted for a time a good\ndeal of influence over Mrs. Prentiss. At first this influence seemed to\nbe stimulating and healthful, but it was not so in the end. The points\nof sympathy and the points of difference between them will come out so\nplainly in Mrs. Prentiss' letters that they need not be indicated here.\nIt would not be easy to imagine two women more utterly dissimilar,\nexcept in love to God, devotion to their Saviour, and delight in prayer.\nThese formed the tie between them. Miss ----'s last days were sadly\nclouded by mental trouble and disease.\n\nA little book called \"Holiness through Faith,\" published about this\ntime, was another disturbing influence in Mrs. Prentiss' religious life.\nThis work and others of a similar character presented a somewhat novel\ntheory of sanctification--a theory zealously taught, and which excited\nconsiderable attention in certain circles of the Christian community. It\nwas, in brief, this: As we are justified by faith without the deeds\nof the law, even so are we sanctified by faith; in other words, as we\nobtain forgiveness and acceptance with God by a simple act of trust in\nChrist, so by simple trust in Christ we may attain personal holiness; it\nis as easy for divine grace to save us at once from the power, as from\nthe guilt, of sin.\n\nFor more than thirty years Mrs. Prentiss had made the Christian life a\nmatter of earnest thought and study. The subject of personal holiness\nin particular had occupied her attention. Whatever promised to shed\nnew light upon it she eagerly read. Her own convictions, however, were\npositive and decided; and, although at first inclined to accept the\ndoctrine of \"Holiness through Faith,\" further reflection satisfied her\nthat, as taught by its special advocates, it was contrary to Scripture\nand experience, and was fraught with mischief. Certain unhappy\ntendencies and results of the doctrine, both at home and abroad, as\nshown in some of its teachers and disciples, also forced her to this\nconclusion. Folly of some sort is indeed one of the fatal rocks upon\nwhich all overstrained theories of sanctification are almost certain to\nbe wrecked; and in excitable, crude natures, the evil is apt to take the\nform either of mental extravagance, perhaps derangement, or of silly, if\nnot still worse, conduct. But, while deeply impressed with the mischief\nof these Perfectionist theories, Mrs. Prentiss felt the heartiest\nsympathy with all earnest seekers after holiness, and was grieved by\nwhat seemed to her harsh or unjust criticisms upon them.\n\nWhat were her own matured views on the subject will appear in the\nsequel. It is enough to say here that \"Holiness through Faith\" and other\nworks, in advocacy of the same or similar doctrines, meeting her as\nthey did when under a severe mental strain, and touching her at a most\nsensitive point--for holiness was a passion of her whole soul--had\nfor a time a more or less bewildering effect. She kept pondering the\nquestions they raised, until the native hue of her piety--hitherto so\nresolute and cheerful--became \"sicklied o'er with the pale cast of\nthought.\"\n\nThe inward conflict which has been referred to she described sometimes,\nin the language of the old divines, as the want of God's \"sensible\npresence,\" or of \"conscious\" nearness to and communion with Christ;\nsometimes, as a state of \"spiritual deprivation or aridity\"; and then\nagain, as a work of the Evil One. She laid much stress upon this last\npoint. Her belief in the existence of Satan and his influence over human\nsouls was as vivid as that of Luther; she did not hesitate to accuse him\nof being the fomenter and, in a sense, the author of her distress; the\nwarnings of the Bible against his \"wiles\" she accepted as in full force\nstill; and she could offer with all her heart, and with no doubt as\nto the literal meaning of its closing words, the petition of the old\nLitany: \"That it may please Thee to strengthen such as do stand, and to\ncomfort and help the weak-hearted, and to raise up those who fall, and\nfinally to _beat down Satan under our feet_.\"\n\nThe coming trouble seems to have cast its shadow across her path even\nbefore the close of 1870. Early in 1871 it was upon her in power.\nHer letters contain very interesting and pathetic allusions to this\nexperience. But they do not explain it. Nor is it easy to explain. In\nthe absence of certain inciting causes from without, it would never,\nperhaps, have assumed a serious form. But these sharp spiritual\ntrials are generally complicated with external causes, or occasions;\nill-health, morbid constitutional tendencies, loss of sleep, wearing\ncares and responsibilities, sudden calamities, worldly loss or\ndisappointment, and the like. It is in the midst of such conditions that\npious souls are most apt to be assailed by gloom and despondency. And\nyet distressing inward struggles and depression arise sometimes in the\nmidst of outward prosperity and even of unusual religious enjoyment.\nIn truth, among all the phenomena of the Christian life none are more\nobscure or harder to seize than those connected with spiritual conflict\nand temptation. They belong largely to that _terra incognita_, the dark\nback-ground of human consciousness, where are the primal forces of\nthe soul and the mustering-place of good and evil. A certain mystery\nenshrouds all profound religious emotion; whether of the peace of\nGod that passeth all understanding, or of the anguish that comes of\nspiritual desertion. Those who are in the midst of the battle, or bear\nits scars, will instantly recognise an experience like their own; to all\nothers it must needs remain inexplicable. Even in the natural life our\ndeepest joys and sorrows are mostly inarticulate; the great poets come\nnearest to giving them utterance; but how much the reality always\nsurpasses the descriptions of the poet's pen, even though it be the pen\nof a Shakespeare, or a Goethe!\n\nMrs. Prentiss never afterward referred to this \"fiery trial\" without\nstrong emotion. It terrified her to think of anyone she loved as exposed\nto it; and--not to speak of other classes--she seemed to regard those as\nspecially exposed to it, who had just passed, or were passing, through\nan unusually rich and happy religious experience. One of her last\nletters, addressed to a dear Christian friend, related to this very\npoint. Here are a few sentences from it:\n\nI want to give you EMPHATIC warning that you were never in such danger\nin your life. This is the language of bitter, bitter experience and is\nnot mine alone. Leighton says the great Pirate lets the empty ships go\nby and robs the full ones. [1] ... I do hope you will go on your way\nrejoicing, unto the perfect day. Hold on to Christ with your teeth [2]\nif your hands get crippled; He, alone, is stronger than Satan; He,\nalone, knows _all_ \"sore temptations\" mean.\n\nThis, certainly, is strong language and will sound very strange and\nextravagant in many ears; and yet is it really stronger language than\nthat often used by inspired prophets and apostles? or than that of\nAugustine, Bernard, Luther, Hooker, Fenelon, Bunyan, and of many saintly\nwomen, whose names adorn the annals of piety? Strong as it is, it will\nfind an echo in hearts that have been assailed by the \"fiery darts of\nthe adversary,\" and have learned to cry unto God out of the depths\nof mental anguish and gloom; while others still in the midst of the\nconflict, will, perhaps, be helped and comforted to read of the manner\nin which Mrs. Prentiss passed through it. Nothing in the story of her\nreligious life is more striking and beautiful. Her faith never failed;\nshe glorified God in the midst of it all; she thanked her Lord and\nMaster for \"taking her in hand,\" and begged Him not to spare her for her\ncrying, if so be she might thus learn to love Him more and grow more\nlike Him! And, what is especially noteworthy, her own suffering, instead\nof paralysing, as severe suffering sometimes does, active sympathy with\nthe sorrows and trials of others, had just the contrary effect. \"How\nsoon,\" she wrote to a friend, \"our dear Lord presses our experiences\ninto His own service! How many lessons He teaches us in order to make us\n'sons' (or daughters) 'of consolation!'\" To another friend she wrote:\n\nI did not perceive any selfishness in you during our interview, and you\nneed not be afraid that I am so taken up with my own affairs as to feel\nno sympathy with you in yours. What are we made for, if not to bear each\nother's burdens? And this ought to be the effect of trial upon us; to\nmake us, in the very midst of it, unusually interested in the interests\nof others. This is the softening, sanctifying tendency of tribulation,\nand he who lacks it needs harder blows.\n\nAt no period of her life was she more helpful to afflicted and tempted\nsouls. In visits to sick-rooms and dying beds, and in letters to friends\nin trouble, her heart \"like the noble tree that is wounded itself when\nit gives the balm,\" poured itself forth in the most tender, soothing\nministrations. It seemed at times fairly surcharged with love. Meanwhile\nshe kept her pain to herself; only a few intimate friends, whose prayers\nshe solicited, knew what a struggle was going on in her soul; to all\nothers she appeared very much as in her happiest days. \"It is a little\ncurious,\" she wrote to a young friend, \"that suffering as I really am,\nnobody sees it. 'Always bright!' people say to me to my amazement.... I\ncan add nothing but love, of which I am so full that I keep giving off\nin thunder and lightning.\"\n\nThe preceding account would be incomplete without adding that the state\nof her health during this period, combined with a severe pressure of\nvaried and perplexing cares, served to deepen the distress caused by her\nspiritual trials. Whatever view may be taken of the origin and nature\nof such trials, it is certain that physical depression and the mental\nstrain that comes of anxious, care-worn thoughts, if not their source,\nyet tend always greatly to intensify them. In the present case the\ntrials would, perhaps, not have existed without the cares and the\nill-health; while the latter, even in the entire absence of the former,\nwould have occasioned severe suffering.\n\n_To Mrs. Frederick Field, New York, Jan. 8, 1871._\n\n'If I need make any apology for writing you so often, it must be this--I\ncan not help it. Having dwelt long in an obscure, oftentimes dark\nvalley, and then passed out into a bright plane of life, I am full of\ntender yearnings over other souls, and would gladly spend my whole time\nand strength for them. I long, especially, to see your feet established\non an immovable Rock. It seems to me that God is preparing you for great\nusefulness by the fiery trial of your faith. \"They learn in suffering\nwhat they teach in song.\" Oh how true this is! Who is so fitted to sing\npraises to Christ as he who has learned Him in hours of bereavement,\ndisappointment and despair?\n\nWhat you want is to let your intellect go overboard, if need be, and to\ntake what God gives just as a little child takes it, without money and\nwithout price. Faith is His, unbelief ours. No process of reasoning can\nsoothe a mother's empty, aching heart, or bring Christ into it to fill\nup all that great waste room. But faith can. And faith is His gift; a\ngift to be won by prayer--prayer persistent, patient, determined;\nprayer that will take no denial; prayer that if it goes away one day\nunsatisfied, keeps on saying, \"Well, there's to-morrow and to-morrow and\nto-morrow; God may wait to be gracious, and I can wait to receive, but\nreceive I must and will.\" This is what the Bible means when it says,\n\"the kingdom of heaven suffereth violence and the violent take it by\nforce.\" It does not say the eager, the impatient take it by force, but\nthe violent--they who declare, \"I will not let Thee go except Thou bless\nme.\" This is all heart, not head work. Do I know what I am talking\nabout? Yes, I do. But my intellect is of no use to me when my heart\nis breaking. I must get down on my knees and own that I am less than\nnothing, seek _God_, not joy; _consent_ to suffer, not cry for relief.\nAnd how transcendently good He is when He brings me down to that low\nplace and there shows me that that self-renouncing, self-despairing\nspot is just the one where He will stoop to meet me!\n\nMy dear friend, don't let this great tragedy of sorrow fail to do\n_everything_ for you. It is a dreadful thing to lose children; but a\n_lost sorrow_ is the most fearful experience life can bring, I feel this\nso strongly that I could go on writing all day. It has been said that\nthe intent of sorrow is to \"toss us on to God's promises.\" Alas, these\nwaves too often toss us away out to sea, where neither sun or stars\nappear for many days. I pray, earnestly, that it may not be so with you.\n\nAmong Mrs. Prentiss' most beloved and honored friends in New York was\nthe Rev. Dr. Thomas H. Skinner, the first pastor of the Mercer street\nchurch, and then, for nearly a quarter of a century, Professor in the\nUnion Theological Seminary. His attachment to her, as also that of his\nfamily, was very strong. Dr. Skinner had been among the leaders of\nthe so-called New School branch of the Presbyterian Church. He was a\npreacher of great spiritual power, an able, large-hearted theologian,\nand a man of most attractive personal and social qualities. He was\nartless as a little child, full of enthusiasm for the best things, and\na pattern of saintly goodness. It used to be said that every stone and\nrafter in the Church of the Covenant had felt the touch of his prayers.\nThis venerable servant of God entered into his rest on the 1st of\nFebruary, 1871, in the 80th year of his age. In a letter to her cousin,\nRev. George S. Payson, Mrs. Prentiss thus refers to his last hours:\n\nYou will hear at dear Dr. Skinner's funeral to-morrow his dying\ntestimony, and I want you to know that it was whispered in my enraptured\near, that I was privileged to spend the whole of Tuesday and all he\nlived of Wednesday, at his side, and that mine were the hands that\nclosed his eyes and composed his features in death. What blissful\nmoments were mine, as I saw his sainted soul fly home; how near heaven\nseemed and still seems!\n\n_To Miss E. S. Gilman, New York, Feb. 7, 1871._\n\nI am glad to hear that you have such an interesting class, and yet more\nglad that you see how much Christian culture they need. I am astonished\nevery day by confessions made to me by young people as to their woful\nstate before God, and do hope that all this is to prepare me to write\nsomething for them. I began a series of articles in the Association\nMonthly, called \"Twilight Talks,\" which may perhaps prove to be in\na degree what you want, but still there is much land untraversed.\nMeanwhile I want to encourage you in your work, by letting you feel my\ndeep sympathy with you in it, and to assure you that nothing will be so\nblessed to your scholars as personal holiness in yourself. We _must_\npractise what we preach, and give ourselves wholly to Christ if we want\nto persuade others to do it. I am saying feebly what I feel very deeply\nand constantly. You will rejoice with me that I had the rare privilege\nof being with dear Dr. Skinner during his last hours. If you have a copy\nof Watts and Select hymns, read the 106th hymn of the 2d book, beginning\nat the 2d verse, \"Lord, when I quit this earthly stage,\" and fancy, if\nyou can, the awe and the delight with which I heard him repeat those\nnine verses, as expressive of his dying love to Christ. I feel that\nGod is always too good to me, but to have Him make me witness of that\ninspiring scene, humbles me greatly. In how many ways He seeks us, now\nsmiling, now caressing, now reproving, now thwarting, and _always_ doing\nthe very best thing for us that infinite love and goodness can! Let us\nlove Him better and better every day, and count no work for Him too\nsmall and unnoticed to be wrought thankfully whenever He gives the\nopportunity. I hope I am learning to honor the day of small things.\n\n_To Mrs. Humphrey, New York, March 14, 1871._\n\nSo you have at last broken the ice and made out, after almost a year, to\nwrite that promised letter! Well, it was worth waiting for, and welcome\nwhen it came, and awakened in me an enthusiasm about seeing the dear\ncreature, of which I hardly thought my old heart was capable (that\nstatement is an affectation; my heart isn't old, and never will be). Our\nplan now is, if all prospers, to go to Philadelphia on Friday afternoon,\nspend the night with you, Saturday with Mrs. Kirkbride, and Sunday and\npart of Monday with you. I hope you mean to let us have a quiet little\ntime with you, unbeknown to strangers, whom I dread and shrink from....\n\n_March 28th._--What a queer way we womenkind have of confiding in each\nother with perfectly reckless disregard of consequences! It is a mercy\nthat men are, for the most part, more prudent, though not half so\ndelightful!... Well, I'm ever so glad I've seen you in your home, only\nI found you more frail (in the way of health) than I found you fair. We\nhear that your husband preached \"splendidly,\" as of course we knew he\nwould, and the next exchange I shall be there to hear as well as to see.\n\nComing out of the cars yesterday, I picked up a \"Daily Food,\" dropped, I\nsuppose, by its owner, \"Sarah ----,\" of Philadelphia, given her by \"Miss\nH. in 1853.\" It has travelled all over Europe, and is therefore no doubt\nprecious to her who thus made it her friend. Now how shall I get it to\nher? Can you learn her address, or shall I write to her at a venture,\nwithout one? I know how I felt--when I once lost mine; it was given me\nin 1835, and has gone with me ever since whenever I have journeyed (as I\nwas so happy as to find it again). [3] I think if I have the pleasure of\nrestoring it to its owner, she will feel glad that it did not fall into\nprofane hands. I thought it right to look through it, in order to get\nsome clue, if possible, to its destination; I fancy it was the silent\ncomforter of a wife who went abroad with her husband for his health,\nand came home a widow; God bless her, whoever she is, for she evidently\nbelieves in and loves Him. What sort of a world can it be to those who\ndon't? [4] Remember me affectionately to yourself and your dear ones,\nand now we've got a-going, let's go ahead.\n\n_April 1st._--What a pity it is that one can't have a separate language\nwith which to address each beloved one! It seems so mean to use the same\nwords to two or three or four people one loves so differently! Now about\nmy visit to you. One reason why I did not stay longer was your looking\nworn out. When I am feeling so dragged, visitors are a great wear and\ntear to me. But I am afraid my selfishness would have got the upperhand\nof me if that were the whole story. I can't put into words the perfect\nhorror I have of being made into a somebody; it fairly hurts me, and if\nI had stayed a week with you and the host of people you had about you,\nI should have shriveled up into the size of a pea. I can't deny having\nstreaks of conceit, but I _know_ enough about myself to make my rational\nmoments bid me keep in the background, and it excruciates me to be set\nup on a pinnacle. So don't blame me if I fled in terror, and that I am\nlooking forward to your visit, when I hope to have delightful pow-wows\nwith you all by ourselves.\n\nI am glad that little book can be returned, and I will mail it to you.\nI _couldn't_ send it without a loving word; it seemed to fall so\nprovidentially into my hands and knock so at the door of my heart. In\nwhat strange ways people get introduced to each other, and how subtle\nare the influences that excite a bond of sympathy!... What do you do\nwith girls who fall madly and desperately in love with you? Do you laugh\nat them, or scold them, or love them, or what? I used to do just such\ncrazy things, and am not sure I never do them now. Did you ever live in\na queerer world than this is?\n\n_To Miss E.S. Gilman, New York, April 29, 1871._\n\nThe subject of your letter is one that greatly interests me, and I\nshould be glad to get more light upon it myself. As far as I know, those\nwho live apart from the world, communing with God and working for Him\nchiefly in prayer, have least temptation to wandering and distracted\nthoughts, and are more devout and spiritual than those of us who live\nmore in the world. But it stands to reason that we _can't_ all live so.\nThe outside work must go on, and somebody must do it. But of course we\nhave the hardest time, since while _in_ the world we must not be of\nit. I have come, of late, to think that both classes are needed, the\ncontemplative and the active, and God does certainly take the latter\naside now and then as you suggest, by sickness and in other ways, to set\nthem thinking. Holiness is not a mere abstraction; it is praying and\nloving and being consecrate, but it is also the doing kind deeds,\nspeaking friendly words, being in a crowd when we thirst to be alone,\nand so on and so on. The study of Christ's life on earth reveals Him\nto us as incessantly busy, yet taking _special_ seasons for prayer. It\nseems to me that we should imitate Him in this respect, and when we find\nourselves particularly pressed by outward cares and duties, break short\noff and withdraw from them till a spiritual tone returns. For we can\ndo nothing well unless we do it consciously for Christ, and this\nconsciousness sometimes gets jostled out of us when we undertake to do\ntoo much. The more perfectly He is formed in us the more light we shall\nget on every path of duty, the less likely to go astray from the happy\nmedium of not all contemplation, not all activity. And to have Him thus\nto dwell in us we are led to pray by His own last prayer for us on\nearth, when He asked for the \"_I in them_.\" Let us pray for each other\nthat this may be our blessed lot. Nothing will fit us for life but this.\nIn ourselves we do nothing but err and sin. In Him we are complete.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nII.\n\nHer Husband called to Chicago. Lines on going to Dorset. Letters to\nyoung Friends, on the Christian Life. Narrow Escape from Death. Feeling\non returning to Town. Her \"Praying Circle.\" The Chicago Fire. The true\nArt of Living. God our only safe Teacher. An easily-besetting Sin.\nCounsels to young Friends. Letters.\n\n\nMrs. Prentiss' letters relating to her husband's call to Chicago require\nperhaps an explanatory word. She had some very pleasant associations\nwith Chicago. It was the home of a brother and sister-in-law, to whom\nshe was deeply attached, and of other dear relatives. There Stepping\nHeavenward had first appeared, and many unknown friends--grateful for\nthe good it had done them--were eager to form her acquaintance and bid\nher welcome to the great city of the Interior. And yet the thought of\nremoving there filled her with the utmost distress. Had her husband's\ncall been to some distant post in the field of Foreign Missions, her\nlanguage on the subject could hardly have been stronger. But this\nlanguage in reality expresses simply the depth of her devotion to her\nchurch and her friends in New York, her morbid shyness and shrinking\nfrom the presence of strangers, and, especially, her vivid sense of\nphysical inability to make the change without risking the loss of what\nhealth and power of sleep still remained to her. Misgiving on this last\npoint caused her husband to hesitate long before accepting the call,\nand to feel in after years that his decision to accept it, although\nconscientiously made, had been a grave mistake.\n\n_To Mrs. Condict, New York, June 3, 1871._\n\nI knew that you would rather hear from me than through the papers, the\nfact that Mr. Prentiss has been once more unanimously elected by the\nGeneral Assembly to the Chicago Professorship. He has come home greatly\nperplexed as to his duty, and prepared to do it, at any reasonable cost,\nif he can only find out what it is. We built our Dorset house not as a\nmere luxury, but with the hope that the easy summer there would so build\nup our health as to increase and prolong our usefulness; but going to\nChicago would deprive us of that, besides cutting us off from all our\nfriends. But we want to know no will but God's in this question, and I\nam sure you and Miss K. will join us in the prayer that we may not so\nmuch as _suggest_ to Him what path He will lead us into. The experience\nof the past winter would impress upon me the fact that _place and\nposition_ have next to nothing to do with happiness; that we can be\nwretched in a palace, radiant in a dungeon. Mr. P. said yesterday that\nit broke his heart to hear me talk of giving up Dorset; but perhaps this\nheartbreaking is exactly what we need to remind us of what for many\nyears we never had a chance to forget, that we are pilgrims and\nstrangers on the earth. Two lines of my own keep running in my head:\n\nOh foolish heart, oh faithless heart, oh heart on ruin bent, Build not\nwith too much care thy nest, thou art in banishment.\n\nI have seen the time when the sense of being a pilgrim and a stranger\nwas very sweet; and God can sweeten whatever He does to us. So though\nperplexed we are not in despair, and if we feel that we are this summer\nliving in a tent that may soon blow down, it is just what you are doing,\nand in this point we shall have fellowship. I am sure it is good for\nus to have God take up the rod, even if He lays it down again without\ninflicting a blow. I know we are going to pray till light comes. I\nfeel very differently about it from what I did last summer. The mental\nconflicts of the past winter have created a good deal of indifference to\neverything. Without conscious union and nearness to my Saviour I can't\nbe happy anywhere; for years He has been the meaning of everything, and\nwhen He only _seems_ gone (I know it is only seeming) I don't much care\nwhere I am. I am just trying to be patient till He makes Satan let go of\nme. Excuse this selfish letter, and write me one just as bad!\n\nOn the 7th of June she went to Dorset with her husband and the younger\nchildren. The following lines, found among her papers, will show in what\ntemper of mind she went. It is worth noting that they were written on\nMonday, and express a week-day, not merely a passing Sabbath feeling:\n\n  Once more at home, once more at home--\n    For what, dear Lord, I pray?\n  To seek enjoyment, please myself,\n    Make life a summer's day?\n\n  I shrink, I shudder at the thought;\n    For what is home to me,\n  When sin and self enchain my heart,\n    And keep it far from Thee?\n\n  There is but one abiding joy,\n    Nor place that joy can give;\n  It is Thy presence that makes home,\n    That makes it \"life to live.\"\n\n  That presence I invoke; naught else\n    I venture to entreat;\n  I long to see Thee, hear Thy voice,\n    To sit at Thy dear feet.\n\n_To a young Friend, Dorset, June 12, 1871._\n\nI trust it is an omen of good that the first letters I have received\nsince coming here this summer, have been full of the themes I love best.\nI was much struck with the sentence you quote, \"They can not go back,\"\netc., [5] and believe it is true of you. Being absorbed in divine things\nwill not make you selfish; you will be astonished to find how loving you\nwill gradually grow toward everybody, how interested in their interests,\nhow happy in their happiness. And if you want work for Christ (and the\nmore you love Him the more you will _long_ for it), that work will come\nto you in all sorts of ways. I do not believe much in duty-work; I think\nthat work that tells is the spontaneous expression of the love within.\nPerhaps you have not been sick enough yourself to be skilful in a\nsick-room; perhaps your time for that sort of work hasn't come. I meant\nto get you a little book called \"The Life of Faith\"; in fact, I went\ndown town on purpose to get it, and passed the Episcopal Sunday-school\nUnion inadvertently. I think that little book teaches how _every_thing\nwe do may be done for Christ, and I know by what little experience I\nhave had of it, that it is a blessed, thrice blessed way to live. A\ngreat deal is meant by the \"cup of cold water,\" and few of us women have\ngreat deeds to perform, and we must unite ourselves to Him by little\nones. The life of constant self-discipline God requires is a happy one;\nyou and I, and others like us, find a wild, absorbing joy in loving and\nbeing loved; but sweet, abiding peace is the fruit of steady check on\naffections that _must_ be tamed and kept under. Is this consistent\nwith what I have just said about growing more loving as we grow more\nChristlike? Yes, it is; for _that_ love is absolutely unselfish, it\ngives much and asks nothing, and there is nothing restless about it....\nI have been very hard at work ever since I came here, with my darling M.\nas my constant, joyous comrade. We have been busy with our flower-beds,\nsowing and transplanting, and half the china closet has tumbled out of\ndoors to serve as protection from the sun. Mr. Prentiss says we do\nthe work of three days in one, which is true, for we certainly have\nperformed great feats. The night we got here we found the house lighted\nup, and the dining-table covered with good things. People seem glad to\nsee us back. I don't know which of my Dorset titles would strike you\nas most appropriate; one man calls me a \"branch,\" another \"a child\nof nature,\" and another \"Mr. Prentiss' woman,\" with the consoling\nreflection that I sha'n't rust out.\n\n_To Mrs. Smith, Dorset, August 6, 1871._\n\nI don't know when I have written so few letters as I have this summer.\nMy right hand has forgot its cunning under the paralysis, under which my\nheart has suffered, and which is now beginning to affect my health quite\nunfavorably. It seems as if body and soul, joints and marrow, were\nrudely separating. Poor George is half-distracted with the weight of\nthe questions concerning Chicago, and I think almost anything would be\nbetter than this crucifying suspense. But I try not to make a fuss. Mrs.\nD---- can tell you that I have said to her many times, during the last\nfew years, that, according to the ordinary run of life, things would not\nlong remain with us as they were; they were too good to last.\n\nI have read and re-read \"Spiritual Dislodgments,\" and remember it well.\nI certainly wish for such dislodgments in me and mine, if we need them.\nGeorge has got hold of a book of A.'s, which delights him, Letters of\nWilliam Von Humboldt. [6] I suppose you recommended it to her. You\n_must_ make your plans to come here this summer; I don't seem fully to\nhave a thing till you've seen it.\n\n_To Mrs. Humphrey, Dorset, Aug. 8, 1871._\n\nIt took you a good while to answer my last letter, and I have been\nequally lazy about writing since yours strayed this way. Letter-writing\nhas always been a resource and a pastime to me; a refuge in head-achy\nand rainy days, and a tiny way to give pleasure or do good, when other\npaths were hedged up. But this summer I have left almost everybody in\nthe lurch, partly from being more or less unwell and out of spirits,\npartly because the Chicago question, remaining unsettled, has been such\na damper that I hadn't much heart to speak either of it or of anything\nelse. We are perplexed beyond measure what to do; the thought of losing\n_my minister_ and having him turn into a professor, agonizes me; on the\nother hand, who knows but he needs the rest that change of labor and the\nfive months' vacation would give him? _His_ chief worry is the effect\nthe attending funerals all the time has already had on my health. One\nday I part with and bury (in imagination!) now this friend, now that,\nand this mournful work does not sharpen one's appetite or invigorate\none's frame. I don't know how we've stood the conflict; and it seems\nrather selfish to allude to my part of it; but women live more in their\nfriendships than men do, and the thought of tearing up all our roots is\nmore painful to me than to my husband, and he will not lose what I must\nlose in addition, and as I have said before, my minister, which is the\nhardest part of it.\n\nI want you to know what straits we are in, in the hope that you and\nyours will be stirred up to pray that we may make no mistake, but go or\nstay as the Lord would have us. We have found our little home a nice\nrefuge for us in the storm; Mr. P. says he should have gone distracted\nin a boarding-house. I do not envy you the Conway crowd. But I fancy it\nis a good region for collecting mosses and like treasures. I think the\nprettiest thing in our house is a flattish bracket, fastened to the wall\nand filled with flowers; it looks like a graceful, meandering letter\nS and is one of the idols I bow down to.... I have \"Holiness through\nFaith\"; the first time I read it at Mr. R----'s request, I said I\nbelieved every word of it, but this summer, reading it in a different\nmood, it puzzles me. The idea is plausible; if God tells us to be holy,\nas He certainly does, is it not for Him to provide the way for our being\nso, and is it likely He needs our whole lives before He can accomplish\nHis own design? I talked with Mr. Prentiss about it, and at first he\nrejected the thought of holiness through faith, but last night we got\nupon the subject again and he was interested in some sentences I read to\nhim and said he must examine the book. When are you coming to spend that\nweek in Dorset? Love to each and all.\n\n_To a young Friend, Kauinfels, Sept. 9, 1871._\n\nI have had many letters to write to-day, for to-day our fate is sealed,\nand we are to go. But I must say a few words to you before going to bed,\nfor I want to tell you how very glad I am that you have been enabled\nto take a step [7] which will, I am sure, lead the way to other steps,\nincrease your holiness, your usefulness, and your happiness. May God\nbless you in this attempt to honor Him, and open out before you new\nfields wherein to glorify and please Him. This has not been a sorrowful\nday to me. I hope I am offering to a \"patient God a patient heart.\" I do\nnot want to make the worst of the sacrifice He requires, or to fancy I\nam only to be happy on my own conditions. He has been most of the time\nfor years \"the spring of all my joys, the life of my delights.\" Where\nHe is, I want to be; where He bids me go, I want to go, and to go in\ncourage and faith. Anything is better than too strong cleaving to this\nworld. As I was situated in New York, I lacked not a single earthly\nblessing. I had a delightful home, freedom from care, and a circle of\nfriends whom I loved with all my heart, and who loved me in a way to\nsatisfy even my rapacity. Only one thing was wanting to my perfect\nfelicity--a heart absolutely holy; and was I likely to get that when my\nearthly cup was so full? At any rate I am content. Now and then, as the\nreality of this coming separation overwhelms me, I feel a spasm of pain\nat my heart (I don't suppose we are expected to cease to be human beings\nor to lose our sensibilities), but if my Lord and Master will go with\nme, and keeps on making me more and more like Himself, I can be happy\nanywhere and under any conditions, or be made content not to be happy.\nAll this is of little consequence in itself, but perhaps it may make me\nmore of a blessing to others, which, next to personal holiness, is the\nonly thing to be sought very earnestly. As to my relation to you, He who\nbrought you under my wing for a season has something better for you in\nstore. _That's His way._ And wherever I am, if it is His will and His\nSpirit dictates the prayer, I shall pray for you, and that is the best\nservice one soul can render another.\n\nAbout this time she and her husband had an almost miraculous escape from\ninstant death. They had been calling upon friends in East Dorset and\nwere returning home. Not far from that village is a very dangerous\nrailroad crossing; and, as the sight or sound of cars so affrighted Coco\nas to render him uncontrollable, special pains had been taken not to\narrive at the spot while a train was due. But just as they reached it,\nan \"irregular\" train, whose approach was masked behind high bushes, came\nrushing along unannounced, and had they been only a few seconds later,\nwould have crushed them to atoms. So severe was the shock and so vivid\nthe sense of a Providential escape, that scarcely a word was spoken\nduring the drive home. The next morning she gave her husband a very\ninteresting account of the thoughts that, like lightning, flashed upon\nher mind while feeling herself in the jaws of death. They related\nexclusively to her children--how they would receive the news, and what\nwould become of them. [8]\n\nLate in September she returned to town, still oppressed by the thought\nof going to Chicago. In a letter to Mrs. Condict, dated October 2d, she\nwrites:\n\nWe got home on Friday night, and very early on Saturday were settled\ndown into the old routine. But how different everything is! At church\ntearful, clouded faces; at home, warmhearted friends looking upon us as\nfor the last time. It is all right. I would not venture to change it\nif I could; but it is hard. At times it seems as if my heart would\nliterally break to pieces, but we are mercifully kept from realising our\nsorrows all the time. The waves dash in and almost overwhelm, but then\nthey sweep back and are stayed by an almighty, kind hand.... It is like\ntearing off a limb to leave our dear prayer-meeting. Next to my closet,\nit has been to me the sweetest spot on earth. I never expect to find\nsuch another.\n\nTo another friend she writes a day or two later:\n\nMy heart fairly _collapses_ at times, at the thought of tearing myself\naway from those whom Christian ties have made dearer to me than my\nkindred after the flesh. And then comes the precious privilege and\nrelief of telling my yet dearer and better Friend all about it, and the\nsweet peace begotten of yielding my will to His. I want to be of all\nthe use and comfort to you and to the other dear ones He will let me be\nduring these few months. Do pray for me that I may so live Christ as to\nbear others along with me on a resistless tide. Those lines you copied\nfor me are a great comfort:\n\n  \"Rather walking with Him by faith,\n  Than walking alone in the light.\"\n\nOf the little praying circle, alluded to in her letter to Mrs. C., one\nof its members writes:\n\nIt was unique even among meetings of its own class. Held in an upper\nchamber, never largely attended and sometimes only by the \"two or\nthree,\" it was almost unknown except to the few, who regarded it as\namong their chiefest religious privileges. All the other members would\ngladly have had Mrs. Prentiss assume its entire leadership; but she\nassumed nothing and was no doubt quite unconscious as to how large\nan extent she was the life and soul of the meeting. In the familiar\nconversation of the hour nothing fell from her lips but such simple\nwords as, coming from a glowing heart, strengthened and deepened the\nspiritual life of all who heard them. She had, in a degree I never knew\nequalled, the gift of leading the devotions of others. But there was not\nthe slightest approach to performance in her prayers; she abhorred the\nvery thought of it. Those who knelt with her can never forget the pure\ndevotion which breathed itself forth in simple exquisite language; but\nit was something beyond the power of description.\n\nAnother member of the circle writes:\n\nHer prayers were so simple, so earnest, so childlike. We all felt we\nwere in the very presence of our loving Father. One thing especially\nalways impressed me during that sacred hour--it was her _quietness of\nmanner_. She was very cordial and affectionate in her greetings with\neach one, as we assembled, and then a holy awe, a solemn hush, came over\nher spirit and she seemed like one who saw the Lord! O how we all miss\nher! There is never a meeting but we keep her in remembrance and talk\ntogether lovingly about her.\n\n_To a Friend, Oct. 21, 1871._\n\nMr. Prentiss sent in his resignation last evening, and the church\nrefused unanimously to let him go. \"Praise God from whom all blessings\nflow\" penetrated the walls of the parsonage, as they sang it when the\ndecision was made, and so we knew our fate before a whole parlorful\nrushed in to shake hands, kiss, and congratulate. You would have been\ndelighted had you been here. Prof. Smith, who took strong ground in\nfavor of his going, takes just as strong ground in favor of his staying.\nI feel that all this is the result of prayer. I never got any light on\nthe Chicago question when I prayed about it; never could _see_ that it\nwas our duty to go; but I yielded my judgment and my will, because my\nhusband thought that he must go. I think our very reluctance to it made\nus shrink from evading it; we were so afraid of opposing God's will. Now\nthe matter is taken out of our hands and we have only to resume our work\nhere. God grant that this baptism of fire may purge and purify us\nand prepare us to be a great blessing to the church. It is a most\nawe-inspiring providence, God's burning us out of Chicago, and we feel\nlike putting our shoes from off our feet and adoring Him in silence....\nPray that the lessons we have been learning through so many trying\nmonths may help us to be helping hands to those who may pass through\nsimilar straits. One of my brothers was burnt out, and his own and his\nwife's letters drew tears even down to the kitchen. For two days and\na night they lost their baby, five months old, in addition to all the\nother horrors. But they found refuge with a dear cousin, who has filled\nhis house to overflowing. I may have spoken of this cousin to you: he\nhas a foundling home on M\u00fcller's trust system.\n\nBefore taking leave of the call to Chicago a word should be added\nto what she says concerning it in her letters. The prospect of her\nhusband's accepting the call rendered the summer a very trying one;\nbut it was far from being all gloom. She had a marvellous power of\nextracting amusement out of the most untoward situation. In 1843 she\nwrote from Richmond, referring to Mr. Persico's troubles: \"I never spent\nsuch melancholy weeks in my life; in the midst of it, however, I made\nfun for the rest, as I believe I should do in a dungeon.\" It was so in\nthe present case. She relieved the weariness of many an anxious hour by\n\"making fun for the rest.\" As an illustration, one evening at Dorset,\nwhile sitting at the parlor-table with her children and a young\nfriend who was visiting her, she seized a pencil and wrote for their\nentertainment a ludicrous version of the Chicago affair in two parts.\nThe paper which was preserved by her young friend, illustrates also\nanother trait which she thus describes at the close of a frolicsome\nletter to Miss E. A. Warner: \"It is one of the peculiar peculiarities\nof this woman that she usually carries on, when she wants to hide her\nfeelins.\" Part I. begins thus:\n\n  Where are the Prentisses? Gone to Chicago,\n  Gone bag and baggage, the whole crew and cargo.\n  Well, they _would_ go, now let's talk 'em over,\n  And see what compensation we can discover.\n\nThey are all \"talked over\" and then in Part II. the scene changes to\nChicago itself:\n\n  Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye,\n  Here's the tribe of Prentisses just agoing by;\n        Dr. Prentiss he,\n        Mrs. Prentiss she,\n  And a lot of young ones that all begin with P.\n  Well, let us view them with our eyes,\n  And then begin to criticise.\n  And first the doctor, what of him?\n\nThe doctor having been fully discussed, the criticism proceeds:\n\n  Now for his wife; well, who would guess\n  She had set up as authoress!\n  Why, she looks just like all of us,\n  Instead of being in a muss\n  Like other literary folks.\n  They say she likes her little jokes,\n  As well as those who've less to say\n  Of stepping on the heavenward way.\n\nMrs. P. having been disposed of:\n\n  Next comes Miss P.; how she will make\n  The hearts of all the students quake!\n  She'll wind them round her fingers' ends,\n  And find in them one hundred friends.\n  They'll sit on benches in a row\n  And watch her come, and watch her go;\n  But they'll be safe, the precious rogues,\n  Since she don't care for theologues.\n\nThe other children next pass in review and the whole closes with the\nremark:\n\n  Time, and Time only, will make clear\n  Why the poor geese came cackling here.\n\n_To a young Friend, New York, Nov., 1871._\n\nMy heart is as young and fresh as any girl's, and I am _almost_ as\nprone to make idols out of those I love, as I ever was; and this is\ninconsistent with the devotion owed to God. I do not mean that I really\nlove anybody better than I do Him, but that human friendships tempt me.\nThis easily-besetting sin of mine has cost me more anguish than tongue\ncan tell, and I deeply feel the need of more love to Christ because of\nmy earthly tendencies. I know I would sacrifice every friend to Christ,\nbut I am not always disentangled. How strange this is, how passing\nstrange!... In a religious way I find myself much better off here than\nat Dorset. But there is yet something apparently \"far off, unattained\nand dim\" that I once thought I had caught by the wing, and enjoyed for a\nseason, but which has flown away. I am afraid I am one who has got to be\na religious enthusiast, or else dissatisfied and restless. When I give\nway to an impulse to the first, I care for nothing worldly, and am at\npeace. But I am unfitted for daily life, for secular talk and reading.\nIs it so with you? Does it run in our blood? I do long and pray for more\nlight; and I _will_ pray for more love, cost what it may. Sometimes I\nlong to get to heaven, where I shall not have to be curbing my heart\nwith bit and bridle, and can be as loving as I want to be--as I _am_.\n\n_To a young Friend abroad--New York, Dec. 8, 1871._\n\nThere never will come a time in my life when I shall not need all my\nChristian friends can do for me in the way of prayer. I am glad you are\nmaking such special effort to oppose the icebergs of foreign life; God\nwill meet and bless you in it. Let us, if need be, forsake all others to\ncleave only unto Him. I don't know of any real misery except coldness\nbetween myself and Him.\n\nI feel warm and tender sympathy with you in all your struggles,\ntemptations, joys, hopes and fears. As you grow older you will _settle_\nmore; your troubles, your ups and downs, belong chiefly to your youth.\nYes, you are right in saying that Mr. P---- could go through mental\nconflicts in silence; he does not pine for sympathy as you and I do.\nYou and I are like David, though I forget, at the moment, what he said\nhappened to him when he \"kept silence.\" (On the whole, I don't think he\nsaid anything!)\n\nI think the proper attitude to take when restless and lonesome and\nhomesick for want of God's sensible presence, is just what we take when\nwe are missing earthly friends for whom we yearn, and whose letters,\nthough better than nothing, do not half feed our hungry hearts, or fill\nour longing arms. And that attitude is patient waiting. We are such\nmany-sided creatures that I do not doubt you are getting pleasure and\nprofit out of this European trip, although it is alloyed by so much\nmental suffering. But such is life. It has in it nothing perfect,\nnothing ideal. And this conviction, deepened every now and then by some\nnew experience, tosses me anew, again and again, back on to that Rock of\nAges that ever stands sure and steadfast, and on whom our feet may rest.\nIt is well to have the waves and billows of temptation beat upon us; if\nonly to magnify this Rock and teach us what a refuge He is.\n\nI went, last night, with Mr. Prentiss and most of the children, to hear\nthe freedmen and women in a concert at Steinway Hall. It was _packed_\nwith a brilliant, delighted audience, and it was most interesting to see\nthese young people, simple, dignified, earnest, full of love to Christ,\nand preparing, by education, to work for Him. They sang \"Keep me from\nsinking down\" most sweetly and touchingly. I see you have the blues as I\nused to do, at your age, and hope you will outgrow them as I have done.\nI _suffer_ without being _depressed_ in the sense in which I used to be;\nit is hard to make the distinction, but I am sure there is one. I do not\nknow how far this change has come to me as a happy wife and mother, or\nhow far it is religious.\n\n_Aunt Jane's Hero_ was published in 1871. It is hardly inferior to\nStepping Heavenward in its pictures of life and character, or in the\nwisdom of its teaching. The object of the book is to depict a home whose\nhappiness flows from the living Rock, Christ Jesus. It protests also\nagainst the extravagance and other evils of the times, which tend to\ncheck the growth of such homes, and aims to show that there are still\ntreasures of love and peace on earth, that may be bought without money\nand without price.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIII.\n\n\"Holiness and Usefulness go hand-in-hand.\" No two Souls dealt with\nexactly alike. Visits to a stricken Home. Another Side of her Life.\nVisit to a Hospital. Christian Friendship. Letters to a bereaved Mother.\nSubmission not inconsistent with Suffering. Thoughts at the Funeral of\na little \"Wee Davie.\" Assurance of Faith. Funeral of Prof. Hopkins. His\nCharacter.\n\n\nShe entered the new year with weary steps, but with a heart full of\ntenderness and sympathy. A circle of young friends, living in different\nparts of the country, looked eagerly to her at this time for counsel,\nand she was deeply interested in their spiritual progress. She wrote to\none of them, January 6, 1872:\n\nYour letter has filled my heart with joy. What a Friend and Saviour we\nhave, and how He comes to meet us on the sea, if we attempt to walk\nthere in faith! I trust your path now will be the ever brightening\none that shall shine more and more unto the perfect day. Holiness and\nusefulness go hand in hand, and you will have new work to do for the\nLord; praying work especially. _Pray for me_, for one thing; I need a\ngreat deal of grace and strength just now. And pray for all the souls\nthat are struggling toward the light. O that everybody lived only for\nChrist!\n\nA few weeks later, writing to the same friend, she thus refers to the\n\"fiery trials\" through which she was passing:\n\nThis season of temptation came right on the heels, if I may use such\nan expression, of great spiritual illumination. Of all the years of my\nlife, 1869-70 was the brightest, and it seems as if Satan could not\nendure the sight of so much love and joy, and so took me in hand. I\nhave not liked to say much about this to young people, lest it should\ndiscourage them; but I hope you will not allow it to affect you in that\nway, for you must remember that no two souls are dealt with exactly\nalike, and that the fact that many are looking up to me may have made it\nnecessary for our dear Lord to let Satan harass and trouble me as he has\ndone. No, let us not be discouraged, either you or I, but rejoice that\nwe are called of our God and Saviour to give Him all we have and all we\nare.... If we spent more time in thanking God for what He _has_ done for\nus, He would do more.\n\nMalignant scarlet fever and other diseases, had invaded and isolated the\nhousehold mentioned in the following letter. Their gratitude to Mrs.\nPrentiss was most touching; it was as if she had been to them an angel\nfrom heaven. The story of her visits and loving sympathy became a part\nof their family history.\n\n_To Mrs. Humphrey, New York, Jan. 26, 1872._\n\nI came home half frozen from my early walk this morning, to get warm not\nonly at the fire, but at your letter, which I found awaiting me. I am\nglad if you got anything out of your visit here. I rather think you and\nI shall \"rattle on\" together after we get to heaven.... You say, \"How\nskilfully God does fashion our crosses for us!\" Yes, He does. And for\nmy part, I don't want to rest and be happy without crosses--for I can't\n_do_ without them. People who set themselves up to be pastors and\nteachers must \"learn in suffering\" what they teach in sermon and book.\nI felt a good deal reproved for making so much of mine, however, by my\nfurther visits to the house of mourning of which we spoke to you. The\nlittle boy died early on the next day, and before his funeral his poor\nmother, neglected by everybody else, found it some comfort to get into\nmy arms and cry there. It made no difference that twenty years had\npassed since I had had a sorrow akin to hers; we mothers may cease to\ngrieve, outwardly, but we never forget what has gone out of our sight,\nor ever grow unsympathetic because time has soothed and quieted us. But\nI need not say this to _you_. This was on Saturday; all day Monday I was\nthere watching a most lovely little girl, about six years old, writhing\nin agony; she died early next morning. The next eldest has been in a\ncritical state, but will probably recover a certain degree of\nhealth, but as a helpless cripple. Well, I felt that death alone was\n_inexorable_--other enemies we may hope and pray and fight against--and\nthat while my children lived, I need not despair. The tax on my\nsympathies in the case of those half-distracted parents has been\nterrible, and yet I wouldn't accept a cold heart if I had the offer of\nit.\n\nTo give you another side of my life, let me tell you of a pleasant\ndinner party one night last week, when we met Gov. and Mrs. C----, of\nMassachusetts, and I fell in love with her then and there.... Well, this\nis a queer world, full of queer things and queer people. Will the next\none be more commonplace? I know not. Good-bye.\n\nWord has come from that afflicted household that the grandfather has\ndied suddenly of heart disease. His wife died a few weeks ago. Mr.\nPrentiss saw him on Saturday in vigorous health.\n\n_To Miss Rebecca F. Morse, New York, March 5,1872._\n\nCan you tell me where the blotting-pads can be obtained? I have got into\na hospital of _spines_; in other words, of people who can only write\nlying on their backs, one of them an authoress, and I think it would be\na mercy to them if I could furnish them with the means of writing with\nmore ease than they do now. I was sorry you could not come last Friday,\nand hope you will be able to join us Saturday, when the club meets\nhere.... How you would have enjoyed yesterday afternoon with me! I went\nto call on a lady from Vermont, who is here for spinal treatment, and\nfound in her room another of the patients. Two such bright creatures I\nnever met at once, and we got a-going at such a rate that though I had\nnever seen either of them before, I stayed nearly three hours! I mean to\nhave another dose of them before long, and give them another dose of E.\nP. I have been reading a book called \"The Presence of Christ\" [9]--which\nI liked so well that I got a copy to lend. It is not a great book, but I\nthink it will be a useful one. It says we are all idolaters, and reminds\nme of my besetting sins in that direction. I feel overwhelmed when\nI think how many young people are looking to me for light and help,\nknowing how much I need both myself.... Every now and then some\nProvidential event occurs that wakes us up, and we find that we have\nbeen asleep and dreaming, and that what we have been doing that made us\nfancy ourselves awake, was mechanical.\n\nI must be off now to my sewing society, which is a great farce, since\nI can earn thirty or forty times as much with my pen as I can with my\nneedle, and if they would let me stay at home and write, I would give\nthem the results of my morning's work. But the minute I stop going\neverybody else stops.\n\n_To Mrs. Condict, April 7, 1872._\n\nHow I should love to spend this evening with you! This has been our\nCommunion Sunday, and I am sure the service would have been very\nsoothing to your poor, sore heart. And yet why do I say _poor_ when I\nknow it is _rich_? Oh, you might have the same sorrow without faith and\npatience with which to bear it, and think how dreadful that would be!\nYour little lamb has been spending his first Sunday with the Good\nShepherd and other lambs of the flock, and has been as happy as the\nday is long. Perhaps your two children and mine are claiming kinship\ntogether. If they met in a foreign land they would surely claim it for\nour sakes; why not in the land that is not foreign, and not far off? But\nstill these are not the thoughts to bring you special comfort. \"Thy will\nbe done!\" does the whole. And yet my heart aches for you. Some one, who\nhad never had a real sorrow, told Mrs. N. that if she submitted to God's\nwill as she ought, she would cease to suffer. What a fallacy this is!\nMrs. N. was comforted by hearing that your little one was taken away by\nthe consequences of the fever, as her Nettie was, for she had reproached\nherself with having neglected her to see to Johnny, who died first, and\nthought this neglect had allowed her to take cold. I feel very sorry\nwhen mothers torture themselves in this needless way, as if God could\nnot avert ill consequences, if He chose.\n\nI have shed more than one tear to-day. I heard last night that my\ndearly-loved brother, Prof. Hopkins, is on his dying-bed. I never\nthought of his dying, he comes of such a long-lived race. I expect to go\nto see him, and if I find I can be of any use or comfort, stay a week or\ntwo. His death will come very near to me, but he is a saintly man, and I\nam glad for him that he can go. How thankful we shall be when our turn\ncomes! The ladies at our little meeting were deeply interested in what\nI had to tell them about your dear boy, and prayed for you with much\nfeeling. May our dear Lord bless you abundantly with His sweet presence!\nI know He will. And yet He has willed it that you should suffer.\n\"Himself hath done it!\" Oh how glad He will be when the dispensation of\nsuffering is over, and He can gather His beloved round Him, tearless,\nfree from sorrow and care, and all forever at rest.\n\n_May 5th._--Yesterday, the friend at East Dorset whose three children\ndied within a few weeks of each other, sent me some verses, of which I\ncopy one for you:\n\n  \"The eye of faith beholds\n    A golden stair, like that of old, whereon\n    Fair spirits go and come;\n  God's angels coming down on errands sweet,\n    Our angels going home.\"\n\nI hope this golden stair, up which your dear boy climbed \"with shout and\nsong,\" is covered with God's angels coming down to bless and comfort\nyou. One of the most touching passages in the Bible, to my mind, is\nthat which describes angels as coming to minister to Jesus after\nHis temptations in the wilderness. It gives one such an idea of His\nhelplessness! Just as I was going out to church this morning, Mr.\nPrentiss told me of the death of a charming \"baby-boy,\" one of our\nlambs, and I could scarcely help bursting into tears, though I had only\nseen him once. You can hardly understand how I feel, as a pastor's wife,\ntoward our people. Their sorrows come right home. I have a friend also\nhanging in agonizing suspense over a little one who has been injured by\na fall; she is sweetly submissive, but you know what a mother's heart\nis. I have yet another friend, who has had to give up her baby. She is a\nyoung mother, and far from her family, but says she has \"perfect peace.\"\nSo from all sides I hear sorrowful sounds, but so much faith and\nobedience mingled with the sighs, that I can only wonder at what God can\ndo.\n\n_To Miss Morse, May 7, 1872._\n\nHow true and how strange it is that our deepest sorrows, spring from\nour sweetest affections; that as we love much, we suffer much. What\ninstruments of torture our hearts are! The passage you quote is all true\nbut people are apt to be impatient in affliction, eager to drink the\nbitter cup at a draught rather than drop by drop, and fain to dig up the\nseed as soon as it is planted, to see if it has germinated. I am fond of\nquoting that passage about \"the peaceable fruit of righteousness\" coming\n\"afterward.\"\n\nI have just come from the funeral of a little \"Wee Davie\"; all the\ncrosses around his coffin were tiny ones, and he had a small floral\nharp in his hand. I thought as I looked upon his face, still beautiful,\nthough worn, that even babies have to be introduced to the cross, for he\nhad a week of fearful struggle before he was released.... I enclose an\nextract I made for you from a work on the baptism of the Holy Spirit.\nThis was all the paper I had at hand at the moment. The recipe for\n\"curry\" I have copied into my recipe-book, and the two lines at the top\nof the page I addressed to M. A queer mixture of the spiritual and the\npractical, but no stranger than life's mixtures always are.\n\n_To a young Friend, New York, May 20th, 1872._\n\nAs to assurance of faith, I think we may all have that, and in my own\ndarkest hours this faith has not been disturbed. I have just come home\nfrom a brief visit to Miss ----, with whom I had some interesting\ndiscussions. I use the word _discussions_ advisedly, for we love each\nother in constant disagreement. She believes in holiness by faith, while\ndenying that she has herself attained it. I think her life, as far as I\ncan see it, very true and beautiful. We spent a whole evening talking\nabout temptation. Not long ago I met with a passage, in French, to this\neffect--I quote from memory only: \"God has some souls whom He can not\nafflict in any ordinary way, for they love Him so that they are ready\nfor any outward sorrow or bereavement. He therefore scourges them with\ninward trials, vastly more painful than any outward tribulation could\nbe; thus crucifying them to self.\" I can not but think that this\nexplains Mrs. ----'s experience, and perhaps my own; at any rate I feel\nthat we are all in the hands of an unerring Physician, who will bring\nus, through varying paths, home to Himself.\n\nI had a call the other day from an intelligent Christian woman, whom\nI had not seen for eighteen years. She said that some time ago her\nattention was called to the subject of personal holiness, and as she\nis a great reader, she devoured everything she could get hold of, and\nfinally became a dogmatic perfectionist. But experience modified these\nviews, and she fell back on the Bible doctrine of an indwelling Christ,\nwith the conviction that just in proportion to this indwelling will be\nthe holiness of the soul. This is precisely my own belief. This is\nthe doctrine I preached in Stepping Heavenward and I have so far seen\nnothing to change these views, while I desire and pray to be taught any\nother truth if I am wrong. I believe God does reveal Himself and His\ntruth to those who are willing to know it.\n\n_To Miss Morse, New York, May 31, 1872._\n\nI got home yesterday from Williamstown, where I went, with my husband,\nto attend the funeral of my dearly beloved brother, Professor Hopkins.\nHe literally starved to death. He died as he had lived, beautifully,\nthinking of and sending messages to all his friends, and on his last day\nrepeating passages of Scripture and even, weak as he was, joining in\nhymns sung at his bedside. The day of the funeral was a pretty trying\none for me, as there was not only his loss to mourn, but there were\ntraces of my darling mother and sister, who both died in that house, all\nover it; some of my mother's silver, a white quilt she made when a\ngirl, my sister's library, her collection of shells and minerals, her\npaintings, her little conservatory, the portrait of her only child,\ndressed in his uniform (he was killed in one of the battles of the\nWilderness). Then, owing to the rain, none of us ladies were allowed to\ngo into the cemetery, and I had thought much of visiting my sister's\ngrave and seeing her boy lying on one side and her husband on the other.\nBut our disappointments are as carefully planned for us as our sorrows,\nso I have not a word to say.\n\nAfter services at the house, we walked to the church, which we entered\nthrough a double file of uncovered students. One of the most touching\nthings about the service was the sight of four students standing in\ncharge of the remains, two at the head and two at the foot of the\ncoffin. His poor folks came in crowds, with their hands full of flowers\nto be cast into his grave. My brother said he never saw so many men\nshed tears at a funeral, and I am sure I never did; some sobbing as\nconvulsively as women. I could not help asking myself when my heart was\nswelling so with pain, whether love _paid_. Love is sweet when all goes\nwell, but oh how fearfully exacting it is when separation comes! How\nmany tithes it takes of all we have and are!\n\nA worthy young woman in our church has been driven into hysterics by\nreading \"Holiness through Faith.\" I went to see her as soon as I got\nhome from W. yesterday, but she was asleep under the influence of an\nopiate. There is no doubt that too much self-scrutiny is pernicious,\nespecially to weak-minded, ignorant young people. It was said of Prof.\nHopkins that he would have been a mystic but for his love to souls, and\nI am afraid these new doctrines tend too much to the seeking for peace\nand joy, too little to seeking the salvation of the careless and\nworldly. But I hesitate to criticise any class of good people, feeling\nthat those who live in most habitual communion with God receive light\ndirectly and constantly from on high; and of that communion we can not\nseek too much. [10]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIV.\n\nChristian Parents to expect Piety in their Children. Perfection. \"People\nmake too much Parade of their Troubles.\" \"Higher Life\" Doctrines. Letter\nto Mrs. Washburn. Last Visit to Williamstown.\n\n\nEarly in June she went to Dorset. The summer, like that of 1871, was\nshadowed by anxiety and inward conflict; but her care-worn thoughts were\ngreatly soothed by her rural occupations, by visits from young friends,\nand by the ever-fresh charms of nature around her.\n\n_To a Christian Friend, Dorset, June 9, 1872._\n\nI was obliged to give up my much-desired visit to you. We went on to the\nfuneral of Prof. Hopkins, and that took three days out of the busy time\njust before coming here. I particularly wanted you to know _at the time_\nthat my three younger children united with the church on Sunday last,\nbut had not a moment in which to write you. It was a touching sight to\nour people. Mr. P. looked down on his children so lovingly, and kissed\nthem when the covenant had been read. He said ---'s face was so full of\nsoul that he could not help it, and his heart yearned over them all.\nSomeone said there was not a dry eye in the house. I felt not elated,\nnot cast down, but at peace. I think it plain that Christian parents are\nto _expect_ piety in their children, and expect it early. In mine it is\nindeed \"first the blade,\" and they will, no doubt, have their trials and\ntemptations. But it seems to me I must leave them in God's hands and let\nHim lead them as He will. It was very sweet to have the elements passed\nto me by their young hands. Offer one earnest prayer for them at least,\nthat they may prove true soldiers and servants of Jesus Christ. No doubt\nyour two little sainted ones looked on and loved the children of their\nmother's friend.\n\nThe following testimony of one of President Garfield's classmates and\nintimate friends may fitly be added here:\n\n\"For him there was but one Mark Hopkins in all the world; but for\nProfessor Albert Hopkins also, or 'Prof. Al.,' as he was called in those\ndays, the General--not only while at college, but all through life--\nentertained the highest regard, both as a man and a scholar. His\nintellectual attainments were thought by Gen. G. to be of an unusually\nfine order, rivalling those of his brother, and often eliciting the\nadmiration not only of himself, but of all the other students. In\nspeaking of his Williamstown life, Gen. Garfield always referred to\nProf. Hopkins in the most affectionate manner; and, both from his own\nstatements and my personal observation, I know that their mutual college\nrelations were of the pleasantest nature possible.\"\n\nOn the subject of perfection, you say I am looking for angelic\nperfection. I see no difference in kind. Perfection is perfection to my\nmind, and I have always thought it a dangerous thing for a soul to fancy\nit had attained it. Yet, in her last letters to me, Miss ---- virtually\nprofesses to have become free from sin. She says self and sin are the\nsame thing, and that she is entirely dead to self. What is this but\ncomplete sanctification? What can an angel say more? I feel painfully\nbewildered amid conflicting testimonies, and sometimes long to flee away\nfrom everybody. Miss ----'s last letter saddened me, I will own.\nYou say, \"I am in danger of becoming morbid, or stupid, or wild, or\nsomething I ought not.\" Why in danger? According to your own doctrine\nyou are safe; being \"entirely sanctified from moment to moment.\" At any\nrate I can say nothing \"to quicken\" you, for I _am_ morbid and stupid,\nthough just now not wild. Those sharp temptations have ceased, though\nperhaps only for a season; but I have been physically weakened by them,\nand have got to take care of myself, go to bed early, and vegetate all\nI can--and this when I ought to be hard at work ministering to other\nsouls. The fact is, I don't know anything and don't do anything, but\njust get through the day somehow, wondering what all this strange,\nunfamiliar state of things will end in. Poor M---- has gone crazy on\n\"Holiness through Faith,\" and will probably have to go to an asylum....\nOur little home looks and is very pleasant. I take some comfort in it,\nand try to realise the goodness that gives me such a luxury. But a soul\nthat has known what it is to live to Christ can be _happy_ only in Him.\nMay He be all in all to you, and consciously so to me in His own good\ntime.\n\n_To Miss Woolsey, Dorset, June 23, 1872._\n\nI wish you could come and take a look at us this quiet afternoon. Not\na soul is to be seen or heard; the mountains are covered with the soft\nhaze that says the day is warm but not oppressive, and here and there a\nbrilliantly colored bird flies by, setting \"Tweedle Dum,\" our taciturn\ncanary, into tune. M. and I have driven at our out-door work like a pair\nof steam-engines, and you can imagine how dignified I am from the fact\nthat an old fuddy-duddy who does occasional jobs for me, summons me to\nmy window by a \"Hullo!\" beneath it, while G. says to us, \"Where are you\ngirls going to sit this afternoon?\"\n\nYour sister's allusion to Watts and Select Hymns reminds me of ages long\npast, when I used to sing the whole book through as I marched night\nafter night through my room, carrying a colicky baby up and down for\nfifteen months, till I became a living skeleton. We do contrive to live\nthrough queer experiences.\n\n_To a young Friend, Dorset, Aug. 3, 1872._\n\nThe lines you kindly copied for me have the ring of the true metal and I\nlike them exceedingly. People make too much parade of their troubles and\ntoo much fuss about them; the fact is we are all born to tribulation, as\nwe also are to innumerable joys, and there is no sense in being too\nmuch depressed or elated by either. \"The saddest birds a season find to\nsing.\" Few if any lives flow in unmingled currents. As to myself, my\nrural tastes are so strong, and I have so much to absorb and gratify\nme, that I _need_ a mixture of experience. Two roses that bloomed in my\ngarden this morning, made my heart leap with delight, and when I get\noff in the woods with M., and we collect mosses and ferns and scarlet\nberries, I am conscious of great enjoyment in them. At the same time,\nif I thought it best to tell the other side of the story, I should want\nsome very black ink with which to do it. We must take life as God gives\nit to us, without murmurings and disputings, and with the checks on our\nnatural eagerness that keeps us mindful of Him.\n\nYou speak of the \"Higher Life people.\" I still hold my judgment in\nsuspense in regard to their doctrines, reading pretty much all they send\nme, and asking daily for light from on high. I have had some talks this\nsummer with Dr. Stearns on these subjects, and he urges me to keep where\nI am, but I try not to be too much influenced for or against doctrines I\ndo not, by experience, understand. Let us do the will of God (and suffer\nit) and we shall learn of the doctrine.\n\n_To Mrs. Washburn, Kauinfels, Friday Evening, (September, 1872)._\n\nI have done nothing but tear my hair ever since you left, to think I let\nyou go. It would have been so easy to send you to Manchester to-morrow\nmorning, after a night here, and an evening over our little wood-fire,\nbut we were so glad to see you both, so bewildered by your sudden\nappearance, that neither of us thought of it till you were gone. And\nnow you are still within reach, and we want you to reconsider your\nresolution to turn your backs upon us after such a long, fatiguing\njourney, and eating no salt with us. I did not urge your staying because\nI do so hate to be urged myself. But I want you to feel what a great\npleasure it would be to us if you could make up your minds to stay at\nleast over Sunday, or if to-morrow and Sunday are unpleasant, just a day\nor two more, to take our favorite drives with us, and give us what you\nmay never have a chance to give us again. I declare I shall think you\nare crazy, if you don't stay a few days, now that you are here. We have\nbeen longing to have you come, and only waiting for our place to be a\nlittle less naked in order to lay violent hands on you; but now you have\nseen the nakedness of the land, we don't care, but want you to see more\nof it. This is the time, and _exactly_ the time, when we have nothing\nto do but to enjoy our visitors, and next year the house may be running\nover. And if you don't come now, you'll have the plague of having to\ncome some other time, and it is a long, formidable journey.\n\nWhy _didn't_ we just take and lock you up when we had hold of you! Well,\nnow I've torn out _all_ my hair, and people will be saying, \"Go up, thou\nbald-head.\" Besides--you left them bunch-berries! and do you suppose you\ncan go home without them? Why, it wouldn't be safe. You would be run off\nthe track, and scalded by steam, and broken all to pieces, and caught on\nthe cow-catcher, and get lost, and be run away with, and even struck by\nlightning, I shouldn't wonder. And now if you go in to-morrow's train\nyou'll catch the small-pox and the measles and the scarlet fever and the\nyellow fever, and all the colors-in-the-rainbow fever, and go into a\nconsumption and have the pleurisy, and the jaundice and the tooth-ache\nand the headache, and, above all, the conscience-ache. And you never ate\nany of our corn or our beans! You never so much as asked the receipt for\nour ironclads! You haven't seen our cow. You haven't been down cellar.\nYou haven't fished in our brook. You haven't been here at all, now I\ncome to think of it. I dreamed you flew through, but it was nothing\n_but_ a dream. And the houses have a habit of burning down, and ours is\ngoing to do as the rest do, and then how'll you feel in your minds? And\nwhen folks set themselves up against us, and won't let us have our own\nway, why then \"I tell my daughter\n\n  What _makes_ folks do as they'd oughter not,\n  And why _don't_ they do as they'd oughter?\"\n\nAnd we all pine away and die like the babes in the woods, and nobody's\nleft to cover us up with leaves. Send all these arguments home by\ntelegram, and your folks will shoot you if you dare to go. I could write\nanother sheet if it would do any good. Now do lay my words to heart, and\ncome right back.\n\n_To Miss Morse, Dorset, Oct. 7, 1872._\n\nI sent home my servants a month ago, and they have been getting the\nparsonage to rights, while I have in their places two dear old souls who\ncame to live with me twenty years ago. One stayed ten years and then got\nmarried, the other I parted with when my children died because I did\nnot need her. It has been a green spot in the summer to have these\naffectionate, devoted creatures in the house. We have had only one\nslight frost, but the woods have been gradually changing, and are in\nspots very beautiful. We (you know what that word means) have been off\ngathering bright leaves for ourselves and the servants, who care for\npretty things just as we do. Yet not a flower has gone; we have had a\nhost of verbenas and gladioli, some Japanese lilies, and so on, and have\nbeen able to give some pleasure to those who have not time to cultivate\nthem for themselves. It has been a dreadful season for sickness here,\nand flowers have been wanted in many a sick-room, and at some funerals.\n\nSince I wrote you last \"we\" have been to Williamstown. I wanted to get\npossession of my sister's private papers. Everything passed off nicely;\nI burned a large amount and brought away a trunk full, a part of which I\nhave been reading with deep interest. Her journals date back to the age\nof fifteen, though to read the early ones you would never dream of her\nbeing less than twenty or thirty. She was a wonderful woman, and as\nI found such ample material for a memorial of her life, I felt half\ntempted to carry out her husband's wishes and complete one. But on the\nwhole I do not think I shall. You can imagine how my soul has been\nstirred by the whole thing; the farewell to the familiar objects of\nmy childhood, the sense of a new race taking possession of her\nconservatory, her shells, her minerals, her pictures, her German,\nFrench, Italian, Spanish, Latin, Hebrew and Greek library--dear me! but\nI need not enlarge on it to you. And how stupid it is not to forget it\nall alongside of her ten years in heaven!\n\n\n[1] \"Especially after a time of some special seasons of grace, and some\nspecial new supplies of grace, received in such seasons, (as after the\nholy sacrament), then will he set on most eagerly, when he knows of the\nrichest booty. The pirates that let the ships pass as they go by empty,\nwatch them well, when they return richly laden; so doth this great\nPirate.\"--Archbishop Leighton, on I Peter, v. 8.\n\n[2] \"Cynegvius, a valiant Athenian, being in a great sea-fight against\nthe Medes, espying a ship of the enemy's well manned, and fitted for\nservice, when no other means would serve, he grasped it with his hands\nto maintain the fight; and when his right hand was cut off, he held\nclose with his left; but both hands being taken off, he held it fast\nwith his teeth.\"\n\n[3] The following lines found on one of its blank pages were written\nperhaps at this time:\n\n  Precious companion! rendered dear\n  By trial-hours of many a year,\n  I love thee with a tenderness\n  Which words have never yet defined.\n\n  When tired and sad and comfortless,\n    With aching heart and weary mind,\n  How oft thy words of promise stealing\n    Like Gilead's balm-drops--soft and low.\n  Have touched the heart with power of healing,\n    And soothed the sharpest hour of woe.\n\n[4] A friend writing to Mrs. Prentiss, under date of September 24, 1872,\nrefers to Lady Stanley's high praise of The Story Lizzie Told, and then\nadds: \"You must be so accustomed to friendly 'notices'--so almost bored\nby them--that I hesitate to tell you of meeting another admirer of yours\nin the person of Mrs. ----, of Philadelphia, who was indebted to you for\nthe return of a little text-book. She means to call on you some day, if\nshe is ever in New York, to thank you in person for that act of kindness\nof yours, and for your 'Stepping Heavenward.' She is a daughter of the\nlate Chief Justice of Pennsylvania. Her mother, a staunch old Scotch\nlady over 80, has just returned from Europe. Mrs. ---- is a very\ninteresting woman, of warm religious feelings and very outspoken. She\nwas the companion of the famous Mrs. H., of Philadelphia, all through\nthe war,--as one of the independent workers, or perhaps in connection\nwith the Christian Commission. She witnessed the battle of\nChancellorsville--a part of it at Mary's Heights, and has told me a\ngreat deal that was thrilling--told as _she_ tells it--even at this\nlate day. She has the profoundest belief in what is called the 'work of\nfaith' by prayer and I don't believe she would shrink from accepting\nProf. Tyndall's challenge.\"\n\n[5] From the \"Power of the Cross of Christ.\"\n\n[6] \"Briefe an eine Freundin,\" a remarkable little book, full of light\nand sweetness.\n\n[7] Praying before others.\n\n[8] Since the warning we had the other day that we may be snatched from\nour children, ought we not to try to form some plan for them in case of\nsuch an emergency? I can't account for it, that in those fearful moments\nI thought only of them. I should have said I ought to have had some\nthought of the world we seemed to be hurrying to. I suppose there was\nthe instinctive yet blind sense that the preparation for the next life\nhad been made for us by the Lord, and that, as far as that life was\nconcerned, we had nothing to do but to enter it. I shudder when I think\nwhat a desolate home this might be to-day. Poor things! they've got\neverything before them, without one experience and discipline!--_From a\nletter to her husband, dated Dorset, Sept. 17, 1871._\n\n[9] The Presence of Christ. Lectures on the XXIII. Psalm. By Anthony W.\nThorold, Lord Bishop of Rochester. A. D. F. Randolph & Co.\n\n[10] Albert Hopkins was born in Stockbridge, Mass., July 14,1807. He\nwas graduated at Williams College in the class of 1826, and three years\nlater became Professor of Mathematics and Natural Philosophy in the same\ninstitution. Astronomy was afterward added to his chair. In 1834 he\nwent abroad. In the summer of 1835 he organised and conducted a Natural\nHistory expedition to Nova Scotia, the first expedition of the kind in\nthis country. Two years later he built at his own expense, and in\npart by the labor of his own hands, the astronomical observatory at\nWilliamstown. In this also, it is said, in advance of all others erected\nexclusively for purposes of instruction. He was a devoted and profound\nstudent, as well as an accomplished teacher, of natural science. But he\nwas still more distinguished for his piety and his religious influence\nin the college. Hundreds of students in successive classes learned\nto love and revere him as a holy man of God--many of them as their\nspiritual father. The history of American colleges affords probably no\ninstance of a happier, or more remarkable, union of true science with\nthat personal holiness and zeal for God, by which hearts are won for\nChrist. Full of faith and of the Holy Ghost, he did the work of an\nevangelist for more than forty years--not in the college only, but all\nover the town. During the last six years of his life he devoted himself\nespecially to the White Oaks--a district in the north-east part of\nWilliamstown-which had long before excited his sympathy on account of\nthe poverty, vice, and degradation which marked the neighborhood. He\nidentified himself with the population by buying and carrying on a small\nfarm among them. He also established a Sunday-school, and then he built\nwith the aid of friends a tasteful chapel, which was dedicated in\nOctober, 1866. Later \"the Church of Christ in the White Oaks\" was\norganised, and here, as his failing strength allowed, he preached and\nlabored the rest of his days.\n\nProf. Hopkins was an enthusiastic lover of nature. A few years before\nhis death he organised a society called \"The Alpine Club,\" composed\nchiefly of young ladies, with whom, as their chosen leader, he made\nexcursions summer after summer--camping out often among the hills. He\ntook them to many a picturesque nook and retreat, of which they had\nnever heard, in the mountains near by. He also explored with them other\ninteresting and remoter portions of northern Berkshire, and interpreted\nto them on the spot the thoughts of God, as they appeared in the\ninfinitely varied and beautiful details of His works. In these\nexcursions he seemed as young as any of his young companions, with\nfeelings as fresh and joyous as theirs. In earlier years he was a very\ngrave man, with something of the old Puritan sternness in his looks and\nways, and he bore still the aspect of a homo gravis; but his gentleness,\nhis tender devotion to the gay young companions who surrounded him, and\nthe almost boyish delight with which he shared in their pleasures, took\naway all its sternness and lighted up his strongly-marked countenance\nwith singular grace and beauty. In these closing years of his life he\nwas, indeed, the ideal of a ripe and noble Christian manhood. His name\nis embalmed in the memory of a great company of his old pupils, now\nscattered far and wide, from the White House at Washington to the\nremotest corners of the earth.\n\nP.S.--This was written soon after the inauguration of Gen. Garfield, to\nwhom allusion is made. His high regard for the venerable ex-President of\nWilliams College--the Rev. Dr. Mark Hopkins--he made known to the whole\ncountry, but the younger brother was also the object of his warmest\nesteem and love, and the feeling was heartily reciprocated. Nearly a\nscore of years ago, when he was just emerging into public notice from\nthe bloody field of Chickamauga, Prof. Hopkins spoke of him to the\nwriter in terms so full of praise and so prophetic of his future\ncareer, that they seem in perfect harmony with the sentiment at once of\nadmiration and poignant grief which to-day moves the heart of the whole\nAmerican people--yea, one might almost say, which is inspiring all\nChristendom.--_Saturday, Sept. 24, 1881._\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\nPEACEABLE FRUIT. 1873-1874.\n\nI.\n\nEffect of spiritual Conflict upon her religious Life. Overflowing\nAffections. Her Husband called to Union Theological Seminary. Baptism of\nSuffering. The Character of her Friendships. No perfect Life. Prayer.\n\"Only God can satisfy a Woman.\" Why human Friendship is a Snare.\nLetters.\n\n\nThe trouble which had so long weighed upon her heart, crossed with her\nthe threshold of 1873, but long before the close of the year it had in\nlarge measure passed away. Such suffering, however, always leaves its\nmarks behind; and when complicated with ill-health or bodily weakness,\noften lingers on after its main cause has been removed. It was so in her\ncase; she was, perhaps, never again conscious of that constant spiritual\ndelight which she had once enjoyed. But if less full of sunshine, her\nreligious life was all the time growing deeper and more fruitful, was\ncentering itself more entirely in Christ and rising faster heavenward.\nIts sympathies also became, if possible, still more tender and loving.\nHer whole being, indeed, seemed to gather new light and sweetness from\nthe sharp discipline she had been passing through. Even when most tried\nand tempted, as has been said, she had kept her trouble to herself; few\nof her most intimate friends knew of its existence; to the world she\nappeared a little more thoughtful and somewhat careworn, but otherwise\nas bright as ever. But now, at length, the old vivacity and playfulness\nand merry laugh began to come back again. Never did her heart glow with\nfresher, more ardent affections. In a letter to a young cousin, who was\nmoving about from place to place, she says:\n\nI shall feel more free to write often, if you can tell me that the\npostmaster at C. forwards your letters from the office at no expense to\nyou, as he ought to do. It is very silly in me to mind your paying three\ncents for one of my love-letters, but it's a Payson trait, and I can't\nhelp it, though I should be provoked enough if you _did_ mind paying a\ndollar apiece for them. There's consistency for you! Well, I know, and\nI'm awfully proud of it, that you'll get very few letters from as loving\na fountain as my heart is. I've got enough to drown a small army--and\nsometimes when you're homesick, and cousin-Lizzy-sick, and friend-sick,\nI shall come to you, done up in a sheet of paper, and set you all in a\nbreeze.\n\nHer letters during the first half of this year were few, and relate\nchiefly to those aspects of the Christian life with which her own\nexperience was still making her so familiar. \"God's plan with most of\nus,\" she wrote to Mrs. Humphrey, \"appears to be a design to make us\nflexible, twisting us this way and that, now giving, now taking; but\nalways at work for and in us. Almost every friend we have is going\nthrough some peculiar discipline. I fancy there is no period in our\nhistory when we do not _need_ and _get_ the sharp rod of correction. The\nthing is to grow strong under it, and yet to walk softly.\" \"I do not\ncare how much I suffer,\" she wrote to a friend, \"if God will purge and\npurify me and fit me for greater usefulness. What are trials but angels\nto beckon us nearer to Him! And I do hope that mine are to be a blessing\nto some other soul, or souls, in the future. I can't think suffering is\nmeant to be wasted, if fragments of bread created miraculously, were\nnot.\" She studied about this time with great interest the teaching of\nScripture concerning the baptism of the Holy Ghost. The work of the\nSpirit had not before specially occupied her thoughts. In her earlier\nwritings she had laid but little stress upon it--not because she\ndoubted its reality or its necessity, but because her mind had not been\nled in that direction. Stepping Heavenward is full of God and of Christ,\nbut there is in it little express mention of the Spirit and His peculiar\noffice in the life of faith. When this fact was brought to her notice\nshe herself appeared to be surprised at it, and would gladly have\nsupplied the omission. To be sure, there is no mention at all of the\nHoly Spirit in several of the Epistles of the New Testament; but a\ncarefully-drawn picture of Christian life and progress, like Stepping\nHeavenward, would, certainly, have been rendered more complete and\nattractive by fuller reference to the Blessed Comforter and His\ninspiring influences.\n\n_To a young Friend, New York, Jan. 8, 1873._\n\nI feel very sorry for you that you are under temptation. I have been\nled, for some time, to pray specially for the tempted, for I have\nlearned to pity them as greater sufferers than those afflicted in any\nother way. For, in proportion to our love to Christ, will be the agony\nof terror lest we should sin and fall, and so grieve and weary Him. \"One\nsinful wish could make a hell of heaven\"; strong language, but not too\nstrong, to my mind. I can only say, suffer, but do not yield. Sometimes\nI think that silent, submissive patience is better than struggle. It is\nsweet to be in the sunshine of the Master's smile, but I believe our\nsouls need winter as well as summer, night as well as day. Perhaps not\nto the end; I have not come to that yet, and so do not know; I speak\nfrom my own experience, as far as it goes. Temptation has this one good\nside to it: it keeps us _down_; we are ashamed of ourselves, we see we\nhave nothing to boast of. I told you, you will perhaps remember, that\nyou were going to enter the valley of humiliation in which I have dwelt\nso long, but I trust we are only taking it in our way to the land of\nBeulah. And how we \"pant to be there\"! What a curious friendship ours\nhas been! and it is one that can never sever--unless, indeed, we fall\naway from Christ, which may He in mercy forbid!... I do pray for you\ntwice every day, and hope you pray for me. I do long so to know the\ntruth and to enter into it. Certainly I have got some new light during\nthe last year, in the midst of my trials, both within and without.\n\nTo another young friend she writes a few days later:\n\nI remember when I was, religiously, at your age I was longing for\nholiness, but my faith staggered at some of the conditions for it. I had\nno conception, much as Christ was to me, what He was going to become.\nBut I wish I could make you a birth-day present of my experience since\nthen, and you could have Him now, instead of learning, as I had to learn\nHim, in much tribulation.\n\n_To Mrs. Condict, Jan. 15, 1873._\n\nI have been meaning, for some days, to write you about the\nProfessorship. [1] It is a new one, and is called \"the Skinner and\nMcAlpine\" chair, and Mr. Prentiss says there could not be a more\nagreeable field of usefulness. It is most likely that he will feel it\nto be his duty to accept. As to myself, I am about apathetic on the\nsubject. My will has been broken over the Master's knee, if I may use\nsuch an expression, by so much suffering, that I look with indifference\non such outward changes. We can be made willing to be burnt alive, if\nneed be. For four or five years to come I shall not be obliged to leave\nthe church I love so dearly; if the Seminary is moved out to Harlem, it\nwill be different; but it is not worth while to think of that now.\nIt seems to me that Mr. P. has reached an age when, never being very\nstrong, a change like this may be salutary. _February 3d._--You will be\nsorry to hear that dear Mrs. C. is quite sick. Her daughters are all\nworn out with the care of her. I was there all day Saturday, but I can\ndo nothing in the way of night watching; nor much at any time. A very\nlittle over-exertion knocks me up this winter. It is just as much as\nI can do to keep my head above water.... Sometimes I think that the\n_dreadful_ experience I have been passing through is God's way of\nbaptizing me; some _have_ to be baptized with suffering. Certainly He\nhas been sitting as the Refiner, bringing down my pride, emptying me of\nthis and that, and not leaving me a foot to stand on. If it all ends in\nsanctification I don't care what I suffer. Though cast down, I am not in\ndespair.\n\nIt is an encouragement to hear Mahan compare states of the soul to\nhouse-cleaning time. [2] It is just so with me. Every chair and table,\nevery broom and brush is out of place, topsy-turvy.... But I can't\nbelieve God has been wasting the last two years on me; I can't help\nhoping that He is answering my prayer, my cry for holiness--only in a\nstrange way. Dr. and Mrs. Abbot spent Sunday and Monday with us a week\nago, and I read to them Dr. Steele's three tracts and lent them Mahan.\nThey were much interested, but I do not know how much struck. I can not\nsmile, as some do, at Dr. Steele's testimony. I believe in it fully and\nheartily. If I do not know what it is to \"find God real,\" I do not know\nanything. Never was my faith in the strongest doctrines of Christianity\nstronger than it is now.\n\n_Feb. 13th._--I spent part of yesterday in reading Stepping Heavenward!\nYou will think that very strange till I add that it was in German; and,\nas the translator has all my books, I wanted to know whether she had\ndone this work satisfactorily before authorising her to proceed with the\nrest. She has omitted so much, that it is rather an abridgment than a\ntranslation; otherwise it is well done. But she has so purged it of\nvivacity, that I am afraid it will plod on leaden feet, if it plods at\nall, heavenward. And now I must hurry off to my sewing-circle.\n\n_To a young Friend, April 4, 1873._\n\nI want to correct any mistaken impression I have made on you in\nconversation. The utmost I meant to say was, that I had got new light\nintellectually, or theologically, on the subject of the working of the\nSpirit. In the sense in which I use the words \"baptism of the Holy\nGhost,\" I certainly do not consider that I have received it. I think\nit means _perfect consecration_.... Thus far, no matter what people\nprofess, I have never come into close contact with any life that I did\nnot find more or less imperfect. I find, in other words, the best human\nbeings fallible, and _very fallible_. The best I can say of myself is,\nthat I see the need of _immense_ advances in the divine life. I find it\nhard to be patient with myself when I see how far I am from reaching\neven my own poor standard; but if I do not love Christ and long to\nplease Him, I do not love anybody or anything. And if I have talked less\nto you on these sacred subjects this winter, it has been partly owing\nto my seeing less of you, and an impalpable but real barrier between us\nwhich I have not known how to account for, but which made me cautious in\npushing religion on you. Young people usually have their ups and\ndowns and fluctuations of feeling before they settle down on to fixed\n_principles_, paying no regard to feeling, and older Christians should\nbear with them, make allowance for this, and never obtrude their own\nviews or experiences. I think you will come out all right. Satan will\nfight hard for you, and perhaps for a time get the upper hand; but I\nbelieve the Lord and Master will prevail. Perhaps we are never dearer to\nHim than when the wings on which we once _flew_ to Him, hang drooping\nand broken at our side, and we have to make our weary way on foot.\n\nI am always thankful to have my heart stirred and warmed by Christian\nletters or conversation; always glad to see any signs of the presence\nof the Holy Spirit at work in a human soul. But never force yourself to\nwrite or talk of spiritual things; try rather to get so full of Christ\nthat mention of Him shall be natural and spontaneous.\n\n_To the Same, April 15, 1873._\n\nI have just been reading the sermon of Dr. Hopkins on prayer you sent\nme. It sounds just like him. I think his brother and mine (by marriage)\nwould have treated the subject just as logically and far more\npractically; still, under the circumstances, that was not desirable.\nAs to myself, I would rather have the simple testimony of some unknown\npraying woman, who is in the habit of \"_waiting_\" on God, than all the\ntheological discussions in the world. The subject, as you know, is one\nof deep interest to me.\n\nI have not answered your letter, because I was not quite sure what it\nwas best to say. During the winter I was not sure what had come between\nus, and thought it best to let time show; and I have been harassed and\nperplexed by certain anxieties, with which it did not seem necessary to\ntrouble you, to a degree that may have given me a preoccupied manner.\nThere have been points where I wanted a divine illumination which I did\nnot get. I wanted to hear, \"This is the way, walk in it\"; but that word\nhas not come yet, and almost all my spiritual life has been running in\nthat one line, keeping me, necessarily, out of sympathy with everybody.\nAs far as this has been a fault, it has reacted upon you, to whom I\nought to have been more of a help. But I can say that it delights me to\nsee you even trying to take a step onward, and to know that while still\nyoung, and with the temptations of youth about you, you have set\nyour face heavenward. Your temptations, like mine, are through the\naffections. \"Only God can satisfy a woman\"; and yet we try, every now\nand then, to see if we can't find somebody else worth leaning on. _We\nnever shall_, and it is a great pity we can not always realise it. I\nnever deliberately make this attempt now, but am still liable to fall\ninto the temptation. I am _sure_ that I can never be really happy and\nat rest out of or far from Christ, nor do I want to be. Getting new\nand warm friends is all very well, but I emerge from this snare into a\ndeepening conviction that I must learn to say, \"None but Christ.\"...\nNow, dear ----, it is a dreadful thing to be cold towards our best\nFriend'; a calamity if it comes upon us through Satan; a sin and folly\nif it is the result of any fault or omission of our own. There is but\none refuge from it, and that is in just going to Him and telling Him all\nabout it. We can not force ourselves to love Him, but we can ask Him to\n_give_ us the love, and sooner or later He _will_. He may seem not to\nhear, the answer may come gradually and imperceptibly, but it will\ncome. He has given you one friend at least who prays for your spiritual\nadvance every day. I hope you pray thus for me. Friendship that does not\ndo that is not worth the name. _April 17th_.--Of course, I'll take the\nwill for the deed and consider myself covered with \"orange blossoms,\"\nlike a babe in the wood. And it is equally of course that I was married\nwith lots of them among my lovely auburn locks, and wore a veil in point\nlace twenty feet long.\n\nI have had several titles given me in Dorset--among others, a \"child of\nnature\"--and last night I was shown a letter in which (I hope it is\nnot wicked to quote it in such a connexion) I am styled \"a Princess in\nChrist's Kingdom.\" Can you cap this climax?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nII.\n\nGoes to Dorset. Christian Example. At Work among her Flowers. Dangerous\nIllness. Her Feeling about Dying. Death an \"Invitation\" from Christ.\n\"The Under-current bears _Home_.\" \"More Love, More love!\" A Trait of\nCharacter. Special Mercies. What makes a sweet Home. Letters.\n\n\nEarly in June, accompanied by the three younger children, she went to\nDorset. This change always put her into a glow of pleasurable emotion.\nOnce out of the city, she was like a bird let loose from its cage. In a\nletter to her husband, dated \"Somewhere on the road, five o'clock\nP.M.,\" she wrote: \"M. is laughing at me because, Paddy-like, I proposed\ninforming you in a P. S. that we had reached Dorset; as if the fact of\nmailing a letter there could not prove it. So I will take her advice and\nclose this now. I feel that our cup of mercies is running over. We ought\nto be ever so good! And I _am_ ever so loving!\" \"We are all as gay as\nlarks,\" she wrote a few days later; and in spite of heat, drought,\nover-work and sickness, she continued in this mood most of the summer.\nBut while \"gay as a lark,\" she was also grave and thoughtful. Her\ndelight in nature seemed only to increase her interest in divine things\nand her longing to be like Christ. In a letter to one of her young\nfriends, having spoken of prayer as \"the greatest favor one friend can\nrender another,\" she adds:\n\nBut perhaps I may put one beyond it--Christian example. I ought to be so\nsaintly, so consecrated, that you could not be with me and not catch the\nvery spirit of heaven; never get a letter from me that did not quicken\nyour steps in the divine life. But while I believe the principle of love\nto Christ is entrenched in the depths of my soul, the emotion of love is\nhot always in that full play I want it to be. No doubt He judges us\nby the principle He sees to exist in us, but we can't help judging\nourselves, in spite of ourselves, by our feelings. At church this\nmorning my mind kept wandering to and fro; I thought of you about twenty\ntimes; thought about my flowers; thought of 501 other things; and then\ngot up and sang\n\n  \"I love Thy kingdom, Lord,\"\n\nas if I cared for that and nothing else. What He has to put up with in\nme! But I believe in Him, I love Him, I hate everything in my soul and\nin my life that is unlike Him. I hope the confession of my shortcomings\nwon't discourage you; it is no proof that at my age you will not be far\nbeyond such weakness and folly as often carry me away captive.... As far\nas earthly blessings go I am as near perfect happiness as a human being\ncan be; everything is _heaped_ on me. What I want is more of Christ, and\nthat is what I hope you pray that I may have.\n\nTo another young friend she writes, June 12th:\n\nWe have varied experiences, sick or well, and the discipline of a heart\nnot perfectly satisfied with what it gets from God, often alternates\nwith the peace of which you speak as just now yours. What a blessed\nthing this \"very peace of God\" is! There is no earthly joy to be\ncompared with it. But to go patiently on without it, when it is not\ngiven, is, I think, a great achievement; for instance, if I held no\ncommunication with you for a year, would it not be a wonderful proof of\nyour love to and faith in me, if you kept on writing me and telling me\nyour joys and trials? To go back--I have been a good deal confused by\nthe contradictory testimony of different Christians, and am driven more\nand more to a conviction that human beings, _at the best_, are very\nfallible. We must get our light directly from on high. At the same\ntime we influence each other for right or for wrong, and one who is\nthoroughly upright and true, will, unconsciously, influence and help\nthose about him.... I am enjoying, as I always do, having the three\nyounger children close about me here, and all sleeping on my floor. We\nare really like _four_ children, continually frolicking together. We are\nall crowded now into my den, and I wish you were here with us to be the\n\"_fifth_ kitten.\" Did you ever read that story?\n\n_To Mrs. Catherine G. Leeds, Dorset, July 12, 1873._\n\nIt was ever so kind in you to let us share in your relief and pleasure,\nand we unite in affectionate congratulations to you all. I do hope this\nnew and precious treasure will be spared to his dear mother, and grow\nup to be her stay and staff years hence. It is the nicest thing in\nthe world to have a baby. What marvels they are in every respect, but\nespecially in their royal power over us!\n\nIn spite of the dry weather we have had a pleasant summer, so far. Just\nbefore we entirely burned up and turned to tinder, showers came to our\nrelief, and our gardens are putting on some faint smiles and making\nsome promises. I did not allow a drop of water to be wasted for weeks;\ndish-water, soap-suds, dairy water, everything went to my flower-beds,\nand each night, after Mr. Prentiss came, a barrel-full was carted up\nfrom the pond for me; how many the rest used I don't know. Disposing of\nsuch a load has not been blessed to my health, and I have had to draw in\nmy horns a little, but M. and I work generally like two day-laborers\nfor the wages we get, and those wages are flowers here, there and\neverywhere, to say nothing of ferns, brakes, mosses, scarlet berries,\nand the like. And when flowers fail we fall back on different shades of\ngreen; the German ivy being relieved by a background of dark foliage,\nor light grasses against grave ones; and when we hit on any new\ncombination, each summons the other to be lost in admiration. And when\nwe are too sore and stiff from weeding, grass-shearing or watering, we\nfall to framing little pictures, or to darning stockings, which she\ndoes so beautifully that it has become a fine art with her, or I betake\nmyself to the sewing-machine and stitch for legs that seem to grow long\nby the minute.\n\nWhat the rest of the family are about meanwhile, I can not exactly say.\nMr. Prentiss sits in a chair with an umbrella over his head, and pulls\nup a weed now and then, and then strolls off with a straw in his mouth;\nhe also drives off sometimes on foraging expeditions, and comes back\nwith butter, eggs, etc., and on hot days takes a bath where a stream of\ncold water dashes over him; \"splendid\" he says, and \"horrid\" I say.\nThe boys are up to everything; they are carpenters, and plumbers, and\ntrouters, and harnessers, and drivers; H. has just learned to solder,\nand saves me no little trouble and expense by stopping leakages;\nheretofore every holey vessel had to be sent out of town. Both boys have\ngardens and sell vegetables to their father at extraordinary prices, and\nthey are now filling up a deep ditch 500 feet long at a \"York shilling\"\nan hour--men get a \"long shilling\" and do the work no better. With the\nmoney thus made they buy tools of all sorts, seeds and fruit trees,\nbut no nonsense. Three happier children than these three can not be\nfound....\n\nYou may be interested, too, to know what are the famous works of art we\nare framing, as above referred to. Well, photographs of our kindred\nand friends for one thing: my brothers, my husband's mother and other\nrelatives of his, Prof. and Mrs. Smith, Mr. and Mrs. B. B., and so on,\na good deal as it has happened, for everybody hasn't been photographed;\nand some bodies have not given us their pictures--you, for instance, and\nif you want to be hung as high as Haman in my den, nine feet square,\nwhere I write, why, you can. Last summer I had a mania for illuminating,\nand made about a cord of texts and mottoes; I can't paint, so I cut\nletters out of red, blue and black paper, and deceived thereby the very\nelect, for even Mrs. Washburn was taken in, and said they were painted\nnicely.\n\nYour little note has drawn large interest, hasn't it? Well, it deserved\nits fate.\n\nHardly had she finished this letter when she was taken very ill. For a\nwhile it seemed as if the time of her departure had come. At her request\nthe children were called to her bedside, and she gave them in turn her\ndying counsels, bade them live for Christ as the only true, abiding\ngood, and then kissed each of them good-bye. She was much disappointed\non finding that her sickness, after all, was not an \"invitation\" from\nthe Master. \"You don't get away _this_ time,\" said her husband to her,\nhalf playfully, half exultingly, referring to her eagerness to go.\n\nAnd here it may not be amiss to say a word as to her state of mind\nrespecting death. After her release her husband thus described it to a\nfriend:\n\nHer feeling about dying seemed to me to be almost unique. In all my\npastoral experience, at least, I do not recall another case quite like\nit. Her faith in a better world, that is, a heavenly, was quite as\nstrong as her faith in God and in Christ; she regarded it as the true\nhome of the soul; and the tendency of a good deal of modern culture to\nput _this_ world in its place as man's highest sphere and end, struck\nher as a mockery of the holiest instincts at once of humanity and\nreligion. Death was associated in her mind with the instant realisation\nof all her sweetest and most precious hopes. She viewed it as an\ninvitation from the King of Glory to come and be with Him. During the\nmore than three-and-thirty years of our married life I doubt if there\nwas ever a time when the summons would have found her unwilling to go;\nrarely, if ever, a time when she would not have welcomed it with great\njoy. On putting to her the question, \"Would you be ready to go _now?_\"\nshe would answer, \"Why, yes,\" in a tone of calm assurance, rather of\nvisible delight, which I can never forget. And during all her later\nyears her answer to such a question would imply a sort of astonishment,\nthat anybody could ask it. So strong, indeed, was her own feeling about\ndeath as a real boon to the Christian, that she was scarcely able, I\nthink, fully to sympathise with those who regarded it with misgiving\nor terror. The point may be illustrated, perhaps, by referring to her\nperfect fearlessness and repose in the midst of the most terrific\nthunder-storm. No matter how vivid the lightning's flashes or how near\nand loud the claps that followed, they affected her nerves as little as\nany summer breeze--scarcely ever awaking her if asleep, or hindering her\nfrom going to sleep if awake. And so it was with regard to the terrors\nof death. But not merely was there an absence of all apparent dread of\ndeath, but an exulting joy in the thought of it. There is a passage\nin The Home at Greylock, which was evidently inspired by her own\nexperience. It is where old Mary, when her first wild burst of grief was\nover, said:\n\nSure she's got her wish and died sudden. She was always ready to go, and\nnow she's gone. Often's the time I've heard her talk about dying, and I\nmind a time when she thought she was going, and there was a light in her\neye, and \"What d'ye think of that?\" says she. I declare it was just as\nshe looked when she says to me, \"Mary, I'm going to be married, and what\nd'ye think of that?\" says she.\n\nThis feeling about death is the more noteworthy in her case because of\nher very deep, poignant sense of sin and of her own unworthiness.\n\n_To a Friend, Dorset, July 27, 1873._\n\nThis is my third Sunday home from church. I have been confined to my bed\nonly about a week, but it took me some days to run down to that point,\nand now it is taking some to run me up again. I had two or three very\nsuffering days and nights, and the doctor was here nearly all of one\nday and night, but was very kind, understood my case and managed it\nadmirably. He is from Manchester and is son of a missionary. [3]\n\nYou speak in your letter of being oppressed by the heat, and wearied by\nvisitors, and say that prayer is little more than uttering the name of\nJesus. I have asked myself a great many times this summer how much that\nmeans.\n\n  \"All I can utter sometimes is Thy name!\"\n\nThis line expresses my state for a good while. Of course getting out\nof one house into another and coming up here, all in the space of one\nmonth, was a great tax on time and strength, and all my regular habits\n_had_ to be broken up. Then before the ram was put in I over-exerted\nmyself, unconsciously, carrying too heavy pails of water to my\nflower-beds, and so broke down. For some hours the end looked very near,\nbut I do not know whether it was stupidity or faith that made me so\ncontent to go. I am afraid that a good deal of what passes for the one\nis really the other. Fortunately for us, our faith does not entitle us\nto heaven any more than our stupidity shuts us out of it; when we get\nthere it will be through Him who loved us. But if I may judge by the\nexperience of this little illness, our hearts are not so tied to or in\nlove with this world as we fear. We make the most of it as long as we\n_must_ stay in it; but the under-current bears _home_.\n\nThe following extract from a letter to a young relative, dated Sept.\n23d, furnishes at once a key to several marked traits of her character\nand a practical comment upon her own hymn, \"More love to Thee, O\nChrist!\"\n\nI had no right to leave my friend undefended. I prayed to do it aright.\nIf I did not I am not ashamed to say I am sorry for it, and ask you to\nforgive me. And if I were twice as old as I am, and you twice as young,\nI would do it. I will not tolerate anything wrong in myself. I hate, I\nhate sin against my God and Saviour, and sin against the earthly friends\nwhom I love with such a passionate intensity that they are able to wring\nmy heart out, and always will be, if I live to be a hundred.... People\nwho feel strongly express themselves strongly; vehemence is one of\nmy faults. Let us pray for each other. We have great capacities for\nenjoyment, but we suffer more keenly than many of our race. I have been\nan intense sufferer in many ways; the story would pain you; nobody can\ngo through this world with a heart and a soul, and jog along smoothly\nlong at a time.... I do not remember ever having a discussion on paper\nwith my husband; we should not dare to run the risk. But I know I said\nsomething once in a letter, I forget what, that made him snatch the\nfirst train and rush to set things right, though it cost him a two days'\njourney. We are tremendous lovers still. Write and tell me we've kissed\nand made up! We both mean well; we don't want to hurt each other; but\neach has one million points that are very vulnerable. And neither can\nknow these points in the other by intuition; a cry of pain will often be\nthe first intimation that the one can hurt the other just there. We\nmust touch each other with the tips of our fingers.... To love Christ\nmore--this is the deepest need, the constant cry of my soul. Down in the\nbowling-alley, and out in the woods, and on my bed, and out driving,\nwhen I am happy and busy, and when I am sad and idle, the whisper keeps\ngoing up for more love, more love, more love!\n\n_To a Christian Friend, Dorset, Oct. 3, 1873._\n\nI do hope you will be in New York this winter and your mother, too. What\na blessing to have a mother with whom one can hold Christian communion!\nYou need some trials as a set-off to it. You say few live up to what\nlight they have; it is true; I think we get light just as fast as we are\nready for it. At the same time I must own that I have not all the light\nI need. I am still puzzled as to the true way to live; how far to\ncherish a spirit that makes one sit very lightly to all earthly things,\nwhen that spirit unfits one, to a great extent, to be an agreeable,\nthoroughly sympathising companion to one's children, for instance. My\nchildren have a real horror of Miss ----, because she thinks and talks\non only one subject; of course it never would do for me to do as she\ndoes, as far as they are concerned. Perhaps the problem may be solved by\na resort to the fact that we are not called to the same experience. And\nyet an experience of as perfect love and faith as is ever vouchsafed to\na soul on earth, is what I long for. At times my heart dies within me\nwhen I realise how much I need. As you say, no doubt the mental strain I\nhad been passing through prepared the way for my break-down in health;\nas I lay, as I thought, dying, I said so to myself. That strain is over;\nI am in a sense at rest; but not satisfied. I have been too near to\nChrist to be _happy_ in anything else; I don't mean by that, however,\nthat I never _try_ to be happy in other things--alas, I do.\n\nAs to the minor trials, no life is without them. But what mercies we get\nevery now and then! The other day three letters came to me by one mail,\neach of which was important, and came from exactly the quarter where I\nwas troubled, and dispersed the trouble to a great degree. In fact I am\noverwhelmed with mercies, and dreadfully stupid and unthankful for them.\nI have had also some experiences of late of the smallness and meanness,\nof which you have had specimens. One has to betake oneself to prayer to\nget a sight of One, who is large-hearted and noble and good and true.\nOh, how narrow human narrowness must look to Him! I don't know how many\ntimes I have smiled at your remark about Miss ----: \"She seems to have\nsuch a hard time to learn her lessons.\" I feel sorry for her in one\nsense, but if she belongs to Christ, isn't He home enough for her? I\nthink it _always_ a very doubtful experiment to offer other people a\nhome with you; and equally doubtful whether such an offer is wisely\naccepted. Being a saint does not, I am sorry to say, necessarily make\none an agreeable addition to the family circle as God has formed it;\nif His hand _sends_ this new element into the house, of course one may\nexpect grace to bear it; but voluntarily to seek it argues either want\nof experience or an immense power of self-sacrifice. I should prefer\nMiss ----'s friends agreeing to give her an independent home, as far as\na boarding-house can furnish a home. And if it provides a place in which\nto pray, as sweet a home may be found there as anywhere.\n\nWe go to town on the ninth of this month. Mr. Prentiss has been gone\nsome time, and has entered upon his new duties with great delight. I\nmust confess that if I were going to choose my work in life, I could\nthink of nothing more congenial than to train young Christians. It has\ncome over me lately that _all_ those whom he now instructs, have more\nor less of the new life in them. I am sorry, however, to add that some\nyoung theological friends of mine deny this. They say that many young\nmen preparing for the ministry give no other sign of piety. Young people\njudge hastily and severely. As soon as I get over my first hurry, after\nreaching home, I hope you will come and see me.... You speak of my\nexperience on my sick-bed as a precious one. To tell you the truth, it\ndoes not seem so to me; I mean, nothing extraordinary. Not to want to\ngo, if invited, would be a contradiction to most of my life. But as I\nwas _not_ invited I realise that I am needed here; and I am afraid it\nwas selfish to be so delighted to go, horribly selfish.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIII.\n\nChange of Home and Life in New York. A Book about Robbie. Her Sympathy\nwith young People. \"I have in me Two different Natures.\" What Dr. De\nWitt said at the Grave of his Wife. The Way to meet little Trials.\nFaults in Prayer-Meetings. How special Theories of the Christian Life\nare formed. Sudden Illness of Prof. Smith. Publication of _Golden\nHours_. How it was received.\n\n\nHer return from Dorset brought with it a new order of life. The transfer\nof her husband to a theological chair was almost as great a change to\nher as to him. In ceasing to be a pastor's wife she gave up a position,\nwhich for more than a quarter of a century had been to her a spring of\nconstant joy, and which, notwithstanding its cares, she regarded as one\nof the most favored on earth. While in the parsonage, too, she was in\nthe midst of her friends; the removal to Sixty-first street left the\nmost of them at a distance; and distance in New York is no slight\nhindrance to the full enjoyment of social intimacy and fellowship.\nSeveral weeks after the return to town were devoted to the congenial\ntask of fitting-up and adorning the new home. Then for the first time in\nmany years she found herself at leisure; and one of its earliest fruits\nwas a selection of stray religious verses for publication; which,\nhowever, soon gave way to a volume of her own. She was able also to give\nspecial attention to her favorite religious reading.\n\nThe sharp trials and suffering of the previous years showed their effect\nin deepened spiritual convictions, humility and tenderness of feeling,\nbut not in repressing her natural playfulness. At times her spirits were\nstill buoyant with fun and laughter. An extract from a letter to her\nyoungest daughter, who with her sister was on a visit at Portland, will\ngive a glimpse of this gay mood. Such mishaps as she recounts are liable\nto occur in the best-regulated households, especially on a change of\nservants; but they were rare in her experience and so the more amused\nher:\n\nI undertook to get up a nice dinner for Dr. and Mrs. V----, about which\nI must now tell you. First I was to have raw oysters on the shell.\n_Blunder 1st_, small tea-plates laid for them. Ordered off, and big ones\nlaid. _Blunder 2d_, five oysters to be laid on each plate, instead of\nwhich five were placed on platters at each end, making ten in all for\nthe whole party! Ordered a change to the original order. Result,\na terrific sound in the parlor of rushing feet and bombardment of\noyster-shells. Dinner was announced from Dr. P., who asked, helplessly,\nwhere he should place Mrs. V----. _Blunder 4th_ by Mrs. P., who remarked\nthat she had got fifty pieces of shell in her mouth. _Blunder 5th_ by\nDr. P., who failed to perceive that the boiled chickens were garnished\nwith a stunning wine-jelly and regarding it as gizzards, presented it\nonly to the boys! _Blunder 6th_. Cranberry-jelly ordered. Cranberry as\na dark, inky fluid instead; gazed upon suspiciously by the guests, and\ntasted sparingly by the family.--And now prepare for _blunder No_. 7,\nbearing in mind that it is the third course. _Four_ prairie hens instead\nof two! The effect on the Rev. Mrs. E. Prentiss was a resort to her\nhandkerchief, and suppression of tears on finding none in her pocket.\n_Blunder 8th_. Iauch's biscuit glac\u00e9 stuffed with hideous orange-peel.\n_Delight 1st_, delicious dessert of farina smothered in custard and dear\nto the heart of Dr. V----. _Blunder 9th_. No hot milk for the coffee,\ndelay in scalding it, and at last serving it in a huge cracked pitcher.\n_Blunder 10th_. Bananas, grapes, apples, and oranges forgotten at the\nright moment and passed after the coffee and of course declined. But\nhearing that Miss H. V. was fond of bananas, I seized the fruit-basket\nand poured its contents into one napkin, and a lot of chocolate-cake\ninto another, and sent them to the young princesses in the parsonage,\nwho are, no doubt, dying of indigestion, this morning. Give my love to\nC. and F., and a judicious portion to the old birds.\n\n_To a young Friend, Oct. 19,1873._\n\nI am sorry that we played hide-and-go-seek with each other when you were\nin town. I have seen all my most intimate friends since I came home; I\nmean all who live here. There are just eight of them, but they fill my\nheart so that I should have said, at a guess, there were eighty! Try the\nexperiment on yourself and tell me how many such friends you have. It is\nvery curious.\n\nI have just got hold of some leaves of a journal rescued from the flames\nby my (future) husband, written at the age of 22, in which I describe\nmyself as \"one great long sunbeam.\" It recalled the sweet life in Christ\nI was then leading, and made me feel that if I had got so far on as a\ngirl, I ought to be _infinitely_ farther on as a woman. Still, in spite\nof all shame and regrets, I had a long list of mercies to recount at the\ncommunion-table to-day. Among other things I feel that I know and love\nyou better than heretofore, and it is pleasant to love. I must not\nforget to answer your little niece's questions. I remember her father's\ncalling with your sister, but I don't remember any little girl as being\nwith them, much less \"kissing her because she liked the Susy books.\"\nAs to writing more about Robbie, I can't do that till I get to heaven,\nwhere he has been ever so many years. Give my love to the wee maiden,\nand tell her I should love to kiss her.\n\nNo trait in Mrs. Prentiss was more striking than her sympathy with young\npeople, especially with young girls, and her desire to be religiously\nhelpful to them. But her interest in them was not confined to the\nspiritual life. She delighted to join them in their harmless amusements,\nand to take her part in their playful contests, whether of wit or\nknowledge. Her friend, Miss Morse, thus recalls this feature of her\ncharacter:\n\nIn Mrs. Prentiss' life the wise man's saying, _A merry heart doeth good\nlike a medicine_, was beautifully exemplified. Yet few were thoroughly\nacquainted with this phase of her character. Those who knew her\nonly through her books, or her letters of Christian sympathy and\ncounsel--many even who came into near and tender personal relations to\nher--failed to see the frolicsome side of her nature which made her an\neager participant in the fun of young people--in a merry group of girls\nthe merriest girl among them. In contests where playful rhymes were to\nbe composed at command, on a moment's notice, she sharpened the wits of\nher companions by her own zest, but in most cases herself bore off the\npalm.\n\nShe always entered into such contests with an unmistakable desire to\nwin. I remember one evening in her own home in Dorset, when four of us\nwere engaged in a game of verbarium, two against two--the opposite party\nwere gaining rapidly. She suddenly turned to her partner with a comical\nair of chagrin and exclaimed: \"Why is it they are winning the game? You\nand I are a great deal brighter than they!\"\n\nThe first time I ever saw Mrs. Prentiss was through an invitation to her\nhome to meet about half a dozen young persons of my own age. She was in\none of her merriest moods. Games of wit were played and she took part\nwith genuine interest. She at once impressed me with the feeling that\nshe was one of us, and that this arose from no effort to be sympathetic,\nbut was simply part of her nature.\n\nThis brightness wonderfully attracted young people to her, and gave her\nan influence with them that she could not otherwise have exercised. She\nrecognised it in herself as a power, and used it, as she did all her\npowers, for the service of her Master. Young Christians, seeing that her\ndeeply religious life did not interfere with her keen enjoyment of all\ninnocent pleasures, realised that there need be no gloominess for them,\neither, in a life consecrated to God.\n\nJust as her line of thought would often lie absorbingly in some one\ndirection for quite a period of time, so her fun ran \"in streaks,\" as\nshe would have been likely to express it. One winter she amused herself\nand her friends by a great number of charades and enigmas, many of\nwhich I copied and still possess. They were dashed off with an ease and\nrapidity quite remarkable. And I believe the same thing was true of most\nof her books. I have watched her when she was writing some funny piece\nof rhyme, and as her pen literally flew over the paper, I could hardly\nbelieve that she was actually composing as she wrote. One day two young\ngirls were translating one of Heine's shorter poems. They had agreed to\nsend their several versions to an absent friend, who on his part was to\nreturn his own to them. Mrs. Prentiss entered heartily into the plan and\nin an hour had written as many as a dozen translations, all in English\nrhyme and differing entirely one from the other. The stimulating effect\non the genius of her companions was such that over thirty translations\nwere produced in that one afternoon.\n\nIn thinking of the ease with which Mrs. Prentiss would suddenly turn\nfrom grave to gay and the reverse, I often recall her answer when I one\nday remarked on this trait in her.\n\n\"Yes, I have in me two very different natures. Did you ever hear the\nstory of the dog, who by an accident was cut in two, and was joined\ntogether by a wonderful healing salve? Unfortunately, the pieces were\nnot put together properly, so two of his legs stood up in the air. At\nfirst his master thought it a great misfortune, but he found that the\ndog, when a little accustomed to his strange new form, would run until\ntired on two legs, and then by turning himself over he would have a\nfresh unused pair to start with, and so he did double duty! I am like\nthat dog. When I am tired of running on one nature, I can turn over and\nrun on the other, and it rests me.\" [4]\n\nI want to spend a few minutes of this my birthday in talking with you in\nreply to your letter.\n\n_To a Christian Friend, New York, Oct. 26, 1873._\n\nI want to tell you how I love you, because you \"learn your lessons\" so\neasily, and how thankful I am that in your great trials and afflictions\nyou have been enabled to glorify God. How small trouble is when set over\nagainst that! Is not Christ enough for a human soul? Does it really need\nanything else for its happiness? You will remember that when Madame\nGuyon was not only homeless, but deprived of her liberty, she was\nperfectly happy. \"A little bird am I.\" [5] It seems to me that when God\ntakes away our earthly joys and props, He gives Himself most generously;\nand is there any joy on earth to be compared for a moment with such a\ngift?... My husband has just come in and described the scene at Mrs. De\nWitt's funeral, [6] when her husband said, _Good-bye, dear wife, you\nhave been my greatest blessing next to Christ_; and he added, \"and that\nI can say of you.\" This was very sweet to me, for _I_ have faults of\nmanner that often annoy him--I am so vehement, so positive, and lay down\nthe law so! But I believe the grace of God can cure faults of all sorts,\nbe they deep-seated or external. And I ought to be one of the best women\nin the world, if I am good in proportion to the gifts with which I am\noverwhelmed. I count it not the least of your and my mercies, that we\nhave been permitted to add four little children to the happy company\nabove. No wonder you miss your darling boy, but I am sure you would not\ncall him back. Have you any choice religious verses not in any book,\nthat you would like to put into one I am going to get up?\n\n_To the Same, Nov. 12th._\n\nI want you and your mother to know what I am now busy about, hoping it\nmay set you to praying over it. When I asked you for bits of poetry, I\nmeant pieces gleaned from time to time from newspapers. My plan was to\nmake a compilation, interspersing verses of my own anonymously. But Mr.\nRandolph has convinced me that it is my duty and privilege to have the\nlittle book all original, and to appear as mine; and in unexpected ways\nmy will about it has been broken, and I have ceased from all morbid\nshyness about it, and am only too thankful that God is willing thus to\nuse me for His own glory. Of course, I shall meet with a good deal of\nmisapprehension and disgust from some quarters, but not from you or\nyours. It is a comfort, on the other hand, to think of once more\nministering to longing or afflicted souls, as I hope to do in these\nlines, written for no human eye. You say Jesus is pained when His dear\nones suffer. I hardly think that can be. Tender sympathy He no doubt\nfeels, but not pain. If He did, He would be miserable all the time, the\nworld is so full of misery.\n\nWhen I look back over my own life, the precious times were generally\nseasons of great suffering; so much so, that the idea of discipline has\nbecome a hobby. But one can only learn all this by experience. Mrs. ----\nsays she never sings the verse containing \"E'en though it be a cross\nthat raiseth me,\" and that little children never talk in that way to\ntheir mothers, and, therefore, we ought not to talk so to God! I did not\nargue with her about it, but I felt thankful that I could sing and say\nthat line very earnestly, and had been taught to do so by the Spirit of\nGod.\n\n_To a Friend in Texas, New York, Dec. 1, 1873._\n\nI am glad you like Faber better on a closer acquaintance. He certainly\nhas said some wonderful things among many weak and foolish ones. What\nyou quote from him about thanksgiving is very true. Our gratitude bears\nno sort of comparison with our petitions or our sighs and groans. It is\ncontemptible in us to be such thankless beggars. As to domestic cares,\nyou know Mrs. Stowe has written a beautiful little tract on this\nsubject--\"Earthly Care a Heavenly Discipline.\" God never places us in\nany position in which we can not grow. We may fancy that He does. We\nmay fear we are so impeded by fretting, petty cares that we are gaining\nnothing; but when we are not sending any branches upward, we may be\nsending roots downward. Perhaps in the time of our humiliation, when\neverything seems a failure, we are making the best kind of progress. God\ndelights to try our faith by the conditions in which He places us. A\nplant set in the shade shows where its heart is by turning towards the\nsun, even when unable to reach it. We have so much to distract us in\nthis world that we do not realise how truly and deeply, if not always\nwarmly and consciously, we love Christ. But I believe that this love is\nthe strongest principle in every regenerate soul. It may slumber for a\ntime, it may falter, it may freeze nearly to death; but sooner or later\nit will declare itself as the ruling passion. You should regard all your\ndiscontent with yourself as negative devotion, for that it really is.\nMadame Guyon said boldly, but truly, \"O mon Dieu, plutot pecheur que\nsuperbe,\" and that is the consoling word I feel like sending you to-day.\nI know all about these little domestic foxes that spoil the vines, and\nsympathise with you in yours. But if some other trial would serve God's\npurpose, He would substitute it.\n\n_To a young Friend, New York, Dec. 3, 1873._ I was interested in what\nyou wrote about Miss G. and of Dr. C.'s meeting. You say she spends her\ntime in young works of benevolence. This shows that her piety is of\nthe genuine sort. It is hard to have faith in mere talk. It is a great\nmystery to me, that, while we meet with negative faults in ordinary\nprayer-meetings, we find so many positive faults in more earnest ones.\nPerhaps there is less of self in those who conduct them than we imagine.\nI always regret to see talk to each other supplant address to God in\nsuch meetings--always. As to Miss ---- and others making a \"creed\" as\nyou say out of their experience, I think it may be accounted for in this\nway: They come suddenly into possession of thoughts and emotions to\nwhich others are led gradually; they are startled and overwhelmed by the\nnovelty of the revelations, and at once form a theory on the subject;\nand, having formed the theory, they fall to so interpreting the Bible as\nto support it. Those who reach the point they have reached more\nslowly are not startled, and do not need to form theories or seek for\nunscriptural expressions with which to declare what they have learned.\nThey are probably less self-conscious, because they have not been aiming\nto enter any school formed by man, but have been simply following after\nChrist; hardly knowing what they expect will be the result, but\ngetting a great deal of sweet peace on the way. And they also acquire,\ngradually, a certain kind of heaven-taught wisdom, whose access comes\nnot with observation; blessed truths revealed by the Holy Spirit, full\nof strength and consolation.\n\nAt any rate, this is as far as I have come to; there may be oceans of\nknowledge I have yet to acquire, which will modify or wholly change my\nrange of thought. And, according to what light I have, I am inclined\nto advise you not to confuse yourself with trying to believe in or\nexperience this or that because others do, but to get as close to Christ\nas you can every day of your life; feeling sure that if you do, He by\nHis Spirit will teach you all you need to know. There has been to my\nmind, during the last few weeks, something awe-inspiring in the sense\nI have had of the way in which God instructs His ignorant, forgetful,\nstupid children. Such goodness, such patience, such love! And, on the\nother hand, our _amazing_ coldness and ingratitude.\n\n_To Mrs. Smith, New York, Dec. 21, 1873._\n\nI wanted to see you before you left, but it would have been cruel to add\nto the cares and distractions amid which you were hurrying off. [7] ...\nI am reading, with great interest, the letters of Sara Coleridge. What\nstrikes me most in her is, that knowing so much of her, one still feels\nwhat _lots_ there is more to her one does not know. _22d._--Strangely\nenough, in writing you last evening, I forgot to tell you how much\nprayer is being offered for you and your husband, and what intense\nsympathy is expressed. Dr. Vincent said he could not bear to hear\nanother word about his sufferings. Mrs. L---- said, \"I do love that\nman.\" Mrs. D., herself all knotted up with rheumatism, would hardly\nspeak of herself when she heard he was so ill; and this is only a\nspecimen of the deep feeling expressed on all sides.... I am glad you\nfind anything to like in my poor little book. I hear very little about\nit, but its publication has brought a blessing to my soul, which shows\nthat I did right in thus making known my testimony for Christ. My will\nin the matter was quite overturned.\n\nThe \"poor little book\" appeared under the title of _Religious Poems_,\nafterwards changed to _Golden Hours; Hymns and Songs of the Christian\nLife_. In a letter of Mrs. Prentiss to a friend, written in 1870, occurs\nthis passage:\n\nMost of my verses are too much my own personal experience to be put in\nprint now. After I am dead I hope they may serve as language for some\nother hearts. After I am dead! That means, oh ravishing thought! that I\nshall be in heaven one day.\n\nUntil the fall of 1873 her husband and two or three friends only knew of\nthe existence of these verses, and their publication had not crossed her\nmind. But shortly after her return from Dorset she was persuaded to let\nMr. Randolph read them. She soon received from him the following letter:\n\nThe poems _must_ be printed, and at once! \"We\"--that is, the firm living\nat Yonkers--read aloud all the pieces, except those in the book, at one\nsitting, and would have gone on to the end but that the eyes gave out.\nOut of the lot three or four pieces were laid aside as not up to the\nstandard of the others. The female member of the firm said that Mrs.\nPrentiss would do a wrong if she withheld the poems from the public.\nThis member said _he_ should give up writing, or trying to write,\nreligious verses.\n\nI am not joking. The book must be printed. We were charmed with the\npoems. Some of them have all the quaintness of Herbert, some the simple\nsubjective fervor of the German hymns, and some the glow of Wesley. They\nare, as Mrs. R. said, out of the beaten way, _and all true_. So they\ndiffer from the conventional poetry. If published, there may be here and\nthere some sentimental soul, or some soul without sentiment, or some\ncritic who doats on Robt. Browning and don't understand him, or on\nMorris, or Rossetti, because _they_ are high artists, who may snub the\nbook. Very well; for compensation you will have the fact that the\npoems will win for you a living place in the hearts of thousands--in a\nsanctuary where few are permitted to enter.\n\nA day or two later Mr. Randolph wrote in reply to her misgivings:\n\nIf I had the slightest thought that you would make even a slight mistake\nin publishing, I would say so. As I have already said, I am _sure_ that\nthe book would prove a blessing in ten thousand ways, and at the same\ntime add to your reputation as a writer.\n\nShe could not resist this appeal. The assurance that the verses would\nprove a blessing to many souls disarmed her scruples and she consented\nto their publication. The most of them, unfortunately, bore no date. But\nall, or nearly all of them, belong to the previous twenty years, and\nthey depict some of the deepest experiences of her Christian life during\nthat period; they are her tears of joy or of sorrow, her cries of\nanguish, and her songs of love and triumph. Some of them were hastily\nwritten in pencil, upon torn scraps of paper, as if she were on a\njourney. Were they all accompanied with the exact time and circumstances\nof their composition, they would form, in connection with others\nunpublished, her spiritual autobiography from the death of Eddy and\nBessie, in 1852, to the autumn of 1873. [8]\n\nAs she anticipated, the volume met in some quarters with anything but a\ncordial reception; the criticisms upon it were curt and depreciatory.\nIts representation of the Christian life was censured as gloomy and\nfalse. It was even intimated that in her expressions of pain and sorrow,\nthere was more or less poetical affectation. Alluding to this in a\nletter to a friend, she writes:\n\nI have spoken of the deepest, sorest pain; not of trials, but of sorrow,\nnot of discomfort, but of suffering. And all I have spoken of, I have\nfelt. Never could I have known Christ, had I not had large experience of\nHim as a chastiser.... You little know the long story of my life, nor is\nit necessary that you should; but you must take my word for it that if\nI do not know what suffering means, there is not a soul on earth that\ndoes. It has not been my habit to say much about this; it has been a\nmatter between myself and my God; but the _results_ I have told, that He\nmay be glorified and that others may be led to Him as the Fountain of\nlife and of light. I refer, of course, to the book of verses; I never\ncalled them poems. You may depend upon it the world is brimful of pain\nin some shape or other; it is a \"_hurt_ world.\" But no Christian should\ngo about groaning and weeping; though sorrowing, he should be always\nrejoicing. During twenty years of my life my kind and wise Physician was\npreparing me, by many bitter remedies, for the work I was to do; I can\nnever thank or love Him enough for His unflinching discipline.\n\nEven the favorable notices of the volume, with two or three exceptions,\nevinced little sympathy with its spirit, or appreciation of its literary\nmerits. [9] But while failing to make any public impression, the little\nbook soon found its way into thousands of closets and sick-rooms and\nhouses of mourning, carrying a blessing with it. Touching and grateful\ntestimonies to this effect came from the East and the farthest West and\nfrom beyond the sea. The following is an extract from, a letter to Mr.\nRandolph, written by a lady of New York eminent for her social influence\nand Christian character:\n\nThe book of heart-hymns is wonderful, as I expected from the specimens\nwhich you read to me from the little scraps of paper from your desk. Do\nyou know that I _lived_ on them (\"The School\" and \"My Expectation is\nfrom Thee\") and was greedy to get the book that I might read them again\nand again. And behold, the volume is full of the things I have felt\nso often, _expressed_ as no one ever expressed them before. I am\noverwhelmed every time I read it. Mr ---- and the children have quite\nlaughed at \"Mamma's enthusiasm\" over a book of poems, as I am considered\nvery prosaic. I made C. read two or three of them and he _surrenders_.\nN. too, who is full of appreciation of poetry as well as of the _best\nthings_, is equally delighted. I carried the volume to a sick friend and\nread to her out of it. I wish you could have seen how she was comforted!\nI do not know Mrs. Prentiss, but if you ever get a chance, I would like\nyou to tell her what she has done for me.\n\nA highly cultivated Swiss lady wrote from Geneva:\n\nWhat a precious, precious book! and what mercy in God to enable us to\nunderstand, and say Amen from the heart to every line! It was He who\ncaused you to send me a book I so much needed--and I thank Him as much\nas you.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIV.\n\nIncidents of the Year 1874. Prayer. Starts a Bible-Reading in Dorset.\nBegins to take Lessons in Painting. A Letter from her Teacher.\nPublication of _Urbane and his Friends_. Design of the Work. Her views\nof the Christian Life. The Mystics. The Indwelling Christ. An Allegory.\n\n\nDuring the winter and early spring of 1874 Mrs. Prentiss found much\ndelight in attending a weekly Bible-reading, held by Miss Susan Warner.\nShe was deeply impressed with the advantages of such a mode of studying\nthe Word of God, and in the course of the summer was led to start a\nsimilar exercise in Dorset. Her letters will show how much satisfaction\nit gave her during all the rest of her life.\n\nAnother incident, that left its mark upon this year, was the sudden\nand dangerous illness of her husband. His life was barely saved by an\nimmediate surgical operation. He convalesced very slowly and it was many\nmonths before she recovered from the shock.\n\n_To a Christian Friend, Jan. 25, 1874._\n\nI do not perfectly understand what you say about prayer, but it reminds\nme of Mrs.----'s expressing surprise at my praying. She said she did\nnot, because Christ was all round her. But it is no less a fact that\nChrist Himself spent hours in prayer, using language when He did so.\nThat does not prove, however, that He did not hold silent, mystical\ncommunion with the Father. It seems to me that communion is one thing,\nand intercessory prayer another; my own prayers are chiefly of the\nlatter class; the sweet sense of communion of which I have had so much,\nhas been greatly wanting; I dare not ask for it; I must pray as the\nSpirit gives me utterance. No doubt your experience is beyond mine;\nI can conceive of a silence that unites, not separates, as existing\nbetween Christ and the soul. As to her of whom we sadly spoke, I am so\nabsolutely lost in confusion of thought that I feel as if chart and\ncompass had gone overboard. I believe there can be falls from the\nhighest state of grace, and that sometimes a fall is the best thing that\ncan happen to one; but it is an appalling thought. How wary all this\nshould make you and me!... Though I have felt the greatest respect for\nMiss ----, I have often wondered why I did not _love_ her more. Well,\nwe have a new reason for fleeing to Christ in this perplexity and\ndisappointment. I had let her be in many things my oracle, and perhaps\nno human being ought to be that. Shall we ever learn to put no\nconfidence in the flesh? My husband thinks Miss ---- insane.\n\n_To a young Friend, Jan 27, 1874._\n\nThe comfort I have had as the fruit of close acquaintance with a\nsick-room! I see more and more how _wise_ God was, as well as how\ngood, in hiding me away during all the years that might have been very\ntempting, had I had my freedom. My publishing this book [10] was a sort\nof miracle; I _never_ meant to do it, but my will was taken away and\nit was done in one short month. I should not expect a girl as young as\nyourself to respond to much of it, but I am glad you found anything to\nwhich you could.... When I received my own great blessing thirty-five\nyears ago, I was younger than you are now, and hadn't half the light you\nhave, nor did I know exactly what to aim at, but blundered and suffered\nnot a little.... It seems to me that it is eminently fitting that we\nshould go to the throne of grace together, and expect, in so doing, a\ndifferent kind of blessing from that sought alone, in the closet. I\nnever feel any embarrassment in praying with those older and better than\nmyself; the better they are, the less disposed they will be to look down\nupon me. The truth is, we are all alike in being poor and needy, and it\nis a good thing to get together and confess this to our Father, in each\nother's hearing. I can unite cordially with anyone, man, woman or child,\nwho really _prays_. A very illiterate person could win my heart if I\nknew he truly loved the Lord Jesus, no matter how clumsily he expressed\nthat love; and his prayers would edify me. Perhaps you can not look at\nthis matter exactly as I do. I know I _suffered_ for years, whenever I\nprayed with others, old or young; but I persevered in what I believed to\nbe a duty, until, not so very long ago, the duty became a pleasure, all\nfear of man being taken away. I never think anything about what sort of\na prayer I make; in fact _I_ make no prayer; we have to speak as the\nSpirit gives us utterance.\n\n_To Mrs. Condict, Kauinfels,_ [11] _Aug. 16, 1874._\n\nYesterday Miss H. came down and asked me if I would start a\nBible-reading at her house. I told her I would with pleasure. This\nmorning I decided to open with the Sermon on the Mount, and have been\nstudying the first promise. Do take your Bible and study that verse by\nreading the references. I am _delighted_ that our dear Lord has at last\npointed out my mission to this village. I have long prayed that He would\nopen a way of access to hearts here. Pray next Wednesday afternoon that\nI may be a witness for Him. There are a number of families boarding in\ntown, who will join the reading. Miss H. wanted to give notice from the\npulpit, but I could not consent to that.... You say your mother asks\nabout my book. It is a queer one, and I am not satisfied with it; but my\nhusband is, and thinks it will do good. God grant it may. I entitle it\nPaths of Peace; or, Christian Friends in Council. [12] After the most\nearnest prayer for light, I can not preach sinless perfection. I think\nGod has provided a way to perfection, and that that is, \"looking unto\nJesus.\" If the \"higher life\" means utter sinlessness then I shall have\nto own that I have never had any experience of it. Mr. P. has given me\na world of anxiety. He will go round everywhere, even on jolting\nstraw-rides; his wound is nearly healed, however. He is _looking_ the\npicture of health, but feels uncomfortable and sleeps restlessly. I went\nup to the tavern lately as a great piece of self-denial to call on a\nlady boarding there, and found I had thus stumbled on to fine gold; the\ngold you and I love. She is the wife of the Rev. Mr. R., of Flushing.\n\nSoon after returning to town she began to take lessons in oil painting.\nHer teacher was Mrs. Julia H. Beers--now Mrs. Kempson--a lady gifted\nwith much of the artistic power belonging to her distinguished brothers,\nWilliam and James M. Hart. In this new pursuit Mrs. Prentiss passed many\nvery busy and happy hours. The following letter to her husband gives\nMrs. Kempson's recollections of them:\n\nFIRTREE COTTAGE, METUCHEN, _Jan. 27, 1880._\n\nMy dear Dr. Prentiss:--When the news came of Mrs. Prentiss' death I felt\nthat I had lost a friend whose place could not be filled. I never had a\npupil in whom I was so much interested, or one that I loved so dearly.\nShe has told me many times that \"the days spent with me were red-letter\ndays in her life.\" They certainly were in my own. I shall never\nforget her first visit to my studio on the corner of Fifth avenue and\nTwenty-sixth street. We had not met before, and I felt somewhat awed in\nthe presence of an authoress. But in a few minutes we were fast friends.\nTaking one of my portfolios in her arms she asked, \"May I sit down on\nthe floor and take this in my lap?\" Of course I assented. She pored over\nthe contents with the delight of a child. Then turning to me she said,\n\"This is what I have had a craving for all my life. There has always\nbeen a want unsupplied; I knew not what it was; but now I know. It was a\nreaching out for the beautiful. Look at my white hair and tell me if it\nwould be possible for me to learn.\" I replied, \"Yes, if you desire to do\nso.\" \"Will you take me for a pupil?\" she asked. \"I do not know which end\nof the brush to use.\" \"No matter,\" I said; \"I can teach you.\"\n\nShe became my pupil and you know the result. But you can not know, as I\ndo, the delight she took in her studies. My ordinary pupils were limited\nto two hours. But I said to her, \"Come at ten and stay as long as you\nplease.\" Punctual to the moment she came, seated herself at her easel,\nand rarely left it while the light lasted. I never saw such enthusiasm\nor such appreciation. At first her progress was slow, but as she gained\nknowledge of the materials, it became very rapid. In my opinion she had\nremarkable talent, and, if spared, might even have made herself a name\nas an artist. I have had hundreds of pupils, but not one of them ever\nmade such progress. What a delight it was to teach her! All her quaint\nsayings and her beautifully expressed thoughts I treasured up as\nprecious things. She always brought brightness to the studio with her. I\ncan see her so plainly this moment as she came in one morning. \"Well,\"\nshe said, \"I thought when I commenced painting if ever I painted a daisy\nthat did not need to be labeled, I should be proud, and I have done it.\"\nI wish, dear Dr. Prentiss, I could recall the thousand and one pleasant\nthings that every now and then have occurred to me, while I was thinking\nof her. I tried to write to you when I heard of your great loss, but my\nheart failed me. I could not, nor can I, imagine you living without her.\nIn her last letter to me she says, speaking of my daughter's marriage:\n\nI hope thirty years hence the twain will be as much in love with each\nother as two old codgers of my acquaintance, who go on talking heavenly\nnonsense to each other after the most approved fashion.\n\nHow little I then dreamed that we should never meet again! I should much\nlike to see you all. I have not forgotten that pleasant summer at Dorset\nin 1875, nor the great pan of blackberries you picked for me with your\nown hands.\n\nWith kindest regards, very sincerely,\n\nJULIA H. KEMPSON.\n\n_To Mrs. Humphrey, New York, Dec. 1874._\n\nAfter learning how to manage a \"Bible-reading\" by attending Miss\nWarner's once a week for four or five months, I got my tongue so loosed\nthat I have held one by request at Dorset. The interest in it did not\nflag all summer, and ladies, young and old, came from all directions,\nnot only to the readings, but with tears to open their hearts to me.\nSome hitherto worldly ones were among the number. I have also helped\nto start one at Elizabeth, another at Orange, another at Flushing. My\nhusband says if one were held in every church in the land the country\nwould be revolutionised. It is just such work as you would delight in.\nDo forgive the blots; I am tearing away on this letter so that I forget\nmyself and dip up too much ink. I have been urged to hold three readings\na week in different parts of the city, but that is not possible. You\ncan't imagine how thankful I am that I have at last found a sphere of\nusefulness in Dorset.\n\nWe had a great shock last spring when Mr. Prentiss was stricken down; I\ndo not dare to think how hard it would have been to become husbandless\nand homeless at one blow. But I well know that no earthly circumstances\nneed really destroy our happiness in that which is, after all, _our\nLife_. Even if it is only for the few years before our boys leave home,\nnever to return permanently to it, I shall be thankful to have it left\nas it is--if that is best. If I had not known what my husband's trouble\nwas, and summoned aid in the twinkling of an eye, Dr. Buck says he would\nhave died. He would certainly have died if he had been at Dorset. He has\nnever recovered his strength, but is able to give his lectures. Although\nI did very little nursing, I got a good deal run down, especially from\nlosing sleep, and have had to go to bed at half-past eight or nine all\nsummer and thus far in the winter.\n\nI am taking lessons this winter in oil-painting with A. She has the\nadvantage of me in having had lessons in drawing, while I have had none.\nMy teacher says she never had a beginner do better than I, so I think\nbeginners very awkward mortals, who get paint all over their clothes,\nhands and faces, and who, if they get a pretty picture, know in the\nsecrecy of their guilty consciences it was done by a compassionate\nartist who would fain persuade one into the fancy that the work was\none's own.\n\nWhat you say about my having done you good surprises me. Whatever\ntreasure God has in me is hidden in an earthen vessel and unseen by my\nown eyes.... I feel every day how much there is to learn, how much to\nunlearn, and that no genuine experience is to be despised. Some people\nroundly berate Christians for want of faith in God's word, when it is\nwant of faith in their own private interpretation of His word. I think\nthat when the very best and wisest of mankind get to heaven, they'll get\na standard of holiness that might make them blush; only it is not likely\nthey _will_ blush.\n\nIn the latter part of this year _Urbane and His Friends_ appeared.\nUrbane is an aged pastor and his Friends are members of his flock, whom\nhe had invited to meet him from week to week for Christian counsel and\nfellowship. Some of their names, Antiochus, Hermes, Junia, Claudia,\nApelles and the like, sound rather strange, but, together with those\nmore familiar, they are all borrowed from the New Testament.\n\n_Urbane and His Friends_ is the only book of a didactic sort written by\nMrs. Prentiss. It is not, however, wholly didactic, but contains also\ntouches of narrative and character that add to its interest. Among the\ntopics discussed are: The Bible, Temptation, Faith, Prayer, the Mystics,\n\"The Higher Christian Life,\" Service, Pain and Sorrow, Peace and Joy,\nand the Indwelling Christ. She was dissatisfied with the work and\nrequired some persuasion before she would consent to its being\npublished. But its spiritual tone, its tenderness, its \"sweet\nreasonableness,\" and the bright little pictures of Christian truth and\nlife, which enliven its pages, have led some to prize it more than any\nother of her writings.\n\nAnd here it may not be out of place to insert the following letter\nof her husband, written several months after her death. It gives her\nmatured views on certain points relating to the Christian life, about\nwhich there has been no little difference of opinion:\n\nNEW YORK, _April 16, 1879._\n\nMY DEAR FRIEND:--Many thanks for your kind words about Urbane and\nHis Friends. So far at least as the aim and spirit of the book are\nconcerned, no praise could exceed its merits. It was written with\na single desire to honor Christ by aiding and cheering some of His\ndisciples on their way heavenward. At that time, as you know, there\nwas a good deal of discussion about \"the Higher Christian Life\" and\n\"Holiness through Faith.\" She herself had felt some of the difficulties\nconnected with the subject, and was anxious to reach out a helping hand\nto others similarly perplexed. I do not think her mind was specially\nadapted to the didactic style, nor was it much to her taste. When\nwriting in that style her pen did not seem to be entirely at ease, or to\nmove quite at its own sweet will. Careful statement and nice theological\ndistinctions were not her forte. And yet her mental grasp of Christian\ndoctrine in its vital substance was very firm, and her power of\nobserving, as well as depicting, the most delicate and varying\nphenomena of the spiritual life was like an instinct. A purer or more\nwhole-hearted love of \"the truth as it is in Jesus,\" I never witnessed\nin any human being. At the same time she was very modest and distrustful\nof her own judgment when opposed to that of others whom she regarded as\nexperienced Christians. I wish you could enjoy a tithe of the happiness\nthat was mine during the winter and spring of 1873-4, as, evening after\nevening, she talked over with me the various points discussed in her\nbook, and then read to me what she had written. Those were golden hours\nindeed--hours in which was fulfilled the saying that is written--_And\nit came to pass that while they communed together and reasoned, Jesus\nHimself drew near_. As I look back to the Sabbath evenings passed with\nher in such converse, they seem to me radiant still with the glory of\nthe risen Christ. Nor am I able to imagine what else than His presence\ncould have rendered them, at the time, so soothing and blissful.\n\nYou refer to her fondness for the mystics. She thought that Christian\npiety owes a large debt of gratitude to such writers as Thomas \u00e0 Kempis,\nMadame Guyon, Fenelon, Leighton, Tersteegen, and others like them in\nearlier and later times, to whom \"the secret of the Lord\" seemed in a\npeculiar manner to have been revealed, and who with seraphic zeal trod\nas well as taught the paths of peace and holiness. While she was writing\nthe chapter on the Mystics, I showed her Coleridge's tribute to them\nin his Biographia Literaria, which greatly pleased her. It is her own\nexperience that she puts into the mouth of Urbane, where he says, after\nquoting Coleridge's tribute, \"I have no recollection of ever reading\nthis passage till today, but had _toiled out_ its truth for myself, and\nnow set my hand and seal to it.\" [13] It is for her, too, as well as for\nhimself, that Urbane speaks, where, in answer to Hermes' question, \"Who\nare the Mystics?\" he says:\n\nThey are the men and women known to every age of the Church, who usually\nmake their way through the world completely misunderstood by their\nfellow-men. Their very virtues sometimes appear to be vices. They are\noften the scorn and contempt of their time, and are even persecuted and\nthrown into prison by those who think they thus do our Lord service. But\nnow and then one arises who sees, or thinks he sees, some clue to their\nlives and their speech. Though not of them, he feels a mysterious\nkinship to them that makes him shrink with pain when he hears them\nspoken of unjustly. Now, I happen to be such a man. I have not built\nup any pet theory that I want to sustain; I am not in any way bound to\nfight for any school; but I should be most ungrateful to God and man if\nI did not acknowledge that I owe much of the sum and substance of the\nbest part of my life to mystical writers--aye, and mystical thinkers,\nwhom I know in the flesh.... I use Christ as a magnet, and say to all\nwho cleave to Him--even when I can not perfectly agree with them on\nevery point of doctrine: You love Christ, therefore I love you.\n\nClosely allied to her fondness for the Mystics was her delight in the\ndoctrine of the indwelling Christ. For more than thirty years it was a\nfavorite subject of our Sunday and week-day talk. The closing chapters\nof the Gospel of John, the Epistle to the Ephesians, and other parts of\nthe New Testament, in which this most precious truth is enshrined, were\nespecially dear to her. So too, and for the same reason, was Lavater's\nhymn beginning,\n\n  O Jesus Christus, wachs in mir--\n\na hymn with which we became acquainted soon after our marriage, and\nwhich I do not doubt she repeated to herself many thousands of times.\n[14]\n\nThe surest way, as she thought, of rising above the bondage of \"frames\"\nand entering into the glorious liberty of the sons of God, is to become\nfully conscious of our actual union to Christ and of what is involved in\nthis thrice-sacred union. It is not enough that we trust in Him as our\nSaviour and the Lord our Righteousness; He must also dwell in our\nhearts by faith as our spiritual life. The union is indeed mystical and\nindescribable, but none the less real or less joy-inspiring for all\nthat. We want no metaphor and no mere abstraction in our souls; we want\nChrist Himself. We want to be able to say in sublime contradiction, \"I\nlive, yet not I, but Christ liveth in me.\" And this, too, is the way of\nsanctification, as well as of rest of conscience. For just in proportion\nas Christ lives in the soul, self goes out and with it sin. Just\nin proportion as self goes out, Christ comes in, and with Him\nrighteousness, peace, and joy in the Holy Ghost.\n\nBut as, in her view, the doctrine of an indwelling Christ did not\nsupplant the doctrine of an atoning and interceding Christ, so neither\ndid it supplant that of Christ as our Example or annul the great law of\nself-sacrifice by which, following in His steps, we also are to be made\nperfect through suffering.\n\nSuch is a brief outline of her teaching on this subject in Urbane and\nHis Friends. And from its publication until her death, her theory of the\nway of holiness reduced itself more and more to these two simple points:\nChrist in the flesh showing and teaching us how to live, and Christ in\nthe Spirit living in us. And this presence of Christ in the soul she\nregarded, I repeat, as an actual, as well as actuating, presence;\nmediated indeed, like His sacrifice upon the cross, by the Holy Ghost.\nBut, as \"through the Eternal Spirit He offered HIMSELF without spot unto\nGod,\" even so in and through the same Eternal Spirit, He HIMSELF comes\nand takes up His abode in the hearts of His faithful disciples. His\nindwelling is not a mere metaphor, not a bare moral relation, but the\nmost blessed reality--a veritable union of life and love. She thought\nthat much of the meaning and comfort of the doctrine was sometimes lost\nby not keeping this point in mind. In a letter written not long before\nher death, she reiterated very strongly her conviction on this subject,\nappealing to our Lord's teaching in the seventeenth chapter of John.\n[15]\n\nAnd this brings me to what you say about the chapter entitled The\nMystics of To-day; or, \"The Higher Christian Life,\" and to your inquiry\nas to her later views on the question. You are quite right in supposing\nthat while writing this chapter she had a good deal of sympathy with\nsome of the advocates of the \"Higher Life\" doctrine. She heartily agreed\nwith them in believing that it is the privilege of Christ's disciples to\nrise to a much higher state of holy love, assurance, and rest of soul\nthan the most of them seem ever to reach in this world; and further,\nthat such a spiritual uplifting may come, and sometimes does come,\nin the way of a sudden and extraordinary experience. But it is never\nwithout a history. She gives a beautiful picture of such an experience\nin the case of Stephanas, who was \"as gay as any boy,\" and then adds:\n\"Now, the descent of the blessing was sudden and lifted him at once into\na new world, but the preparation for it had been going on ever since he\nlearned to pray.\"\n\nBut while agreeing with the advocates of the Higher Life doctrine\nin some points, she was far from agreeing with them in all. And her\ndisagreement increased and grew more decided in her later years. The\nsubject is often alluded to in her letters to Christian friends; and\nshould these letters ever be published, they will answer your inquiry\nmuch better than I can do. The points in the \"Higher Life\" and \"Holiness\nthrough Faith\" views which she most strongly dissented from, related to\nthe question of perfection. The Christian life--this was her view--is\nsubject to the great law of growth. It is a process, an education, and\nnot a mere volition, or series of volitions. Its progress may be rapid,\nbut, ideally considered, each new stage is conditioned by the one that\nwent before: _first the blade, then the ear, after that the full corn\nin the ear_. It embraces the whole spirit and soul and body; and its\nperfect development, therefore, is a very comprehensive thing, touching\nthe length and breadth, the depth and height of our entire being. It is\nalso, in its very nature, conflict as well as growth; the forces of evil\nmust be vanquished, and these forces, whether acting through body, soul,\nor spirit, are very subtle, treacherous, and often occult, as well as\nvery potent; the best man on earth, if left to himself, would fall a\nprey to them. No fact of religious experience is more striking than\nthis, that the higher men rise in real goodness--the nearer they come\nto God, the more keen-eyed and distressed are they to detect evil in\nthemselves. Their sense of sin seems to be in a sort of inverse ratio\nto their freedom from its power. And we meet with a similar fact in the\nnatural life. The finer and more exalted the sentiment of purity and\nhonor, the more sensitive will one be to the slightest approach to what\nis impure or dishonorable in one's own character and conduct. Such is\nsubstantially her ground of dissent from the \"Higher Life\" theory. Her\nown sense of sin was so profound and vivid that she shuddered at the\nthought of claiming perfection for herself; and it seemed to her a\nvery sad delusion for anybody else to claim it. True holiness is never\nself-conscious; it does not look at itself in the glass; and if it did,\nit would see only Christ, not itself, reflected there. This was her way\nof looking at the subject; and she came to regard all theories, still\nmore all professions, of entire sanctification as fallacious and full of\nperil--not a help, but a serious hindrance to real Christian holiness.\nFor several years she not only read but carefully studied the most noted\nwriters who advocated the \"Higher Life\" and \"Holiness through Faith\"\ndoctrines, and her testimony was that they had done her harm. \"I find\nmyself spiritually injured by them,\" she wrote to a friend less than two\nyears before her death. \"How do you explain the fact,\" she added, \"that\ntruly good people are left to produce such an effect? Is it not to\nshut us up to Christ? What a relief it will be to get beyond our own\nweaknesses, and those of others! I long for that day.\"\n\nI have just alluded to her deep, vivid consciousness of sin. It would\nhave been an intolerable burden, had not her feeling of God's infinite\ngrace and love in Christ been still more vivid and profound. The little\nallegory in the ninth chapter of Urbane and His Friends expresses very\nhappily this feeling.\n\nThere are several other points in her theory of the Christian life, to\nwhich she attached much importance. One is the close connexion between\nsuffering in some form and holiness, or growth in grace. The cross the\nway to the crown--this thought runs, like a golden thread, through all\nthe records of her religious history. She expressed it while a little\ngirl, as she sat one day with a young friend on a tombstone in the old\nburying-ground at Portland. It occurs again and again in her early\nletters; in one written in 1840 she says: \"I thought to myself that if\nGod continued His faithfulness towards me, I shall have afflictions such\nas I now know nothing more of than the name\"; in another written four\nyears later, in the midst of the sweetest joy: \"I know there are some of\nthe great lessons of life yet to be learned; I believe I must _suffer_\nas long as I have an earthly existence.\" And in after years, when it\nformed so large an element in her own experience, she came to regard\nsuffering, when sanctified by the word of God and by prayer, as the\nKing's highway to Christian perfection. This point is often referred to\nand illustrated in her various writings--more especially in Stepping\nHeavenward and Golden Hours. Possibly she carried her theory a little\ntoo far; perhaps it does not appear to be always verified in actual\nChristian experience; but, certainly, no one can deny that it is in\nharmony with the general teaching of inspired Scripture and with the\nspirit of catholic piety in all ages. [16]\n\nAnother point, which also found illustration in her books, is the vital\nconnexion between the habit of devout communion with God in Christ and\nall the daily virtues and charities of religion; another still is\nthe close affinity between depth in piety and the highest, sweetest\nenjoyment of earthly good.\n\nHer own Christian life was to me a study from the beginning. It had\nheights and depths of its own, which awed me and which I could not fully\npenetrate. Jonathan Edwards' exquisite description of Sarah Pierrepont\nat the age of thirteen, Mrs. Edwards' own account of her religious\nexercises after her marriage, and Goethe's \"Confessions of a Beautiful\nSoul,\" always reminded me of some of its characteristic features. If my\npastoral ministrations gave any aid and comfort to other souls, I can\ntruly say it was all largely due to her. And as for myself, my debt of\ngratitude to her as a spiritual helper and friend in Christ was, and is,\nand ever will be, unspeakable. The instant I began to know her, I began\nto feel the cheering influence and uplifting power of her faith. For\nmore than a third of a century it was the most constant and by far the\nstrongest human force that wrought in my religious life. Nor was it a\nhuman force alone; for surely faith like hers is in real contact with\nChrist Himself and is an inspiration of His Spirit. She longed so to\nlive and move and have her being in love to Christ, that nobody could\ncome near her without being straightway reminded of Him. She seemed to\nbe always saying to herself, in the words of an old Irish hymn: [17]\nChrist with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ within me,\nChrist beneath me, Christ above me, Christ at my right, Christ at my\nleft, Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me, Christ in the\nmouth of every man who speaks to me, Christ in every eye that sees me,\nChrist in every ear that hears me. Such was her constant prayer; and it\nwas answered in the experience of many souls, whose faith was kindled\ninto a brighter flame by the intense ardor of hers. So long and so\nclosely, in my own mind, was she associated with Christ, that the\nthought of her still reminds me of Him as naturally as does reading\nabout Him in the New Testament.\n\nThe allegory referred to above is here given:\n\nA benevolent man found a half-starved, homeless, blind beggar-boy in the\nstreets of a great city. He took him, just as he was, to his own house,\nadopted him as his own son, and began to educate him. But the boy\nlearned very slowly, and his face was often sad. His father asked him\nwhy he did not fix his mind more upon his lessons, and why he was not\ncheerful and happy, like the other children. The boy replied that his\nmind was constantly occupied with the fear that he had not been really\nadopted as a son, and might at any moment learn his mistake.\n\n_Father_. But can you not believe me when I assure you that you are my\nown dear son?\n\n_Boy_. I can not, for I can see no reason why you should adopt me. I was\na poor, bad boy; you did not need any more children, for you had a house\nfull of them, and I never can do anything for you.\n\n_Father_. You can love me and be happy, and as you grow older and\nstronger you can work for me.\n\n_Boy_. I am afraid I do not love you; that is what troubles me.\n\n_Father_. Would you not be very sorry to have me deny that you are my\nson, and turn you out of the house?\n\n_Boy_. Oh, yes! But perhaps that is because you take good care of me,\nnot because I love you.\n\n_Father_. Suppose, then, I should provide some one else to take care of\nyou, and should then leave you.\n\n_Boy_. That would be dreadful.\n\n_Father_. Why? You would be taken good care of, and have every want\nsupplied.\n\n_Boy_. But I should have no father. I should lose the best thing I have.\nI should be lonely.\n\n_Father_. You see you love me a little, at all events. Now, do you think\nI love you?\n\n_Boy_. I don't see how you can. I am such a bad boy and try your\npatience so. And I am not half as thankful to you for your goodness as\nI ought to be. Sometimes, for a minute, I think to myself, He _is_ my\nfather and he really loves me; then I do something wrong, and I think\nnobody would want such a boy, nobody can love such a boy.\n\n_Father_. My son, I tell you that I do love you, but you can not believe\nit because you do not know me. And you do not know me because you have\nnot seen me, because you are blind. I must have you cured of this\nblindness.\n\nSo the blind boy had the scales removed from his eyes and began to see.\nHe became so interested in using his eyesight that, for a time, he\npartially lost his old habit of despondency. But one day, when it began\nto creep back, he saw his father's face light up with love as one after\nanother of his children came to him for a blessing, and said to himself:\n_They_ are his own children, and it is not strange that he loves them,\nand does so much to make them happy. But I am nothing but a beggar-boy;\nhe can't love me. I would give anything if he could. Then the father\nasked why his face was sad, and the boy told him.\n\n_Father_. Come into this picture gallery and tell me what you see.\n\n_Boy_. I see a portrait of a poor, ragged, dirty boy. And here is\nanother. And another. Why, the gallery is full of them!\n\n_Father_. Do you see anything amiable and lovable in any of them?\n\n_Boy_. Oh, no.\n\n_Father_. Do you think I love your brothers?\n\n_Boy_. I know you do!\n\n_Father_. Well, here they are, just as I took the poor fellows out of\nthe streets.\n\n_Boy_. Out of the streets as you did me? They are all your adopted sons?\n\n_Father_. Every one of them.\n\n_Boy_. I don't understand it. What made you do it?\n\n_Father_. I loved them so that I could not help it.\n\n_Boy_. I never heard of such a thing! You loved those miserable beggar-\nboys? Then you must be made of Love!\n\n_Father_. I am. And that is the reason I am so grieved when some such\nboys refuse to let me become their father.\n\n_Boy_. Refuse? Oh, how can they? Refuse to become your own dear sons?\nRefuse to have such a dear, kind, patient father? Refuse _love?_\n\n_Father_. My poor blind boy, don't you now begin to see that I do not\nwait for these adopted sons of mine to wash and clothe themselves, to\nbecome good, and obedient, and affectionate, but loved them _because_\nthey were such destitute, wicked, lost boys? I did not go out into the\nstreets to look for well-dressed, well-cared-for, faultless children,\nwho would adorn my house and shine in it like jewels. I sought for\noutcasts; I loved them as outcasts; I knew they would be ungrateful and\ndisobedient, and never love me half as much as I did them; but that made\nme all the more sorry for them. See what pains I am taking with them,\nand how beautifully some of them are learning their lessons. And now\ntell me, my son, in seeing this picture gallery, do you not begin to\nsee me? Could anything less than love take in such a company of poor\nbeggars?\n\n_Boy_. Yes, my father, I do begin to see it. I do believe that I know\nyou better now than I ever did before. I believe you love even me. And\nnow I _know_ that I love you!\n\n_Father_. Now, then, my dear son, let that vexing question drop forever,\nand begin to act as my son and heir should. You have a great deal to\nlearn, but I will myself be your teacher, and your mind is now free to\nattend to my instructions. Do you find anything to love and admire in\nyour brothers?\n\n_Boy_. Indeed I do.\n\n_Father_. You shall be taught the lessons that have made them what they\nare. Meanwhile I want to see you look cheerful and happy, remembering\nthat you are in your father's heart.\n\n_Boy_. Dear father, I will! But oh, help me to be a better son!\n\n_Father_. Dear boy, I will.\n\n\n[1] In Union Theological Seminary, New York.\n\n[2] The Baptism of the Holy Ghost, by Rev. Asa Mahau, D.D., p. 118.\n\n[3] Dr. L. H. Hemenway.\n\n[4] Some of the charades referred to will be found in appendix E, p.\n556.\n\n[5] Referring to the following hymn composed by Madame Guyon in prison:\n\n  A little bird I am,\n    Shut out from fields of air,\n  And in my cage I sit and sing\n    To Him who placed me there.\n  Well-pleased a prisoner to be,\n  Because, my God, it pleaseth Thee.\n\n  Naught have I else to do;\n    I sing the whole day long;\n  And He, whom most I love to please,\n    Doth listen to my song.\n  He caught and bound my wandering wing,\n  But still He bends to hear me sing.\n\n[6] Mrs. De Witt was the wife of the Rev. Thomas De Witt, D.D., a man\nof deep learning, an able preacher in the Dutch language as well as the\nEnglish, and universally revered for his exalted Christian virtues. He\nwas a minister of the Collegiate Church, New York, for nearly half a\ncentury. He died May 18, 1874, in the eighty-third year of his age. Here\nare other sentences uttered by him at the grave of his wife: \"Farewell,\nmy beloved, honored, and faithful wife! The tie that united us is\nsevered. Thou art with Jesus in glory; He is with me by His grace. I\nshall soon be with you. Farewell!\"\n\n[7] Prof. Smith had been suddenly stricken down by severe illness and\nwith difficulty removed to the well-known Sanitarium at Clifton Springs.\n\n[8] Referring to the book in a letter to a friend, written shortly after\nits publication, she says: \"Of course it will meet with rough treatment\nin some quarters, as indeed it has already done. I doubt if any one\nworks very hard for Christ who does not have to be misunderstood and\nperhaps mocked.\"\n\n[9] One of the best notices appeared in The Churchman, an Episcopal\nnewspaper then published at Hartford, but since transferred to New York.\nHere is a part of it:\n\n\"For purity of thought, earnestness and spirituality of feeling, and\nsmoothness of diction, they are all, without exception, good--if they\nare not great. If no one rises to the height which other poets have\noccasionally reached, they are, nevertheless, always free from those\ndefects which sometimes mar the perfectness of far greater productions.\nEach portrays some human thirst or longing, and so touches the heart of\nevery thoughtful reader. There is a sweetness running through them all\nwhich comes from a higher than earthly source, and which human wisdom\ncan neither produce nor enjoy.\"\n\n[10] _Golden Hours_.\n\n[11] The name given to the Dorset home.\n\n[12] Afterwards changed to _Urbane and His Friends_.\n\n[13] The passage from Coleridge is as follows: \"The feeling of gratitude\nwhich I cherish towards these men has caused me to digress further\nthan I had foreseen or proposed; but to have passed them over in an\nhistorical sketch of my literary life and opinions, would have seemed\nlike the denial of a debt, the concealment of a boon; for the writings\nof these mystics acted in no slight degree to prevent my mind from being\nimprisoned within the outline of any dogmatic system. They contributed\nto keep alive the _heart_ in the _head_; gave me an indistinct, yet\nstirring and working presentiment that all the products of the mere\n_reflective_ faculty partook of DEATH, and were as the rattling of twigs\nand sprays in winter, into which a sap was yet to be propelled from\nsome root to which I had not penetrated, if they were to afford my soul\neither food or shelter. If they were too often a moving cloud of smoke\nto me by day, yet they were always a pillar of fire throughout the\nnight, during my wanderings through the wilderness of doubt, and enabled\nme to skirt, without crossing, the sandy desert of utter unbelief.\"\n\n[14] See her translation of the hymn in _Golden Hours_, p. 123. The\noriginal will be found in appendix C, p. 540.\n\n[15] I in them and Thou in me, that they may be made perfect in one.--V.\n23.\n\n[16] There should be no greater comfort to Christian persons, than to be\nmade like unto Christ, by suffering patiently adversities, troubles, and\nsicknesses. For He himself went not up to joy, but first He suffered\npain; He entered not into His glory, before He was crucified. So truly\nour way to eternal joy is to suffer here with Christ.--(The Book of\nCommon Prayer.)\n\n[17] Ascribed to St. Patrick, on the occasion of his appearing before\nKing Laoghaire.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\nWORK AND PLAY.\n\n1875-1877.\n\nI.\n\nA Bible-reading in New York. Her Painting. \"Grace for Grace.\" Death of\na young Friend. The Summer at Dorset. Bible-readings there. Encompassed\nwith Kindred. Typhoid Fever in the House. Watching and Waiting. The\nReturn to Town. A Day of Family Rejoicing. Life a \"Battle-field.\"\n\n\nHer time and thoughts during 1875 were mostly taken up by her Bible-\nreadings, her painting, the society of kinsfolk from the East and the\nWest, getting her eldest son ready for college, and by the dangerous\nillness of her youngest daughter. Some extracts from the few letters\nbelonging to this year will give the main incidents of its history.\n\n_To a young Friend, Jan. 13, 1875._\n\nI have had two Bible-readings, and they bid fair to be more like those\nof last winter than I had dared to hope. There are earnest, thoughtful,\npraying souls present, who help me in conducting the meeting, and you\nwould be astonished to see how much better I can do when not under the\nkeen embarrassment of delivering a lecture, as at Dorset.... I have a\nyoung friend about your age who is dying of consumption, and it is\nvery delightful to see how happy she is. She used to attend the\nBible-readings last winter.\n\nAbout the painting? Well, I have dug away, and Mrs. Beers painted\nout and painted in, till I have got a beautiful great picture almost\nentirely done by her. Then I undertook the old fence with the clematis\non it here at home, and made a _horrid_ daub. She painted most of that\nout, and is having me do it at the studio. Meanwhile, I have worked on\nanother she lent me, and finished it to-day, and they all say that it is\na success. In my last two lessons Mrs. B. contrived to let some light\ninto my bewildered brain, and says that if I paint with her this\nwinter and next summer I shall be able to do what I please. My most\ndiscouraging time, she says, is over. Not that I have been discouraged\nan atom! I have great faith in a strong will and a patient perseverance,\nand have had no idea of saying die.... Some lady in Philadelphia bought\nforty copies of Urbane. It was very discriminating in you to see how\ncomforting to me would be that passage from Robertson. God only fully\nknows how I have got my \"education.\" The school has at times been too\nawful to talk about to any being save Him. [1]\n\n_To Mrs. Humphrey, New York, April 6, 1875._\n\nMy point about \"Grace for Grace\" [2] is this: I believe in \"growth in\ngrace,\" but I also believe in, because I have experienced it and find\nmy experience in the Word of God, a work of the Spirit subsequent to\nconversion (not necessary in all cases, perhaps, but in all cases where\nChristian life begins and continues feebly), which puts the soul into\nnew conditions of growth. If a plant is sickly and drooping, you must\nchange its atmosphere before you can cure it or make it grow. A great\nmany years ago, _disgusted_ with my spiritual life, I was led into new\nrelations to Christ to which I could give no name, for I never had heard\nof such an experience. When we moved into this house, I found a paper\nthat had long been buried among rubbish, in which I said, \"I am one\ngreat long sunbeam\"; and I don't know any words, that, on the whole,\ncould better cover most of my life since then. I have been a great\nsufferer, too; but that has, in the main, nothing to do with one's\nrelation to Christ, except that most forms of pain bring Him nearer.\nNow, one can not read \"Grace for Grace\" without loving and sympathising\nwith the author, because of his deep-seated longing for, and final\nattainment of, holiness; but it seemed to me there was a good deal of\nneedless groping, which more looking to Christ might have spared him. It\nis, as you say, curious to see how people who agree in so many points\ndiffer so in others. I suspect it is because our degrees of faith vary;\nthe one who believes most gets most.\n\nThe subject of sin _versus_ sinlessness is the vexed question, on which,\nas fast as most people get or think they get light, somebody comes along\nand snuffs out their candles with unceremonious finger and thumb. A\ndearly-beloved woman spent a month with me last spring. She thinks she\nis \"kept\" from sin, and certainly the change from a most estimable\nbut dogmatic character is absolutely wonderful.... There was this\ndiscrepancy between her experience and mine, with, on all other points,\nthe most entire harmony. She had had no special, joyful revelations of\nChrist to her soul, and I had had them till it seemed as if body and\nsoul would fly apart. On the other hand she had a sweet sense of freedom\nfrom sin which transcended anything I had ever had consciously; although\nI really think that when one is \"looking unto Jesus,\" one is not likely\nto fall into much noticeable sin. Talking with Miss S. about the two\nexperiences of my dear friend and myself, she said that it could be\neasily explained by the fact that _all_ the gifts of the Spirit were\nrarely, if ever, given to one soul. She is very (properly) reticent as\nto what she has herself received, but she behaved in such a beautiful,\nChristlike way on a point where we differed, a point of practice, that I\ncan not doubt she has been unusually blest.\n\nEarly in May of this year she was afflicted by the sudden death in Paris\nof a very dear friend of her eldest daughter, Miss Virginia S. Osborn.\n[3] During the previous summer Miss Osborn had passed several weeks\nat Dorset and endeared herself, while there, to all the family. The\nfollowing is from a letter of Mrs. Prentiss to the bereaved mother:\n\nI feel much more like sitting down and weeping with you than attempting\nto utter words of consolation. Nowhere out of her own home was Virginia\nmore beloved and admired than in our family; we feel afflicted painfully\nat what to our human vision looks like an unmitigated calamity. But if\nit is so hard for us to bear, to whom in no sense she belonged, what a\nheartrending event this is to you, her mother! What an amazement, what\na mystery. But it will not do to look upon it on this side. We must\nnot associate anything so unnatural as death with a being so eminently\nformed for life. We must look beyond, as soon as our tears will let us,\nto the sphere on which she has been honored to enter in her brilliant\nyouth; to the society of the noblest and the best human beings earth has\never known; to the fulness of life, the perfection of every gift and\ngrace, to congenial employment, to the welcome of Him who has conquered\ndeath and brought life and immortality to light. If we think of her as\nin the grave, we must own that hers was a hard lot; but she is not in a\ngrave; she is at home; she is well, she is happy, she will never know a\nbereavement, or a day's illness, or the infirmities and trials of old\nage; she has got the secret of perpetual youth.\n\nBut while these thoughts assuage our grief, they can not wholly allay\nit. We have no reason to doubt that she would have given and received\nhappiness here upon earth, had she been spared; and we can not help\nmissing her, mourning for her, longing for her, out of the very depths\nof our hearts. The only real comfort is that God never makes mistakes;\nthat He would not have snatched her from us, if He had not had a reason\nthat would satisfy us if we knew it. I can not tell you with what tender\nsympathy I think of your return to your desolate home; the agonizing\nmeeting with your bereaved boys; the days and nights that have to be\nlived through, face to face with a great sorrow. May God bless and keep\nyou all.\n\n_To Mrs. Condict, Dorset, July 11, 1875._\n\nI have been sitting at my window, enjoying the clear blue sky, and the\n\"living green\" of the fields and woods, and wishing you were here to\nshare it all with me. But as you are not, the next best thing is to\nwrite you. You seem to have been wafted into that strange sea-side spot,\nto do work there, and I hope you will have health and strength for it.\nOne of the signs of the times is the way in which the hand of Providence\nscatters \"city folks\" all about in waste places, there to sow seed that\nin His own time shall spring up and bear fruit for Him. I was shocked\nat what you said about Miss ---- not recognising you. It seemed almost\nincredible. Mr. Prentiss has persuaded me to have a family Bible-reading\non Sunday afternoon, as we have no service, and studying up for it this\nmorning I came to this proverb which originated with Huss, whose name in\nBohemian signifies goose. He said at the stake: \"If you burn a goose\na swan will rise from its ashes\"; and I thought--Well, Miss ----'s\nusefulness is at an end, but God can, and no doubt will, raise up a swan\nin her place. About forty now attend my Bible-reading.\n\nWe have my eldest brother here and he is a perfect enthusiast about\nDorset, and has enjoyed his visit immensely. He said yesterday that\nhe had laughed more that afternoon than in the previous ten years. We\nexpect Dr. Stearns and his daughter on the 20th, and when they leave Mr.\nP. intends to go to Maine and try a change of air and scene. I hate to\nhave him go; his trouble of last year keeps me uneasy, if he is long out\nof my sight.\n\n_To the Same, Dorset, Aug., 1875._\n\nI have just written a letter to my husband, from whom I have been\nseparated a whole day. He has gone to Maine, partly to see friends,\npartly to get a little sea air. He wanted me to go with him, but it\nwould have ended in my getting down sick. This summer I am encompassed\nwith relatives; two of my brothers, a nephew, a cousin, a second cousin,\nand in a day or two one brother's wife and child, and two more second\ncousins are to come; not to our house, but to board next door. There is\na troop of artists swarming the tavern; all ladies, some of them very\ncongenial, cultivated, excellent persons. They are all delighted with\nDorset, and it is pleasant to stumble on little groups of them at their\nwork. A. has been out sketching with them and succeeds very well. I have\ngiven up painting landscapes and taken to flowers. I have just had a\nvisit here in my room from three humming-birds. They are attracted by\nthe flowers... One of the cousins is just now riding on the lawn. Her\nsplendid hair has come down and covers her shoulders; and with her\ncolor, always lovely, heightened by exercise and pleasure, she makes a\nbeautiful picture. What is nicer than an unsophisticated young girl? I\nhave no time for reading this summer among the crowd; but one can not\nhelp thinking wherever one is, and I have come to this conclusion:\nhappiness in its strictest sense is found only in Christ; at the same\ntime there are many sources of enjoyment independently of Him. It is\ngetting dark and I can not see my lines. I am more and more puzzled\nabout good people making such mistakes. Dr. Stearns says that the Rev.\nMr. ---- has been laying his hands on people and saying, \"Receive the\nHoly Ghost.\" Such excesses give me great doubt and pain.\n\n_To the Same, Sept. 3, 1875._\n\nYour letter came to find me in a sorrowful and weary spot. My dear M.\nlies here with typhoid fever, and my heart and soul and body are in less\nthan a fortnight of it pretty well used up, and my husband is in almost\nas bad a case with double anxiety, he and A. expecting every hour to see\nme break down. It has been an awful pull for us all, for not one of us\nhas an atom of health to spare, and only keep about by avoiding all the\nwear and tear we can. Dr. Buck has sent us an excellent English nurse;\nshe came yesterday and insisted on sitting up with M. all night and we\nall _dropped_ into our beds like so many shot birds. I heard her go down\nfor ice three times, so I knew my precious lamb was not neglected, and\nslept in peace. We are encompassed with mercies; the physician who\ndrives over from Manchester is as skilful as he is conscientious; this\nhouse is admirably adapted to sickness, the stairway only nine feet\nhigh, plenty of water, and my room, which I have given her, admits of\nher lying in a draught as the doctor wishes her to do. While the nurse\nis sleeping, as she is now, A. and I take turns sitting out on the\npiazza, where there is a delicious breeze almost always blowing.\n\nThe ladies here are disappointed that I can no longer hold the Bible-\nreadings, but it is not so much matter that I am put off work if you are\nput on it; the field is one, and the Master knows whom to use and when\nand where. We have been reading with great delight a little book called\n\"Miracles of Faith.\" I am called to M., who has had a slight chill, and\nof course high fever after it. It seems painfully unnatural to see my\nsunbeam turned into a dark cloud, and it distresses me so to see her\nsuffer that I don't know how I am going to stand it. But I won't plague\nyou with any more of this, nor must I forget how often I have said, \"Thy\nwill be done.\" You need not doubt that God's will looks so much better\nto us than our own, that nothing would tempt us to decide our child's\nfuture.\n\n_To her eldest Son, Dorset, Sept. 19, 1875._\n\nYour letters are a great comfort to us, and the way to get many is to\nwrite many. M.'s fever ran twenty-one days, as the doctor said it would,\nand began to break yesterday. On Friday it ran very high; her pulse was\n120 and her temperature 105--bad, bad, bad. She is very, very weak. We\nhave sent away Pharaoh and the kitten; Pha _would_ bark, and Kit _would_\ncome in and stare at her, and both made her cry. The doctor has the\nhouse kept still as the grave; he even brought over his slippers lest\nhis step should disturb her. She is not yet out of danger; so you must\nnot be too elated. We four are sitting in the dining-room with a hot\nfire; papa is reading aloud to A. and H.; it is evening, and M. has had\nher opiate, and is getting to sleep. I have not much material of which\nto make letters, sitting all day in a dark room in almost total silence.\nThe artists are rigging up the church beautifully with my flowers, etc.,\nMr. Palmer and Mr. Lawrence lending their aid. Your father is reading\nabout Hans Andersen; you must read the article in the Living Age, No.\n1,631; it is ever so funny.\n\nI had such a queer dream last night. I dreamed that Maggie plagued us so\nthat your father went to New York and brought back _two_ cooks. I said I\nonly wanted one. \"Oh, but these are so rare,\" he said; \"come out and see\nthem.\" So he led me into the kitchen, and there sat at the table, eating\ndinner very solemnly, two _ostriches_! Now what that dream was made of I\ncan not imagine. Now I must go to bed, pretty tired. When you are lonely\nand blue, think how we all love you. Goodnight, dear old fellow.\n\n_Sept. 21st._--It cuts me to the heart, my precious boy, that your\ncollege life begins under such a shadow. But I hope you know where to\ngo in both loneliness and trouble. You may get a telegram before this\nreaches you; if you do not you had better pack your valise and have it\nready for you to come at a minute's warning. The doctor gives us hardly\na hope that M. will live; she may drop away at any moment. While she\ndoes live you are better off at Princeton; but when she is gone we\nshall all want to be together. We shall have her buried here in Dorset;\notherwise I never should want to come here again. A. said this was her\nday to write you, but she had no heart to do it. The only thing I can do\nwhile M. is asleep, is to write letters about her. Good-night, dear boy.\n\n_22d_--The doctor was here from eight to nine last night and said she\nwould suffer little more and sleep her life away. _She_ says she is\nnicely and the nurse says so. Your father and I have had a good cry this\nmorning, which has done us no little service. Dear boy, this is a bad\nletter for you, but I have done the best I can.\n\n_To Mrs. George Payson, New York, Oct. 31, 1875_\n\nI hope you received the postal announcing our safe arrival home. I have\nbeen wanting to answer your last letter, but now that the awful strain\nis over I begin to flag, am tired and lame and sore, and any exertion is\nan effort. But after all the dismal letters I have had to write, I want\nto tell you what a delightful day yesterday was to us all; G. home from\nPrinceton, all six of us at the table at once, \"eating our meat with\ngladness\"; the pleasantest _family_ day of our lives. M.'s recovery\nduring the last week has been little short of miraculous. We got her\nhome, after making such a bugbear of it, in perfect comfort. We left\nDorset about noon in a close carriage; the doctor and his wife were\nat the station and weighed M., when we found she had lost thirty-six\npounds. The coachman took her in his arms and carried her into the car,\nwhen who should meet us but the Warners. On reaching the New York depot,\nGeorge rushed into the car in such a state of wild excitement that he\ntook no notice of any one but M.; he then flew out and a man flew in,\nand without saying a word snatched her up in his arms, whipped her into\na reclining-chair, and he and another man scampered with her to the\ncarriage and seated her in it; I had to run to keep up with them, and\nnearly knocked down a gigantic policeman who was guarding it. The\nWarners spent the night here and left next morning before I was up,\nso afraid of making trouble.... A friend has put a carriage at our\ndisposal, and M. is to drive every day when and where and as long as she\npleases. And now I hope I shall have something else to write about....\nAs to the Bible-readings, I do not find commentaries of much use.\nExperience of life has been my chief earthly teacher, and one gains that\nevery day. You must not write me such long letters; it is too much for\nyou. How I do wish you would do something desperate about getting well!\nAt any rate, _don't_, any of you, have typhoid fever. It is the very\nmeanest old snake of a fox I ever heard of, making its way like a masked\nburglar.\n\n_To Mrs. Condict, New York, Nov 7, 1875._\n\nWe came home on the 27th of October; M. bore the journey wonderfully\nwell, and has improved so fast that she drives all round the Park every\nday, Miss W. having put a carriage at our disposal. How delightful it\nis to get my family together once more no tongue can tell, nor did I\nrealise all I was suffering till the strain was over. I am longing to\nget physical strength for work, but my husband is very timid about my\nundertaking anything.... Dr. Ludlow [4] was here one day last week to\nask me to give a talk, in his study, to some of his young Christians;\nbut my husband told him it was out of the question at present. I shall\nbe delighted to do it; much of my experience of life has cost me a great\nprice, and I want to use it for the strengthening and comforting of\nother souls. No doubt you feel so too. Whatever may be said to the\ncontrary by others, to me life has been a battle-field, and I believe\nalways will be; but is the soldier necessarily unhappy and disgusted\nbecause he is fighting? I trow not. I am reading the history of the\nOxford Conference; [5] there is a great deal in it to like, but what do\nyou think of this saying of its leader? \"Did it ever strike you, dear\nChristian, that if the poor world could know what we are in Christ, it\nwould worship us?\" [6] _I_ say _Pshaw!_ What a fallacy! _Why_ should it\nworship us when it rejects Christ? Well, we have to take even the best\npeople as they are.\n\nA few weeks later she met a company of the young ladies of Dr. Ludlow's\nchurch and gave them a familiar talk on the Christian life. The\nfollowing letter from Dr. L. will show how much they were interested:\n\nDEAR MRS. PRENTISS:--I find that you have so taken hold of the young\nladies of my church that it will be hard for you to relieve yourself\nof them. They insist on meeting you again. The hesitancy to ask you\nquestions last Thursday was due to the large number present. I have\nasked _only the younger ones_ to come this week--those who are either\n\"seeking the way,\" or are just at its beginning. _Five_ of those you\naddressed last week have announced their purpose of confessing Christ at\nthe coming Communion.\n\nSeveral questions have come from those silent lips which I am requested\nto submit to you:\n\n\"What is it to believe?\"\n\n\"How much feeling of love must I have before I can count myself Jesus'\ndisciple?\"\n\n\"I am troubled with my lack of feeling. I know that sin is heinous, but\ndo not feel deep abhorrence of it. I know that Jesus will save me, but I\nhave no enthusiasm of gratitude. Am I a Christian?\"\n\n\"I am afraid to confess Christ lest I should not honor Him in my\nlife, for I am naturally impulsive and easily fall into religious\nthoughtlessness. Should I wait for an inward assurance of strength, or\nbegin a Christian life trusting Him to help me?\"\n\nAny of these topics will be very pertinent. I trust that nothing will\nprevent you from being present on Thursday afternoon. I will call for\nyou. The limited number who will be present will give you a better\nworking basis than you had last week. The _older young_ ladies have\nassented to their exclusion this week on the condition that at some time\nthey too can come.\n\nVery gratefully yours, JAMES M. LUDLOW.\n\nIn a letter dated May 3, 1880, Dr. Ludlow thus refers to these meetings:\n\nI regret that I can not speak more definitely of Mrs. Prentiss'\nconversations with the young ladies of my charge, as it was my custom to\nwithdraw from the room after a few introductory words, so that she could\nspeak to them with the familiarity of a mother. I know that all that\ngroup felt the warmth of her interest in them, the charm of her\ncharacter which was so refined by her love of Christ and strengthened by\nher experience of needed grace, as well as the wisdom of her words.\nI was impressed, from so much as I did hear of her remarks, with her\nability to combine rarest beauty and highest spirituality of thought\nwith the utmost simplicity of language and the plainest illustrations.\nHer conversation was like the mystic ladder which was \"_set up on the\nearth,_ and the top of it _reached to heaven._\" Her most solemn counsel\nwas given in such a way as never to repress the buoyant feeling of the\nyoung, but rather to direct it toward the true \"joy of the Lord.\" She\nseemed to regard the cheer of to-day as much of a religious duty as the\nhope for to-morrow, and those with whom she conversed partook of her own\npeace. I shall always remember these meetings as among the happiest and\nmost useful associations of my ministry in New York.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nII.\n\nThe Moody and Sankey Meetings. Her Interest in them. Mr. Moody.\nPublication of _Griselda_. Goes to the Centennial. At Dorset again. Her\nBible-reading. A Moody-Meeting Convert. Visit to Montreal. Publication\nof _The Home at Greylock_. Her Theory of a happy Home. Marrying for\nLove. Her Sympathy with young Mothers. Letters.\n\n\nThe early months of 1876 were very busily spent in painting pictures\nfor friends, in attendance upon Mr. Moody's memorable services at the\nHippodrome, and in writing a book for young mothers. Before going to\nDorset for the summer she passed a week at Philadelphia, visiting the\nCentennial Exhibition. Her letters during the winter and spring of this\nyear relate chiefly to these topics.\n\n_To a Christian Friend, Feb. 22, 1976._\n\nYou gave me a good deal of a chill by your long silence, and I find it a\nlittle hard to be taken up and dropped and then taken up; still, almost\neverybody has these fitful ways, and very likely I myself among that\nnumber. Your little boy must take a world of time, and open a new world\nof thought and feeling. But don't spoil him; the best child can be made\nhateful by mismanagement. I am trying to write a book for mothers and\nfind it a discouraging work, because I find, on scrutiny, such awfully\nradical defects among them. And yet such a book would have helped me in\nmy youthful days.\n\nYou ask if I have been to hear Moody; yes, I have and am deeply\ninterested in him and his work. Yesterday afternoon he had a meeting\nfor Christian workers, in which his sound common-sense created great\nmerriment. Some objected to this, but I liked it because it was so\ngenuine, and, to my mind, not un-Christlike. So many fancy religion and\na long face synonymous. How stupid it is! I wonder they don't object to\nthe sun for shining. I am glad you think Urbane may be useful, for I\nhear little from it. Junia's story is true as far as the laudanum and\nthe blindness go; it happened years ago. I do not know what religious\neffect it had. As to the friend of whom you speak, she would not love\nyou as you say she does if her case was hopeless; at least I don't think\nso. I am oppressed with the case of one who wants me to help him to\nChrist, while unwilling to confide to me his difficulties. How little\nthey know how we care for their souls!\n\n_To Mrs. George Payson, Feb 28, 1876._\n\nI have been trying to do more than any mortal can, and now must stop to\ntake breath and write to you. In the first place, M.'s illness cut out\nthree months; then fitting up G.'s room at Princeton took a large part\nof the next three; then ever so many people wanted me to paint them\npictures; then I began a book; then Moody and Sankey appeared, and I\nwanted to hear them, and was needed to work in co-operation with them. I\ndon't know how you feel about Moody, but I am in full sympathy with him,\nand last Friday the testimony of four of the cured \"gin-pigs\" (their own\nlanguage) was the most instructive, interesting language I ever heard\nfrom human lips. In talking to those he has drawn into the inquiry\nrooms, I find the most bitterly wretched ones are back-sliders; they are\nnot without hope, and expect to be saved at last; but they have been\ntrying what the world could do for them and found it a failure. Their\nanguish was harrowing; one after another tried to help them, and gave up\nin despair.\n\nI had a vase given me at Christmas somewhat like yours, but a trifle\nlarger, and shaped like a fish. The flowers never fell out but once. I\nhad two little tables given me on which to set my majolica vases, with\nIndia-rubber plants, which will grow where nothing else will; also a\ndesk and bookcase, and two splendid specimens of grass which grew in\nCalifornia, and had been bleached to a creamy white. They are more\nbeautiful than Pampa, or even feather-grass.\n\nA. is driven to death about a fair for the Young Women's Christian\nAssociation. I have given it a German tragedy which I translated a few\nyears ago. [7] They expect to make $1,600 on it, but Randolph says if\nthey make half that they may thank their stars. I have spent all my\nevenings of late in revising it, and it goes to the printers to-day.\nGeorge is going to deliver a literary lecture for the same object this\nevening, this being the age of obedient parents. No, I never saw and\nnever painted any window-screens. The best things I have done are\ntrailing arbutus and apple-blossoms. A. invited me to do apple-blossoms\nfor her, and said she should have to own that I had more artistic\npower than herself. I don't agree with her, but it is a matter of no\nconsequence, anyhow. It is a shame for you to buy Little Lou; I meant to\nsend you one and thought I had done so. The bright speeches are mostly\ngenuine, made by Eddy Hopkins and Ned and Charley P.\n\nHow came you to have blooming hepaticas? It is outrageous. My plants do\nbetter this winter than ever before. I have had hyacinths in bloom, and\na plant given me, covered with red berries, has held its own. It hangs\nin a glass basket the boys gave me and has a white dove brooding over\nit. Let me inform you that I have lost my mind. A friend dined with us\non Sunday, and I asked him when I saw him last. \"Why, yesterday,\" he\nsaid, \"when I met you at Randolph's by appointment.\"\n\nThere, I must stop and go to work on one of my numerous irons.\n\nThe \"German tragedy\" referred to fell into her hands in the spring of\n1869, and her letters, written at the time, show how it delighted her.\nIt is, indeed, a literary gem. The works of its author, Baron M\u00fcnch-\nBellinghausen--for Friederich Halm is a pseudonym--are much less known\nin this country than they deserve to be. He is one of the most gifted of\nthe minor poets of Germany, a master of vivid style and of impressive,\nvaried, and beautiful thought. _Griselda_ first appeared at Vienna in\n1835. It was enthusiastically received and soon passed through several\neditions.\n\nThe scene of the poem is laid in Wales, in the days of King Arthur. The\nplot is very simple. Percival, count of Wales, who had married Griselda,\nthe daughter of a charcoal burner, appears at court on occasion of a\ngreat festival, in the course of which he is challenged by Ginevra, the\nQueen, to give an account of Griselda, and to tell how he came to wed\nher. He readily consents to do so, but has hardly begun when the Queen\nand ladies of the court, by their mocking air and questions, provoke\nhim to such anger that swords are at length drawn between him and Sir\nLancelot, a friend of the Queen, and only the sudden interposition of\nthe King prevents a bloody conflict. The feud ends in a wager, by which\nit is agreed that if Griselda's love to Percival endure certain tests,\nthe Queen shall kneel to her; otherwise, Percival shall kneel to the\nQueen. The tests are applied, and the young wife's love, although\nperplexed and tortured in the extreme, triumphantly endures them all.\nThe character of Griselda, as maiden, daughter, wife, mother, and\nwoman, is wrought with exquisite skill, and betokens in the author rare\ndelicacy and nobility of sentiment, as well as deep knowledge of the\nhuman heart.\n\nThe following extract gives a part of Percival's description of\nGriselda:\n\n  PERCIVAL.\n\n    Plague take these women's tongues!\n\n  GINEVRA (_to her party_).\n\n    Control your wit and mirth, compose your faces,\n    That longer yet this pastime may amuse us!\n    Now, Percival, proceed!\n\n  PERCIVAL.\n\n    What was I saying?\n    I have it now! Beside the brook she stood;\n    Her dusky hair hung rippling round her face.\n    And perched upon her shoulders sat a dove;\n    Right home-like sat she there, her wings scarce moving.\n    Now suddenly she stoops--I mean the maiden--\n    Down to the spring, and lets her little feet\n    Sink in its waters, while her colored skirt\n    Covered with care what they did not conceal;\n    And I within the shadow of the trees,\n    Inly admired her graceful modesty.\n    And as she sat and gazed into the brook,\n    Plashing and sporting with her snow-white feet,\n    She thought not of the olden times, when girls\n    Pleased to behold their faces smiling back\n    From the smooth water, used it as their mirror\n    By which to deck themselves and plait their hair;\n    But like a child she sat with droll grimaces,\n    Delighted when the brook gave back to her\n    Her own distorted charms; so then I said:\n    Conceited is she not.\n\n  KENNETH.\n\n    The charming child!\n\n  ELLINOR.\n\n    What is a collier's child to you! By heaven!\n    Don't make me fancy that you know her, Sir!\n\n  PERCIVAL.\n\n    And now resounding through the mountain far,\n    From the church-tower rang forth the vesper-bell,\n    And she grew grave and still, and shaking quickly\n    From off her face the hair that fell around it,\n    She cast a thoughtful and angelic glance\n    Upward, where clouds had caught the evening red.\n    And her lips gently moved with whispered words,\n    As rose-leaves tremble when the soft winds breathe.\n    O she is saintly, flashed it through my soul;\n    She marking on her brow the holy cross,\n    Lifted her face, bright with the sunset's flush,\n    While holy longing and devotion's glow,\n    Moistened her eye and hung like glory round her.\n    Then to her breast the little dove she clasped,\n    Embraced, caressed it, kissed its snow-white wings,\n    And laughed; when, with its rose-red bill, it pecked,\n    As if with longing for her fresh young lips.\n    How she'd caress it, said I to myself,\n    Were this her child, the offspring of her love!\n    And now a voice resounded through the woods,\n    And cried, \"Griselda,\" cried it, \"Come, Griselda!\"\n    While she, the distant voice's sound distinguished,\n    Sprang quickly up, and scarcely lingering\n    Her feet to dry, ran up the dewy bank\n    With lightning speed, her dove in circles o'er her,\n    Till in the dusky thicket disappeared\n    For me the last edge of her flutt'ring robe.\n    \"Obedient is she,\" said I to myself;\n    And many things revolving, turned I home.\n\n  GINEVRA.\n\n    By heaven! You tell your tale so charmingly,\n    And with such warmth and truth to life, the hearer\n    Out of your words can shape a human form.\n    Why, I can see this loveliest of maidens\n    Sit by the brook-side making her grimaces;\n    They are right pretty faces spite of coal-smut.\n    Is it not so, Sir Percival?\n\nMrs. Prentiss' translation is both spirited and faithful--faithful in\nfollowing even the irregularities of metre which mark the original. It\nwon the praise and admiration of some of the most accomplished judges in\nthe country. The following extract from a letter of the late Rev. Henry\nW. Bellows, D.D., may serve as an instance:\n\nI read it through at one sitting and enjoyed it exceedingly. What a\nlovely, pure, and exalting story it is! I confess that I prefer it to\nTennyson's recent dramas or to any of the plays upon the same or\nkindred themes that have lately appeared from Leighton and others. The\ntranslation is melodious, easy, natural, and hardly bears any marks of\nthe fetters of a tongue foreign to its author. How admirable must have\nbeen the knowledge of German and the skill in English of the translator!\n\n_To Mrs. Condict, New York, May 2, 1876._\n\nI do not know but I have been on too much of a drive all winter, for\nbesides writing my book I have been painting pictures for friends, and\nam now at work on some wild roses for Mrs. D.'s golden wedding next\nMonday, and yesterday I wrote her some verses for the occasion. The work\nat the Hippodrome took a great deal of my time, and there is a poor\nhomeless fellow now at work in my garden, whom it was my privilege to\nlead to Christ there, and who touched me not a little this morning by\nbringing me three plants out of his scanty earnings. He has connected\nhimself with our Mission and has made friends there.\n\nI do not know what Faber says about the silence of Christ, but I know\nthat as far as our own consciousness goes, He often answers never a\nword, and that the grieved and disappointed heart must cling to Him more\nfirmly than ever at such times. We live in a mystery, and shall never\nbe satisfied till we see Him as He is. I am enjoying a great deal in a\ngreat many ways, but I am afraid I should _run_ in if the gates opened.\nIf I go to the Centennial it will be to please some of the family, not\nmyself. You ask about my book; it is a sort of story; had to be to get\nread; I could finish it in two weeks if needful. When I wrote it no\nmortal knows; I should _say_ that about all I had done this winter was\nto hold my Bible-reading, paint, and work in the revival. I have so few\ninterruptions compared with my previous life, that I hardly have learned\nto adjust myself to them.\n\n_To Miss E. A. Warner, Philadelphia, May 30, 1876._\n\nWe came here on a hospitable invitation to spend a week in the\nCentennial grounds, and yesterday passed several hours in wandering\nabout, bewildered and amazed at the hosts of things we saw, and the\nhost we didn't see. We found ourselves totally ignorant of Norway, for\ninstance, whose contributions are full of artistic grace and beauty; and\nI suppose we shall go on making similar discoveries about other nations.\nAs to the thirty-two art galleries we have only glanced at them.\nWhat interested me most was groups of Norwegians, Lapps and other\nNortherners, so life-like that they were repeatedly addressed by\nvisitors--wonderful reproductions. The extent of this Exhibition is\nsimply beyond description. The only way to get any conception of it is\nto make a railroad circuit of the grounds.\n\nI have had a _very_ busy winter; held a Bible-reading once a week,\nwritten a book, painted lots of pictures to give away, and really need\nrest, only I hate rest.... We find out where our hearts really are when\nwe get these fancied invitations homeward. I look upon Christians who\nare, at such times, reluctant to go, with unfeigned amazement. The\nspectacle, too often seen, of shrinking from the presence of Christ, is\none I can not begin to understand. I should think it would have been a\nterrible disappointment to you to get so far on and then have to come\nback; but we can be made willing for anything.\n\nI am glad you liked Griselda; I knew you would. [8]\n\nThe extreme heat and her unusually enfeebled state rendered the summer\na very trying one; but its discomfort was in a measure relieved by the\nextraordinary loveliness of the Dorset scenery this season. There was\nmuch in this scenery to remind her of Chateau d'Oex, where she had\npassed such happy weeks in the summer and autumn of 1858. If not marked\nby any very grand features, it is pleasing in the highest degree. In\ncertain states of the atmosphere the entire landscape--Mt. Equinox,\nSunset Mountain, Owl's Head, Green Peak, together with the intervening\nhills, and the whole valley--becomes transfigured with ever-varying\nforms of light and shade. At such times she thought it unsurpassed by\nanything of the kind she had ever witnessed, even in Switzerland.\nThe finest parts of this enchanting scene were the play of the\ncloud-shadows, running like wild horses across the mountains, and the\nwonderful sunsets; and both were in full view from the windows of\nher \"den.\" Her eyes never grew weary of feasting upon them. The\ncloud-shadows, in particular, are much admired by all lovers of nature.\n[9]\n\n_To Mrs. George Payson, Kauinfels, July 8, 1876._\n\nWe have been here four weeks, and ought to have been here six, for I can\nnot bear heat; it takes all the life out of me. Last night when I went\nup to my room to go to bed, the thermometer was 90\u00b0... Are you not\ngoing to the Centennial? George and I went on first and stayed at Dr.\nKirkbride's. They were as kind as possible, and we all enjoyed a great\ndeal. What interested me most were _wonderful_ life-like figures (some\nsaid wax, but they were no more wax than you are) of Laplanders, Swedes,\nand Norwegians, dressed in clothes that had been worn by real peasants,\nand done by an artistic hand. Next to these came the Japanese\ndepartment; amazing bronzes, amazing screens ($1,000 a pair, embroidered\nexquisitely), lovely flowers painted on lovely vases, etc., etc., etc.,\nad infinitum. The Norwegian jewelry was also a surprise and delight; I\ndon't care for jewelry generally, but these silvery lace-like creations\ntook me by storm. Among other pretty things were lots of English\nbedrooms, exquisitely furnished and enormously expensive. The\nhorticultural department was very poor, except the rhododendrons, which\ndrove me crazy. I only took a chair twice. You pay sixty cents an hour\nfor one with a man to propel it, but can have one for three hours and\nmake your husband (or wife!) wheel you. You do not pay entrance fee for\nchildren going in your arms, and I saw boys of eight or nine lugged\nin by their fathers and mothers. We think everybody should go who can\nafford it. Several countries had not opened when we were there; Turkey\nand Spain, for instance; and if Switzerland was ready we did not see\nit. The more I think of the groups I spoke of, the more I am lost in\nadmiration. A young mother kneeling over a little dead baby, and the\nstern grief of the strong old grandfather, brought a lump into my\nthroat; the young father was not capable of such grief as theirs, and\nsat by, looking subdued and tender, but nothing more. The artist must\nbe a great student of human nature. I went, every day, to study these\ndomestic groups; at first they did not attract the crowd; but later it\nwas next to impossible to get at them. Every one was taken from life,\nand you see the grime on their knuckles. Almost every face expressed\nstrong and agreeable character. There were very few good and a great\nmany had pictures. Of statuary \"The Forced Prayer\" was very popular; the\nchild has his hands folded, but is in anything but a saintly temper, and\ntwo tears are on his cheeks. I should like to own it. If I had had any\nmoney to spare I should have bought something from Japan and something\nfrom Denmark. I do not think any one can realise, who has not been\nthere, what an education such an Exposition is. China's inferiority to\nJapan I knew nothing about.\n\nA. goes out sketching every day. The other day I found her painting a\nwhite flower which she said she got from the lawn; it was something like\na white lockspur, only very much prettier, and was, of course, not a\nwild flower, as she supposed, or, at any rate, not indigenous to this\nsoil. She declared it had no leaves, but I made her go out and show me\nthe plant; it grew about ten inches high, with leaves like a lily, and\nthen came the pure, graceful flowers.\n\n_To Mrs. Condict, Dorset, July 9, 1876._\n\nThere has been a great change here in religious interest, the foundation\nof which is thought to have been laid in the Bible-readings. I am\nashamed to believe it, all I say and do seems so flat; but our Lord\ncan overrule incompetence. The ladies are eager to have the readings\nresumed, but I can not undertake it unless I get stronger. The Rev. Mr.\nand Mrs. Reed are doing a quiet work among non-churchgoers at the other\nend of the village. She has been to every house in the neighborhood\nand \"compelled them to come in,\" having meetings at her own house. _Of\ncourse the devil is on hand._ He reminds me of a slug that sits on my\nrose bushes watching for the buds to open, when he falls to and devours\nthem, instanter. I am sure it is as true of him as of the Almighty, that\nhe never slumbers or sleeps. His impertinences increase daily.\n\nOne of the last things I did before leaving home was to decide to bring\nhere one of the Hippodrome converts, about whom I presume I wrote you.\nWe knew next to nothing about him, and I could ill afford to support\nhim; but I was his only earthly friend. He had no home, no work, and I\nfelt I ought to look after him. We gave him a little room in the old\nmill, and he is perfectly happy; calls his room his \"castle,\" does\nnot feel the heat, takes care of my garden, enjoys haying, has put\neverything in order, is as strong as a horse, and a comfort to us all;\nbeing willing to turn his hand to anything. In the evenings he has made\nfor me a manilla mat, of which I am very proud. He has been all over\nthe world and picked up all sorts of information. He went to hear Mr.\nPrentiss' centennial address on the Fourth at a picnic, and I was\nastonished when he came back at his intelligent account of it. Everybody\nlikes him, and he has proved a regular institution. I would not have had\na flower but for him, for I can not work out in such a blazing sun as we\nhave had. [10]\n\nMy book is to be called, I believe, \"The Home at Greylock\"; but I don't\nknow. My husband and Mr. Randolph fussed so over the title that I said\nit would end in being called \"Much Ado about Nothing.\" _They_, being\nmen, look at the financial question, to which I never gave a thought.\nEven Satan has never so much as whispered, Write to make money; don't be\ntoo religious in your books. Still he may do it, now I have put it into\nhis head. How little any of us know what he won't make us do! I enjoyed\nthe Centennial more than I expected to do, but got my fill very soon,\nand was glad to go home.\n\nNo account of the Dorset home would be complete without some reference\nto \"the old mill.\" It had been dismantled during the war, but, at the\nrequest of the neighbors, was now restored to its original use. It also\ncontained the boys' workshop, a bathing-room, an ice-house, a ram, and\na bowling-alley; formed, indeed, together with the pond and the boat,\npart and parcel of the Dorset home itself.\n\n_To Mrs. James Donaghe, Dorset, July 15, 1876._\n\nI have hardly put pen to paper since I came here. I never could endure\nheat; it always laid me flat. Yesterday there was a let-up to the torrid\nzone, and to-day it is comparatively cool. Yesterday the mother of our\npastor here got her release. I cried for joy, for she has been a great\nsufferer, and had longed to die. What a mystery death is! I went in to\nsee how she was, and she had just breathed her last, and there lay her\npoor old body, eighty-two years old, looking as rent and torn as one\nmight suppose it would after a fight of thirty years between the soul\nand itself. I have wondered if the heat, so dreadful to many, had not\nbeen good for you. A rheumatic boy, who works for us off and on, says it\nhas been splendid for him. We heard yesterday that Dr. Schaff had lost\nhis eldest daughter after a ten days' illness with typhoid fever. He has\nbeen greatly afflicted again and again and again by such bereavements,\nbut this must be hardest of all. [11] There is a different religious\natmosphere here now from anything we have ever known. The ladies hoped\nto begin the Bible-readings right off, but it was out of the question. I\nexpect such a number of guests this week that I dare not undertake it.\nI wish you were coming, too. How you would enjoy sitting on the piazza\nwatching the shadows on the mountains! We have had some magnificent\nsunsets this season. Mr. Prentiss and I drive every night after tea, a\nregular old Darby and Joan. Generally, I prefer working in the garden\nto driving, but this time it has been too hot, and we have next to no\nflowers. It quite grieves me that I have nothing to lay on Grandma\nPratt's coffin. However, _she won't care!_ Won't it be nice to get rid\nof these frail, troublesome bodies of ours, and live without them! I\nhope I shall see you in heaven, with plenty of room and no rheumatism.\nHow could you make such a time over that doggerel! [12] Such things are\na drug in this house. I thought I had a long letter from you, and it was\nthat stuff! My last book is all printed. My husband kindly corrected the\nproof-sheets for me; a thing I hate to do. He likes the book better than\nI do. I always get tired of my books by the time they are done. I read\nvery little; only some few devotional books over and over. I wonder if\nyou have read \"Miracles of Faith\"? It is a remarkable little book.\nDo write and let me know how you and your husband are. We make great\naccount of our afternoon mail.\n\nShe alludes in the preceding letter to the guests she was expecting. The\nentertainment of friends formed a marked feature of her Dorset life; and\nit called into play the brightest traits of her character. Her visitors\nalways went away feeling like one who has been gazing upon a beautiful\nlandscape or listening to sweet music, so charming was her hospitality.\nOne of them, writing to her husband a year after her death, thus refers\nto it:\n\nI seem to see the Dorset hills now with their beautiful cloud-shadows\nand lovely blue. I can see in my mind your pleasant home and all the\nfaces, including the dear one you miss this summer. What a delightful\nhome she made! The \"good cheer\" she furnished for the minds, hearts, and\nbodies of her guests was something remarkable. I shall never forget my\nvisits; I was in a state of high entertainment from beginning to end.\nWhat entertaining stories she told! what practical wisdom she gave out\nin the most natural and incidental way! and what housekeeping! Common\narticles of food seemed to possess new virtues and zest. I always went\naway full of the marvels of the visit, as well as loaded down with many\nlittle tokens of her kindness and thoughtfulness.\n\n_To Mrs. Condict, Dorset, Sept. 9, 1876._\n\nWhat interested me most at the Centennial was in the Main Building, and\ntwo things stand out, prominently, in my memory. The first is groups of\nSwedish figures, dressed in national costume, and all done by the hand\nof a real artist. Especially examine the dead baby and its weeping\nmother and rugged old wounded grandfather; it will remind you of the\nwords, \"A little child shall lead them.\" Next in interest to me were the\nJapanese bronzes and screens; next wares from Denmark, butterflies and\nfeathers from Brazil. In the art department a picture called \"Betty\"\nin the British division, up in a corner, and in statuary \"The Forced\nPrayer.\" Both my girls agreed with me in the main; the boys cared most\nfor Machinery hall, and my husband for Queensland, for which I did not\ncare a fig.\n\nLast Sunday was as perfect here as with you. My husband preached at\nPawlet, about six miles from here, and I went with him. He preached a\nvery earnest sermon on prayer. My Bible-reading is thronged, and I can't\nbut hope the Holy Spirit is helping my infirmities and blessing souls.\nMy heart yearns over these women, many of whom have faces stamped with\ncare. There is a class here that nobody has any idea how to get at.\nTo meet their case, apostolic work needs to be done. Do you know that\nIrishmen are buying up the New England farms at a great rate?\n\n_To Mrs. Donaghe, Dorset, Sept. 10, 1876._\n\nThe extraordinary heat has worked unfavorably on both my husband and\nmyself; he has been under medical treatment most of the time, forlorn\nand depressed. I have just pushed through as I could; my Bible-reading,\nwhich has been wonderfully attended, being the only work I have done.\nThe weather is cool now and I feel stronger.\n\nA party of young people, who were coming to call on A., were upset just\nabove us; two had broken legs, others bruises and cuts, and one had both\nknee-pans seriously injured. We got her here and put her to bed, and\nthen I started off to get the rest; but the surgeon, on arriving,\ndecided they should be removed at once, and got them all safely back to\nManchester.\n\n_To Mrs. Condict, New York, Oct. 16, 1876._\n\nSince my last letter I have been to Montreal, fled from and settled down\nhere. My book is out in England, and my husband sat up till midnight,\nreading an English copy of it, although he had heard me read it aloud\nwhen written, and read it twice in proof-sheets. He thinks it will be a\nuseful book. I feel sure you will agree with me in its main points. God\ngrant it may send many a bewildered mother to her knees! Miss S. called\nhere a few days ago; she has written a book called \"The Fullness of the\nBlessing,\"--one object of which is to prove that sanctification is not,\ncan not be instantaneous.... I do hope the book will do good. It seems\ntimely to me, for I shudder when I hear that A. and B. \"professed\nsanctification\" on such and such a day. My visit to Montreal gave me\nindignant pain when I saw crowds kneeling to the Virgin, and not to\nChrist, in those costly churches and cathedrals.\n\nAs to Miss ---- I do not know enough of her to form an opinion of\nher state; I incline, however, to think that demoniac possession is\nsometimes permitted. Fenelon, you know, thinks we should not be too\neager for spiritual delight. He is entirely right when he says that the\n\"night of faith\" may witness a faith dearer to God than that of sensible\ndelight. I love Job when he says, \"Though He slay me, yet will I trust\nin Him,\" more than I do David when he is in green pastures and beside\nstill waters; it does not require much faith to be happy there.\n\n_Nov. 12th._--I am glad Greylock reached you in safety, and sorry I\ncould not correct its numerous misprints. Your question about Kitty I\ndon't quite understand; I did not mean to say that her parents had\nno more trouble with her, but they had no more fights growing out of\nself-will on both sides. I know that there is no end to trouble with\nobstinate or otherwise naughty children, only if the mother lives\nclose to Christ the fault will be on their side, not hers. You speak,\nby-the-bye, of my using the word Christ rather than the word Jesus. I\ndo so because it means more to my mind, and because the apostles use it\nmuch more frequently. I do hope my book will be a comfort and help to\nmany well-meaning but inexperienced mothers. And I wish I practised more\nperfectly what I preach. But I have my infirmities and find it hard to\nbe always on my guard.... A. and I are taking drawing-lessons of a very\nsuperior French teacher, who offers us the privilege of spending our\nwhole time in her studio, with \"conseil.\"\n\n_The Home at Greylock_ was published the latter part of October. It\nembodied, as she said, the results of thirty years of experience and\nreflection. Its views of marriage and of the office of a Christian\nmother found frequent expression in her other writings and in her\ncorrespondence. She placed religion and love alike at the foundation of\na true home; the one to connect it with heaven above, the other to make\nit a heaven upon earth. She enjoined it upon her young friends, as they\ndesired enduring domestic felicity, to marry first of all for love. To\none of them, who was tempted, as she feared, to marry out of gratitude\nrather than from love, she wrote:\n\nWe women are exacting creatures; and you can not please us unless we\nhave the whole of you. Oh, if you knew the sacredness, the beauty, the\nsweetness of married life, as I do, you would as soon think of entering\nheaven without a wedding garment, as of venturing on its outskirts even,\nsave by the force of a passionate, overwhelming power that is stronger\nthan death itself!\n\nHow warmly she sympathised with mothers, especially with young mothers,\nin their peculiar experiences and how great she thought their privilege\nto be, her writings testify. The same trait is brought out still more\nfully in her letters. \"Only a mother,\" she wrote, \"knows the varied\ndiscipline of hopes and fears and joys and sorrows through which a\nmother passes to glory--for this is the mother's pathway, and she rarely\nwalks on a higher road or one that may so lead to perfection.\" Some of\nher letters addressed to bereaved mothers have already been given. But\nif her heart was always touched with grief by the death of an infant, it\nseemed to leap for joy whenever she heard that in the home of a friend a\nchild was coming or had just arrived. Here are samples of her letters on\nsuch occasions.\n\n_To Mrs. ----, Jan 10, 1874._\n\nYou little know into what a new world you are going to be introduced!\nI wouldn't be a bit frightened, if I were you; it is ever so much more\nlikely that you'll get through safely, than that you will not; and then\nwhat joy! You will be a very loving, devoted mother, and I hope this\nlittle one will only be the beginning of a houseful. I spoke for ten,\nbut only had six; and our dear Lord had to take two of them back.... I\nhave just run over your letter again, and want to reiterate my charge\nto you to feel no fear about your future. If you live and have a child,\nyour joy will be wonderful, but if you do not live (here) it will be\nbecause you are going to dwell with Christ, which is better than having\na thousand children. So I see nothing but bright sides for you.\n\n_To the Same, April 18 10, 1874._\n\nBy this time you ought to be able to receive letters; at any rate I am\ngoing to write one and you can do as you please about reading it. Well,\nisn't a baby an institution? I am sure you had no idea what a delightful\nthing it is to be a mother, and that you have had a most bewildering\nexperience of both suffering and joy. I shall want to hear all about\nthe young gentleman when you get strong enough to write an enthusiastic\nletter about him; nor have I any objection to hear how his mother is\nbehaving under these new circumstances.\n\nWhat does your husband think of the upsetting of all home customs and\nthe introduction of this young hero therein? Thank him for sending me\nthe news in good season. I should not have liked it from a stranger. And\nby-the-bye, don't let your children say parp-er and marm-er, as nine\nchildren out of ten do. I daresay you never meant they should, having a\nlittle mite of sense of your own. Now this is all a new mother ought\nto read at once, so with lots of congratulations and thanksgivings,\ngood-bye.\n\nThe following is an extract from a letter to another friend, dated Feb.\n20, 1875:\n\nYour last letter was so eloquent in its happiness that in writing an\narticle for a magazine on the subject of education, I could not help\nbeginning \"The King is coming,\" and depicting his heralds... I am indeed\nrejoicing in your joy, and hope the little queen will long sit on the\nright royal throne of your heart. Keep me posted as to Miss Baby's\nprogress. I know a family where the first son was called \"Boy\" for\nyears, the servants addressing him as \"Master Boy.\"\n\nHere are the opening sentences of the article referred to:\n\nThe King is at hand. Heralds have been announcing his advent in language\nincomprehensible to man, but which woman understands as she does her\nalphabet. A dainty basket, filled with mysteries half hidden, half\ndisplayed; soft little garments, folded away in ranks and files; here\ndelicate lace and cambric; there down and feathers and luxury. The\nKing has come. Limp and pink, a nothing and nobody, yet welcomed and\ntreasured as everything and everybody, his wondrous reign begins.\nHis kingdom is the world. His world is peopled by two human beings.\nYesterday, they were a boy and a girl. To-day, they are man and woman,\nand are called father and mother.\n\nTheir new King is imperious. He has his own views as to the way he shall\nlive and move and have his being. He has his own royal table, at which\nhe presides in royal pomp. His waiting-maid is refined and educated--his\nsuperior in everyway. He takes his meals from her when he sees fit; if\nhe can not sleep, he will not allow her to do so. His treasurer is a man\nwhom thousands look up to, and reverence, but, in this little world,\nhe is valued only for the supplies he furnishes, the equipages he\npurchases, the castle in which young royalty dwells. The picture is not\nunpleasing, however; the slaves have the best of it, after all.\n\nThe reign is not very long. Two years later, there is a descent from the\nthrone, to make room for the Queen. She is a great study to him. He puts\nhis fingers into her eyes to learn if they are little blue lakelets. He\ngrows chivalrous and patronizing. So the world of home goes on. The King\nand Queen give place to new Kings and Queens, but, though dethroned,\nthey are still royal; their wants are forestalled, they are fed,\nclothed, instructed, but above all, beloved. When did their education\nbegin? At six months? A year? Two years? No; it began when _they_ began;\nthe moment they entered the little world they called theirs. Every touch\nof the mother's hand, every tone of her voice, educates her child. It\nnever remembers a time when she was not its devoted lover, servant,\nvassal, slave. Many an ear enjoys, is soothed by music, while ignorant\nof its laws. So the youngest child in the household is lulled by\nuncomprehended harmonies from its very birth. Affections group round and\nbless it, like so many angels; it could not analyse or comprehend an\nangel, but it could feel the soft shelter of his wings. [13]\n\nThe following was addressed to a friend, whose home was already blessed\nwith six fine boys:\n\nDORSET, _Sept. 16, 1868._\n\nDear Mr. B.:--I am just as glad as I can be! I _said_ it was a girl, and\nI _knew_ it was a girl, and that is the reason it _is_ a girl. Give my\nbest love to Mrs. B., and tell her I hope this little damsel will be to\nher like a Sabbath of rest, after the six week and work days she has had\nall along. It is hard to tell which one loves best, one's girls or one's\nboys, but it is pleasant to have both kinds... I hope your place has as\nappropriate a name as ours has had given to it--\"Saints' Rest\"!!--and\nthat you will fill it full of saints and angels; only let them be girls,\nyou have had boys enough.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIII.\n\nThe Year 1877. Death of her Cousin, the Rev. Charles H. Payson. Illness\nand Death of Prof. Smith. \"Let us take our Lot in Life just as it\ncomes.\" Adorning one's Home. How much Time shall be given to it? God's\nDelight in His beautiful Creations. Death of Dr. Buck. Visiting the sick\nand bereaved. An Ill-turn. Goes to Dorset. The Strangeness of Life.\nKauinfels. The Bible-reading. Letters.\n\n\nDuring the early months of 1877 Mrs. Prentiss' sympathies were much\nexcited by sickness and death among her friends.\n\n\"I spend a deal of time,\" she wrote, \"at funerals and going to see\npeople in affliction, and never knew anything like it.\" And wherever she\nwent, it was as a daughter of consolation. The whole year, indeed,\nwas marked by a very tender and loving spirit, as also by unwonted\nthoughtfulness. But it was marked no less by the happiest, most untiring\nactivity of both hands and brain. During the month of January she wrote\nthe larger portion of a new serial for The Christian at Work. It would\nseem as if she foresaw the end approaching and was pressing toward it\nwith eager steps and a glad heart.\n\n_To her eldest Son, New York, Jan. 28, 1877._\n\nThe great event of last week was cousin Charles' unexpected death. [14]\nYour father and I attended the funeral, in his church, which was crowded\nto overflowing with a weeping audience. Most of the ministers we know\nwere there. Cousin G. came on Friday night and said nothing would\ncomfort him like hearing your father preach and he promised to do so. I\nwent with him to Inwood, and we have just got back. Your father preached\na beautiful sermon and paid a glowing tribute to cousin Charles in it,\nand I am very glad I went. After the funeral yesterday I came home and\nput up some chicken-jelly I had made for Prof. Smith, and carried it\ndown to him; there I met Dr. Gould, of Rome, who had seen him, and said\nhe considered his case a very critical one. _Feb. 4th_.--Your father was\ninvited to repeat his lecture on Recollections of Hurstmonceux and Rydal\nMount, and did so, yesterday morning, in our lecture-room, which was\nfilled with a fine audience, mostly strangers. What have you on your\nnatural bracket? And have you put up your leaves on your windows?\nMine are looking splendidly. H. is burning one of them with a\nmagnifying-glass your father gave me at Christmas. The sun does lie\ndelightfully in this room. I must now go to the Smiths. All send love.\n\nProf. Smith passed away peacefully in the early morning on the 7th of\nFebruary. One of his last conscious utterances was addressed to Mrs.\nPrentiss: \"I have ceased to cumber myself with the things of time and\nsense, and have had some precious thoughts about death.\" Henry Boynton\nSmith was one of those men who enrich life by their presence, and seem\nto render the whole world poorer by their absence. He was strongly\nattached to Mrs. Prentiss; for more than forty years the relation\nbetween him and her husband resembled that of brothers; Mrs. Smith was\none of her oldest and most beloved friends, and for a quarter of a\ncentury the two families had dwelt together in unity. And, then, with\none of the saddest and one of the happiest events of her domestic\nhistory--the burial of her little Bessie, at which he ministered with\nChristlike sympathy, and at the baptism of her Swiss boy who bore his\nname--he was tenderly associated. It is not strange, therefore, that his\ndeath, as well as the wearisome years of invalidism which preceded it,\ntouched her deeply. What manner of man he was; how gifted, wise and\nlarge-hearted; how devoted to the cause of his Lord and Saviour; what a\nleader and master-workman in sacred science and in the Church of Christ;\nhow worthy of love and admiration--all this may be seen and read\nelsewhere. [15]\n\n_To Mrs. Condict, Feb. 14, 1877._\n\nBefore I go down to the meeting at Mrs. D.'s I must have a little chat\nwith you, in reply to your last two letters. I felt like shrieking aloud\nwhen you contrasted your life with mine. But it is impossible to state\nfully why. Yet I may say one thing; I have had to learn what I teach in\nloneliness, suffering, conflict, and dismay, which I do not believe you\nhave physical strength to bear. The true story of my life will never be\nwritten. But whatever you do, don't envy it. And I do not mean by that,\nthat I am a disappointed, unhappy woman; _far from it_. But I enjoy and\nsuffer intensely, and one insulting word about Greylock, for instance,\ngoes on stinging and cutting me, amid forgetfulness of hundreds of kind\nones. [16] Let us take our lot in life just as it comes, courageously,\npatiently, and faithfully, never wondering at anything the Master does.\nI am concerned just as you are about my interest in things of time and\nsense. But I have not the faintest doubt that if we could have all we\nwant in Christ, inferior objects would fade and fall. But we live in a\nstrange world, amid many claims on time and thought; we can not dwell\nin a convent, and must dwell among human beings, and fall more or less\nunder their influence. We shall get out of all this by and by. _Feb.\n27th._--This winter I am drawing in charcoal under an accomplished\nteacher; she has so large a class that I had to withdraw from it and\ntake private lessons. She has invited A. to assist her in teaching\nlittle ones twice a week, which materially curtails her bill. A. was\nintroduced to one youth, aged five, as _Monsieur_ So and So; he had his\neasel, his big portfolio, and charcoal, in great style, but only took\none lesson, he hated it so. I don't see what his mother was made of. I\nsympathise with your fear of spending too much time adorning your home,\netc., etc. It is a nice question how far to go and how far to stay. But\nI honestly believe that a bare, blank, prosaic house makes religion\nappear dreadfully homely. We enjoy seeing our children enjoy their work\nand their play; is our Father unwilling to let us enjoy ours? In a\nGerman book [17] I translated, a little boy is very happy in making a\nscrap-book for a little friend, and God is represented as being glad to\nsee him so happy. And I don't believe He begrudged your making me that\npretty picture, or did not wish me to make yours. (By-the-bye, when you\nhave time, tell me how to do it.) It seems to me we are meant to use\n_all_ the faculties God gives us; to abuse them is another thing. I feel\nthat I am having a vacation, and wonder how long it is going to last. I\ndo not know how I should have stood the _tremendous_ change in my\nlife, through my husband's change of profession, if I had not had this\nresource of painting. O, how I do miss his preaching! How I miss my\npastoral work! Dr. Buck is on his dying bed, and longing to go. [18]\n\n_To her eldest Son, New York, March 11, 1877._\n\nWe had an excellent sermon from Dr. Vincent this morning, which he\nrepeated by request. Last evening we had Chi Alpha, and as I saw this\nbody of men enter the dining-room, I wondered whether I had borne any\nminister to take up your father's and my work when we lay it down.\n\n_18th._--I thought within myself, as I listened to a sermon on the union\nof Christ and the believer, whether I should have the bliss of hearing\nyou preach. Let me see; how old should I have to be, at soonest?\nSixty-two; the age at which my ancestors died, unless they died young. I\ngot a beautiful letter, a few days ago, from a minister in Philadelphia,\nthe Rev. Mr. Miller, who has 1,300 members in his church, and says if he\ncould afford it he would give a copy of Greylock to every young mother\nin it.\n\nI went to Mrs. P.'s funeral on Friday. She wanted to die suddenly, and\nhad her wish. She ate her breakfast on Tuesday; then went into the\noffice and arranged papers there; her husband went out at ten, and\nshortly after, she began to feel sick and the girls made her go to bed.\nOne of them went out to do some errands, and the other sat in the room;\nshe soon heard a sound that made her think her mother wanted something,\nand on going to her found her dead. Dr. P. got home at twelve, long\nafter all was over. He told me it was the most extraordinary death he\never heard of, but his theory was that a small clot of blood arrested\nthe circulation, as she had no disease. I had a talk with C. about his\nwife's sudden death. I had already written him and sent him a note.\nI cut from the Evening Post the slip I enclose about Mr. Moody's\nquestion-drawer. I wish I could hope for as sudden a death as Mrs. P.'s.\n\n_To Mrs. Condict, April 16, 1877._\n\nI am glad you liked the picture. Did you know that you too can get\nleaves and flowers in advance of spring, by keeping twigs in warm water?\nI had forsythia bloom, and other things leafed beautifully. It is said\nthat apple and pear blossoms will come out in the same way, if placed in\nthe sun in glass cans. I have been thinking, lately, that if I enjoy\nmy imperfect work, how God, who has made so many beautiful, as well as\nuseful, things, must enjoy His faultless creations. My work is still to\ngo from house to house where sickness and death are so busy. Mrs. F. G.\nhas just lost her two only children within a day of each other. Neither\nher mother nor sister could go near her during their illness or after\ntheir death, because of the flock of little ones in their house, and it\nwas not safe to have a funeral. Dr. Hastings made a prayer; he said the\nscene was heart-rending.\n\n_May 3d._--Dr. Storrs preached for us last Sunday, and said one striking\nthing I must tell you on the passage, \"They were stoned, were sawn\nasunder, they were tempted,\" etc. He said many thought the word\n_tempted_ out of place amid so many horrors, but that it held its true\nposition, since few things could cause such anguish to a Christian heart\nas even a suggestion of infidelity to its Lord. To this \u00e0 Kempis adds\nthe _hell_ of not knowing whether one had yielded or not.\n\n_May 17th._--\"Misery loves company\"; and so I am writing to you. Perhaps\nit will be some consolation to you that I too have been knocked up for\ntwo weeks, one of which I spent in bed. Nothing serious the matter, only\nput down and kept down; not agreeable, but necessary. How _astounded_\nwe shall be when we wake up in heaven and find our hateful old bodies\ncouldn't get in!... M. is making, and H. has made, a picture scrap-book\nfor a hospital in Syria. Your mother might enjoy that. We all _crave_\noccupation. \"Imprisonment with hard labor\" never seems to me so\nfrightful as imprisonment and nothing to do, does. Did you ever hear the\nstory of the man who spent years in a dark dungeon, idle, and then found\nsome pins in his coat, which he spent years in losing, and crawling\nabout and finding?\n\nWell, I have got rid of a wee morsel of this weary day in writing this,\nand you will get rid of another morsel in reading it. So we'll patch\neach other up, and limp along together, and by and by go where there it\nno limping and no patching.\n\nThe new serial, her Bible-readings, and painting, with visits to sick-\nrooms and to the house of mourning, during the early half of this year,\nleft little time for correspondence. Her letters were few and brief;\nbut they are marked, as was her life, by unusual quietness and depth of\nfeeling. Her delight was still to speak in them a helpful and cheering\nword to souls struggling with their own imperfections, or with trials\nof the way. A single extract will illustrate the gentle wisdom of her\ncounsels:\n\nI think there is such a thing as peace of conscience even in this\nlife. I do not mean careless peace, or heedless peace; I mean calm\nconsciousness of an understanding, so to speak, between the soul and its\nLord. A wife, for instance, may say and do things to her husband that\nshow she is human; yet, at the same time, the two may live together\nloyally, and be happy. And unless a Christian is aware of having on hand\nan idol, dearer than God, I see no reason why he should not live in\npeace, even while aware that he is not yet finished (perfect). We love\nGod more than we are aware; when He slays us we trust in Him, when He\nstrikes us we kiss His hand.\n\nHer own mood at this time was singularly grave and pensive. She felt\nmore and more keenly the moral puzzle and contradictions of existence.\n\"From beginning to end, in every aspect,\" she wrote to a friend, \"life\ngrows more mysterious to me, not to say queer--for that is not what I\nmean. Such strange things are all the time happening, and even good\npeople doing and saying things that nearly drive one wild.... We live in\na mixed state, in a kind of see-saw: we go up and then we go down; go\ndown and then fly up.\" Still this strange, ever-changing mystery of\nlife, although it sometimes perplexed her in the extreme, did not make\nher unhappy. \"I have great sources of enjoyment,\" she adds, \"and do\nenjoy a good deal; infinitely more than I deserve.\"\n\nEarly in June she and the younger children went to Dorset. On reaching\nthere, she wrote to her husband:\n\nHere we are, sitting by the fire in our dear little parlor. We made a\nvery comfortable journey to Manchester, but the ride from there here was\nrather cheerless and cold, as they forgot to send wraps. The neighbors\nhad sent in various good things, and the strawberries looked very nice.\nIt rains, but M. and I have surveyed the garden, and she says it is\nlooking better than usual.\n\nI only wish you were here. Your love is intensely precious to me, as I\nknow mine is to you. How thankful we ought to be that we have loved\neach other through thick and thin! This is God's gift. I can not write\nlegibly with this pencil, nor see very well, as it is a dark day, and\nyet too early for a lamp.\n\nThe latter part of June she made a short visit with her husband to\nMontreal. A pleasant incident of this journey was an excursion to\nQuebec, where two charming days were spent in seeing the Falls of\nMontmorenci, the Plains of Abraham, and other objects of interest in and\nabout that remarkable city. During the ride in the cars from Montreal to\nSt. Albans, she called the attention of her husband to a paragraph from\nan English newspaper containing an account of the death of a miner by an\nexplosion, on whose breast was found a lock of hair inscribed with the\nname of \"Jessie.\" She remarked that the incident would serve as an\nexcellent hint for a story. This was the origin of _Gentleman Jim_, the\npathetic little tale published shortly after her death.\n\nSoon after her return from Montreal she began painting in water-colors,\nwhich afforded her much delight during the rest of her life. The\nfollowing note to Mrs. Ellen S. Fisher, of Brooklyn, dated July 2d, will\nshow how her lessons were taken:\n\nWill you kindly inform me as to your method of teaching your system\nof water-colors by mail, and as to terms. I have not had time to do\nanything in that line, as I had to go to Canada (by-the-bye, you can get\ndelightful Chinese white paint there in tubes). My daughter says she\nthinks she heard you say that you would paint a little flower-piece\nreasonably, or perhaps you have one to spare now. I should like a few\nwild flowers against a blue sky. I got half a dozen Parian vases at\nMontreal--each a group of three--and filled with daisies and a few\ngrasses, they are exquisite. Some of them are in imitation of the hollow\ntoadstools one finds in the woods.\n\n_To Mrs. Condict, Kauinfels, July 23, 1877._\n\nKauinfels is a word we invented, after spending no little time, by\nreferring to a spot in a favorite brook as \"the place where the old cow\nfell in\"; it looked so German and pleased us so much that we concluded\nto give our place that name. We are fond of odd names. We have a dog\nPharaoh and a horse Shoo Fly. Then we had Shadrach, Meseck, and Abednego\nfor cats. We had a dog named Penelope Ann--a splendid creature, but we\nhad to part with her. My Bible-reading began two weeks ago, and neither\nrain nor shine keeps people away. For a small village the attendance is\nvery large. I do not know how much good they do, but it is a comfort to\ntry.\n\nI can't get over Miss ---'s tragical end. She must have suffered\ndreadfully. I do not doubt her present felicity, nor that she counts her\nlife on earth as anything more than a moment's space. I do not feel sure\nthat she did me any good. I saw so much that was morbid when she visited\nme here, that I never enjoyed her as I did when I knew her less. But\nthere is nothing morbid about her now.\n\n_To Mrs. James Donaghe, Dorset, Aug. 20, 1877._\n\nYesterday was the first fine day we have had in a long time, and, as I\nsat enjoying it on the front porch, how I wished I could transport you\nhere and share these mountains with you! To-day is equally fine, and how\ngladly would I bottle it up and send it to you! A score of times I have\nasked myself why I do not bring you here, and then been reminded that\nyou can not leave your husband.\n\nI do not write many letters this summer. We have three or four guests\nnearly all the time. This uses up what little brain I have left, and by\nhalf-past eight or nine I have to go to bed. I am unusually well, but\nwork hard in the garden all the forenoon and get tired. Yesterday the\nRev. Mr. Reed, of Flushing, preached a most impressive sermon on the\ndenial of self. In the afternoon he preached to a neighborhood meeting\nat his own house, to which we three girls go, namely, M., her\nfriend Hatty K., and myself. I give Thursdays pretty much up to my\nBible-reading--studying for it in the morning and holding it at three in\nthe afternoon. Utter unfitness for this or any other work for the Master\nmakes me very dependent on Him. The service is largely attended, and how\nI get courage to speak to so many, I know not.\n\n[Illustration: The Dorset Home.]\n\nA. is gone to Portland and Prout's Neck. Mr. P. is unusually well this\nsummer, and has actually worked a little in my garden. He is going to\nSaratoga this week to visit Mrs. Bronson.... M. is a kind of supplement\nto her father; I love in her what I love in him, and she loves in me\nwhat he loves; we never had a jar in our lives, and are more like\ntwin-sisters than mother and daughter. Hatty K. is like a second M. to\nme. At this moment they are each painting a plate. They work all the\nmorning in the garden, and in the afternoon sit in my room sewing \"for\nthe poor\" like two Dorcases, or drive, or row on the pond. They also\nstudy their Greek Testament together like a pair of twins. Just here Mr.\nP. came driving up to take me out to make calls. We made three together,\nand then I made three alone. Now we are going to have tea, and should be\nglad if you could take it with us.\n\n_To Mrs. Condict, Kauinfels, Sept. 13, 1877._\n\nSince you left, I have been very busy in various ways; among other\nthings, helping Hatty collect her last trophies, pack her various\nplants, and the like. Then there is a woman, close by, who is very sick\nand very poor, and the parson and his wife (meaning himself and myself)\nmust needs pack a big basket of bread, butter, tea, apples, etc., for\nher watchers and family, with extract of beef for her. That was real\nfun, as you may suppose. I mean to devote Thursdays to such doings,\nincluding the Bible-readings. I took for my Bible-reading this\nafternoon, the subject of confession of sin, and should really like to\nknow what perfectionists would say to the passages of Scripture relating\nto it. However, I know they would explain them away or throw them under\nthe table, as they do all the Bible says about the discipline of life.\nOur bad Pharaoh lifted up his voice in every hymn at Mrs. Reed's last\nSunday, and little Albert fairly shrieked with laughter. If next Sunday\nis pleasant we are to go to Pawlet to preach. Good-night. [19]\n\n_To Mrs. Fisher, Kauinfels, Sept. 15, 1877._\n\nExcuse my keeping your pictures so long. It is owing to my having so\nmuch company. We feel it a duty to share our delightful home here with\nfriends.\n\nWill you send me some more pictures, and in your letter please tell me\nhow to make the light-green in the large arbutus leaf; I tried all sorts\nof experiments, but failed to get such a toned-down tint. My copy is\npretty, as I have improved a good deal on the whole; but my work looks\nparvenu. I had to use a powerful magnifying-glass to puzzle out your\ndelicate touches, and your work bore the test, it is so well done. My\nwork, viewed in the same way, is horrid. A. has been to Portland and\nfound there some exquisite placques; some of them of a _very_ delicate\ncream color; others of a least suspicion of pink. She began to paint\nthorn apples on one; but a day or two later, found some of the foliage\nwe had thrown away, turned to most delicious browns; so she painted\nthe leaves in those shades, only--and the effect is richly and gravely\nautumnal. I hope your eyes are better.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIV.\n\nReturn to Town. Recollections of this Period. \"Ordinary\" Christians and\nspiritual Conflict. A tired Sunday Evening. \"We may make an Idol of our\nJoy.\" Publication of _Pemaquid_. Kezia Millet.\n\n\nShe returned to town early in October and began at once to prepare for\nthe winter's work. Her industry was a marvel. The following references\nto this period are from reminiscences, written by her husband after her\ndeath:\n\nShe lost not a day, scarcely an hour. The next eight months were among\nthe busiest of her life; and in some respects, I think, they were also\namong the happiest. She resumed her painting with new zeal and delight.\nIt was a never-failing resource, when other engagements were over. Hour\nafter hour, day after day, and week after week she would sit near the\nwestern window of her sunshiny chamber, absorbed in this fascinating\noccupation. Rarely did I fail to find her there, on going in to kiss her\ngood-bye, as I started for my afternoon lecture. How often the scene\ncomes back again! Were I myself a painter I could reproduce it to the\nlife. Her posture and expression of perfect contentment, her quick and\neager movements, all are as vividly present to my mind, as if I saw and\nparted from her there yesterday! One morning each week was devoted to\nher Bible-reading; the others, when pleasant, were generally spent in\ngoing down town with M. in quest of painting materials, shopping, making\ncalls, etc., etc.\n\nShe was much exercised in the early part of the winter by a burglary,\nwhich robbed her of a beautiful French mantel clock given her on our\nsilver wedding-day by a dear friend; and by the loss of my watch, stolen\nfrom me in the cars on my way home from the Seminary--a beautiful watch\nwith a chain made of her hair and that which once \"crowned little heads\nlaid low.\" She had ordered it of Piguet, when we were in Geneva in 1858,\nand given it to me in memory of our marriage. But _her_ grief over the\nloss of the watch was small compared with mine, then and even since.\nWhat precious memories can become associated with such an object! One\nof the books which she read during the winter was \"Les Miserables\" by\nVictor Hugo. She read it in the original in a copy given her by Miss\nWoolsey. She was quite captivated by this work, and some of its most\nstriking scenes and incidents she repeated to me, during successive\nmornings, before we got up. Her power of remembering and reproducing, in\nall its details, and with all the varying lights and shades, any story\nwhich she had read was something almost incredible. It always seemed\nto me like magic. Her father possessed the same power and perhaps she\ninherited it from him. [20]\n\nThe following letter will show that while her mind was still exercised\nabout the doctrines taught by writers on the \"Higher Life\" and \"Holiness\nthrough Faith,\" it was in the way of a deepening conviction that these\ndoctrines are not in harmony with the teaching of Scripture or with\nChristian experience. Referring to some of these writers, she says:\n\n_To a Christian Friend, Oct. 21, 1877._\n\nI have not only no unkind feeling towards them, but have no doubt they\nhave lived near to Christ. But this I believe to have been their state\nof mind for years, though perhaps not consciously: Most Christians are\n\"ordinary.\" Nearly all are a set of miserable doubters. Most of them\nbelieve the Christian life a warfare. Most of them imagine it is also a\nstate of discipline, and make much of chastening, even going so far as\nto thank God for His strokes of Fatherly love! Strange love, to be sure!\nThey also fancy they can work out their own salvation.\n\nNow we are not \"ordinary\" Christians. We understand God's Word\nperfectly; and when He says, \"Work out your own salvation,\" He means\nnothing by it except this, that _He_ will work it in you to will and to\ndo, and you are to do nothing, but _let_ Him thus work. And furthermore,\nwe know His mind beyond dispute; we can not err in judgment. Therefore,\nif you doubt our doctrine, it is the same as doubting God, and you\nshould fall on your knees and pray to read Scripture as we do.\n\nAs to the Christian life being a conflict, why, you \"ordinary\"\nChristians are all wrong. Satan never tempts us, though he tempted our\nLord; it comes natural to us to go into Canaan with one bound; the\nold-fashioned saints were ridiculous in \"fighting the good fight of\nfaith.\" Look at the characters in the Bible, \"resisting unto blood,\nstriving against sin\"; what blunderers they were to do that!... In our\nenlightened day nobody is \"chastened\"; it used to be done to every son\nthe Father received and it was a token of His love. He knows better now.\nHe chastens no one; or if He does, we will cover it up and ignore it;\nreligion is all rapture, and this is not a scene of probation. Still if\nyou insist that you have been smitten, it only shows how very \"ordinary\"\nyou are, and how angry God is with you.\n\nNow you may ask why I have taken time to write this, since you are not\nled away by these errors. Well, they are pleasant and very plausible\nwriters, and it has puzzled me to learn just where they were wrong. So I\nhave been thinking aloud, or thinking on paper, and perhaps you may find\none or more persons entangled in this attractive web, and be able to\nhelp them out. How a good man and a good woman ever fell into such\nmischievous mistakes, I can not imagine....\n\nAs to you and me, I see nothing strange in the weaning from self God is\ngiving us. It is natural to believe that He weans us from the breast of\ncomfort in which we had delighted, because He has strong meat in store\nfor us. I know I was awfully selfish about my relation to Christ, and\nwent about for years on tip-toe, as it were, for fear of disturbing and\ndriving Him away; but I do not know that I should _dare_ to live so\nagain. And how better can He show us our weakness than by making it\nplain that we, who thought we were so strong in prayer, are almost \"dumb\nbefore Him\"! My dear friend, I believe more and more in the _deep_\nthings of God.\n\n      \"STRENGTH is born\n  In the deep silence of long-suffering hearts,\n  Not amid joy.\"\n\nImagine soldiers getting ready for warfare, being told by their\ncommander that they had no need to drill, and had nothing to do but\ndrink nectar! As to being brought low, I will own that I have not been\nentirely left of God to my own devices and desires; if I had been, I\nshould have gone overboard. He had such a grip of me that He _couldn't_\nlet go. I saw a man apply a magnet to steel pens the other day, and\nthat's the way I clung to God; there was no power in me to hold on, the\nmagnetism was in Him, and so I hung on. Wasn't it so with you?\n\nAnd now to change the subject again; if you have any faded ferns, vines,\nleaves on hand, you can paint and make them beautiful again. For a light\nwall, paint them with Caledonian brown, and they will have a very rich\neffect. I expect a patent-right for this invention.\n\nThe vivid sense of human weakness and of the sharp discipline of life,\nwhich she expresses in this letter, was deepened by hearing what a sea\nof trouble some of her friends had been suddenly engulphed in. Early in\nOctober she wrote to one of them:\n\nFor some time before I left Dorset, your image met me everywhere I went,\nand I felt sure something was happening to you, though not knowing\nwhether you were enjoying or suffering. And since then there has been\nnothing I could do for you but to pray that your faith may bear this\ntest and that you may deeply realise that--\n\n  God is the refuge of His saints,\n  When storms of sharp distress invade.\n\nThe longer I live the more conscious I am of human frailty, and of the\nconstant, overwhelming need we _all_ have of God's grace.... I can not\nbut hope things will turn out better than they seem. But if not, there\nis God; nothing of this sort can take Him from you. You have longed and\nprayed for holiness; this fearful event may bring the blessing. May God\ntenderly bless and keep you, dear child.\n\nBut vivid as was her sense of human weakness and of the imperfections\ncleaving to the best of men, while yet in the flesh, she still held fast\nto the conviction, uttered so often in \"Urbane and His Friends\" and in\nher other writings, that it is the privilege of every disciple of Jesus\nto attain, by faith, to high degrees of Christian holiness, and that,\ntoo, without consuming a whole lifetime in the process. In a letter to a\nyoung friend she says:\n\nYour letter shows me that I have expressed my views very inadequately in\nUrbane, or that you have misunderstood what I have said there....\n\"There _is_ a shorter way\"; a better way; God never meant us to spend a\nlifetime amid lumbering machinery by means of which we haul ourselves\nlaboriously upward; the work is His, not ours, and when I said I\nbelieved in \"holiness through faith,\" I was not thinking of the book by\nthat title, but of utterances made by the Church ages before its author\nsaw the light of day. We _can not_ make ourselves holy. We are born\nsinners. A certain school believe that they are \"kept\" by the grace of\nGod from all sin. I do not say that they are not. But I do say that I\nthink it requires superhuman wisdom to _know_ positively that one not\nonly keeps all God's law, but leaves no single duty undone. Think a\nminute. Law proceeds from an infinite mind; can finite mind grasp it\nso as to know, through its own consciousness, that it comes up to this\nstandard? On the other hand, I do believe that a way has been provided\nfor us to be set free from an \"evil conscience\"; that we may live in\nsuch integrity and uprightness as to be at peace with God; not being\nafraid to let His pure eye range through and through us, finding\nhumanity and weakness, but also finding something on which His eye can\nrest with delight--namely, His own Son. Every day I live I see that\nfaith is my only hope, as perhaps I never saw it before.... Read over\nagain the experience of Antiochus; he got in early life what dear Dr.\n---- only found on his deathbed, and so may you.\n\n_To Miss E. A. Warner, New York, Oct. 28, 1877._\n\nI am too tired on Sunday evenings to find much profit in reading, and\nhave been sitting idle some minutes, asking myself how I should\nspend the hour till bed-time, if I could pick and choose among human\noccupations. I decided that if I had just the right kind of a neighbor,\nI should like to have her come in, or if there was the right kind of\na little prayer-meeting round the corner, I would go to that. Then I\nconcluded to write to you, in answer to your letter of July 24. I write\nfew letters during the summer, because it seems a plain duty to keep out\nof doors as much as I possibly can; then we have company all the time,\nand they require about all the social element there is in me. We feel\nthat we owe it to Him who gives us our delightful home to share it with\nothers, especially those who get no mountain breezes save through us; of\nsome I must pay travelling expenses, or they can not come at all. Their\nenjoyment is sufficient pay. My Bible-reading takes all the time of two\ndays not spent in outdoor exercise, as I have given up almost everything\nof help in preparation for it but that which is given me in answer to\nprayer and study of the Word. I am kept, to use a homely expression,\nwith my nose pretty close to the grindstone; in other words, am kept\nlow and little. But God blesses the work exactly as if I were a better\nwoman. Sometimes I think how poor He must be to use such instruments as\nHe does.\n\nHow is the niece you spoke of as so ill and so happy? For my part I am\n_confounded_ when I see people hurt and distressed when invited home.\nHow a loving Father must feel when His children shrink back crying, \"I\nhave so much to live for!\" or, in other words, so little to die for. It\nfrightens me sometimes to recall such cases.\n\nAnd now I am going to tote my old head to bed. It is 59 years old and\nhas to go early.\n\n_To Mrs. Fisher, Oct. 31, 1877._\n\nWith young children, and artistic work to do, the wonder is not that you\nhave to neglect other things, but that you ever find time to attend to\nany one outside of house and home. I do not want you to make a care and\ntrouble of me; I feel it a privilege to _try_ even to copy anything from\nyour hand, and am willing to bide my time. It is shocking to think of\nyour summer's work being burned up; no money can compensate for such a\nloss--I hate to think of it. I have had your landscape framed, and it is\nthe finest thing in the house.\n\n_Nov. 9th._--I have your apple-blossoms ready to mail with this. I found\nthe subject very difficult, and at one time thought I should have to\ngive it up; but your directions are so clear and to the point that I\nhave succeeded in getting a picture we all think pretty, though wanting\nin the tender grace of yours.\n\nThe picture, which is a gentle blaze of beauty, has just reached me. We\nhave had burglars in the house, and one of my songs of praise is that\nthey did not take the little gem I got from you last summer. Glad you\nare a _woman_ and not all artist.\n\n_To Mrs. Condict, Nov. 24, 1877_\n\nAs to the running fern, I paint it the color of black walnut, and round\nplacques it looks like carving. Emerald green I hate, but it is a\npopular color, and A. was obliged to put it into the flower pictures\nshe painted on portfolios. I am glad you are still interested in your\npainting. I have just finished the second reading of Miss Smiley's book,\nand marked passages which I am sure you will like. I will mail my copy\nto you. As to joy--\"the fruits of the Spirit\" come naturally to those in\nthe Spirit, and joy is one. But we may make an idol of our joy, and so\nhave to part with it. There may come a period when God says, virtually,\nto the soul, \"You clung to Me when I smiled upon and caressed you; let\nMe see how you will behave when I smile and speak comfortably no more.\"\nFenelon says, \"To be constantly in a state of enjoyment that takes away\nthe feeling of the cross, and to live in a fervor of devotion that keeps\nParadise constantly open--this is not dying upon the cross and becoming\nnothing.\" [21]\n\nWhen I look at the subject at a distance, as it were, remembering that\nthis life is mere preparation for the next, it seems _likely_ that we\nshall have religious as well as other discipline; if we ascend the mount\nof Transfiguration it is not that we may _dwell_ there, though it is\nnatural to wish we could. And the fact is, no matter what professions\nof rapture people make, if they believe in Christ and love Him as they\nought to do, what they have enjoyed will be nothing when compared with\ngoing to live _with_ Him forever, surrounded by sanctified beings all\nunited in adoring Him. When I think of this my courage grows apace, and\nI say to myself, I may never live in heaven again here below; but I\ncertainly shall, above; and can't I be patient till then? I wonder if\nyou know that I am going to begin a Bible-reading on the first Wednesday\nin December? I have a very kind letter from Mr. Peter Carter, who says\nKezia would make the fortune of any book.\n\nKezia is one of the characters in _Pemaquid; or, a Story of Old Times\nin New England_, then recently published. She had written it with\n\"indescribable ease and pleasure,\" to use her own words, mostly during\nthe previous January. The pictures of New England life--especially its\nreligious life--in old times are vivid and faithful; and the character\nof Kezia Millet for originality, quiet humor, and truth to nature,\nsurpasses any other in her writings, with the exception, perhaps, of\nAunt Avery in \"Fred and Maria and Me.\"\n\nThe following is an extract from a letter of Mr. Hallock, the publisher\nof \"The Christian at Work,\" dated Aug. 25, 1877, in which he begged her\nto gratify its readers by telling them more about Ruth and Juliet. She\naccordingly added some pages to the last chapter, although not quite\nenough to satisfy the curiosity about Juliet:\n\nLet me express to you my _personal_ thanks for your most excellent\nserial. I feel that it has done a real good to thousands. You need to\nbe placed in my position, receiving hundreds of letters daily from your\nreaders, to be able to fully appreciate how intensely interested they\nare in the story. It does not seem to satisfy them to feel assured of\nRuth's marriage, but they want _to be there_ and see it. Juliet, too, is\nnot with them, as with you, a mere impersonation, but a living reality,\nand they will never rest till they hear from her. If I was a betting\nman I would bet five to one that what your husband struck out, is just\nexactly what is wanted. What do we men know about such things, anyhow?\n\nA lady friend, well qualified to judge, writes to her:\n\nI have read \"Pemaquid,\" and have laughed till I cried, then cried and\nlaughed together. In my humble opinion it is the brightest book you have\nwritten. You know how to make a saint and how to make a sinner. As for\nold Kezia Millet, with her great loving heart, if she is not a model of\nChristian \"_consistency_\" and a natural born poet, where will you find\none? She is perfectly fascinating. How do you keep your wit so ready and\nso bright? I suppose you'll answer, \"by using it.\" The chapter which\ncontains Mrs. Woodford's interview with Rev. Mr. Strong (the dear old\nsaint) in her penitential mood, is very, very admirable.\n\n_To Mrs. George Payson, Dec. 20, 1877._\n\nBefore the year quite departs, I must tell you, my dear Margaret, how\nglad I am that you appreciate my dear, good bad Kezia. It is nineteen\nyears since I read Adam Bede, but I remember Mrs. Poysen in general.\nKezia is not an imitation of her; the main points of her character were\nwritten out long before Adam Bede appeared; I destroyed the book in\nwhich I trotted her out, but kept _her_, and once in a while tried her\non my husband, but as he did not seem to see it, put her away in her\ngreen box, biding my time. As to Juliet, my good man _loathes_ so to\nread about bad people that he almost made me cut out all my last mention\nof her. I was in an unholy frame when I did it, and with reason, for\nthey who like Pemaquid best, say it was a mistake not to dispose of her\nin some way. But as to Mrs. Woodford being a model mother, I did not aim\nto make her a model anything. All I wanted of her was to bring out the\nNew England pecularities as they would appear to a worldly stranger. As\nto all parties _seeming_ indifferent about Juliet, you may be right;\nI was behind the scenes and knew they were not; but as I say, what I\nthought the best part of her, George made me cut out. No, I never knew\nany one sing exactly like Kezia, but there are such cases on record.\nThere was \"the Singing Cobbler,\" whose wife complained of him in court,\nand he defended himself so wittily in verse, that everybody sided with\nhim, and his wife forgave his offence, whatever it might be. [22]\n\n\n[1] The following is the passage referred to: \"If you aspire to be a son\nof consolation; if you would partake of the priestly gift of sympathy;\nif you would pour something beyond commonplace consolation into a\ntempted heart; if you would pass through the intercourse of daily life\nwith the delicate tact that never inflicts pain; if to that most acute\nof human ailments--mental doubt, you are ever to give effectual succor,\nyou must be content to pay the price of the costly education. Like Him,\nyou must suffer, being tempted.\"\n\n[2] By the late Rev. William James, D.D.\n\n[3] See appendix G, p.557.\n\n[4] Then pastor of the Collegiate Reformed Church, Fifth avenue and\nForty-eighth street, now of Brooklyn.\n\n[5] \"Account of the Union Meeting for the Promotion of Scriptural\nHoliness, held at Oxford, August 29 to September 7, 1874.\"\n\n[6] \"Account of the Union Meeting for the Promotion of Scriptural\nHoliness, held at Oxford, August 29 to September 7, 1874.\" P. 59.\n\n[7] GRISELDA; A Dramatic Poem in Five Acts. _Translated from the German\nof_ FRIEDERICH HALM (Baron M\u00fcnch-Bellinghausen), _by Mrs. E. Prentiss._\n\n[8] How glad I was to see Griselda's fair face! She is a gem, and I am\nsure will prove a blessing as she moves about the world in her nobleness\nand purity, so exceedingly womanly and winning. The book is full of\npoetry, and held me spell-bound to the close. It is very musical, too,\nin its rich, pure English. I don't know how much of its poetic charm\nlies in the original or in your rendering, but as it is, it is \"just\nlovely,\" as the girls say.--_Letter from Miss Warner._\n\n[9] In a letter written in 1879, just after a visit to Dorset, Dr.\nHamlin thus refers to them:\n\n\"Now that I have seen again those lights and shadows of the Green\nMountains, as they lie around your Dorset home, I must tell you why they\nawakened such deep emotions. Forty-one years ago I was married to Miss\nHenrietta Jackson, the youngest daughter of the venerated and beloved\npastor of Dorset, and we left that lovely valley for our oriental home.\nI had heard from her lips a glowing description of the magic work of\nlight and shade upon those uplands and heights that lie west of the\nvalley, before I had seen the place. The first morning of my first visit\nI recognised the truth and accuracy of her description, and was forced\nto confess that, although I had always admired cloud-shadows, I had\nnever seen them in such rich display and constant recurrence. There were\ncertain days, which we called field-days, when all their resources were\ncalled out, and they seemed hurrying in swift battalions to some great\ncontest or grand coronation scene. But at other times they rested in\ncalm repose as though the pulse of nature had ceased to beat... In our\nhome upon the Bosphorus we were sometimes reminded of these scenes of\nher native valley. When, occasionally, the Black Sea clouds floated down\nin broken masses, and floods of light here and there poured through the\ndarkly shadowed landscape, lighting up fragments of hill and vale to the\nvery summits of Alem Dagh, her soul took flight to her beloved Dorset\nand all other thoughts vanished.\"\n\n[10] On hearing of Mrs. Prentiss' death, the \"poor, homeless fellow\"\nwrote to her husband a touching letter of sympathy. The following is an\nextract from it:\n\nIt was, I must acknowledge, a cherished desire of your dear departed\nlady that I should walk in the footsteps of the Lord Jesus, and, to\nobtain that grace, I must invoke God's Power that I may accomplish\nthat great Result. Dear sir, I would like to suggest to you that I am\ndisgusted with a wandering life; would like to see Dorset next Summer\nand look on the grave of my greatest friend. Nothing could give me\ngreater Pleasure than to be under the Influence of your Christian\nfamily; now, if I had any Employment, no matter how simple, in that\nlocality for the winter, then I would feel Happy to go next season to\nyour country Residence and offer my services free.\n\n[11] Meeta Sophia Schaff died July 14, 1876, in the twenty-first year of\nher age. She had just returned from the Centennial. She was a young lady\nof unusual loveliness of character, and was deeply lamented by a wide\ncircle of friends, both young and old.\n\n[12] A printed copy of Lines on her Golden Wedding, written by Mrs.\nPrentiss.\n\n[13] The article is entitled _Educated while Educating_, and appeared in\nthe Brooklyn Journal of Education for March, 1875.\n\n[14] The Rev. C. H. Payson. See the interesting Memoir of him, entitled\n\"All for Christ,\" edited by his brother George, and published by the\nAmerican Tract Society.\n\n[15] See HENRY BOYNTON SMITH; His Life and Work. Edited by his Wife. A.\nC. Armstrong & Son. 1880.\n\n[16] His biographer, Mr. Moore, relates of Lord Byron that in all the\nplenitude of his fame, he confessed that \"the depreciation of the lowest\nof mankind was more painful to him than the applause of the highest was\npleasing.\"\n\n[17] _Peterchen and Gretchen_. She translated it at Genevrier during the\nillness of her children.\n\n[18] Dr. Gurdon Buck. He died shortly afterwards. For more than a\nquarter of a century be had been a faithful friend of Mrs. Prentiss, and\nas their family physician had made both her and her husband his debtors\nalike by his kindness and his skill. With a generosity so characteristic\nof his profession, he refused, during all these years, to receive any\ncompensation for his services. As a surgeon he stood in the front rank;\nsome of the operations, performed by him, attracted wide attention for\nthen--novelty and usefulness. He published an account of them, with\nillustrations, which greatly interested Mrs. Prentiss. She was almost as\nfond of reading about remarkable eases in surgery as about remarkable\ncriminal trials.\n\nDr. Buck was one of the founders and first ruling elders of the Church\nof the Covenant. His gratuitous labors in connection with the New York\nHospital and other public institutions were very great. He was a man of\nsolid worth, modest, upright, and devoted to his Lord and Master.\n\n[19] \"One of my brightest recollections of this season at Dorset is our\nlast Sunday before returning to town. We went in the phaeton to Pawlet,\nwhere I preached for the Rev. Mr. Aiken. The morning was pleasant, the\nroad lay through a lovely mountain valley, and the beauty of nature was\nmade perfect by the sweet Sabbath stillness; and our thoughts were in\nunison with the scene and the day. I preached on Rest in Christ, and the\nservice was very comforting to us both. How well I recall the same drive\nand a similar service early in September of 1876, when prayer was my\ntheme! What sweet talks and sweeter fellowship we had together by the\nway, going and coming!\"--_Recollections of_ 1877-8.\n\n[20] Recollections of 1876-7\n\n[21] \"Better is it sometimes to go down into the pit with him, who\nbeholding darkness and bewailing the loss of consolation, crieth from\nthe bottom of the lowest hell, My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken\nme? than continually to walk arm in arm with angels, to sit, as it were,\nin Abraham's bosom, and to have no thought, no cogitation but this, '_I\nthank my God it is not with me as it is with other men._'\"--HOOKER.\n\n[22] A list of Mrs. Prentiss' writings, with brief notices of some of\nthem, will be found at the end of the appendix, p. 568.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\nFOREVER WITH THE LORD.\n\n1878.\n\n\"But a bound into home immortal, And blessed, blessed years.\"\n\nI.\n\nEnters upon her last Year on Earth. A Letter about The Home at Greylock.\nHer Motive in writing Books. Visit to the Aquarium. About \"Worry.\" Her\nPainting. Saturday Afternoons with her. What she was to her Friends.\nResemblance to Madame de Broglie. Recollections of a Visit to East\nRiver. A Picture of her by an old Friend. Goes to Dorset. Second Advent\nDoctrine. Last Letters.\n\n\nMrs. Prentiss crossed the threshold of her last year on earth with hands\nand thoughts still unusually busied. Her weekly Bible-reading, painting\nin oils and in water-colors, needle-work, and other household duties,\nleft her no idle moment. \"My fire is so full of irons,\" she wrote, \"that\nI do not know which one to take out.\" Nor was her heart less busy than\nher hands and brain. Twice in January, once in February, and again in\nApril, death invaded the circle of her friends; and when her friends\nwere in trouble she was always in trouble, too. [1] These deaths led to\nearnest talk with her husband on the mystery of earthly existence, and\non the power of faith in Christ to sustain the soul in facing its great\ntrials. \"I am filled with ever fresh wonder at this amazing power,\" she\nsaid. Such subjects always interested her deeply; never more so than at\nthis time, when, although she knew it not, her feet were drawing so near\nto the pearly gates.\n\nThe keynote of her being throughout this last winter was one of unwonted\nseriousness. A certain startling intensity of thought and feeling showed\nitself every now and then. It was painfully evident that she was under\na severe strain, both physical and mental. Again and again, as spring\nadvanced, the anxiety of her husband was aroused to the highest pitch by\nwhat seemed to him indications that the unresting, ever-active spirit\nwas fast wearing away the frail body. At times, too, there was a\nlight in her eye and in her face an \"unearthly, absolutely angelic\nexpression\"--to use her own words about her little Bessie, six and\ntwenty years before--that filled him with a strange wonder, and which,\nafter her departure, he often recalled as prophetic of the coming event\nand the glory that should follow.\n\nBut while to his ear an undertone of unusual seriousness, deepening\never and anon into a strain of the sweetest tenderness and pathos, ran\nthrough her life during all these early months of 1878, there was little\nchange in its outward aspect. She was often gay and full as ever of\nbright, playful fancies. Never busier, so was she never more eager to\nbe of service to her friends--and never was she more loving to her\nchildren, or more thoughtful of their happiness. She proposed for their\ngratification and advantage to write four new books, one for each\nof them, provided only they and their father would furnish her with\nsubjects. The plan seemed to please her greatly, and, had she been\nspared, would probably have been carried into effect--for it was\njust the sort of stimulus she needed to set her mind in action. Once\nfurnished with a subject, her pen, as has been said before, always moved\nwith the utmost ease and rapidity. But while she wrote very easily, she\ndid not write without reflection. 'She had a keen sense of character in\nall its phases, and her individual portraits, like those of Katy, Mrs.\nGrey and Margaret, Aunt Avery and Kezia Millet, were worked out with the\nutmost care, the result of years of observation and study being embodied\nin them.\n\nAnd here, in passing, it may not be out of place to dwell for an instant\nupon her motives and experience as an author. From first to last she\nwrote, not to get gain or to win applause, but to do good; and herein\nshe had her reward, good measure, pressed down and running over. But of\nthat kind of reward which gratifies literary taste and ambition, she had\nalmost none. Her books, even those most admired by the best judges, and\nwhich had the widest circulation, both at home and abroad, attracted but\nlittle attention from the press. The organs of literary intelligence and\ncriticism scarcely noticed them at all. Nor is it known that any attempt\nwas ever made to analyse any of her more striking characters, or to\npoint out the secret of her power and success as a writer. To be sure,\nshe had never sought or counted upon this sort of recognition; and yet\nthat she was keenly alive to a word of discriminating praise, will\nappear from a letter to Mrs. Condict, dated Jan. 20th:\n\nThe burglary was on this wise, as far as we know. One man stood on the\nfront steps, and another slipped the hasp to one of the parlor windows,\nstepped in, took a very valuable French clock, given me on my silver-\nwedding day, and all the hats and overcoats from the hall. This was all\nthey had time to do before our night-watchman came round; they left\nthe window wide open, and at 4 A.M. Pat rang the bell and informed Mr.\nPrentiss that such was the case. We feel it a great mercy that we were\nnot attacked and maltreated. Poor A. was sitting up in bed, hearing what\nwas going on, but being alone on the third floor, did not dare to move.\n\nI have just finished a short story called Gentleman Jim, which I am\ngoing to send to Scribner's; very likely it will get overlooked and\nlost. I received, not long ago, a letter from Mr. Cady [2] about\nGreylock, which he had just read. It was a gratification to both my\nhusband and myself, as the most discriminating letter I ever received;\nand after the first rush of pleasure, the Evil One troubled me, off and\non, for two or three hours, but at last I reminded him that I long ago\nchose to cast in my lot with the people of God, and so be off the line\nof human notice or applause, and that I was glad I had been enabled to\ndo it, since literary ambition is unbecoming a Christian woman. There\nare 500 other things I should say, if you were here!\n\nThe following is a part of the letter referred to: The day after \"New\nYear's\" I was visited with a severe cold and general prostration that\nhas kept me in my bed--_giving me time!_ As soon as I was strong enough\nto read I had \"The Home\" brought. After reading it I felt I ought to\ntell you how deeply I was impressed with the usefulness, excellence, and\nspirit of the book. As to its usefulness, you are to be envied; to have\nbrought light, as I believe you have, to a large number of people upon\nthe most precious and vital interests of life, is something worth living\nand suffering for. The good sense, wisdom, experience, and Christian\nfaith embodied in it must make it a strong helper and friend to many a\nhome in trouble and to many perplexed and discouraged hearts, who will\ndoubtless rise up some day to call you \"blessed.\"\n\nThough you cared less about the manner than the matter, I was impressed\nby its literary qualities. The scene at the death of Mrs. Grey and\nparting of herself and Margaret is as highly artistic and beautiful\nas anything I can think of. The contrast of good and bad, or good and\nindifferent, is common enough; but the contrast of what is noble and\nwhat is \"saintly\" is something infinitely higher and subtler. I can't\nimagine anything more exquisitely tender and beautiful than Mrs. Grey's\ndeparture, but it is the more realised by the previous action of\nMargaret. The few lines in which this is told bring their whole\ncharacter--in each case--vividly before you. But I see that if the book\nhad previously to this point been differently written it would have been\nimpossible to have rendered this scene so remarkably impressive. The\nstory of \"Eric\" is extremely quaint and charming; it is a vein I am not\nfamiliar with in your writings. It is a little classic. This quaint\nchild's story and the death of Mrs. Grey affect me as a fine work of art\naffects one, whenever I recall them. The trite saying is still true, \"A\nthing of beauty is a joy forever.\"\n\nYou know children complain of some sweets that they leave a bad\ntaste--and works of fiction often do with me. I feel tired and\ndissatisfied after I have passed out of their excitements; but the\nheavenly atmosphere of this book left me better; I know that the Blessed\nSpirit must have influenced you in the writing of it, and I doubt not\nHis blessing will accompany its teachings.\n\nNow will you excuse this blotty letter--written in bed--and accept my\nthanks for all the good your book has done me.\n\nThe following is her reply:\n\nDEAR MR. CADY:--Your letter afforded me more satisfaction than I know\nhow to explain. It is true that I made up my mind, as a very young girl,\nto keep out of the way of literary people, so as to avoid literary\nambition. Nor have I regretted that decision. Yet the human nature is\nnot dead in me, and my instincts still crave the kind of recognition\nyou have given me. I have had heaps of letters from all parts of this\ncountry, England, Scotland, Ireland, Germany, and Switzerland, about my\nbooks, till I have got sick and tired of them. And the reason I tired of\nthem was, that in most cases there was no discrimination. People liked\ntheir religious character, and of course I wanted them to do so. But you\nappreciate and understand everything in Greylock, and have, therefore,\ngratified my husband and myself. Not a soul out of this house, for\ninstance, has ever so much as alluded to my little Eric, except one\nfriend who said, \"We thought that part of the book forced, and supposed\nA. wrote it.\" Nobody has ever alluded to Margaret, save yourself.\nI hoped a sequel to the book might be called for, when I meant to\nelaborate her character. Still, it would have been very hard.... I am\nnot sorry that I chose the path in life I did choose. A woman should not\nlive for, or even desire, fame. This is yet more true of a Christian\nwoman. If I had not steadily suppressed all such ambition, I might have\nbecome a sour, disappointed woman, seeing my best work unrecognised. But\nit has been my wish to\n\n  \"Dare to be little and unknown,\n  Seen and loved by God alone.\"\n\nYour letter for a few hours, did stir up what I had always trampled\ndown; but only for that brief period, and then I said to myself, God has\nonly taken me at my word; I have asked Him, a thousand times, to make me\nsmaller and smaller, and crowd the self out of me by taking up all the\nroom Himself. There is so much of that work yet to be done, that I\nwonder He ventures to make so many lines fall to me in pleasant places,\nand that I have such a goodly heritage. I trust He will bless you for\nyour labor of love to me.\n\nI do not like the idea of your buying my books. Greylock being for\nmothers, I never dreamed of men reading it. Have you had The Story\nLizzie Told, Six Little Princesses, The Little Preacher, and Nidworth?\nNeither of these is really a child's book, and the next time you are\nsick, if you have not read them, I shall love to send them to you. If\nthis is conceit, I have the effrontery not to be a mite ashamed of it!\n\nThe following notes to Mrs. Fisher show how pleasantly she sympathised\nwith her teacher as a young mother, while taking lessons of and admiring\nher as an artist:\n\nNEW YORK, _February 4, 1878._\n\nWhat a relief to have the days come long again! On Saturday I found in\nA.'s portfolio a study you lent her; exquisite ferns behind the fallen\ntrunk of a tree, and a tiny group of orange-colored toad-stools. I will\nsend it with its two lovely sisters, when I get through with them. I\nwish you could get time to come to see me, or that I could get time to\ngo to see you. But it is my unlucky nature to have a great many irons in\nthe fire at once. I am glad your baby keeps well, and hope he will grow\nup to be a great comfort to you.\n\n_Feb. 23d._--I have just received your letter. I have my hands full and\nthere is no need to hurry you.\n\nAs to \"worry\" not being of faith, I do not suppose it is. But a young\nmother can not be _all_ faith. I do not envy people who love so lightly\nthat they have no wringing out of the heart when they lose their dear\nones; nor can I understand her who says she can sit and read the\nnewspaper, while her babies are crying. \"None are so old as they who\nhave outlived enthusiasm\"; and who should be enthusiastic if a mother\nmay not? I don't think God has laid it up against me that I nearly\nkilled myself for the sake of my babies, because when He took two away\nwithin three months of each other, my faith in Him did not falter....\nDear Mrs. Fisher, if you love God nothing but His best things will ever\ncome to you. This is the experience of a very young, old woman, and I\nhope it will comfort you.\n\n_April 21st._--Such a fight as I have had with your exquisite studies,\nand how I have been beaten! I failed entirely in the golden-rod, and do\nnot get the brilliant yellow of the mullein flower; one could not easily\nfail on the saggitarius, and the clover was tolerable. I think I will\ntake no more lessons at present, as I have much to do in getting another\nboy fitted for college. After I get settled at Dorset I want to make a\ndesperate effort to paint from nature, and if I have any success, send\nto you for criticism. \"Fools rush in where angels fear to tread,\" and I\nam afraid you will be disgusted with my work, which will be in the dark,\nsince I have had no instruction in copying nature.... Perhaps you may\nput alongside of the rejection of your picture a lady's telling me about\none of my books into which I had thrown an experience of the last thirty\nyears of my life, \"There was nothing in it.\" \"Il faut souffrir pour etre\nbelle.\" As long as memory lasts I shall rejoice that I have seen and\nstudied your work.\n\nI remember what a splendid fellow your baby was a year ago. It will\ndepend on your maternal prayers and discipline whether he grows up to be\nyour comfort.\n\nA few extracts from her letters will give further glimpses of the manner\nin which she passed these closing months of her life in New York--\nespecially of her delight in the weekly Bible-reading. One of the ladies\nwho attended it, thus refers to that exercise:\n\nYou remember that for one or two years she was a member of a small\ncircle, that met weekly for Bible-study. When the leader of this circle\nremoved from the city, Mrs. Prentiss was urgently requested to become\nits teacher, and she consented to do so. For the last four years of\nher life she threw her whole soul into this exercise. Every week the\nappointed morning found her surrounded by a little group of from eight\nto fifteen, each with an open Bible and all intent less to analyse\nthe word of God than to feed upon it and \"grow thereby.\" And what a\nwonderful teacher she was! Not neglectful of any helps that dictionary\nor commentator might give, her chief source of light was none of these,\nbut was received in answer to the promise, \"If any man will do the will\nof God he shall know of the doctrine.\" She wished the service to be\nentirely informal, and that each one present should do her part to aid\nin the study. This brought out diverse views and different standards of\nopinion. Here her keen intellect, her warm heart, the rich stores of her\nexperience and her \"sanctified common sense\" all found play, and many\nof the words that fell from her lips dwell in the memory as little\nless than inspired. The last winter of this service showed some marked\ndifferences from previous years. As eager as ever to have questions\nasked and answered by others, yet from the moment she commenced to speak\nshe scarcely paused till the hour was finished, her eyes sparkling and\nher whole manner intensely earnest. Often those words of the Psalmist\npassed through my mind, _The zeal of Thy house hath eaten me up._ Her\nlove for her work and zeal in doing it were visibly consuming her. At\nthe last meeting I asked her if she should commence the Bible-reading at\nDorset immediately. She said no, she must rest a little; she would wait\ntill her garden was made. When next I heard from her flowers and her\nBible-study she had made the \"bound into home immortal.\" And all who\nloved her must rejoice with her; else have we failed to learn one of the\nclearest lessons of her life: _For me to live is Christ, and to die is\ngain._\n\n_To Mrs. Condict, Feb. 14, 1878._\n\nIs it possible I had porti\u00e9re on the brain when I wrote you last? I\nthought I had just caught the disease. I am very fond of needle-work,\nbut for years have nearly abandoned it, because I could not thread my\nneedle. But the porti\u00e9re is made with a large worsted needle and will\ngive me pleasant work for the evening. I am getting my hand in on a\ncontumacious closet door that won't stay open in my bedroom....\n\nImitation Macaroni,\n\nBy the author of Pemaquid:\n\nBoil hominy overnight. Next day's dinner prepare like macaroni, with a\nlittle milk and grated cheese and bake. Good for a change and cheaper.\n\n_March 9th._--What an improvement on the old fashion of _reading_\nthe Bible is the present _search_ of the Word! It is, as you say,\nfascinating work. I have just given M. an admirable book called\n\"Emphatic Diaglott,\" being the Greek Testament with a literal\ntranslation; still even that can be misunderstood by one who has a false\ntheory to sustain. The spiritual conflicts I have passed through have\nbeen a blessing, as I am beginning to see; I can understand better _how_\nsuch conflicts may prepare one for work. This afternoon I have, as\nusual, been getting ready for the Wednesday reading, and as I was\nrequested to speak of the Holy Spirit, have been poring over the Bible\nand am astonished at the frequency and variety of passages in which\nHe is spoken of. But I feel painfully unfit to guide even this little\ncircle of women, and would be so glad to sit as a learner.\n\nSome of the children were going, last Friday night, to see the Aquarium,\nand some educated horses and dogs there, and they persuaded me to go.\nThe performance was wonderful, but I could not help thinking of all\nthese poor animals had gone through in learning all these incredible\nfeats; each horse responding to his own name, each dog barking in\nresponse to his; two dogs hanging a third, cutting him down, when he lay\napparently dead, other dogs driving in, in a cart, and carrying away the\nbody; others waltzing on their hind legs, and others jumping the rope.\nTwo horses played see-saw, and one rolled a barrel up an inclined plane\nwith his fore legs; he _hated_ to do it. But the marvellous fishes and\nsea-flowers charmed me most.\n\n_To Mrs. Reed, New York, March 13, 1878._\n\n... I have had a busy winter. We had a variety of losses, and I\nundertook, therefore, to manufacture Reed, most of my Christmas\ngifts, which were, chiefly, umbrella racks; this took time. Then my\nBible-reading uses up pretty much one day. I never felt so unfit for\nit, or more determined to keep it up as long as one would come. Besides\nthat, I have read and painted more or less and sewed a good deal; on the\nwhole, have had more vacation than work, at least one looking on would\nsay so. But we all lead two lives, and one of them is penetrated and\nunderstood by no mortal eye. I heard such a sermon from Dr. Bevan last\nSunday night on the text, \"They saw God and did eat and drink.\" He\ndivided mankind into four classes: Those who do eat and drink and do not\nsee God; those who do not see Him and do not eat and drink; those who\nsee Him and do not eat and drink (he handled them tenderly); and those\nwho see Him and yet eat and drink. I hope I have made its outline plain\nto you. It took hold of me.\n\n_To Mrs. Donaghe, New York, April 26, 1878._\n\nI am living my life among breakings-up; you gone, Mrs. Smith about to\nflee to Northampton, and our neighbor Miss W. storing her furniture and\nprobably leaving New York for good. On the other hand, M. spends most of\nher time in helping Mr. and Mrs. Talbot get to rights in apartments they\nhave just taken. Mr. T., as I suppose you know, is pastor of our Mission\nand as good as gold. God has been pleased greatly to bless two ladies,\nwho attend the Bible-reading, and I am sure He loves to have us study\nHis Word. The more I dig into it the richer I find it, and I have had\nsome delightful hours this winter in preparing for my Wednesday work.\n\nThere is to be a Women's Exchange in this city, where everything\nmanufactured by them (except underclothing) will be exposed for sale;\nembroidery, pickles, preserves, confectionery, and articles rejected by\nthe Society of Decorative Art. I hope it will be a success, and help\nmany worthy women, all over the land, to help themselves.... I find it\nhard to consent to your having, at your age, to flit about from home to\nhome, but a loving Father has a mansion for you beyond all the changes\nand chances of this strange complicated life. If He gives you His\npresence, that will be a home. I wish you could visit us at Dorset.\n\nA visit to Dorset was afterward arranged, and one of Mrs. Prentiss' last\nletters was addressed to this old friend, giving her directions how to\nget there. [3]\n\n_To Mrs. Condict, New York, May 6, 1878._ My last Bible-reading, or\nrather one of the last, was on prayer; as I could not do justice to\nit in one reading, I concluded to make a resum\u00e9 of the whole subject.\nThough I devoted all the readings to this topic last summer, yet it\nloomed up wonderfully in this resum\u00e9. Last week the subject was \"the\nprecious blood of Christ,\" and in studying up the word \"precious\" I\nlighted on these lovely verses, Deut. xxxiii. 13-16. Since I began to\n_study_ the Bible, it often seems like a new book. And that passage\nthrilled the ladies, as a novelty. I am to have but one more reading.\nThe last sermon I heard was on lying. That is not one of my besetting\nsins, but, on the other hand, I push the truth too far, haggling about\nevils better let alone. A. has just finished a splendid placque to\norder; a Japanese figure, with exquisite foliage in black and grey as\nbackground. I have a widow lady every Saturday to paint with me; she has\na large family, limited means, and delicate health; and I want to aid\nher all I can. She enjoys these afternoons so much, and is doing so\nwell.\n\nThe lady herself thus recalls these afternoons:\n\nHow dearly I should love to add but one little flower to her wreath of\nimmortelles! I cherish memories of her as among the pleasantest of my\nlife. I recall her room so bright and cheery, just like herself, and all\nthe incidents of those Saturday afternoons. When she first asked me to\npaint with her, I thought it very kind, but with her multiplicity of\ncares, felt it must be burdensome to her, and that possibly she would\neven forget the invitation, and so I hesitated about going. But when the\nweek came round everything was made ready to give me a cordial welcome.\nAgain and again I found my chair, palette and other materials waiting\nfor me, while she sat in her little nook, busy as a bee over some\npainting of her own.\n\nOne day, passing about the room, I saw on her book-shelves, arranged\nwith order and precision, nine little butter plates in the form of\npansies. I uttered an exclamation of delight, and she from her corner,\nwith the artlessness of a child, said, \"I _put_ them there for you to\nsee.\" Another time she sprang up with her quick, light step, and ran to\nthe yard to fetch a flower for me to copy, apparently thoughtless of two\nflights of stairs to tax her strength. Sometimes she would read to me\nverses of poetry that pleased her. Once I remember her throwing herself\nat my feet, and when I stopped to listen to the reading, she said, \"Oh,\ngo right on with your painting.\" Now she would relate some amusing\nanecdote that almost convulsed me with laughter, and then again speak of\nsome serious theme with such earnestness of feeling! She was eager to\ngive of her store of strength and cheer to others, but the store seemed\ninexhaustible. The more she gave, the more one felt that there was\nenough and to spare. I looked forward to my little weekly visit as to an\noasis in the desert; not that all else was bleak, but that spot seemed\nto me so very refreshing and attractive.\n\nLittle did I think, when she loaded me down that last day with all I\ncould carry, then ran down to the parlor to show me some choice articles\nthere which she knew would give me pleasure--little did I think that I\nshould see her again no more! Not a day passed after leaving her that\nshe was not an inspiration to me. While painting a wayside flower I\nwould think, \"Mrs. Prentiss would like this\"--or, \"In the fall I must\nshow that to Mrs. Prentiss.\" Even in my dreams she was present with me,\nand one morning, only a little while before she passed from us, I waked\nwith a heavy burden upon my spirits--for it seemed to me as if she were\ngone. The impression was so strong that I spoke of it at the time, and\nfor days could not throw it off. But at last, saying to myself, \"Oh,\nit is only a dream,\" I answered her little note, making, of course, no\nreference to my strange feelings in regard to her. Her letter, by a\nsingular mistake, is dated \"Kauinfels, _October_ 10, 1878,\" nearly two\nmonths after she had fallen asleep. How just like her is this passage in\nit: \"I wish you could leave your little flock, and take some rest with\nus. It would do you good, I am sure. Is it impossible? you do look so\ntired.\" My letter in reply must have been one of the very last received\nby her. In it I spoke of having just re-read Stepping Heavenward and\nAunt Jane's Hero, and of having enjoyed them almost as much as at the\nfirst. This was, perhaps, one reason why she had been so constantly in\nmy thoughts. When the news came that she had left us, I was at first\ngreatly shocked and grieved--for I felt that I had lost no ordinary\nfriend--but when I considered how complete her life had been in all that\nmakes life noble and beautiful, and how meet it was that, having borne\nthe burden and heat of the day, she should now rest from her labors, it\nseemed selfish to give way to sorrow and not rather to rejoice that she\nhad gone to be with Christ.\n\nScores of such grateful testimonies as this might be given. To all\nwho knew and loved her well, Mrs. Prentiss was \"an inspiration.\" They\ndelighted to talk about her to each other and even to strangers. They\nrepeated her bright and pithy sayings. They associated her with favorite\ncharacters in the books they read. The very thought of her wrought upon\nthem with gracious and cheering influence. An extract from a letter of\none of her old and dearest friends, written to her husband after her\ndeath, will illustrate this:\n\nOn the very morning of her departure I had been conversing with my\nphysician about her. He spoke in admiration of her published works, and\nI tried to give him a description of her personal characteristics. The\nnight before, in my hours of sleeplessness, I recounted the names\nof friends who I thought had been most instrumental in moulding my\ncharacter, and Mrs. Prentiss led the list. How little did I dream that\nalready her feet had safely touched \"the shining shore\"! In all the\nthree and thirty years of our acquaintance I loved her DEARLY and\nreverenced her most deeply; but between us there was such a gulf that I\nalways felt unworthy to touch even the hem of her garment. Whenever I\ndid touch it, strength and comfort were imparted to me. How much I was\nindebted to her most tender sympathy and her prayers in my own great\nsorrow, only another world will reveal. Is it not a little remarkable\nthat her last letter to me, written only a few weeks before her death,\nclosed with a benediction? I could go on talking about her without end;\nfor I have often said that there was more of her, and to her, and in\nher, than belonged to any five women I ever knew. How exceedingly lovely\nshe was in her own home! I remember you once said to me, \"The greatest\ncharm of my wife is, after all, her perfect naturalness.\" All who knew\nher, must have recognised the same winning characteristic. She was\nalways fresh and always new--for she had \"the well-spring of wisdom as\na flowing brook.\" ... Were you not struck, in reading Thomas Erskine's\nletters on the death of Madame de Broglie, by the wonderful likeness\nbetween her and dear Mrs. Prentiss? Twin sisters could scarcely have\nresembled each other more perfectly. Such passages as the following\nquite startled me:\n\nHer friendship has been to me a great gift. She has been a witness to me\nfor God, a voice crying in the wilderness. She has been a warner and a\ncomforter. I have seen her continually thirsting after a spiritual union\nwith God. I have heard the voice of her heart crying after God out from\nthe midst of all things which make this life pleasant and satisfying....\nShe had all the gifts of mind and character--intelligence, imagination,\nnobleness, and thoughts that wandered through eternity. She had a heart\nfitted for friendship, and she had friends who could appreciate her; but\nGod suffered her not to find rest in these things, her ear was open to\nHis own paternal voice, and she became His child, in the way that the\nworld is not and knoweth not. I see her before me, her loving spirit\nuttering itself through every feature of her beautiful and animated\ncountenance.... There was an unspeakable charm about her. She had a\ntruth and simplicity of character, which one rarely finds even in\nthe highest order of men. I know nobody like her now. I hope to pass\neternity with her. It is wonderful to think what a place she has\noccupied in my life since I became acquainted with her.\n\nYou know it is my belief that we become better acquainted with our\nfriends after they have passed on \"within the veil.\" And may it not\nbe that they become better acquainted with us, too, loving us more\nperfectly and forgiving all that has been amiss? [4]\n\n_To her eldest son, New York, May 12, 1878._\n\nThis is your father's birthday, and I have given him, to his great\ndelight, a Fairbanks postal scale. His twenty-years-old one would not\nweigh newspapers or books, and it is time for an improvement on it.\nOn Thursday evening there was a festival at our church in aid of sick\nmission children. Everybody was there with their children, and it was\nthe nicest affair we ever had. M. and I went and enjoyed it ever so\nmuch. I took between four and five dollars to spend, though I had given\nbetween twenty and thirty to the mission, but did not get a chance to\nspend much, as Mr. M. took me in charge and paid for everything I ate.\nYour father and I rather expect to go to East River, Conn., tomorrow to\nhelp Mrs. Washburn celebrate her seventieth birthday; but the weather is\nso cold he doubts whether I had better go. A. went on a long drive on\nFriday and brought back a host of wild flowers, which I tried with some\nfailure and some success to paint.\n\n_May 19th._--We went to East River on Monday afternoon and came home on\nThursday, making a delightful visit. On Tuesday Mrs. W. and I went to\nNorwich to see the Gilmans. I was very tired when we got back, and had\nto go to bed at half-past seven. The next day it rained; so Mrs. W. and\nI fell to painting. She became so interested in learning Mrs. Fisher's\nsystem that she got up at five the next morning and worked two hours. In\nthe evening your father gave his lecture at a little club-room, got up\nchiefly by Mr. and Mrs. Washburn at their own expense. It is just such\na room as I should like to build at Dorset. On Thursday morning Mrs.\nW. took me out to drive through their own woods and dug up some wild\nflowers for me. A. has a Miss Crocker, an artistic friend from Portland,\nstaying with her--a very nice, plucky girl. She wants me to let her take\nmy portrait. [5] H. is full of a story of a pious dog, who was only fond\nof people who prayed, went to church regularly, and, when not prevented,\nto all the neighborhood prayer-meetings, which were changed every week\nfrom house to house; his only knowledge of where they would be held\nbeing from Sunday notices from the pulpit! I believe this the more\nreadily because of Pharaoh's always going to my Bible-reading at Dorset\nand never barking there, whereas if I went to the same house to call he\nbarked dreadfully.\n\nWe are constantly wondering what you boys will be. Good men, I hope, at\nany rate. Good-night, with a kiss from your affectionate mother.\n\nThe substance of the following letter of Mrs. Washburn, giving an\naccount of the visit to East River, as also her impressions of Mrs.\nPrentiss, was written in response to one received by her from an old\nfriend in Turk's Island: [6]\n\nI am most thankful that we had that last visit from dear Mrs. Prentiss.\nIt was a rare favor to us that she came. Her health was very delicate,\nand a slight deviation from the regular routine of home life was apt to\ngive her sleepless nights. Dr. P. had sent us word that he was going to\nbe in New Haven, and would give us a call before returning to New York.\nWe' were overjoyed at the prospect of seeing him, and wrote immediately\nbegging Mrs. Prentiss to come with him. She, ever ready to sacrifice her\nown ease for the sake of giving pleasure to others, and knowing that the\n15th of May would be my 70th anniversary, and that I perfectly longed to\nsee her, took the risk of personal suffering upon herself to satisfy my\nearnest desire, and came. They arrived on the 13th in the late afternoon\ntrain. She was so bright and cheerful it was difficult to notice any\ntraces of the weariness which she must have felt.\n\nWe passed a delightful evening, and as Dr. P. was to spend a part of the\nnext day in New Haven, we formed a plan for Mrs. Prentiss and me to\ngo to Norwich at the same time and make a brief visit to our mutual\nfriends, the Misses Gilman. Mr. Washburn telegraphed to them that we\nwere coming. On arriving at New London we found, to our dismay, that we\nhad been misinformed in regard to the trains, and that the one we had\ntaken did not connect with the one to Norwich, which had been gone two\nhours. So there we were, left alone on the platform, strangers in the\nplace, with no means of either going on or returning. What should we do?\nOur first thought was to procure, if possible, some conveyance to take\nus to Norwich and back; but this we found could not be done, for want of\ntime, the distance between the two cities being fourteen miles or more.\nFortunately for us, a young lad appeared, who promised to take us to our\nfriends in Norwich, allow us half an hour to spend with them, and drive\nto the station there in time for the return train to New London and East\nRiver. He looked so honest and true that we felt we could trust him, and\nwe acceded to his terms at once. As soon as he could get his carriage\nready we started off on our untried way.\n\nIt began at the foot of a long hill, and continued up and down over a\nsuccession of the same kind, with very rare exceptions of a level space\nbetween them, through the whole distance. But the scenery was so varied\nand beautiful, we thought if our only object in setting out had been a\ndrive, we could not have chosen one more charming. The weather was fine,\nand dear Mrs. Prentiss in her happiest mood. As for me, nothing marred\nmy enjoyment but fear that the fatigue would be too much for her, and an\nundercurrent of anxiety lest by some mishap we should fail to re-arrive\nat the home-station in time to meet our husbands who would be waiting\nfor us. But if she had any such misgivings nothing in word or manner\nbetrayed it. So entire was her self-control, and so delicate her tact,\nnot to throw the faintest shadow across the wisdom of my precipitate\narrangements. She was as happy as a bird all the way, and talked\ndelightfully.\n\nWe found our friends had been in a state of great excitement on our\naccount, having received the telegram, and knowing that we had taken the\nwrong train; so that our unexpected arrival was greeted with even more\nthan their usual cordiality; and they were specially gratified to see\nMrs. Prentiss, who almost without looking, discovered a hundred beauties\nin and around their lovely home, which it would have taken the eyes of\nan ordinary guest a week to notice. The very shortness of our time to\nstay, intensified our enjoyment while it lasted. Our half hour was soon\nover, and we came away with our hands full of flowers and our hearts as\nfull of love.\n\nWe arrived in good time and met our husbands waiting for us at the\nstation. Dear Mrs. Prentiss did not appear to be very much fatigued\nwhile recounting in her inimitably pleasant manner the various\nexperiences of the day. A restful night prepared her for the quiet\nenjoyments of the next day, which we spent mostly at home, merely making\nshort calls in the morning on my two sisters, and slowly driving, or\nrather, as I call it, \"taking a walk in the buggy,\" through the woods,\nstopping every few minutes to look at, or gather ferns or mosses or\nbudding wild flowers that could not escape her beauty-loving eye. The\nafternoon we remained in the house, occupied with our pencils. She\npainted a spray of trailing arbutus, talking while she was doing it, as\nnobody else could, about things beloved and fair. Our darling Julia was\nwith us, completely charmed with her, and as busy as we, trying with her\nlittle hands to make pictures as pretty as ours.\n\nIn the evening Dr. P. gave his most interesting lecture on\n\"Recollections of Hurstmonceaux\" in our reading-room; but Mrs. Prentiss\nwas not able to go, which I regretted the more because I knew many\nladies would be there who came almost as much to see her as to hear him.\nThey were greatly disappointed, but enjoyed every word of the lecture,\nas well they might. The next day was all too short. It seemed to me that\nI _could not_ let them go. But she had more than enough for her ever\nbusy hands and mind and heart to do in preparation for going to her\nsummer home, and we _had_ to say good-bye.\n\nA few short, characteristic, loving notes came from the city, before she\nleft, and I did not hear from her at Dorset till the overwhelming news\ncame of her death. I could not control my grief. Little Julia tried to\ncomfort me with her sweet sympathy. \"Dear grandma,\" she said, \"I am\nsorry too. I can not feel so bad as you do, because you loved her so\nmuch, and you loved her so long; but _I_ loved her too, and I can think\njust how she looked when she sat right there by that little table\ntalking, and painting those beautiful flowers. Oh! I am very sorry.\"\nAnd here the poor child's tears flowed again with mine. So will all the\nchildren who knew her say, \"We remember just how she looked.\" Yes, there\nwas no mistaking or forgetting that kindly, loving \"look.\" Julia's\nmother had felt its influence from her own early childhood till she left\nher precious little one to receive it in her stead. To each of these\nhalf-orphaned ones in turn, I had to read \"Little Susy's Six Birthdays,\"\nand both always said to me when I finished, \"Please read it again.\"\n\nShe could read and understand the heart of children through and through,\nas indeed she could everybody's. And that was, perhaps, her chiefest\ncharm; a keen eye to see and a true heart to sympathise and love. She\nwas absolutely sincere, and no one could help feeling that she was so.\nWe felt ourselves fairly imaged when standing before her, as in a clear\nplate-glass mirror. There were no distorted lines caused by her own\nimperfections; for although she considered herself \"compassed with\ninfirmity,\" no one else could take such a view of her, but only saw the\nabundant charity which could cover and forgive a multitude of failings\nin others. We felt that if there was any good in us, she knew it, and\neven when she saw them \"with all our faults she loved us still,\" and\nloved to do us good.\n\nYou would like me to tell you \"how she looked.\" You can form some idea\nfrom her picture, but not an adequate one. Her face defied both the\nphotographer's and the painter's art. The crayon likeness, taken shortly\nbefore her death by Miss Crocker, a young artist from Maine, is, in\nsome respects, excellent. The eyes and mouth--not to speak of other\nfeatures--are very happily reproduced. She was of medium height, yet\nstood and walked so erect as to appear taller than she really was.\nHer dress, always tasteful, with little or no ornament that one could\nremember, was ever suited to the time and place, and seemed the most\nbecoming to her which could have been chosen. She was perfectly natural,\nand, though shy and reserved among strangers, had a quiet, easy grace of\nmanner, that showed at once deference for them and utter unconsciousness\nof self. Her head was very fine and admirably poised. She had a\nsymmetrical figure, and her step to the last was as light and elastic as\na girl's.\n\nWhen I first knew her, in the flush and bloom of young maternity, her\nface scarcely differed in its curving outlines from what it was more\nthan a quarter of a century later, when the joys and sorrows of\nfull-orbed womanhood had stamped upon it indelible marks of the\nperfection they had wrought. Her hair was then a dark-brown; her\nforehead smooth and fair, her general complexion rich without much depth\nof color except upon the lips. In silvering her clustering locks time\nonly added to her aspect a graver charm, and harmonised the still more\ndelicate tints of cheek and brow. Her eyes were black, and at times\nwonderfully bright and full of spiritual power; but they were shaded\nby deep, smooth lids which gave them when at rest a most dove-like\nserenity. Her other features were equally striking; the lips and chin\nexquisitely moulded and marked by great strength as well as beauty. Her\nface, in repose, wore the habitual expression of deep thought and a soft\nearnestness, like a thin veil of sadness, which I never saw in the same\ndegree in any other. Yet when animated by interchange of thought and\nfeeling with congenial minds, it lighted up with a perfect radiance of\nlove and intelligence, and a most beaming smile that no pen or pencil\ncan describe--least of all in my hand, which trembles when I try to\nsketch the faintest outline.\n\nHundreds of heart-stirring memories crowd upon me as I write, but it\nis impossible to give them expression. Her books give you the truest\ntranscript of herself. She wrote, as she talked, from the heart. To\nthose who knew her, a written page in almost any one of them recalls her\nimage with the vividness of a portrait; and they can almost hear her\nmusical voice as they read it themselves. But, alas! in reality--\n\n  No more her low sweet accents can we hear\n  No more our plaints can reach her patient ear.\n  O! loved and lost, oh! trusted, tried, and true,\n  O! tender, pitying eyes forever sealed;\n  How can we bear to speak our last adieu?\n  How to the grave the precious casket yield,\n  And to those old familiar places go\n  That knew thee once, and never more shall know?\n\n  I hear from heaven a voice angelic cry,\n  \"Blessed, thrice blessed are the dead who lie\n  Beneath the flowery sod and graven stone.\"\n  \"Yea,\" saith the answering Spirit, \"for they rest\n  Forever from the labors they have done.\n  Their works do follow them to regions blest;\n  No stain hereafter can their lustre dim;\n  The dead in Christ from henceforth live in Him.\"\n\n  O! doubly dear transfigured friend on high,\n  We, through our tears, behold thine eyelids dry.\n  By Him who suffered once, and once was dead,\n  But liveth evermore through endless days,\n  God hath encircled thy redeemed head\n  With rays of glory and eternal praise,\n  And with His own kind hand wiped every trace\n  Of tears, and pain and sorrow from thy face.\n\n  C. W.\n  WILDWOOD, March 7, 1880.\n\nOne of the notes referred to is as follows:\n\nDEAR MRS. WASHBURN:--If you judge by my handwriting, you will have to\nconclude that I am 100 years old. But it all comes of my carrying a\nheavy bag too long, and is all my own fault for trying to do too many\nerrands in one trip. Your dear little chair, the like of which I should\nlove to give to 540 people, only cost $2.50, so I enclose my check\nfor the rest of your $10. We sent off Mrs. Badger's parcel early this\nmorning. I hope digging and driving and packing and climbing in my\nbehalf, has not quite killed you. A lot of flowers in two boxes came to\nme from Matteawan while I was gone, and as my waitress fancied I had\nbeen shopping--as if I _should_ shop at East River!--she did not open\nthe boxes or inform the children, so the spectacle of withered beauty\nwas not very agreeable. A. and M. send love and thanks. The flowers you\ngave me look beautifully. Give our love to Mr. W. and Julia, and write\nabout her. We shall not soon forget our charming visit to East River!\n\nIn acknowledging this note Mrs. Washburn alludes to one of Mrs.\nPrentiss' most striking traits--the eager promptitude with which she\nwould execute little commissions for her friends. It was as if she had\ntaken a vow that there should not be one instant's delay.\n\nI do hope you have not been made sick by doing so many errands in such\na short time. The little chair has come and Mr. W. is much pleased with\nit. Nobody is so punctual as you. We were all amazed at receiving the\npicture so soon. How could you possibly have gotten home and packed it\nand marked the catalogues and bought the chair and written the check and\nsent me the little package of Japanese corn-seed and written me the note\nand have had a moment even to look at A.'s portrait? It is a mystery to\nme. You are a wonder of a woman! You are a genius! You are a _beloved\nfriend!_ I thank you again and again. Just think of the good you have\ndone us. Shall I send you some more daisies? I have written in the\ngreatest haste. That is the reason I have done no better and not because\nI am seventy years old.\n\nHere is her last note to Mrs. Washburn, dated June 3:\n\nThe box of daisies, clover, and grass came on Saturday. We set the\nplants out in the box in which they came, and mixed the grass with what\ncut flowers we had, in the very prettiest receptacle for flowers I ever\nsaw, just given M. The plants look this morning like a piece of Wildwood\nand a piece of you, and will gladden every spring we live to see....\nWe are packing for Dorset, though we do not mean to go if this weather\nlasts. I wonder if you have a \"daily rose\"? I have just bought one;\nfirst heard of it at the Centennial. It is said to bloom every day from\nMay to December.\n\nI am going out, now, to do ever so many errands for H.'s outfit for\ncollege. Give our dear love to Mr. Washburn and Julia. O, what a mercy\nit is to have somebody to love. [7]\n\nOn the 6th of June Mrs. Prentiss went to Dorset for the last time. Her\nhusband, after her departure, thus referred to this period:\n\nFor four or five weeks after coming here she was very much occupied\nabout the house, and seemed rather weary and care-worn. But the pressure\nwas then over and she had leisure for her flowers and her painting, for\ngoing to the woods with the girls, and for taking her favorite drives\nwith me. She spoke repeatedly of you and other friends. On the 23d\nof July I started for Monmouth Beach. The week preceding this little\njourney was one of the happiest of our married life. No words can tell\nhow sweet and loving and bright--in a word, how just like herself--she\nwas. The impassion of that week accompanied me to the sea-side and\ncontinued with me during my whole stay there. As day after day I sat\nlooking out upon the ocean, or walked alone up and down the shore, she\nwas still in all my thoughts. The noise of the breakers, the boundless\nexpanse of waters, the passing ships, going out and coming in, recalled\nsimilar scenes long ago on the coast of Maine, before and after our\nmarriage--scenes with which her image was indissolubly blended. Then\nI met old friends and found new ones, who talked to me with grateful\nenthusiasm of \"Stepping Heavenward,\" \"More Love to Thee, O Christ,\" and\nother of her writings. In truth, my feelings about her, while I was\nat Monmouth Beach, were quite peculiar and excite my wonder still. I\nscarcely know how to describe them. They were at times very intense,\nand, I had almost said, awe-struck, seemed bathed in a sweet Sabbath\nstillness, and to belong rather to the other world than to this of time\nand sense. How do you explain this? Was my spirit, perhaps, touched in\nsome mysterious way by the coming event? Certainly, had I been warned\nthat she was so soon to leave me, I could hardly have passed those days\nof absence in a mood better attuned to that in which I now think of her\nas forever at home with the Lord.\n\nThe following are two of her last letters:\n\n_To Mrs. Condict, Kauinfels, July 22, 1878._\n\nTo begin with the most important part of your letter. I reply that\nneither Mr. Prentiss or myself have ever had any sympathy with Second\nAdventists. All the talk about it seems to us mere speculation and\nprobable doom to disappointment. I do not see that it is as powerful a\nstimulant to holiness as the uncertainty of life is. Christ may come any\nday; but He may not come for ages; but we must and _shall_ die in the\nmerest fragment of an age, and see Him as He is. It will be a day\nof unspeakable joy, when we meet Him here or there. I shrink from\nunprofitable discussion of points that, after all, can only be tested by\ntime and events. I do not think our expecting Christ will bring Him a\nminute sooner, for the early church expected Him, yet He came not. There\nhas been so much wildness in theories on this subject that I am sore\nwhen I hear new ones advanced; none of these theories have proved to be\ncorrect, and I do not imagine any of them will.\n\nI have been busy indoors, upholstering not only curtains and couches,\nbut ever so many boxes, as our bureaus are shallow and our closets\nsmall. I made one for A. large enough for her to get into, and she uses\nit as she would a room, suspending objects from the sides and keeping\nall her artistic implements in it. I began my Bible-reading last\nThursday, the hottest day we have had; but there was a good attendance.\nMy G. met with an accident from the circular saw which alarmed and\ndistressed me so that his father had to hartshorn and fan me, while\nthe girls did what they could for G. till the doctor could be got from\nFactory Point. His eyebrow was cut open and his forehead gashed, but all\nhealed wonderfully, and we have reason to be thankful that he did not\nlose an eye, as he was so near doing. At any time when you must have\nchange, let me know, as there are often gaps between guests, and\nsometimes those we expected, fail. Mr. Prentiss is, apparently,\nbenefited by hot weather, and is unusually well. Thanks for the needles,\nwhich will be a great comfort. Have you painted a horse-shoe? I had\none given me; black ground and blue forget-me-nots, and hung by a blue\nribbon. I am going to paint one for M. and Hatty. I feel as if I had\nleft out something I wanted to say.\n\n_To Mrs. George Payson, Kauinfels, Aug. 1, 1878._\n\nI am all alone in the house, this evening, and as this gives me room at\nthe table, I am going to begin to answer your letter. George is out of\ntown, and all the rest, including the servants, have gone to see the\nMistletoe Bough. It is astonishing how slowly you get well; and yet\nwith such heat and such smells as you have in Chicago, it is yet more\nastonishing that you live at all. I thought it dreadful to have the\nthermometer stand at 90\u00b0 in my bedroom, three weeks running, and to\nsniff a bad sniff now and then from our pond, when the water got low,\nbut I see I was wrong. We have next to no flowers this summer; white\nflies destroyed the roses, frost killed other things, and then the three\nweeks of burning heat, with no rain, finished up others. Portulacca is\nour rear-guard, on which we fall back, filling empty spaces with it,\nand I grow more fond of it every year. A good many verbenas sowed\nthemselves, but came up too late to be of any use. We have a splendid\nbed of pansies, sown by a friend here.\n\nI have not done much indoors but renovate the house, but that has been a\ngreat job. I brought up a Japanese picture-book to use as a cornice in\nmy den, but A. persuaded me to get some wall paper, and use the pictures\nas a dado for the dining-room. The effect is very unique and pretty. I\nexpect George home to-morrow; he has been spending a delightful week at\nMonmouth Beach, visiting friends. I wish I could send you some of our\ndelicious ice-cream. We have it twice a week, with the juices of what\nfruit is going; peaches being best. We have not had much company yet.\nLast Saturday a friend of A.'s came and goes with her to Prout's Neck\nto-morrow. We do not count Hatty K. as company, but as one of us. She\ngets the brightest letters from Rob S., son of George. I should burst\nand blow up if my boys wrote as well. They have telephone and microphone\non the brain, and such a bawling between the house and the mill you\nnever heard. It is nice for us when we want meal, or to have a horse\nharnessed. Have you heard of the chair, with a fan each side, that fans\nyou twenty-five minutes from just seating yourself in it. It must be\ndelightful, especially to invalids, and ought to prolong life for\nthem.... The clock is striking nine, my hour for fleeing to get ready\nfor bed, but none of the angels have come home from the Mistletoe Bough,\nand so I suppose I shall have to make haste slowly in undressing. Love\nto all.\n\n_Aug. 3d._--I am delighted that you enjoyed the serge so much; I knew\nyou would. I forgot to answer your question about books. Have you read\n\"Noblesse Oblige\"? We admire it extremely. There are two works by this\ntitle; one poor. I read \"Les Miserables\" last winter, and got greatly\ninterested in it; whether there is a good English translation, I do not\nknow. \"That Lass o' Lowrie's\" you have probably read. I saw a Russian\nnovel highly praised the other day; \"Dosea,\" translated from the French\nby Mary Neal (Sherwood); \"Victor Lascar\" is said to be good. I have,\nprobably, praised \"Misunderstood\" to you. \"Strange Adventures of a\nPhaeton\" we liked; also \"The Maid of Sker\" and \"Off the Skelligs\"; its\nsequel is \"Fated to be Free.\"\n\nTwo tongues are running like mill-clappers, so good-night.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nII.\n\nLittle Incidents and Details of her last Days on Earth. Last Visit\nto the Woods. Sudden Illness. Last Bible-reading. Last Drive to\nHager-Brook. Reminiscence of a last Interview. Closing Scenes. Death.\nThe Burial.\n\n\nHer last days on earth were now close at hand. Such days have in\nthemselves, of necessity, no virtue above other days; and yet a tender\ninterest clings to them simply as the last. Their conjunction with\ndeath and the Life beyond seems to invest whatsoever comes to pass in\nthem--even trifles light as air--with unwonted significance. Soon after\nher sudden departure her husband noted down, for the satisfaction of\nabsent friends, such little incidents and details as could be recalled\nof her last ten days on earth. The following is a part of this simple\nrecord:\n\n_Sunday, Aug. 4, 1878._--To-day she went to the house of God for the\nlast time; and, as would have been her wish, had she known it was for\nthe last time, heard me preach. There was much in both the tone and\nmatter of the sermon, that made it seem, afterwards, as if it had been\nwritten in full view of the approaching sorrow. A good deal of the day\nat home was spent in getting ready for her Bible-reading on the ensuing\nThursday. At four o'clock in the afternoon she and the girls, M. and H.,\nusually drove in the phaeton over to the Rev. Mr. Reed's, on the West\nroad, to attend a neighborhood prayer-meeting; but to-day, on account of\na threatening thunder-shower, they did not go. She enjoyed this little\nmeeting very much.\n\n_Monday, Aug. 5th._--Soon after breakfast, she and the girl--\"we three\ngirls,\" as she used to say--started off, carrying each a basket, for\nthe Cheney woods in quest of ferns; it having been arranged that at ten\no'clock I should come with the phaeton to fetch her and the baskets\nhome. The morning, although warm, was very pleasant and all three were\nin high spirits. Before leaving the house, she ran up to her \"den\"--so\nshe called the little room where she wrote and painted--to get\nsomething; and on passing out of it through the chamber, where just\nthen I was shaving, she suddenly stopped, and pointing at me with\nher forefinger, her eye and face beaming with love and full of sweet\nwitchery, she exclaimed in a tone of pretended anger: \"How dare you,\nsir, to be shaving in my room?\" and in an instant she was gone! A minute\nor two later I looked after her from the window and saw her, with her\ntwo shadows, hurrying towards the woods. At the time appointed, I went\nfor her. She awaited me sitting on the ground on the further side of\nthe woods, near the old sugar-house. The three baskets, all filled with\nbeautiful ferns, were placed in the phaeton and we drove home.\n\nThe Cheney woods, as we call them, form one of the attractions of\nDorset. They are quite extensive, abound in majestic sugar-maples, some\nof which have been \"tapped,\" it is said, for more than sixty successive\nseasons, and at one point in them is a water-shed dividing into two\nlittle rivulets, one of which, after mingling with the waters of the\nBattenkill and the Hudson, finds its way at last into the Atlantic\nOcean; while the other reaches the same ocean through Pawlet River, Lake\nChamplain and the St. Lawrence River. These woods and our own, together\nwith the mountain and waterfall and groves beyond Deacon Kellogg's,\nwhere she often met her old friend \"Uncle Isaac,\" [8] were her favorite\nresorts.\n\nA little while after returning home I found her in her little room,\nlooking well and happy, and busy with her brush. The girls, also, on\nreaching the house found her there. But somewhat later, without our\nknowledge, she went out and worked for a long time on and about the\nlawn. There was a breeze, but the rays of the sun were scorchingly hot\nand she doubtless exerted herself, as she was always tempted to do,\nbeyond her strength. I was occupied until noon at the mill and later,\nin the field, watching the men cradling oats. On coming in to dinner, a\nlittle past one, I was startled not to find her at the table, \"Where is\nmamma?\" said I to M. \"She is not feeling very well,\" M. answered, \"and\nsaid she would not come down, as she did not want any dinner.\" I ran\nup-stairs, found her in her little room, and asked her what was the\nmatter. She replied that she had been troubled with a little nausea and\nfelt weak, but it was nothing serious. I went back to the table, but\nwith a worried, anxious mind. Somewhat later she lay down on the bed and\nthe prostration became so great, that I rubbed her hands vigorously and\nadministered hartshorn. It occurred to me at once that she had\nbarely escaped a sunstroke. After rallying from this terrible fit of\nexhaustion, she seemed quite like herself again, and listened with much\ninterest while the girls read to her out of Boswell's Johnson. She was\nin a sweet, gentle mood all the afternoon. \"I prayed this morning,\" she\nsaid, \"that I might be a comfort to-day to everybody in the house.\"\n\n_Tuesday, Aug.6th._--She passed the day in bed; feeble, but otherwise\nseeming still like herself. In the course of the morning we persuaded\nher to let Margaret, Eddy's old nurse, make her some milk-toast, which\nshe enjoyed so much that she said, \"I wish, Margaret, you were well\nenough to come and be our cook.\" M. had taken the place of our two\nservants, who were gone to East Dorset to a Confirmation, at which their\nbishop was to be present. Throughout the day she was in a very tender,\ngentle mood, as she had been on the previous afternoon. She was much\nexercised by the sudden death of the mother of one of our servants, the\nnews of which came while they were away. Had the case been that of\na near relative, she could hardly have shown warmer sympathy, or\nadministered consolation in a more considerate manner.\n\nDuring the day there was more or less talk about the Bible-reading and I\nbegged her to give it up. We finally agreed that the girls should drive\nover to Mrs. Reed's and ask her to take charge of it. They did so; but\nat Mrs. R.'s suggestion it was decided not to give up the meeting, but\nto convert it, if needful, into a little service of prayer and praise.\nThis arrangement seemed to please her. Although feeling very weak, she\ndid not appear at all depressed and was alive to everything that was\ngoing on in the room. The girls having written to a friend who was to\nvisit us the next week, she asked if they had mentioned her illness.\nThey both replied no--for each supposed the other had done it. \"Then\n(said she) you had better add a postscript, telling her that I lie at\nthe point of death.\"\n\n_Wednesday, Aug. 7th._--A beautiful day. She got up, put on a\ndressing-gown, and sat most of the day in the easy-chair, or rather the\n_sea_-chair, given us by my dear friend, Mr. Howland, when we went to\nEurope in 1858. She looked very lovely and we all enjoyed sitting and\ntalking with her in her chamber. The girls arranged her hair to please\ntheir own taste, and then told her how very charming she was! She liked\nto be petted by them; and they were never so happy as in petting and\n\"fussing\" about her. She spent an hour or two in looking over a package\nof old Agriculturists, that had belonged to her brother-in-law, Prof.\nHopkins, of Williams College. She delighted in such reading, and nothing\ncurious and interesting, or suggestive, escaped her notice. She called\nmy attention to an article on raising tomatoes, and cut it out for me;\nand also cut out many other articles for her own use.\n\nTowards night she dressed herself and came down to tea. She remained in\nthe parlor, talking with me and the boys, and reading the paper, until\nthe girls returned from the Wednesday evening meeting. Something had\noccurred to excite their mirth, and they came home in such a \"gale\" that\nshe playfully rebuked them for being so light-minded. But at the same\ntime she couldn't help joining in their mirth. In truth, she was quite\nas much a girl as either of them; and her laugh was as merry.\n\n_Thursday, Aug. 8th._--She seemed to feel much better this morning.\nBefore getting up we talked about her Bible-reading, and she asked me\nvarious questions concerning the passage that was to be its theme,\nnamely, John xv. 27. She referred particularly to our Lord's sayings, at\nthe beginning of the sixteenth chapter, on the subject of persecution,\nand told me how very strange and impressive they seemed to her, coming,\nas they did, in the midst of His last conversation with His disciples--a\nconversation so full of divine tenderness and love. This was almost the\nlast of innumerable and never-to-be-forgotten talks which we had had\ntogether, during more than a third of a century, upon passages of Holy\nScripture.\n\nAfter breakfast she went to her workshop and painted six large titles;\nand then went down to the piazza and painted a chair for Hatty. She also\nassisted the girls in watering her flowers. \"She came round to the back\nstoop Thursday morning (one of the servants told me afterwards) and I\nsaid to her, 'Mis Prentiss, and how d'ye feel?' and she said, 'Ellen, I\nfeel _weak_, but I shall be all right when I get my strength.'\" I still\nfelt troubled about her holding the Bible-reading and tried to dissuade\nher from attempting it. She had set her heart upon it, however, and said\nthat the disappointment at giving it up would be worse than the exertion\nof holding it. Her preparation was all made; the ladies would be there,\nsome of them from a distance, expecting to see her, and she could not\nbear to lose the meeting. So I yielded. We were expecting Dr. Vincent by\nthe afternoon train and I was to go to the station for him. Just as I\nwas seated in the carriage and was about to start, she came out on the\nporch, already dressed for the Bible-reading, and with an expression of\ninfinite sweetness, half playful and half solemn, pointing at me with\nher finger, said slowly: \"_You pray--one--little--prayer for me_.\" Never\nshall I forget that arch expression--so loving, so spiritual, and yet\nso stamped with marks of suffering--the peculiar tones of her voice, or\nthat dear little gesture!\n\nOf her last Bible-reading the following brief account is prepared from\nthe recollections kindly furnished me by several of the ladies who were\npresent:\n\nHER LAST BIBLE-READING.\n\nThere was something very impressive in Mrs. Prentiss' Bible-readings.\nShe seemed not unlike her gifted father in the power she possessed of\ncaptivating those who heard her. Her manner was perfectly natural,\nquiet, and even shy; it evidently cost her considerable effort to speak\nin the presence of so many listeners. She rarely looked round or even\nlooked up; but a sort of magnetic influence attracted every eye to _her_\nand held all our hearts in breathless attention. Her style was entirely\nconversational; her sentences were short, clear as crystal, full of\nhappy turns, and always fresh and to the point. The tones of her voice\nwere peculiar; I scarcely know how to describe them; they had such a\nfine, subtle, _womanly_ quality, were touched--especially at this last\nreading--with such tenderness and depth of feeling; I only know that as\nwe heard them, it was almost as if we were listening to the voice of an\nangel! And they are, I am sure, echoing still in all our memories.\n\nThe first glance at her, as she entered the room, a little before three\no'clock on the 8th of August, showed that she was not well. Her eyes\nwere unusually bright, but the marks of recent or approaching illness\nwere stamped upon her countenance. It was lighted up, indeed, with even\nunwonted animation and spiritual beauty; but it had also a pale and\nwearied look. The reading was usually opened with a silent prayer and\nclosed with two or three short oral prayers. The subject this afternoon\nwas the last verse of the fifteenth chapter of the Gospel according to\nJohn: _And ye also shall bear witness, because ye have been with me from\nthe beginning_. Witnessing for Christ, this was her theme. She began by\ngiving a variety of Scripture references illustrative of the nature and\ndifferent forms of Christian witness-bearing. It was her custom always\nto unfold the topic of the reading, and to verify her own views of it,\nby copious and carefully prepared citations from the Word of God. A\nBible-reading, as she conducted it, was not merely a study of a text,\nor passage of Scripture, by itself, but study of it in its vital\nrelations to the whole teaching of the Bible on the subject in hand. In\nthe present instance her references were all written out and were so\nnumerous and so skilfully arranged that they must have cost her no\nlittle labor. Feeling, apparently, too feeble to read them herself, she\nturned to her daughter, who sat by her mother's side, and requested her\nto do it.\n\nAfter the references had been given and the passages read, she went on\nto express her own thoughts on the subject. And, surely, had she been\nfully conscious that this was the last opportunity she would ever have\nof thus bearing witness for Christ, her words could not have been more\nhappily chosen. Would that they could be recalled just as they issued\nfrom her own lips! But it is not possible so to recall them. One might\nas well try to reproduce the sunset scene on the evening of her burial.\nFor even if the exact words could be repeated, who could bring back\nagain her tender, loving accents, or that strange earnestness and\n\"unction from the Holy One\" with which they were uttered? Or who could\nbring back again the awe-struck, responsive emotions that thrilled our\nhearts? The simplest outline of this farewell talk is all that is now\npracticable. Had we known what was coming, our memories would, no doubt,\nhave been rendered thereby sevenfold more retentive, and little that\nfell from her lips would have been lost.\n\nHer first point was the great variety of ways in which we can bear\nwitness for Christ. We can do it in private as well as in public; and it\nis in the private spheres and familiar daily intercourse of life\nthat most of us are called to give this testimony, and to give it by\nmanifesting in this intercourse and in these retired spheres the spirit\nof our Master. What an opportunity does the family, for example, afford\nfor constant and most effective witness-bearing! How a mother may honor\nChrist in what she says to her children about Him and especially by the\nmanner in which she fulfils her every-day home duties! How a wife may\nthus testify of Christ to her worldly, unconverted husband! And here she\nspoke of one form of _public_ testimony which everybody might and ought\nto give. \"I can not (she said) see all the faces in this room but there\nmay be those here who have never confessed Christ before men by uniting\nwith His visible church. Let me tell any such who may be present that\nthey are grieving their Saviour by refusing to give Him this testimony\nof their love and devotion.\"\n\nIn referring to this subject she remarked that young persons, after\nhaving united with the church, sometimes felt greatly disheartened and\nthought themselves the worst Christians in the world. But this was often\na very wrong feeling. Their sense of their own weakness and unworthiness\nmight come from the Holy Comforter; and we should be very careful how we\ntreat Him. His influence is a very tender, sacred thing, and, like the\nsensitive plant, recoils at the touch of a rude hand. I have wanted, she\nsaid, to speak _cheerful, comforting_ words to you to-day. It was the\nparticular desire of my husband this morning that I should do so. He\nthought that young Christians, especially, needed much encouragement on\nthis point. It was a great thing to lead them to feel that they could\nplease their Master and be witnesses for Him in quiet, simple ways, and\nthat, too, every day of their lives. Our Lord, to be sure, does not\nreally _need_ our services. He could quite easily dispense with them.\nBut He lets us work for Him somewhat as a mother lets her little child\ndo things for her--not because she needs the child's help, but because\nshe loves to see the child trying to please her. \"And yet, Mrs. Prentiss\n(asked one of the ladies), does there not come a time when the child is\nreally of service to the mother?\" \"I thank you for the suggestion (she\nreplied); I left my remark incomplete. Yes, it is true such a time does\ncome. And so, in a certain sense, it may be said, perhaps, that God\nneeds the services of His children. But how easily He can dispense with\nthe best and most useful of them! One may seem to have a great task to\nperform in the service of the Master, but in the midst of it he is taken\naway, and, while he is missed, the work of God goes right on. God does\nnot see such a difference as we do, she said, between what we call\ngreat and small services rendered to Him. A cup of cold water given in\nChrist's name, if that is all one can give, is just as acceptable as the\nrichest offering; and so is a tea-spoonful, if one has no more to give.\nChrist loves to be loved; and the smallest testimony of real love is\nmost pleasing to Him. And love shown to one of His suffering disciples\nHe regards as love to Himself. So a little child, just carrying a flower\nto some poor invalid, may thus do Christ honor and become more endeared\nto Him. There is no one, old or young, who has not the power of blessing\nother souls. We all have far more influence, both for good and evil,\nthan we dream of.\"\n\nIn the course of her talk she alluded to the trials of life and the\nshortness of them at the longest. We are all passing away, one after\nanother. Our intimate friends will mourn for us when we are gone, but\nthe world will move on just the same. And we should not allow ourselves\nto be troubled lest when our time comes we may be afraid to die. Dying\ngrace is not usually given until it is needed. Death to the disciple of\nJesus is only stepping from one room to another and far better room of\nour Father's house. And how little all the sorrows of the way will seem\nto us when we get to our home above! I suppose St. Paul, amidst the\nbliss of heaven, fairly _laughs_ at the thought of what he suffered for\nChrist in this brief moment of time. And as she said this, she gently\nwaved her hand in the way of emphasis. No one of us who saw it will soon\nforget that little gesture!\n\nIn one part of her remarks she cautioned us against hasty and harsh\njudgments. We should cover with our charity the faults and imperfections\nof those about us, as nature hides with her mossy covering the unsightly\nstone.\n\nShe referred to the case of children: a child often has a sweet\ndisposition until five or six years of age and then becomes very\nirritable and cross, causing the parents much anxiety--and, perhaps,\nmuch impatience. And yet it may not be the child's fault at all; but\nonly the effect of ill-health, too much study and confinement, or pure\nmismanagement. A large portion of the disobedience and wrong temper of\nchildren comes from improper food or loss of sleep, or something of\nthat sort. And it is not cross fretful _children_ alone that need to be\njudged tenderly. A consumptive friend of hers, rendered nervous and weak\nby long sickness, upon being asked one morning, as usual, about her\nhealth, replied: \"Don't ask me again--_I feel as if I could throw this\nchair at you._\" Now I do not think, said Mrs. Prentiss, that this\nspeech was a sin in the sight of God. He saw in it nothing but the poor\ninvalid's irritable nerves, God judges us according to the thoughts and\nintentions of the heart; and we ought, as far as possible, to judge each\nother in the same way. And when we ourselves are the ones really at\nfault, we ought to confess it. I never shall forget how humiliated I\nfelt when my mother once came to me and asked my forgiveness--but I\nloved her ten times as much for it.\n\nPrayer was another point touched upon in this last Bible-reading. She\nalmost always had something fresh and striking to say about prayer. It\nwas one of her favorite topics. I recall two or three of her remarks\nat this time. \"Always move the lips in prayer. It helps to keep one's\nthoughts from wandering.\" \"A mother can pray with a sick child on her\nlap more acceptably than to leave it alone in order to go and pray by\nherself.\" \"Accustom yourself to turn all your wants, cares and trials\ninto prayer. If anything troubled or annoyed my mother she went straight\nto the 'spare room,' no matter how cold the weather, and we children\nknew it was to pray. I shall never forget its influence over me.\" \"When\na question as to duty comes up, I think we can soon settle it in this\nway: 'Am I living near to Christ? Am I seeking His guidance? Am I\nrenouncing self in what I undertake to do for Him?' If we can say yes to\nthese questions, we may safely go into any path where duty lies.\" \"We\nnever dread to hear people pray who pray truly and in the Spirit. They\nmay be unlearned. They may be intellectually weak. But if they pray\nhabitually in the closet, they will edify out of it.\"\n\nSuch is a poor, meagre account of this last precious Bible-reading.\nPossibly some of the things here recorded belonged to previous\nreadings--though Mrs. Prentiss occasionally repeated remarks on points\nto which she attached special importance. \"Some good (she said) will\ncome of these meetings, I feel sure. It is impossible that you\nshould take so much pains, and some of you put yourselves to so much\ninconvenience, in order to come here and study together God's Word--and\nHis blessing not follow.\" The blessing has already followed, good\nmeasure, pressed down and running over, and it will continue to follow\nin days to come; especially the blessings of this last meeting, when, in\na strain so sweet and tender--as though she had a new glimpse of heaven\nand the heart of God--our beloved and now sainted teacher urged us to\nbear witness for Christ and showed us so plainly how to do it.\n\nAt the close of the meeting she looked very pale and seemed much\nexhausted. \"You are ill, Mrs. Prentiss,\" said one of the ladies,\ndistressed by her appearance. \"Yes,\" she said, \"I _am_.\" Still, it\nseemed a great pleasure to her to have met us once more. Nor can I help\nthinking that, even if she herself had no presentiment of what was\ncoming, she was yet led of the Spirit, the blessed Comforter, to hold\nthis last Bible-reading. It was itself just such a testimony for Christ\nas fitly crowned her consecrated and beautiful life.\n\nUpon my return from the station with Dr. Vincent she met us on the\nporch, bade him welcome to Dorset, told him with what extraordinary care\nthe girls had made ready his room, and appeared in excellent spirits all\nthe rest of the day. While at tea she expressed to Dr. V. our regret\nthat Dr. Poor could not have made his visit at the same time; although,\nto be sure, they might, if together, have \"brought the house down\"\nupon our heads by the explosions of their mirth. She then related some\namusing anecdotes of a queer, crotchety old domestic of ours in New\nBedford a third of a century ago, and of her delight when Dr. Poor\n(then settled at Fair Haven, opposite New Bedford) got married, because\n\"_now_, it was to be hoped, he would stay at home with his wife and not\nbe coming over all the time and drinking up our tea!\"\n\nOn my asking her about the Bible-reading, she said she got through with\nit very well, expressed surprise at the large attendance, and spoke of\nthe deep interest manifested. After tea she sat with us in the parlor\nfor some time and then, kissing M. good-night, omitted Hatty and the\nboys (a most unusual thing), remarking, as she left for her chamber,\n\"Well, I'm not going to kiss all this roomful.\"\n\n_Friday, Aug.9th_--A severe thunder-storm had set in early last night\nand continued at short intervals throughout the day. She was very\nanxious that Dr. Vincent should enjoy his visit, and on his account\nwas disturbed by the weather; otherwise, a thunder-storm seemed to\nexhilarate her, as is said to have been the case with her father. She\nspent most of Friday in her \"den,\" finishing a little picture and\nchatting from time to time with the girls who were busy in the adjoining\nroom. Dr. Vincent and I sat a part of the forenoon on the piazza under\nher window and whiled away the time, he in telling and I in listening to\nany number of amusing stories. She called the attention of M. and H. to\nour unclerical behavior: \"Just hear those doctors of divinity giggling\nlike two schoolgirls!\" But nobody enjoyed more an amusing story, or told\none with more zest than she did herself.\n\nI forget whether it was on Friday, or an earlier day, that she showed me\na remarkable letter she had received, during my absence at the sea-side,\nfrom London. It was written by a young wife and mother nearly related to\ntwo of the most honored families of England, and sought her counsel in\nreference to certain questions of duty that had grown out of special\ndomestic trials. \"Stepping Heavenward,\" the writer said, had formed an\nera in her religious life; she had read it through _from fifty to sixty\ntimes_; it had its place by the side of her Bible; and no words could\nexpress the good it had done her, or the comfort she had derived from\nits pages. \"The Home at Greylock\" had also been of great help to her as\na wife and mother; and she could not but hope that one whose books had\nbeen such a blessing to her, might be able to render her still greater\nand more direct aid by personal counsel. The letter, which was\nbeautifully written and was full of the most grateful feelings, appealed\nvery strongly to her sympathy. But it was never answered.\n\n_Saturday, Aug. 10th_--She had a tolerable night, but on coming down to\nbreakfast said, in reply to Dr. Vincent's question, How she felt? \"I\nfeel like bursting out crying.\" After prayers, however, when the plans\nfor the day were arranged and a drive to Hager brook--a picturesque\nmountain glen and waterfall--was made the order of the forenoon, she\nproposed to go with us. I had almost feared to suggest it, and yet was\ngreatly relieved to find that she felt able to take the ride. It was\ndecided, therefore, that she, Hatty K., Dr. Vincent and I should form\nthe party. As we drove toward the village I noticed that Dr. Wyman was\njust stopping at our next neighbor's. Dr. Hemenway, our old physician,\nhad removed to St. Paul's, and Dr. W. had taken his place. I was\nrejoiced to see him, both on her account and my own. I had not been well\nmyself during the week, and although I had repeatedly proposed to\ncall in the doctor for her, she stoutly refused. So, after getting a\nprescription for myself, I said, \"And now, doctor, I want you to\ndo something for my wife,\" relating to him her ill-turn on Monday.\n\"Certainly (the doctor replied) she needs some _arsenicum_,\" which he\ngave her, promising to call and see us on the next Monday. As we rode on\nDr. Vincent suggested, laughingly, what a strange story might be based\nupon Dr. W.'s prescription. \"I might report, for example, that I myself\nsaw the author of 'Stepping Heavenward' eating arsenic!\" She joined\nheartily in the laugh and during all the rest of the drive conversed\nwith great animation. She related several anecdotes of her early life,\ntalked with admiration of the writings and genius of Mrs. Stowe--one Of\nwhose New England stories she had just been reading--and seemed exactly\nlike herself. Upon reaching the brook in East Rupert and starting with\nDr. Vincent for the glen, I said to her, \"Now don't walk off out of\nsight, where I can't see you when we come back.\" \"Oh yes, I shall,\" she\nreplied in her pleasant way.\n\n\"After we were left alone that Saturday morning (Hatty writes) Mrs.\nPrentiss gathered quite a bunch of the wild ageratum, and then dug up\nthe roots of three wild clematis vines with her scissors. She then\ncalled my attention to the thimbleberry bushes along the edge of\nthe brook, admiring the foliage of the plant and expressing the\ndetermination to have one or more in her garden next year.\"\n\nOn coming down from the glen I found her sitting on the ground near the\nbrook. Taking her by the hand--for she seemed very tired--I helped\nher to rise and walked back with her toward the carriage. Just before\nreaching the road she saw some clusters of clematis on the side of the\nbrook, which at her desire I gathered. It was the last service of the\nkind ever performed for her, and I am so thankful that no hands but mine\nwere privileged to perform it! During the drive home she said almost\nnothing and was, evidently, feeling very much wearied. We returned by\nthe West road and on passing in at our gate I observed that Dr. Wyman's\ngig was still in front of Miss Kent's. \"Why, Lizzy, Dr. Wyman is still\nhere,\" said I. \"Then, I would like to see him now rather than wait till\nMonday,\" she said, to my surprise. I went immediately and asked him to\ncall. It was, I think, between eleven and twelve o'clock. He came very\nsoon and she received him in the parlor. I noticed at once that she was\nextremely nervous and agitated, while explaining to him her symptoms;\nand not being able to recall some point, she remarked that her mind had\nbeen much confused all the week. Just then she rose hastily, excused\nherself, and went up to her room. \"_She is very ill_ (said the doctor,\nturning to me) and must go to bed instantly.\" While he was preparing\nher medicines Judge M. and family from New York, who were sojourning at\nManchester, called; but learning of her illness, soon left. Later in the\nday I told her who had called and how much Mrs. M. and the young ladies\nadmired her flowers, especially the portulacas. She seemed pleased\nand said to me, \"You had better, then, prepare two little boxes of\nportulacas and send them over to Mrs. M. to keep in her windows while\nshe stays at the Equinox House.\" A few days after her death I did so and\nreceived a touching note of thanks from Mrs. M.\n\nAs the doctor directed, she at once took to her bed. For an hour or two\nher prostration was extreme, and she nearly fainted. Her head shook and\nher condition verged on a collapse. I rubbed her hands vigorously, gave\nher a restorative, and gradually her strength returned. In speaking of\nthe attack she said the sense of weakness was so terrible that she would\ngladly have died on the spot. In the course of the afternoon, however,\nshe was so much easier that the girls read to her again out of Boswell's\nJohnson and she seemed to listen with all the old interest. It pleased\nher greatly to have them read to her; and she loved to talk with them\nabout the books read and especially to discuss the characters depicted\nin any of them.\n\nToward evening George brought in some trout, which he had caught for her\nout of our brook. Her appetite was exceedingly poor, but she was very\nfond of trout and G. often caught a little mess for her supper. Our\nbrook never seemed so dear to me, nor did its rippling music ever\nsound so sweet, as when I did the same thing, before he came home from\nPrinceton and took the privilege out of my hands. When he brought in the\ntrout, Ellen went to his mother's chamber and asked if they should not\nbe kept for breakfast? \"No, they are very nice and you had better have\nthem for supper.\" \"Shan't I save some for your breakfast?\" asked Ellen,\nknowing how fond she was of them. \"No,\" said she, \"the doctor says I\nmust take nothing but beef-tea.\" \"And d'ye feel better, Mis' Prentiss?\"\ncontinued Ellen. \"Oh I feel better, Ellen, but I'm very weak--I shall be\nall right in a few days.\"\n\nAfter tea she insisted on sending for Mrs. Sarah C. Mitchell, of\nPhiladelphia, whom she had been unable to see on the previous Monday.\nMrs. M. was the last person out of the family, with whom she conversed,\nexcepting the doctors and nurse. [9]\n\n_Sunday, Aug. 11th._--She slept better than I feared, but awoke very\nfeeble, taking no nourishment except a little beef-tea. She lay quiet a\npart of the time; but the quiet intervals grew shorter and were followed\nby most distressing attacks. M. and I sat by her bed, but could do\nnothing to relieve her. My fears had now become thoroughly aroused and\nI awaited the arrival of the doctor with the most intense anxiety. Hour\nafter hour of the morning, however, passed slowly away and he did not\ncome. At length a messenger brought word from the \"West road,\" where he\nhad been called at midnight, that an urgent telegram had summoned him to\nArlington and that he should not be able to reach Dorset before one or\ntwo o'clock P.M. The anguish of the suspense during the next three or\nfour hours was something dreadful. When the bell rang for church she\ndesired that M. should go, as Dr. Vincent was to preach, and it would\ngive a little relief from the strain that was upon her.\n\nSoon after M. had left, during an interval of comparative ease, she\nfixed her eyes upon me with a most tender, loving expression, and in a\nsort of beseeching tone, said, \"Darling, don't you think you could ask\nthe Lord to let me go?\" Perceiving, no doubt, how the question affected\nme, she went on to give some reasons for wishing to go. She spoke very\nslowly, in the most natural, simple way, and yet with an indescribable\nearnestness of look and voice, as if aware that she was uttering her\ndying words. I can not recall all that she said, but its substance, and\nsome of the exact expressions, are indelibly impressed upon my memory.\nFor my and the children's sake she had been willing and even desired to\nlive; and for several years had made extraordinary efforts to keep up,\nalthough much of the time the burden of ill-health, as I well knew, had\nbeen well-nigh insupportable. So far as this world was concerned, few\npersons in it had such reasons for wishing to live, or so much to render\nlife attractive. But the feeling in her heart had become overpowering\nthat no earthly happiness, no interest, no distraction, could any longer\nsatisfy her, or give her content, away from Christ; and she longed to be\nwith Him, where He is. During the past three months especially, she had\npassed through very unusual exercises of mind with reference to this\nsubject; and it seemed to her as if she had now reached a point\nbeyond which she could not go. She evidently had in view the dreadful\n_sleeplessness_, to which she had been so in bondage for a quarter of\na century, whose grasp had become more and more relentless, and the\neffects of which upon her nervous system were such as words can hardly\ndescribe. No human being but myself had any conception of her suffering,\nboth physical and mental, from this cause.\n\nTo return to her conversation.... In answer to a question which I put to\nher later, about her view of heaven and of the relation of the saints in\nglory to their old friends there and here, she replied, in substance,\nthat to her view _heaven is being with Christ and to be with Christ\nis heaven_. By this she did not mean, I am sure, to imply any doubt\nrespecting the immortality of Christian love and friendship, or that\nour individual human affections will survive the grave. Often had she\ndelighted herself in the thought of meeting her sainted father and\nmother in heaven, of meeting there Eddy and Bessie and other dear ones\nwho had gone before; and certain I am, too, she believed that those who\nare gone before retain their peculiar interest in those who are toiling\nafter, only her mind was so absorbed in the thought of the presence and\nbeatific vision of Christ in His glory that, for the moment, it was lost\nto everything else.\n\nShe then said that, in the event of her death, she would like to be\nburied in Dorset, where we could easily visit her grave. \"But I do not\nexpect to go now,\" she added. This meant, as I interpret it, that she\nregarded so speedy a departure to be with Christ as something _too good\nto be true_. Repeatedly, when very ill, she had thought herself on the\nverge of heaven and had been called back to earth, and she feared it\nwould be so now.\n\nHardly had this never-to-be-forgotten conversation come to a close when\nher feet entered \"the swelling of Jordan,\" and found no rest until\nthey walked the \"sweet fields beyond.\" Her disease (gastro-enteritis)\nreturned with great violence; the medical appliances seemed to have\nlittle or no effect; and the paroxysms of pain were excruciating.\nA chill, also, began to creep over her. About two o'clock, to my\ninexpressible relief, the doctor arrived. Her first thought was that he\nshould rest a little and that some ice-cream should be brought to him.\nIn answer to his inquiries she told him that she had never known agony\nsuch as she had endured that forenoon, and he immediately applied\nremedies adapted to the case. But they afforded only temporary relief.\nA terrible restlessness seized upon her and would not let go its hold.\nTowards evening she got into the sea-chair, and remained in it near the\nopen window until morning. On leaving for the night Dr. Wyman intrusted\nher to the care of Dr. Slocum, who had recently come to Dorset. Dr. S.\nremained with her all night and was indefatigable in trying to alleviate\nher sufferings. \"How kind he is!\" she said to me once when he had left\nthe room. M. sat up with me till towards morning and assisted in\ngiving the medicines. Her distress could only be assuaged by inhaling\nchloroform every few minutes and by the constant use of ice. As from\ntime to time, going down for the ice, I stepped out on the piazza, the\nscene that met my eye was in strange contrast to the one I had just\nleft. Within the sick-chamber it was a night dark with suffering and\nanxiety; as the hours passed slowly away, my heart almost died in the\nshadow of the coming event; all was gloom and agitation except the sweet\npatience of the sufferer. But the beauty and stillness of the night out\nof doors was something marvellous. The light of the great harvest moon\nwas like the light of the sun. It flooded hills and valley with its\nsplendor. The outlines of each mountain, of every tree, and of all\nvisible objects, far or near, were as distinct as those of the stars, or\nof the moon itself. As I stood and gazed upon the infinite beauty of the\nscene, I felt, as never in my life before, how helpless is Nature in the\npresence of a great trouble. The beauty of the night was fully matched\nby that of the morning. As the first rays of the sun crossed the\nmountains and shone down upon the valley, I said to myself, even while\nmy heart was racked with anxious foreboding--\"How wonderful! How\nwonderful!\"\n\n_Monday, Aug. 12th._--For some hours she seemed much more comfortable,\nand, in the course of the morning, of her own accord, was removed from\nthe chair to the bed. \"On Monday morning (writes Dr. Wyman) I found her\nwith temperature nearly normal, pulse less than 100, and other symptoms\nimproved. This gave us hope that the worst was passed, but it was only\nthe lull before the storm.\" She was for the most part quiet and took\nlittle notice of anything that was going on. During the forenoon M.\ntried to get some rest in the sea-chair by the window, while Hatty kept\nher place by the bed. Several times Lizzy looked round the room as if\nin quest of some one. Hatty perceiving this and guessing what it meant,\nstepped aside (she was between the bed and the chair so as to intercept\nthe view), when she fixed her eyes upon M. and rested as if she had\nfound what she sought. Having been up most of the night, I also tried\nto get a little rest in another room, and later went out in search of\na nurse and engaged an excellent one, Mrs. C., who came early in the\nafternoon.\n\nNotwithstanding my deep anxiety I was deceived by the more favorable\nsymptoms, and did not allow myself, during the day, to think she would\nnot recover. In the early evening I wrote to A., who was absent in\nMaine:\n\nI am sorry to say that your mother had a very trying day yesterday and\nhas been extremely weak and exhausted to-day.... Nervous prostration\nappears to be the great trouble. She has rested quietly much of the time\nto-day and the medicines seem to be doing their work; and in a couple of\ndays, I trust, she may be greatly improved. You know how these ill-turns\nupset her and how quickly she often rallies from them. She is very\nanxious you should not shorten your visit on her account.\n\nSoon after this letter was written, the whole aspect of the case\nsuddenly changed. The unfavorable symptoms had returned with renewed\nviolence. Dr. W. asked her, during one of the paroxysms, about the pain.\nShe answered that it was not a pain--it was a distress, an _agony_. But\nfrom first to last she never uttered a groan--not during the sharpest\nparoxysms of distress. She seemed to say to herself, in the words of two\nfavorite German mottoes, which she had illumined and placed on the wall\nover her bed, _Geduld, Mein Herz!_ (Patience, My Heart!)--_Stille, Mein\nWille!_ (Still, My Will!) \"The patient and uncomplaining manner,\" writes\nDr. Wyman, \"in which the most agonizing pains which it has ever been my\nlot to witness were borne--with no repining, no murmur, no fretfulness,\nbut quiet, peaceful submission to endure and suffer--will not soon be\nforgotten.\" At eleven o'clock, when the doctor left, I sent the nurse\naway for a couple of hours rest and took her place by the sick-bed.\nLizzy, who had already begun to feel the effects of the morphine, lay\nmotionless, and breathed somewhat heavily, but not alarmingly so.\n\n_Tuesday, Aug. 13th._--Shortly after one o'clock I called the nurse and,\ndirecting her to summon me at once in the event of any change, retired\nto the green-room for a little rest. The girls had been persuaded before\nthe doctor left, to throw themselves on their bed. Everything was quiet\nuntil about three o'clock, when Hatty knocked at my door with a message\nfrom the nurse. I hurried down and saw at the first glance as I entered\nthe room, that a great change had taken place. It seemed as if I heard\nthe crack of doom and that the world was of a sudden going to pieces. I\nwent to G.'s room, woke him, told him what I feared, and desired him to\ngo for Dr. Slocum as quickly as possible. He was dressed in an instant,\nas it were, and gone. In the meantime I woke H., and told him his\nmother, I feared, was dying. When Dr. Slocum arrived he felt her pulse,\nlooked at her and listened to her breathing for a minute or two, and\nthen, turning slowly to me, said, _It is death!_ This was not far from\nfour o'clock. I asked if I had better send at once for Dr. Wyman? \"He\ncan do nothing for her,\" was the reply, \"but you had better send.\" I\nrequested G. to call Albert, and tell him to go for Dr. W. as fast as\npossible. \"I will saddle Prince and go myself,\" G. said; and in a few\nminutes he was riding rapidly towards Factory Point. I then knocked at\nDr. Poor's door. Upon opening it and being told what was coming, he was\nso completely stunned that he could with difficulty utter a word. He had\narrived the previous afternoon on the same train by which Dr. Vincent\nleft. I had tried by telegraph to _prevent_ his coming; but a kind\nProvidence so ordered it that my message reached Burlington, where he\nhad been on a visit, just after he had started for Dorset.\n\nThe night, like that of Sunday, was as day for brightness. Never shall\nI forget its wondrous beauty, although it seemed only a mockery of my\ndistress. Soon after the first rays of the sun appeared, Dr. Wyman came,\nbut only to repeat, _It is death_. I asked him how long she might be a\ndying. \"Perhaps several hours; but she may drop away at any moment.\"\nWe all gathered about her bed and watched the ebbing tide of life.\nThe girls were already kneeling together on the left side. They never\nchanged their posture for more than four hours; they wept, but made no\nnoise. The boys stood at the foot of the bed, deeply moved, but calm\nand self-possessed. The strain was fearful; and yet it was relieved by\nblessed thoughts and consolations. Although the chamber of death, it was\nthe chamber of peace, and a light not of earth shone down upon us all.\nHe who was seen walking, unhurt, in the midst of the fire and whose form\nwas like the Son of God, seemed to overshadow us with His presence.\n\nAs the end drew near, we all knelt together and my old friend, Dr. Poor,\ncommended the departing spirit to God and invoked for us, who were\nabout to be so heavily bereaved, the solace and support of the blessed\nComforter.... The breathing had now grown slower and less convulsive,\nand at length became gentle almost like that of one asleep; the\ndistressed look changed into a look of sweet repose; the eyes shut; the\nlips closed; and the whole scene recalled her own lines:\n\n  Oh, where are words to tell the joy unpriced\n  Of the rich heart, that breasting waves no more,\n    Drifts thus to shore,\n  Laden with peace and tending unto Christ!\n\nAbout half-past seven it became evident that the mortal struggle was on\nthe point of ending. For several minutes we could scarcely tell whether\nshe still lived or not; and at twenty minutes before eight she drew one\nlong breath and all was over.\n\nAgain we knelt together, and in our behalf Dr. Poor gave thanks to\nAlmighty God for the blessed saint now at rest in Him--and for all she\nhad been to us and all she had done for Him, through the grace of Christ\nher Saviour.\n\nThe following account of the burial was written by the Rev. Dr. Vincent\nand appeared in the New York Evangelist:\n\nDORSET, VT. _August 16, 1878._\n\nThis lovely valley has been, for the past few days, \"a valley of the\nshadow.\" It is not the least significant tribute to one so widely known\nas Mrs. Prentiss, that her death has affected with such real sorrow, and\nwith such a deep sense of loss, this little rural community which has\nbeen her home during a large part of the last ten years. It would have\nbeen hard to find among all who gathered at the funeral services on\nWednesday, a face which did not bear the marks of true sorrow and of\ntender sympathy; while from the groups of sunburned farmers gathered\nround the door or walking towards the cemetery, were often heard the\nwords \"a great loss.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe funeral took place at the house on Wednesday afternoon, and was\nconducted by the Rev. P. S. Pratt, pastor of the old Congregational\nChurch of Dorset; assisted by Dr. Vincent, and Dr. D. W. Poor. Mr. Pratt\nread the twenty-third Psalm and a part of the fourteenth chapter of\nJohn, which was followed by the hymn, \"O gift of gifts, O grace of\nfaith,\" after which Dr. Poor delivered a most appropriate, tender, and\ninteresting address. Dr. Vincent then offered prayer, and the hymn\n\"Nearer, my God, to Thee,\" was sung, closing the services at the house.\nThe large assemblage passed in succession by the casket, where lay such\nan image of perfect rest as one is rarely favored to see. All traces of\nstruggle and pain had faded from the expressive face, and nothing was\nleft but the sweetness of eternal repose.\n\nIt was now a little after six o'clock, and the shadows were lengthening\nin the valley at the close of one of those rare days of the ripe summer,\nwhich only the hill-countries develop in their perfect loveliness. The\nlong procession moved from the house, and at the distance of about a\nquarter of a mile entered the little cemetery; and as it mounted the\nslope on which was the grave, the scene was one of most pathetic beauty.\nStanding in the shadow of the hills which bound the valley on the east,\nthe eye ranged southward to the long, undulating outline of the Green\nMountain, coming round to the Equinox range on the west, \"muffled thick\"\nto its very crest with the green maples and pines, and still farther\nround to the bold hills and sloping uplands on the north. Below lay the\nquiet village, at our feet \"God's acre,\" with the train of mourners\nwinding among the white stones. Who could stand there, compassed about\nby the mountains, and in the shadow of that great sorrow, and not\nwhisper the words of the Pilgrim Psalm, \"I will lift up mine eyes unto\nthe hills. Whence should help come to me? My help cometh from Jehovah,\nwho made heaven and earth.\"\n\nAs the casket was borne to the grave, the setting sun, which for the\nlast half hour had been hidden by a mass of clouds, burst out in full\nsplendor, gilding the mountain-tops and shedding his parting rays upon\nthe group around the tomb, the stricken family, the weeping neighbors\nand friends, especially the women whom for some years past she had been\nin the habit of meeting at her weekly Bible-reading, and some of whom\nhad walked each week for miles along the mountain roads, through storm\nand heat, to drink of the living waters which flowed at her touch.\n\nDr. Vincent, holding in his hand a little, well-worn volume, and\nstanding at the foot of the grave, spoke substantially as follows:\n\nI am glad, my friends, that I am not one of those who know God only as\nthey find Him identified with the woods and fields and streams. If this\nwere so, I should turn from the grave of this beloved friend, and go my\nway in utter heart-sickness and hopelessness; for Nature would but mock\nme to-day with her fulness of summer life. These forest-clad mountains,\nthat waving grain, those woods, pulsating with the hum of insects and\nwith the song of birds, all speak of life, while we stand here at the\nclose of a precious and useful human life, to lay in the dust all that\nremains of what was so dear, and so fruitful in good.\n\nBut, thanks to God, we are not here as those who face an insoluble\nriddle. We believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, and in the resurrection of\nthe dead; and with this key in our hand, we stand here at the grave's\nmouth, and looking backward, interpret the lesson of this closed life;\nand looking forward, gaze with hope into the future. Thus Nature becomes\nour consoler instead of our mocker; a type, and not a contradiction of\nhuman immortality. Thus, and only thus, do we find ourselves at the\nstandpoint from which Christ viewed nature when He said, \"Except a corn\nof wheat fall into the ground and die it abideth alone; but if it die,\nit bringeth forth much fruit\"; the standpoint from which Paul viewed\nnature when he wrote, \"That which thou sowest is not quickened except it\ndie; and that which thou sowest, thou sowest not that body which shall\nbe, but bare grain, it may chance of wheat, or of some other grain; but\nGod giveth it a body as He willeth, and to every seed his own body. So\nalso is the resurrection of the dead. It is sown in corruption, it is\nraised in incorruption. It is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory.\nIt is sown in weakness, it is raised in power. It is sown a natural\nbody, it is raised a spiritual body.\"\n\nAnd thus too we can understand the words which I read from this little\nvolume, the daily companion of our friend for many years, containing a\npassage of Scripture for every day in the year, and marked everywhere\nwith her notes of special anniversaries and memorable incidents. Was it\nmerely an accidental coincidence that, on the morning of the thirteenth\nof August, on which she exchanged earth for heaven, the passage for the\nday was, \"I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, Write, Blessed are\nthe dead which die in the Lord, from henceforth, yea, saith the Spirit,\nthat they may rest from their labors, and their works do follow them.\"\n\nThere are two thoughts in this verse which seem to me to be fraught\nwith comfort and hope to us as we gather round this grave. There is the\nthought of rest. \"They rest from their labors.\" Bethink you of the long\nlife marked by the discipline of sorrow, and by those unwearied labors\nfor others. Bethink you of the racking agony of the last two days; and\nhow blessed, how soothing the contrast introduced by the words--\"She\nrests from her labors.\" Still is the busy hand; at rest the active\nbrain; completed the discipline; the pain ended forever.\n\nThe other thought is that her work is not done, so far as its results\nare concerned. \"Their works do follow them.\" Think you that because she\nwill no longer meet you in her weekly Bible-readings, because her pen\nwill no more indite the thoughts which have made so many patient under\nlife's burdens, and helped so many to make of their burdens steps on\nwhich to mount heavenward--think you her work is ended? Nay. Go into\nyonder field, and pluck a single head of wheat, and plant the grains,\nand you know that out of each grain which falls into the ground and\ndies, there shall spring up an hundred-fold. Shall you recognise so much\nmultiplying power in a corn of wheat, and not discern the infinitely\ngreater power of multiplication enfolded in a holy life and in a holy\nthought? No. Through the long years in which her mortal remains shall be\nquietly resting beneath this sod, the work of her tongue and pen shall\nbe reproducing itself in new forms of power, of faith, and of patience.\n\nAnd yet we seem to want something more than these two thoughts give\nus. It does not satisfy us to contemplate only rest from labor and the\nperpetuated fruits of labor. And that something this same little volume\ngives us in the words appointed for this day, on which we commit her\nmortal part to the grave: \"For God is not unrighteous to forget your\nwork and labor of love, which ye have showed toward His name, in that\nye have ministered to the saints and do minister. Be not slothful,\nbut followers of them who, through faith and patience, inherit the\npromises.\" Here the veil is lifted, and we get the glimpse we want of\nher inheritance and reward in heaven. She has inherited the promises;\nsuch promises as these: \"If children, then heirs, heirs of God, and\njoint-heirs with Christ; if so be that we suffer with Him, that we may\nbe also glorified together.\" \"They shall hunger no more, neither thirst\nany more, neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat; for the\nLamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead\nthem to living fountains of waters, and God shall wipe away all tears\nfrom their eyes.\" \"They shall see His face, and His name shall be in\ntheir foreheads.\" \"To him that overcometh will I grant to sit with me in\nmy throne, even as I also overcame, and am set down with my Father in\nHis throne.\"\n\nThus we commit this mortal body to the ground in hope, and with\nassurances of victory. Oh, it is one of the most wonderful of facts,\nthat at the grave's very portal, amid all the tears and desolation which\ndeath brings, we can stand and sing hymns of triumph--even that song\nwhich, from the morning when the angels met Mary at the Lord's empty\nsupulchre, has been sounding over the graves of the dead in Christ--\"O\ndeath, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? The sting of\ndeath is sin; and the strength of sin is the law; but thanks be to God,\nwho giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.\"\n\nHow sweet, how impressive, is this scene! No wonder that we linger\nhere while Nature, at this evening hour, speaks to us so tenderly and\nbeautifully of rest. Even as yonder clouds break from the setting\nsun, and are tinged with glory by its parting beams, so our sorrow is\nillumined by this truth of the Resurrection. There is no terror in\ndeath, and relieved by such a faith and hope, our thoughts are all of\npeace, and flow naturally into the mould of those familiar lines:\n\n  \"So fades a summer cloud away,\n    So sinks the gale when storms are o'er,\n  So gently shuts the eye of day,\n    So dies a wave along the shore.\"\n\nBut this scene is adapted also to kindle aspiration in our hearts--\naspiration to be followers of them who, through faith and patience,\ninherit the promises. Her victory over death is the victory of love to\nChrist; and that same victory may be yours through the same Christ in\nwhose name she conquered. Shall we not pray that His love may be shed\nabroad in all our hearts in richer measure? And can we better frame that\nprayer than in those lines which she wrote out of her own heart? Let us\nthen sing\n\n  MORE LOVE TO THEE, O CHRIST.\n\n    More love, O Christ, to Thee!\n  Hear Thou the prayer I make\n    On bended knee:\n  This is my earnest plea,--\n  More love, O Christ, to Thee!\n  More love, O Christ, to Thee!\n    More love to Thee.\n\n  Once earthly joy I craved,\n    Sought peace and rest;\n  Now Thee alone I seek;\n    Give what is best!\n\n  This all my prayer shall be,--\n  More love, O Christ, to Thee!\n    More love to Thee.\n\n  Let sorrow do its work,\n    Send grief and pain;\n  Sweet are Thy messengers,\n    Sweet their refrain,\n  When they can sing with me\n  More love, O Christ, to Thee!\n    More love to Thee.\n\n  Then shall my latest breath\n    Whisper Thy praise!\n  This be the parting cry\n    My heart shall raise,\n  This still its prayer shall be,\n  More love, O Christ, to Thee!\n    More love to Thee.\n\nAfter the singing of these words, Mr. Pratt, according to the old\ncountry custom, returned thanks to the assembled friends in the name of\nthe family, for their sympathy and aid in the burial of their dead. The\nseveral members of the household each laid a floral offering upon the\ncasket lid, and the body was lowered into the grave. Dr. Vincent uttered\nthe solemn words of committal to the dust, and Dr. Poor pronounced the\nparting blessing in the words, \"The God of peace who brought again from\nthe dead our Lord Jesus, that Great Shepherd of the sheep, through the\nblood of the Everlasting Covenant, make you perfect in every good work\nto do His will, working in you that which is well-pleasing in His sight,\nthrough Jesus Christ, to whom be glory forever and ever. Amen.\"\n\nThus the valley of the shadow has been irradiated. To those who have\nbeen permitted to participate in these closing scenes, it has seemed\nlike standing at heaven's gate. The valley of the shadow has become a\ntransfiguration mountain, where we have seen the Lord.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHardly had the news of her death left Dorset when there began to pour\nin upon its stricken household a stream of the tenderest Christian\nsympathy; nor did the stream cease until it had brought loving messages\nfrom the remotest parts of the land. Her friends seemed overcome with\nspecial wonder that she could have died, so vividly was she associated\nin their thoughts with life and sunlight. For months, too, after the\nreturn of the family to their city home, letters from far and near\ncontinued to bear witness to the mingled emotions of sorrow and of\nthanksgiving excited by her sudden departure from earth--sorrow for a\ngreat personal loss; thanksgiving that she had gone to be forever with\nthe Lord. A little volume of selections from these varied testimonies\nwould form a very touching and precious tribute to her memory.\n\n\"The human heart,\" to use her own words, \"was made by so delicate, so\ncunning a hand, that it needs less than a breath to put it out of tune;\nand an invisible touch, known only to its own consciousness, may set\nall its silvery bells to ringing out a joyous chime. Happy he, thrice\nblessed she, who is striving to hush its discords and to awaken its\nharmonies by never so imperceptible a motion!\" Surely, the triple\nbenediction belonged to her. Already tens of thousands, both young and\nold, who never saw her face, but have been aided and cheered by her\nwritings, gladly call her \"thrice blessed.\" May this story of her life\nserve to increase their number and so to render her name dearer still.\nAbove all, may it help to inspire some other souls with her own\nimpassioned and adoring love to our Lord Jesus Christ.\n\n\n[1] She was specially touched by the sudden decease of Mrs. Harriet\nWoolsey Hodge, of Philadelphia, to whom both for her mother's and her\nown sake she was warmly attached.\n\n[2] J. Cleveland Cady, the distinguished architect.\n\n[3] Mrs. Antoinette Donaghe died at Staunton, Va., April 14, 1882. Her\nlast years were passed amid great bodily sufferings, which she bore with\nthe patience of a saint. She was a woman of uncommon excellence, a true\nChristian lady, and much endeared to a wide circle of friends in New\nHaven, New York, and elsewhere. Her husband, Mr. James Donaghe, a most\nworthy man, for many years a prominent citizen of New Haven, died on\nthe 1st of January, 1878. He and Mrs. Donaghe were among the original\nmembers of the Church of the Covenant.\n\n[4] The book alluded to is Letters of Thomas Erskine of Linlathen. From\n1800 till 1840. Edited by Dr. Hanna, and republished by G. P. Putnam's\nSons. The Duchess de Broglie was born in Paris, in 1797, and died in\nSeptember, 1838, at the age of forty-one. She was the only daughter of\nthe celebrated Madame de Stael. Some pleasant glimpses of her are given\nin the Life, Letters, and Journals of George Ticknor. Vol. I., pp.\n128-139. Vol. II., pp. 103-139.\n\n[5] The portrait in this volume is from a drawing by Miss Crocker,\nengraved by A. H. Ritchie. Miss C., after pursuing her studies for some\ntime in Paris, has opened a studio in New York.\n\n[6] In this letter she told me how much good Stepping Heavenward had\ndone her and how sorry she felt on hearing of Mrs. P.'s death, that she\nhad never written, as she longed to do, to thank her for it. \"Dear soul!\n(she added) perhaps she knows now how many hearts she has lifted up and\ncomforted by her wonderful words.\"--_From a letter of Mrs. W._\n\n[7] Mr. Washburn died on Sunday, the 18th of September, 1881, aged 80\nyears. He was born in Farmington, Conn. His father, the Rev. Joseph\nWashburn, pastor of the Congregational Church in F., was cut off in\nthe prime of a beautiful and saintly manhood. He inherited some of his\nfather's most attractive traits and was a model of Christian fidelity\nand uprightness. In a notice which appeared in the New York Evangelist,\nshortly after his death, President Porter, of Yale College, whose father\nsucceeded the Rev. Mr. Washburn as pastor of the church in Farmington,\nthus refers to his life at Wildwood: \"Some twenty years since he retired\nfor a part of eight years to the singularly beautiful house which was\nselected and prepared by the taste of himself and wife, near East River,\na district in Madison, which he has for several years made his permanent\nresidence. His life was singularly even in its course and happy in its\nallotments; a blessing to himself and a blessing to the world. His\nmemory will long be cherished by the many who knew him as one whom to\nknow was to love and honor.\"\n\n[8] Mr. Isaac Farwell, or \"Uncle Isaac,\" as everybody called him, was\nthe most remarkable man in Dorset. He died in 1881 in the 102d year of\nhis age. His centennial was celebrated on the 14th of July, 1879; the\nwhole town joining in it. He was full of interest in life, retained his\nmental powers unimpaired, and would relate incidents that occurred in\nthe last century, as if they had just happened. Mrs. Prentiss was fond\nof meeting him: and after her departure he delighted to recall his talks\nwith her and to tell where he had seen her creeping through fences,\nladen with rustic trophies, as she and her daughter came home from their\ntramps in the fields and over the hills.\n\n[9] The following is an extract from a letter of Mrs. M. giving an\naccount of the interview: It was of her I thought, as an hour before\nsunset, on that day, I passed through the grounds to the door of her\nbeautiful home. I thought of her as I had seen her busy at work among\nher flowers on the morning of the day when the fatal illness began,\nwearing a straw hat, with broad brim to protect her from the heat of the\nsun. Several of her family were standing around her, and the pleasant\npicture we saw as we drove by the lovely lawn is fresh and green in\nmy memory now. Once, after this, I had seen her, at our last precious\nBible-reading (though little thought we then it would be our last), when\nshe so earnestly urged us to be true \"witnesses\" for our Master and Lord\nand gently bade us God-speed, \"_encouraging_\" us also, as she expressed\nit, \"by the particular desire of my husband to-day,\" in the heavenward\npath. I knew that she was not quite well, and as I entered the house was\ninvited to her chamber.\n\nI found her attired as usual, but reclining on the bed, apparently only\nfor quiet rest. Her greeting was warm, her eyes bright, she was very\ncheerful, and, I think, was not then suffering from pain. To my\ninquiries after her health, she replied, that she had been at first\nprostrated by the heat of the sun, remaining at work in it too long,\nwith no idea of danger from the exposure; \"but now,\" she said, \"I do not\nthink much is the matter with me\"--though afterwards she added, \"The\ndoctor has said something to my husband which has alarmed him about\nme, and he is anxious, but I can not perceive any reason for this.\" We\ntalked of many familiar things, even of home-like methods of cookery,\nand she kindly sent for a small manuscript receipt-book of her own to\nlend me, looking it over and turning down the leaves at some particular\nreceipts which she approved, and \"those were my mother's,\" she said\nof several. She spoke of her engagements and the guests she loved to\nentertain, adding that she thought God had given this pleasant home,\nsurrounded by such beautiful things in nature, that others too might\nbe made happy in enjoying them. All the time while listening to her\nremarks, and deeply interested in every one she made, the strong desire\nwas in my heart to speak to her of her works, of my appreciation of\ntheir great usefulness, and how God had blessed her in permitting her to\ndo so much to benefit others. I longed to say to her, \"O had you only\nwritten the books for the little ones, 'Little Susy's Six Birthdays,'\nand its companions, it would have been well worth living for! had\nyou never written anything but 'The Flower of the Family,' it were\na blessing for you to have lived! And 'Stepping Heavenward'--what a\nprivilege to have lived to write only that volume!\" I could scarcely\nrefrain from pouring out before her the thoughts which warmed my heart,\nbut I had been told that she preferred not to be spoken to of her works,\nand I refrained. Only once, when we were alone, I said, with some\nemotion, \"I am so glad to have seen you; it was because _you_ were here\nthat I wished to come to this village; this was the strong attraction.\"\n... Thus I parted from her. I shall not look upon her again until the\nday when \"those who sleep in Jesus shall God bring with Him.\"\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX\n\nA.\n\n\nThe allusion is to a young officer of the navy, James Swan Thatcher--a\ngrandson of General Knox, the friend of Washington, and a younger\nbrother of Lieutenant, afterwards the gallant Rear Admiral, Henry Knox\nThatcher. He had become deeply interested in Miss Payson, and at length\nsolicited her hand. The story of his hopeless attachment to her, as\ndisclosed after his death, is most touching. He would spend hours\ntogether late into the night in walking about the house, which, to\nborrow his brother's expression, \"his love had placed on holy ground.\"\nHe was a young man of singular purity and nobleness of character--\"one\nof a thousand,\" to use her own words--and, although she could not accept\nhim as a lover, she cherished for him a very cordial friendship. Not\nlong after, he was lost at sea. In later years she often referred to him\nand his tragical end with the tenderest feeling. The following is an\nextract from a letter of Rear Admiral Thatcher to her husband, written\nseveral months after her death and shortly before his own:\n\nI have read with great interest your reference to my dear and only\nbrother, James Swan Thatcher. It carried me back to one of the saddest\nafflictions of my life. We had both been stationed at Portland for the\npurpose of recruiting some of the hardy sons of Maine as seamen for the\nU. S. naval service. The wife of the Rev. Dr. Dwight had advised my\ncalling upon Mrs. Payson, Cumberland street, to obtain quarters. I did\nso, and with my wife removed from a noisy hotel to the quiet of that\nmost desirable retreat. My brother made frequent visits to us, and, by\ninvitation of Mrs. Payson, dined with us on Sundays, and passed the\nhours between meetings, accompanying the ladies to church in the\nafternoons. This led to an acquaintance between Miss Payson and\nhimself. As they were both highly intellectual and were both \"stepping\nheavenward,\" they naturally fancied each other's conversation and\nformed a mutual friendship. Until after my dear brother's death I\nnever imagined that it was more than a fondness for Miss Payson's\nconversational gifts that induced him to call so frequently at\nCumberland street.... James was unexpectedly ordered to join the U. S.\nschooner Grampus at Norfolk, Va., for a winter cruise on the Southern\ncoast for relief of distressed merchant vessels. The cruise continued\nfor some weeks without entering any port, but about the 20th of March,\n1843, the Grampus appeared off the bar of Charleston, S. C., and sent in\na letter-bag for mailing. That night there came on a terrible gale and\nthe Grampus disappeared forever--no vestige of her ever having been\nseen. She was commanded by Lt.-Commander Albert E. Downes, a good man\nand a fine seaman, and who as a midshipman had sailed with me three\nyears before in the Pacific. My brother was educated for the law, and\nstudied his profession with the Hon. John Holmes, and, after completing\nhis studies, became Mr. Holmes' law-partner. But he being my only\nbrother, I was very desirous that he should obtain a commission as a\npurser in the navy, in order that we might be associated on duty; and,\nat Mr. H.'s request, he was appointed by General Harrison soon after his\ninauguration. My brother then joined me in Portland. It is a consolation\nto know that he lived and died in the exercise of those Christian\nsentiments which were deeply instilled into his mind by the society of\nyour angelic wife, who has preceded you to our home of rest. God grant\nthat we may all meet there!\n\n       *        *       *       *       *\n\nB.\n\nS. S. PRENTISS.\n\n\nOne of the best informed writers on the history of the Revolutionary\ntimes and of the war for the Union thus introduces a notice of Mr.\nPrentiss:\n\nSmall in stature; limping in gait; broad-chested; a high intellectual\nforehead; manly beauty in every feature; a voice of remarkable sweetness\nand flexibility; a mild but deeply penetrating eye; a most retentive\nmemory; endowed with varied knowledge by extensive reading; unrivaled\nin power of oratory; frank in thought, speech, and manner; patient and\nforbearing in temper; powerfully governed by the affections, and with\nunbounded generosity of disposition, Seargent Smith Prentiss was one of\nthe most remarkable characters in our history. Living persons who were\nadults a generation ago will remember how the newspapers between 1835\nand 1850 were filled with his praises as a citizen unapproachable in\noratory, whether he spoke as an advocate at the bar, a debater in the\nhalls of legislation, or at occasional public gatherings. [1]\n\nS. S. Prentiss was born at Portland, Maine, September 30, 1808. While\nyet an infant, he was reduced by a violent fever to the verge of the\ngrave and deprived for several years of the use of his limbs, the right\nleg remaining lame and feeble to the last. For his partial recovery he\nwas indebted to the unwearied care and devotion of his mother, herself\nin delicate health.\n\nDuring the war of 1812 his father removed to Gorham. At the academy\nin this town, then one of the best in Maine, Seargent was fitted for\nBowdoin College, where he was graduated in the class of 1826, at the\nage of seventeen. After studying law for a year with Judge Pierce, of\nGorham, he set out for what was at that day the Far West, in quest of\nfortune. Having tarried a few months at Cincinnati, he then made his\nway down the Mississippi to Natchez, where he obtained the situation\nof tutor in a private family. Here he completed his legal studies;\nwas admitted to the bar in June, 1829, soon afterwards became the\nlaw-partner of Gen. Felix Huston, and almost at a bound stood in the\nfront rank of his profession in the State. \"Boundless good-nature,\" to\nuse the language of Dr. Lossing; \"keen logic; quickness and aptness\nat repartee; overflowing but kindly wit; an absolute earnestness and\nsincerity in all he undertook to do, made him a universal favorite\nin every circle.\" In 1832 Mr. Prentiss removed to Vicksburg. John M.\nChilton, a leading member of the bar of that place, thus describes his\nfirst appearance in the Circuit Court of Warren county:\n\nThere arrived, with other members of the bar, from Natchez, a limping\nyouth in plain garb, but in whose bearing there was a manly, indeed\nalmost a haughty, mien; in whose cheek a rich glow, telling the\ninfluence of more northern climes; in whose eye a keen but meditative\nexpression; and in whose voice and conversation a vivacity and\noriginality that attracted every one, and drew around him, wherever he\nappeared, a knot of listeners, whose curiosity invariably yielded in a\nfew moments to admiration and delight. There was then a buzz of inquiry,\nsucceeded by a pleased look of friendly recognition, and a closer\napproach, and in most instances an introduction, to the object of this\ngeneral attraction, so soon as it was told that the stranger was S. S.\nPrentiss, of Natchez. His fame had preceded him, and men were surprised\nto see only beardless youth in one whose speeches, and learning, and\nwit, and fine social qualities, had already rendered him at Natchez \"the\nobserved of all observers.\"\n\nSociety in the Southwest at that day was full of perils to young men,\nespecially to young men of talent and generous, impressionable natures.\nDrinking, duelling, and gambling widely prevailed. It was a period of\n\"flush times,\" and wild, reckless habits. Mr. Prentiss did not wholly\nescape the contagion; but his faults and errors were very much\nexaggerated in many of the stories that found currency concerning him.\nOne of his friends wrote after his death: \"I have heard many anecdotes\nof him, which I considered of doubtful authority; for he is a\ntraditional character all over Mississippi--their Cid, their Wallace,\ntheir Coeur de Lion, and all the old stories are wrought over again,\nand annexed to his name.\" Another of his friends, who knew him long and\nintimately, the late Balie Peyton, of Tennessee, testified: \"No man ever\nleft a purer fame than Seargent S. Prentiss, in all that constitutes\nhigh honor and spotless integrity of character. His principles remained\nas pure, and his heart continued as warm and fresh, as at the instant he\nbade farewell to his mother.\"\n\nFrom his settlement at Vicksburg his career as a lawyer was one of\nremarkable success; and it were hard to say in what department of his\nprofession he most excelled, whether in the varied contests of the\n_Nisi Prius_ courts, in an argument on a difficult question of legal\nconstruction, or in discussing a fundamental principle of jurisprudence.\nIn 1833, at the age of 24, he appeared before the Supreme Court at\nWashington, where, in spite of his youth, he at once attracted the\nnotice of Chief Justice Marshall. \"I made a speech three or four hours\nlong (he wrote to his mother); and I suppose you will say I have\nacquired a great deal of brass since I left home, when I tell you that I\nwas not at all abashed or alarmed in addressing so grave a set of men as\ntheir Honors the Judges of the Supreme Court of the United States.\" In\nattending the circuit courts of Mississippi he had experiences of the\nroughest sort and many a hairbreadth escape. He wrote:\n\nI travel entirely on horseback; and have had to swim, on my horse, over\ncreeks and bayous that would astonish you Northerners. Beyond Pearl\nriver I had to ride, and repeatedly to swim, through a swamp four miles\nin extent, in which the water was all the time up to the horse's belly.\nWhat do you think of that for a lawyer's life?\n\nIn the winter of 1836-7 he won the great \"Commons\" suit, which involved\na considerable portion of the town of Vicksburg. This made him, as was\nsupposed, one of the richest men in the State.\n\nAbout this time he was induced to run for the legislature of\nMississippi. He was elected, and at once took a foremost position as\nleader of his party.\n\nThe next summer he visited his home, and by a speech at a Whig political\nmeeting in Portland, on the Fourth of July, he so electrified his\nhearers by his eloquence that he was pronounced, in the East, the most\nfinished orator of his time; as he really was. He became a candidate for\na seat in Congress, and made the most remarkable electioneering canvass\never recorded. Traveling on horseback, he visited forty-five counties in\na sparsely-settled country. For ten weeks he traveled thirty miles each\nweek-day, and spoke each day two hours. He had announced his engagements\nbeforehand, and never missed one. Mississippi was a strong \"Jackson\nState,\" but Mr. Prentiss carried it for the Whigs. His seat was\ncontested by his Democratic opponent, and his speech in the House of\nRepresentatives at Washington in favor of his claim gained for him a\nnational reputation as the greatest orator of the age. It occupied three\ndays in its delivery. He had not spoken long before intelligence of his\nwonderful oratory reached the Senate chamber and drew its members to the\nother House. Rumors of his speech ran through the city, and before it\nwas concluded the anxiety to hear him became intense. The galleries of\nthe House became densely packed, chiefly with ladies, and the lobbies\nwere crowded with foreign ministers, heads of departments, judges,\nofficers of the army and navy, and distinguished citizens. Among the\ncharmed auditors were the best American statesmen of the time who then\noccupied seats in both branches of Congress--John Quincy Adams leading\nthose of the Representatives, and Daniel Webster and Henry Clay of\nthe Senate. The entire self-possession of Mr. Prentiss, then only\ntwenty-nine years of age, never forsook him in such an august presence.\nThere was no straining for effect, no trick of oratory; but, from the\nfirst to the last sentence, everything in manner, as in matter, seemed\nperfectly natural, as if he were addressing a jury on an ordinary\nquestion of law. This feature of his speech--this evidence of sincerity\nin every word--with the almost boyish beauty of his face, bound his\ndistinguished audience as with a magic spell. When, at the conclusion of\nthe speech, Mr. Webster left the hall, he remarked to a friend, with his\ncomprehensive brevity, \"Nobody can equal that!\" [2]\n\nMr. Prentiss was rejected by the casting vote of the Speaker, Mr.\nPolk, and the election sent back to the people; when, after another\nextraordinary canvass, he was triumphantly returned. After the\nadjournment of Congress he visited his mother in Portland. About this\ntime a great reception was given to Mr. Webster, as defender of the\nConstitution, in Faneuil Hall, and Mr. Prentiss was invited to be\npresent and address the assemblage. His speech on the occasion is still\nfresh in the memory of all who heard it. He was called upon late in the\nevening, and after a succession of very able speakers; but hardly had\nthe vast audience heard the tap of his cane, as he stepped forward, and\ncaught the first sound of his marvellous voice, when he held them, as it\nwere, spell-bound. Before he had uttered a word, indeed, he had taken\npossession of his audience by his very look--for, when aroused by a\ngreat occasion, his countenance flashed like a diamond. Gov. Everett,\nwho presided at the banquet, himself an orator of classic power, thus\nreferred to Mr. Prentiss' address, in a letter written more than a dozen\nyears later:\n\nIt seemed to me the most wonderful specimen of sententious fluency I had\never witnessed. The words poured from his lips in a torrent, but the\nsentences were correctly formed, the matter grave and important, the\ntrain of thought distinctly pursued, the illustrations wonderfully\nhappy, drawn from a wide range of reading, and aided by a brilliant\nimagination. That it was a carefully prepared speech, no one could\nbelieve for a moment. It was the overflow of a full mind, swelling in\nthe joyous excitement of the friendly reception, kindling with the\nglowing themes suggested by the occasion, and not unmoved by the genius\nof the place. Sitting by Mr. Webster, I asked him if he had ever\nheard anything like it? He answered, \"Never, except from Mr. Prentiss\nhimself.\"\n\nPolitical life was exceedingly distasteful to Mr. Prentiss and he\nsoon abandoned it and returned with fresh zeal to the practice of his\nprofession. The applauses of the world seemed never for an instant to\ndeceive him. He wrote after a great speech at Nashville, addressed, it\nwas estimated, to 40,000 people: \"They heap compliments upon me till I\nam almost crushed beneath them.\" And yet in the midst of such popular\novations he wrote to his sister:\n\nI laugh at those who look upon the uncertain, slight, and changeable\nregards of the multitude, as worthy even of comparison with the true\naffection of one warm heart. I have ever yearned for affection; I\nbelieve it is the only thing of which I am avaricious. I never had any\npersonal ambition, and do not recollect the time when I would not\nhave exchanged the applause of thousands for the love of one of my\nfellow-beings.\n\nIn 1842 his yearning for affection was satisfied by his marriage to Miss\nMary Jane Williams, of Natchez; and henceforth his life was full of the\nsweetest domestic peace and joy. From the moment of first leaving home\nhe had carried on a constant correspondence with his mother, sisters,\nand brothers, in the North; and he kept it up while he lived. He took a\nspecial interest in the education of his youngest brother, and at one\ntime had planned to join him in Germany for purposes of study and\ntravel. All the later years of his life were years of unwearied toil and\nstruggle.\n\nIn 1845 a case involving the validity of his title to the \"Commons\"\nproperty, was decided against him in the Supreme Court of the United\nStates; thus wresting from him at a blow that property and the costly\nbuildings which he had erected upon it. In consequence of this\nmisfortune and of his abhorrence of repudiation, which, in spite of his\ndetermined opposition, had, unhappily, been foisted upon his adopted\nState, he removed to New Orleans in 1846. Here, notwithstanding that he\nhad to master a new system of law, he at once took his natural position\nas a leader of the bar; and but for failing health, would no doubt have\nin the end repaired his shattered fortunes and made himself a still\nmore brilliant name among the remarkable men of the country. He died at\nNatchez, July 1, 1850, in the forty-second year of his age, universally\nbeloved and lamented. He left a wife and four young children, three of\nwhom still survive.\n\nMr. Prentiss was a natural orator. Even as a boy he attracted\neverybody's attention by the readiness and charm of his speech. But all\nthis would have contributed little toward giving him his marvellous\npower over the popular mind and heart, had he not added to the rare\ngifts of nature the most diligent culture, a deep study of life and\ncharacter, and a wonderful knowledge of books. The whole treasury of\ngeneral literature--more especially of English poetry and fiction--was\nat his command; Shakespeare, Milton, and Byron he almost knew by heart;\nwith the Bible, Pilgrim's Progress, and Sir Walter Scott, he seemed\nto be equally familiar; and from all these sources he drew endless\nillustrations in aid of his argument, whether it was addressed to a\njury, to a judge, to the people, or to the legislative assembly. When,\nfor example, he undertook to show the wrongfulness of Mississippi\nrepudiation, he would refer to Wordsworth as \"a poet and philosopher,\nwhose good opinion was capable of adding weight even to the character of\na nation,\" and then expatiate, with the enthusiasm of a scholar, upon\nthe noble office of such men in human society. He had corresponded with\nMr. Wordsworth and knew that members of his family had suffered heavily\nfrom the dishonesty of the State; and perhaps no passages in his great\nspeeches against repudiation were more effective than those in which he\nthus brought his fine literary taste and feeling to the support of the\nclaims of public honesty. This feature of his oratory, together with the\nlarge ethical element which entered into it, was, no doubt, a principal\nsource of its extraordinary power. It would be hard to say in what\ndepartment of oratory he most excelled. On this point the following is\nthe testimony of Henry Clay, himself a great orator as well as a great\nstatesman, and one of Mr. P.'s most devoted and admiring friends:\n\nMr. Prentiss was distinguished, as a public speaker, by a rich, chaste,\nand boundless imagination, the exhaustless resources of which, in\nbeautiful language and happy illustrations, he brought to the aid of a\nlogical power, which he wielded to a very great extent. Always ready and\nprompt, his conceptions seemed to me almost intuitive. His voice was\nfine, softened, and, I think, improved, by a slight lisp, which an\nattentive observer could discern. The great theatres of eloquence and\npublic speaking in the United States are the legislative hall, the\nforum, and the stump, without adverting to the pulpit. I have known some\nof my contemporaries eminently successful on one of these theatres,\nwithout being able to exhibit any remarkable ability on the others. Mr.\nPrentiss was brilliant and successful on them all.\n\nOf the attractions of his personal and social character the testimonies\nare very striking. Judge Bullard, in a eulogy pronounced before the bar\nof New Orleans, thus refers to his own experience:\n\nWhat can I say of the noble qualities of his heart? Who can describe\nthe charms of his conversation? Old as I am, his society was one of my\ngreatest pleasures--I became a boy again. His conversation resembled\nthe ever-varying clouds that cluster round the setting sun of a summer\nevening--their edges fringed with gold, and the noiseless and harmless\nflashes of lightning spreading, from time to time, over their dark\nbosom.\n\nIn a similar strain Gov. J. J. Crittenden, of Kentucky, wrote of him\nshortly after his death:\n\nIt was impossible to know him without feeling for him admiration and\nlove. His genius, so rich and rare; his heart, so warm, generous, and\nmagnanimous; and his manners, so graceful and genial, could not fail to\nimpress these sentiments upon all who approached him. Eloquence was a\npart of his nature, and over his private conversations as well as his\npublic speeches it scattered its sparkling jewels with more than royal\nprofusion.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nC.\n\n\nHere are the first stanzas of some of her favorite German hymns,\nreferred to in this letter:\n\n  Jesus, Jesus, nichts als Jesus\n  Soll mein Wunsch sein und mein Ziel;\n  Jetzund mach ich ein Verb\u00fcndniss,\n  Dass ich will, was Jesus will;\n  Denn mein Herz, mit ihm erf\u00fcllt,\n  Rufet nur; Herr, wie du willt.\n    _Written by Elizabeth, Countess of Schwartzburg_, 1640-1672.\n\n  Gott ist gegenw\u00e4rtig! Lasset uns anbeten,\n  Und in Erfurcht vor ihn treten;\n  Gott ist in der mitten! Alles in uns schweige\n  Und sich innig vor ihm beuge;\n  Wer ihn kennt, wer ihn nennt,\n    Schlagt die Augen nieder,\n    Kommt, ergebt euch wieder.\n      _By Gerhard Tersteegen_, 1697-1769.\n\n  Zum Ernst, zum Ernst ruft Jesu Geist inwendig;\n  Zum Ernst ruft auch die Stimme seiner Braut;\n  Getreu und ganz, und bis zum Tod best\u00e4ndig.\n  Ein reines Herz allein den reinen schaut.\n    _By the Same_.\n\n  Wir singen dir, Immanuel,\n  Du Lebensf\u00fcrst und Gnadenquell,\n  Du Himmelsblum und Morgenstern,\n  Du Jungfrausohn, Herr aller Herrn.\n    _Paul Gerhard_, 1606-1676.\n\n  Such, wer da will, ein ander Ziel\n    Die Seligkeit zu finden,\n  Mein Herz allein bedacht soll sein\n    Auf Christum sich zu gr\u00fcnden:\n  Sein Wort ist wahr, sein Werk ist klar,\n  Sein heilger Mund hat Kraft und Grund,\n    All Feind z\u00fc \u00fcberwinden.\n      _George Weissel_, 1590-1635.\n\n  Gott, mein einziges Vertrauen,\n    Gott, du meine Zuversicht,\n  Deine Augen zu mir schauen,\n    Deine H\u00fclf versage mir nicht;\n  Lass mich nicht vergeblich schreien,\n  Sondern h\u00f6r und lass gedeihen;\n  So will ich, Gott, halten still,\n  Gott, dein Will ist auch mein Will.\n    _Elizabeth Eleonore, Duchess of Sax-Meiningen_, 1658-1729.\n\n    O Durchbrecher aller Bande,\n  Der du immer bei uns bist,\n    Bei dem Shaden, Spott und Schande\n  Lauter Lust und Himmel ist,\n    Uebe femer dein Gerichte\n  Wider unsern Adamssinn,\n    Bis dein treues Angesichte\n  Uns f\u00fchrt aus dem Kerken hin.\n     _Gotter. Arnold_, 1666-1714.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  _Lavater's Hymn._\n  HE MUST INCREASE, BUT I MUST DECREASE.\n    --John iii. 30.\n\n  O Jesus Christus, ivachs in mir,\n  Und alles andre schwinde!\n  Mein Herz sei t\u00e4glich n\u00e4her dir,\n  Und ferner von der S\u00fcnde.\n\n  Lass t\u00e4glich deine Huld und Macht\n  Um meine Schwachheit schweben!\n  Dein Licht verschlinge meine Nacht,\n  Und meinen Tod dein Leben!\n\n  Beim Sonnenstrahle deines Lichts\n  Lass jeden Wahn verschwinden!\n  Dein Alles, Christus, und mein nichts,\n  Lass t\u00e4glich mich empfinden.\n\n  Sei nahe mir, werf ich mich hin,\n  Wein ich vor dir in stillen;\n  Dein reiner gottgelassner Sinn\n  Beherrsche meinen Willen.\n\n  Blick immer herrlicher aus mir\n  Voll Weisheit Huld und Freude,\n  Ich sei ein lebend Bild von dir\n  Im Gluck, und wenn ich leide.\n\n  Mach alles in mir froh und gut,\n  Dass stets ich minder fehle;\n  Herr, deiner Menschen-Liebe Glut\n  Durchgl\u00fche meine Seele.\n\n  Es weiche Stolz, und Tr\u00e4gheit weich;\n  Und jeder Leichtsinn fliehe,\n  Wenn, Herr, nach dir und deinem Reich\n  Ich redlich mich bem\u00fche.\n\n  Mein eignes, eitles, leeres Ich\n  Sei jeden Tag geringer.\n  O rd ich jeden Tag durch dich\n  Dein w\u00fcrdigerer Junger.\n\n  Von dir erf\u00fcllter jeden Tag\n  Und jeden von mir leerer!\n  O du, der uber Flehn vermag,\n  Sei meines Flehns erh\u00f6rer!\n\n  Der Glaub an dich und deine Kraft\n  Sei Trieb von jedem Triebe!\n  Sei du nur meine Leidenschaft,\n  Du meine Freud und Liebe!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nD.\n\n\nA few extracts from the little diaries referred to are here given:\n\n_May 15, 1857._--Box came from Mrs. Bumstead--my dear, kind friend--\ncontaining _everything_; salmon, tomatoes, oranges, peaches, prunes,\ncocoa and ham, tea and sugar from her father.[3] How pleasant the\nkindness of friends! _21st._--Worked at planting aster seeds and putting\nin verbena cuttings--all in my room, of course. _23d._--First hepaticas\nin garden. Sweet peas coming up. Brownie hatched--_one_ chicken. _June\n1st._--Books from dear Lizzy. \"Sickness,\" may it do me good. [4]\n_28th._--Sent flowers to the B.'s, flowers and strawberries to Mrs. N.,\ngreen peas to E. M., and trout to Mother Hopkins. _July 2d._--Continue\nto send strawberries--yesterday to the B.'s--to-day to A. B. and Miss\nG., with rosebuds.\n\n_Oct. 11th._--A beautiful autumn day. Could not leave my bed till near\nnoon. Then Albert drove me down the lane and carried me into the woods\nin his arms. Eddy has collected $30 for Kansas. [5] _25th._--My whole\ntime, night and day, is spent in setting traps for sleep. To-day\nthe money was sent for Kansas--$55, of which $9 was from us. _Nov.\n4th._--Election day. Great excitement. _5th._--Wretched news; it is\nfeared that Buchanan is elected. _Nov. 17th._--The anniversary of my\ndear mother's death. My own can not be far distant. _I earnestly entreat\nthat none of my friends will wear mourning for me_.\n\n_January 1, 1858._--Outwardly all looks dark--health at the\nlowest--brain irritated and suffering inexpressibly--but _underneath\nall_, thank God, some patience, some resignation, some quiet trust. If\nit were not for wearing out my friends! But this care, too, I must learn\nto cast on Him.\n\n_5th._--Albert is reading Miss Bronte's Life to me, and oh, how many\nchords vibrate deep in my soul as I hear of her _shyness_; her dread\nof coming in contact with others; her morbid sensitiveness and intense\nsuffering from lowness of spirits; her thirst for knowledge, her\nconsciousness of personal defects, etc., etc., etc.\n\n_9th._--Storms to-day \"like mad.\" Present from Julia Willis. Each day\nseems a week long, but let me be thankful that I have a chair to sit in,\nlimbs free from palsy, books of all sorts to be read, and kind friends\nto read. Oh, yes; let me be _thankful_. A. brought \"School-days at\nRugby.\" _22d._--Eddy began to wear his coat! A. read to me Tom Brown's\n\"School-days.\" _23d._--LOVE is the word that fills my horizon to-day.\nGod is Love; I must be like Him. _Feb. 3d._--How lovely seem the\nwords DUTY and KIGHT! How I long to be spotless--all pure within and\nwithout!... Albert read from Adolph Monod. What a precious book!\n_23d._--To-morrow I shall be forty-six years old. If I said one hundred\nI should believe it as well. _24th._--My birthday.... I feel disposed to\ntake as my motto for this year, \"I will hope continually, and will yet\npraise Thee _more and more_\" Eddy began Virgil to-day. _27th._--Woke\nwith a strong impression that I am Christ's, His servant, and as such\nhave nothing to do for myself--no separate interest. Oh, to feel this\nand _act_ upon it always. And not _only_ a servant, but a _child_; and\ntherefore entitled to feel an interest in the affairs of the _Family_.\nAlbert read from the Silent Comforter the piece called \"Wearisome\nNights,\" which is an exact expression of my state and feelings. Long\nto do some good, at least by praying for people. A note from Mrs.\nC. Stoddard to my husband and myself, which was truly refreshing.\n_26th._--This morning God assisted me out of great weakness to converse\nand pray with my beloved child. He also prayed. I can not but entertain\na trembling hope that he is indeed a Christian. So great a mercy would\nfill me with transport.\n\n_April 6th._--\"I love the Lord because He hath heard my voice and my\nsupplication\" (Ps. cxvi. I). Albert read this psalm to me nearly fifteen\nyears ago, the morning of the day succeeding that on which God had\ndelivered me out of great danger and excruciating sufferings and had\ngiven us a _living child_. Our hearts swelled with thankfulness then;\nnow we have received our child a second time--anew _gift_. _June\n8th._--A.'s holiday. First strawberry! and first rose! (cinnamon).\n\n_July 3d._--Oh, my dear, dear sister Lizzy! Shall I never see you again\nin this world? I fancied I was familiar with the thought and reconciled\nto it, but now it agonizes me. [6]\n\n_Dec. 26th._--I do long to submit to--no, to accept joyfully--the will\nof God in everything; to see only Love in every trial. But to be made a\nwhip in His hand with which to scourge others--I, who so passionately\ndesire to give pleasure, to give only pain--I, who so hate to cause\nsuffering, to inflict nothing else on my best friends--oh, this is\n_hard_!... I write by feeling with eyes closed. It is midnight; and, as\nusual, I am and have been sleepless. I am full of tossings to and fro\nuntil the dawn. All temporal blessings seem to be expressed by one\nword--_Sleep_.... Disease is advancing with rapid strides; many symptoms\nof paralysis; that or insanity certain, unless God in mercy to myself\nand my friends takes me home first.\n\n  _31st._--\"Here then to Thee Thine own I leave--\n                  Mould as Thou wilt Thy passive clay;\n                But let me all Thy stamp receive,\n                  But let me all Thy words obey.\n                Serve with a single heart and eye,\n                And to Thy glory live or die.\"\n\n_Jan. 26, 1859._--Cars ran through from Adams to Troy _first time_.\nEddy studying Greek, Latin, etc., at school; Geology at home. _Feb.\n3d._--Much of the day in intense bodily anguish, but have had lately\nmore of Christ in my heart. Albert is reading me a precious sermon by\nHuntingdon on \"a life hid with Christ in God.\" Oh, to learn more of\nChrist and His love! _5th._--O God, who art _rich_ in mercy, if Thou\nart looking for some creature on whom to bestow it, behold the poorest,\nneediest, emptiest of all Thou hast made, and _satisfy_ me with Thy\nmercy. _Sunday, 6th._--How thankful I am for the many good books I have!\nand oh, how I stand _amazed_ at the faith and patience of God's dear\nchildren (Mrs. Coutts, _e.g._), to _read_ of whose sufferings makes\nmy heart bleed and almost murmur on their account. _March 17th._--\"So\nfoolish was I and ignorant, I was as a _beast_ before Thee.\" Oh, howr it\ncomforts me that there is such a verse in the Bible as this! It comes\n_near_ describing my folly, stupidity, ignorance, and blindness....\nQuite overcome to-day by a most unexpected favor from my dear friends\nthe Jameses, [7] who I thought had forgotten me. _April 12th._--My love\nto my dear, dear sister. I shall never see her, never write to her, but\nwe will spend eternity together.\n\n_Dec 1st._--Albert opened the _piano_, and, for the first time in _six\nyears_, I touched it. Beautiful flower-pictures from Lizzy. [8]\n\n_Sunday, Jan._ 1, 1860.--\"Out of weakness were made strong.\" This is\nthe verse which has been given me as a motto for the year. May it be\nfulfilled in my experience! But should it not be so to my apprehension,\nmay I be able to say, \"Most gladly, therefore, will I glory in my\ninfirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.\"\n\n_March 26th._--For several days I have been led to pray that the\nindwelling Spirit may indite my petitions. To-day He leads me to pray\nfor the annihilation of self. My whole soul cries out for this--to\nforget my own sorrows, wants, sins even, and lose myself in Christ.... O\nprecious Saviour, let me see Thee; let me behold Thy beauty; let me hear\nThy voice; let me wash Thy feet with tears; let me gaze on Thee forever.\n\n_March 31st._--A remarkable day. 1st. Weather like Indian summer. 2d.\nAfter a very poor night, expecting to spend the day in bed, I was so\nstrengthened as to ride up to the mountain with Albert and to enjoy\nseeing the mosses. In the P.M. rode again with Eddy.\n\n_June 30th._--For years I have been constantly fearing insanity or\npalsy. Now I hear of Mrs. ---- struck with paralysis and my dear friend\n---- with mental alienation, while I am spared.\n\n_June 27th._--Let a person take a delicately-strung musical instrument\nand strike blows on it with a hammer till nearly every string is broken\nand the whole instrument trembles and shrieks under the infliction--that\nis what has been done to me. Words are entirely inadequate to paint what\nI suffer.\n\n_June 30th._--Another great mercy. A letter from N. P. W. [9] Under date\nof June 4th, I wrote, \"May God bless,\" etc., and God has blessed him.\nOh, praise, praise to Him who hears even before we ask.\n\n_April 26, 1861._--\"Hangs my helpless soul on Thee.\" Oh, how many\nthousand times do I repeat this line during the sleepless hours of my\nwretched nights!\n\nAs the year advanced, the entries became fewer and fewer; some of\nthem, by reason of extreme weakness and suffering, having been left\nunfinished. But no weakness or suffering could wholly repress her love\nof Nature. Imprisoned within the same pages that record her nights\nand days of anguish are exquisite bits of fern, delicate mosses,\nrose-leaves, and other flowers pressed and placed there by her own hand.\nBut far more touching than these mementoes of her love of Nature are the\npassages in this diary of her last year on earth, that express her love\nto Christ and testify to His presence and supporting grace in what she\ndescribes as \"the fathomless abyss of misery\" in which she was plunged.\nThey remind one of the tints of unearthly light and beauty that adorn\nsometimes the face of a thundercloud. They are such as the following:\n\n_June 11, 1861._--Blessed be God for comfort. I see my sins all\ngone--all set down to Christ's account; and not only so, but--oh,\nwonder!--all His merits transferred to me. Well may it be said, \"Let us\ncome boldly to the throne of grace.\" Why not be bold with such--just\nlike presenting an order at a bank.\n\n_Nov. 6th._--Come, O come, dear Lord Jesus! Come to this town, this\nchurch, this family, and oh, come to this poor longing famished heart.\n\n_Sunday, Nov. 10th._--A better night and some peace of mind. But O my\nSaviour, support me; let not the fiery billows swallow me up! And O\nlet me not fail to be thankful for the mercies mingled in my cup of\nsuffering--a pleasant room adorned with gifts of love from absent\nfriends, and just now with beautiful mosses brought from the woods by my\ndear husband.\n\nThe next entry contains directions respecting parting gifts to be sent\nto her sister and other absent friends after her death. Then comes the\nlast entry, which is as follows:\n\n\"I need not be afraid to ask to be--first, 'holy and without blame\nbefore Him in love'; second, 'filled with all the fullness of God';\nthird--.\"\n\nHere her pen dropped from her hand, and a little later her wearisome\npilgrimage was over, and she entered into the saint's everlasting rest.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFurther extracts from her literary journal:\n\n_Tuesday, Jan. 11, 1836._--Last meeting of the class. Mr. Dana made some\nremarks intended as a sort of leave-taking. He spoke of the importance\nof having some fixed _principles_ of criticism. These principles should\nbe obtained from within--from the study of our own minds. If we try many\ncriticisms by this standard, we shall turn away from them dissatisfied.\nAddison's criticisms on Milton are often miserable, and, where he is\nright, it seems to be by a sort of accident. He constantly appeals to\nthe French critics as authorities. Another advantage will result from\nestablishing principles of judging--we shall acquire self-knowledge.\nWe can not ask ourselves, Is this true? does it accord with my own\nconsciousness? etc., without gaining an acquaintance with ourselves. And\nthen, in general, the more the taste is cultivated and refined, the more\nwe shall find to like. Critics by rule, who have one narrow standard\nby which they try everything, may find much to condemn and little to\napprove: but it is not so in nature, nor with those who judge after\nnature. The great duty is to learn to be happy in ourselves.... I\nam surprised (said Mr. Dana) to find how much my present tastes and\njudgments are those of my childhood. In some respects, to be sure, I\nhave altered; but, in general, the authors I loved and sympathised with\nthen, I love and sympathise with now. When I was connected with the\nNorth-American, I wrote a review of Hazlitt's British Poets, in which I\nexpressed my opinion of Pope and of Wordsworth. The sensation it excited\nis inconceivable. One man said I was mad and ought to be put in a\nstrait-jacket. However, I did not mind it much, so long as they did not\nput me in one--that, to be sure, I should not have liked very well.\nPublic opinion has changed since then. Many of the old _prose_ writers\nare very fine. Jeremy Taylor, though I admire him exceedingly, has been,\nI think, rather indiscriminately praised.... To come to the poets again,\nYoung should be read and thought upon. He is often antithetical, but is\na profound thinker. I was quite ashamed the other day on taking up his\nworks to find how many of my thoughts he had expressed better than I\ncould express them. I am convinced there is nothing new under the sun.\nCollins has written but little, but he is a most graceful and beautiful\ncreature. For faithfulness of portraiture and bringing out every-day\ncharacters, Crabbe is unrivalled in modern days. And Wordsworth--he and\nColeridge have been obliged to make minds to understand them. Who\nequals Wordsworth in purity, in majesty, in tranquil contemplation, in\nchildlikeness? Coleridge is exerting a great influence in this country,\nespecially over the minds of some of the young men.\n\n_Friday._--To-day by invitation I attended the first meeting of the new\nclass and heard the introductory lecture. Mr. D. began by speaking of\nthe object of the formation of the class. I shall adopt the first person\nin writing what he said, though I do not pretend to give his words. I\nhave not invited you here to amuse an idle hour, or to afford you a\ntopic of conversation when you meet. One great design has been to\ncherish in you a love of home and of solitude. Yet this is not all, for\nof what advantage is it to be at home, unless home is a place for the\nunfolding of warm affections? and of what use is solitude, unless it be\nimproved by patient thought, self-study and a communion with those great\nminds who became great by thinking. But it is not merely thinking as an\noperation of the intellect that is necessary; it must be affectionate\nthinking; there must be heartfelt love, and this can be attained only by\na _habit_ of loving.... I would not impart sternness to the beautiful\ncountenance of English literature. Beautiful indeed it is, but not like\nthe beauty of the human face, that may be discovered by all who have\neyes to look upon it; the heart as well as the head must engage, or\nas Coleridge says, _the heart in the head_. Let us not approach with\ncarelessness or light-mindedness. Poetry requires a peculiar state of\nmind, a peculiar combination of mental and moral qualifications to be\nfeelingly apprehended. But there--I will not write a word more. It is\na shame to spoil anything so beautiful. Poor Mr. Dana! I hope he will\nnever know to what he has been subjected.\n\n_Wednesday._--Everybody has set out to invite me to visit them. I made\ntwo visits last evening, one to Mrs. Robinson, where I had a fine\nopportunity to settle some of my Hebrew difficulties with Prof. R., and\nsaw De Wette's translations of Job. This evening I am to make two more,\nand to-morrow I spend the day out and receive company in the evening. So\nmuch for dissipation, and for study.\n\nPORTLAND, March 1, 1836.\n\nI believe there is scarcely any branch of knowledge in which I am so\ndeficient as history, both ecclesiastical and profane. I have never been\nmuch interested _facts_, considered simply as facts, and that is about\nall that is to be found in most historical works. The relations of facts\nto each other and of all to reason, in other words, the philosophy of\nhistory, are not often to be found in books, and I have not hitherto\nbeen able to supply the want from my own mind. _April 16, 1836._--If my\nbump of combativeness does not grow it won't be for want of exercise.\nI have had another dispute of two hours' length to-day with another\nperson. Subjects, Cousin--Locke--innate ideas--idea of space--of\nspirit-life, materialism--phrenology--Upham--wine--alcohol--etc.\n\n_June._--My patience has been sorely tried this afternoon. I was\nvisiting and Coleridge was dragged in, as it seemed for the express\npurpose of provoking me by abusing him--just as anybody might show off a\nlunatic.... But I did not and never will dispute on such subjects with\nthose who seek not to know the truth.\n\n_Feb. 6, 1837._--Why is it that our desires so infinitely transcend our\ncapacities? We grasp at everything--do so by the very constitution of\nour natures; and seize--less than nothing. We can not rest without\nperfection in _everything_, yet the labor of a life devoted to _one\nthing_, only shows us how unattainable it is. I am oppressed with\ngloom--oh, for light, light, light! _Feb. 20th._--Alas! my feelings of\ndiscouragement and despondency, instead of diminishing, strengthen every\nday. I have been ill for the last fortnight; and possibly physical\ncauses have contributed to shroud my mind in this thick darkness. Yet I\ncan not believe that conviction so clear, conclusions so irresistible as\nthose which weigh me down, are entirely the result of morbid physical\naction. In order to prove that they are not, and to have the means of\njudging hereafter of the rationalness of my present judgments, I will\nrecord the grounds of my despondency. As nearly as I can recollect, the\nthought which oftenest pressed itself upon me, when these feelings of\ngloom began, was that I was living to no purpose. I was conscious,\nnot only of a conviction that I _ought_ to live to do good, but of\nan _intense desire_ to do good--to _know_ that I was living to some\npurpose; and I felt perfectly certain that this knowledge was essential\nto my happiness. I began to wonder that I had been contented to seek\nknowledge all my life for my own pleasure, or with an indefinite idea\nthat it might contribute in some way to my usefulness,--without any\ndistinct plan.... I then began to inquire what results I had of \"all my\nlabor which I have taken under the sun\" and these are my conclusions:\n\n1. I have not that mental discipline, or that command of my own powers,\nwhich is one of the most valuable results of properly directed study. I\ncan not grasp a subject at once, and view it in all its bearings.\n\n2. I have not that self-knowledge which is another sure result of proper\nstudy. I do not know what I am capable of, nor what I am particularly\nfitted for, nor what I am most deficient in. I am forever pouring into\nmy own mind, and yet never find out what is there.\n\n3d. I have no principle of arrangement or assimilation which might unite\nall my scattered knowledge. Oh, how different if I had had one definite\nobject which, like the lens, should concentrate all the scattered rays\nto one focus. I met with this remark of Sir Egerton Bridges to-day; it\napplies to me exactly: \"I have never met with one who seemed to have the\nsame overruling passion for literature as I have always had. A thousand\nothers have pursued it with more principle, reason, method, fixed\npurpose, and effect; mine I admit to have been pure, blind, unregulated\nlove.\"\n\n4th. I have lost the power of thinking for myself. My memory, which was\noriginally good, has been so washed away by the floods of trash which\nhave been poured into it, that now it scarcely serves me at all.\n\nA pleasant picture this of a mind, which ought to be in the full\nmaturity of its powers. And much reason have I to hope that with such an\ninstrument I shall leave an impress on other minds!... How I envy the\nother sex! They have certain fixed paths marked out for them--regular\nprofessions and trades--between which they may make a choice and know\nwhat they have to do. A friend, to whom I had spoken of some of these\nfeelings, tried last night to convince me that they are the result of\nphysical derangement, and not at all the expression of a sane mind in a\nsound body. I laughed at him, but have every now and then a suspicion\nthat he was right.\n\n_Feb. 25th._--Last evening we had the company of some friends who are\ninterested in the subjects which I love most to talk about. We had a\ngood deal of conversation about books, authors, the laws of mind and\nspirit, etc. My enthusiasm on these subjects revived; I felt a genial\nglow resulting from the action of mind upon mind, and the delight of\nfinding sympathy in my most cherished tastes and pursuits. Whether it is\nowing to this or not, I can not say; but I must confess to a new change\nof mood, and, consequently, of opinion. I mean that my studies have not\nonly regained their former attractions in my eyes, but that it seems\nunquestionably right and proper to pursue them (when they interfere with\nno positive duty) as a means of expanding and strengthening the mind--\neven when I can not point out the precise _use_ I expect to make of such\nacquisition....\n\nOne of my friends tried to convince me last night that I was not\ndeficient in invention, because I assigned the fact that I am so, as a\nreason for attempting translation rather than original writing. Several\nothers have labored to convince me of the same thing. Strange that they\ncan be so mistaken! I know that I have no fancy, from having tried to\nexert it; and, as this is the lower power and implied in imagination, of\ncourse I have none of the latter faculty. The only two things which look\nlike it are my enthusiasm and my relish for works of a high imaginative\norder.\n\n_Feb. 28th._--... Oh, how transporting--how infinite will be the delight\nwhen _all_ truth shall burst upon us as ONE beautiful and perfect\nwhole--each distinct ray harmonising and blending with every other, and\nall together forming one mighty flood of radiance!... I can not remember\nall the thoughts which have given so much pleasure this evening; I only\nknow that I have been very happy, and wondered not a little at my late\nmelancholy. I believe it must have been partly caused by looking at\nmyself (and that, too, as if I were a little, miserable, isolated\nwretch), instead of contemplating those things which have no relation\nto space and time and matter--the eternal and the infinite--or, if\nI thought of myself at all, feeling that I am part of a great and\nwonderful whole. It seems as if a new inner sense had been opened,\nrevealing to me a world of beauty and perfection that I have never\nbefore seen. I am filled with a strange, yet sweet astonishment.\n\n_Sept. 24, 1837._--I have been profoundly interested in the character of\nGoethe, from reading Mrs. Austin's \"Characteristics\" of him. Certainly,\nvery few men have ever lived of equally wonderful powers. A thing\nmost remarkable in him is what the Germans call Vielseitigkeit,\nmany-sidedness. There was no department of science or art of which he\nwas wholly ignorant, while in very many of both classes his knowledge\nwas accurate and profound. Most men who have attained to distinguished\nexcellence, have done so by confining themselves to a single\ndepartment--frequently being led to the choice by a strong, original\nbias. Even when this is not the case, there is some _class_ of objects\nor pursuits, towards which a particular inclination is manifested;\none loves facts, and devotes himself to observations and experiments;\nanother loves principles and seeks everywhere to discover a _law_. One\ncherishes the Ideal, and neglects and despises the Real, while\nanother reverses his judgment. We have become so accustomed to this\none-sidedness that it occasions no wonder, and is regarded as the\nnatural state of the mind. Thus we are struck with astonishment on\nfinding a mind like Goethe's equally at home in the Ideal and the Real;\nequally interested in the laws of poetical criticism, and the theory of\ncolors, equally attentive to a drawing of a new species of plants, and\nto the plan of a railroad or canal. In short, with the most delicate\nsense of the Beautiful, the most accurate conception of the mode of its\nrepresentation, and the most intense longing for it (which alone\nwould have sufficed to make him an Idealist) he united a fondness for\nobservation, a love of the actual in nature, and a susceptibility to\ndeep impressions from and interest in the objects of sense, which would\nhave seemed to mark him out for a Realist. But is not this the\ntrue stale of the mind, instead of being; one which should excite\nastonishment? Is it not one-sidedness rather than many-sidedness that\nshould be regarded as strange? Is it not as much an evidence of disease\nas the preponderance of one element or function in the physical\nconstitution?\n\n_26th._--I have been thinking more about this many-sidedness of Goethe.\nIt is by no means that _versatility_ which distinguishes so many\nsecond-rate geniuses, which inclines to the selection of many pursuits,\nbut seldom permits the attainment of distinguished excellence in one.\nIt was one and the same principle acting throughout, the striving after\nunity. It was this which made him seek to idealise the actual, and\nto actualise the Ideal. The former he attempted by searching in each\noutward object for the law which governed its existence and of which its\noutward development was but an imperfect symbol, the latter by giving\nform and consistency to the creations of his own fancy. Thus _the one_\nwas ever-present to him, and he sought it not in one path, among the\nobjects of one science alone, but everywhere in nature and out. In all\nthat was genuine nature he knew that it was to be found; that it was\n_not_ to be found in the acquired and the artificial was perhaps the\nreason of his aversion for them. This aversion he carried so far that\neven acquired virtue was distasteful to him. Whatever may be thought\nof such a distaste esthetically, we must think that, morally, it was\ncarrying his principle rather to an extreme. I have just come across a\nplan of study which I formed some months ago and I could not but smile\nto see how nothing of it has been accomplished. I was to divide my\nattention between philosophy, language (not languages), and poetry. The\nformer I was to study by topics; e.g., take the subject of perception,\nwrite out my own ideas upon it, if I had any, and then read those\nof other people. In studying language, or rather ethnography, I\nintended--1. To take the Hebrew roots, trace all the derivatives and\nrelated words first in that language, then in others. 2. To examine\nwords relating to the spiritual, with a view to discover their original\npicture-meaning. 3. Search for a type or symbol in nature of every\nspiritual fact. Under the head of poetry I mean, to study the great\nmasters of epic and dramatic poetry, especially Shakspeare and Milton,\nand from them make out a science of criticism. Alas!\n\n_April 5, 1838._--I have been thinking about myself--what a strange,\nwayward, incomprehensible being I am, and how completely misunderstood\nby almost everybody. Uniting excessive pride with excessive\nsensitiveness, the greatest ardor and passionateness of emotion with\nan irresolute will, a disposition to _distrust_, in so far only as the\naffection of others for me is concerned, with the extreme of confidence\nand credulity in everything else--an incapability of expressing, except\noccasionally as it were in gushes, any strong feeling--a tendency\nto melancholy, yet with a susceptibility of enjoyment almost\ntransporting--subject to the most sudden, unaccountable and irresistible\nchanges of mood--capable of being melted and moulded to anything by\nkindness, but as cold and unyielding as a rock against harshness and\ncompulsion--such are some of the peculiarities which excellently prepare\nme for un-happiness. It is true that sometimes I am conscious of none of\nthem--when for days together I pursue my regular routine of studies and\nemployments, half mechanically--or when completely under the influence\nof the outward, I live for a time in what is around me. But this never\nlasts long. One of the most painful feelings I ever know is the sense of\nan unappeasable craving for sympathy and appreciation--the desire to be\nunderstood and loved, united with the conviction that this desire can\nnever be gratified. I feel _alone_, different from all others and\nof course misunderstood by them. The only other feeling I have more\nmiserable than this is the sense of being _worse_ than all others, and\nutterly destitute of anything excellent or beautiful. Oh! what mysteries\nare wrapped up in the mind and heart of man! What a development will\nbe made when the light of another world shall be let in upon these\nimpenetrable recesses!\n\nBOSTON, _Jan. 7, 1839._--I came here on the last day of the last\nyear, and have since then been very much occupied in different ways.\nYesterday, I heard President Hopkins all day, and in the evening,\na lecture from Dr. Follen on Pantheism. The most abstract of all\npantheistic systems he described to be that of the Brahmans, as taught\nin the Vedas and Vedashta, and also at _first_ by Schelling, viz., that\nthe _absolute_ is the first principle of all things; and this absolute\nis not to be conceived of as possessing any attribute at all--not even\nthat of existence. A system a little less abstract is that of the\nEleatics, who believed in the absolute as existing. Then that of\nGiordano Bruno, who made _soul_ and _matter_ the formative principle and\nthe principal recipient of forces--to be the ground of the universe.\nThen Spinoza, who postulated _thought_ as the representative of the\nspiritual, and _extension_ as that of the material principle; and\nthese together are his _originaux_. From thence sprang the spiritual\npantheists--such as Schelling, Fichte, and Hegel--and the material\npantheists.\n\n_Wednesday, April 10th._--To-morrow I go to Andover. Have been\nindescribably hurried of late. Have finished Claudius--am reading\nPrometheus and Kant's Critique. _April 19th_.--Am reading Seneca's Medea\nand Southey's Life of Cowper.\n\nANDOVER, _May 13th._--Dr. Woods was remarking to-day at dinner on the\ninfluence of _hope_ in sustaining under the severest sufferings. It\nrecalled a thought which occurred to me the other day in reading\nPrometheus; that, regarded as an example of unyielding determination and\nunconquerable fortitude he is not equal to Milton's Satan. For he\nhas before him not only the _hope_, but the _certainty_ of ultimate\ndeliverance, whereas Satan bears himself up, by the mere force of\nhis will, unsustained by hope, \"which comes to all,\" but not to him.\n_15th_.--It has just occurred to me that the doctrine of the soul's\nmortality seems to have _no_ point of contact with humanity. It surely\ncan not have been entertained as being agreeable to man's _wishes_. And\nwhat is there in the system of things, or in the nature of the mind, to\nsuggest it? On the contrary, everything looks in an opposite direction.\nHow is it _possible_ to help seeing that the soul is not here in its\nproper element, in its native air? How is it possible to escape the\nconviction that all its unsatisfied yearnings, its baffled aims, its\nrestless, agonizing aspirings after a _something_, clearly perceived\nto exist, but to be here unattainable--that all these things point\nto _another_ life, the _only_ true life of the soul? There is such a\nmanifest disproportion between all objects of earthly attainment and the\ncapacities of the spirit, that, unless man is immortal, he is vastly\nmore to be pitied than the meanest reptile that crawls upon the earth.\nSo I thought as I was walking this morning and saw a frog swimming in a\npuddle of water. I could hardly help envying him when I considered that\n_his_ condition was suited to his nature, and that he has no wants which\nare not supplied.\n\n_June 17th._--I am reading Goethe's Conversations with Eckermann. One\nthing I remark is this--he does not, as most men do, make the degree\nof sympathy he finds in others the measure of his interest in them and\nattention to them. Goethe looked at all as specimens of human nature,\nand, therefore, all worthy of study. But, after all, this way of looking\nat others seems to be more suited to the _artist_ than to the man; and I\ncan not conceive of any but a very passionless and immobile person who\ncould do it.... Does all nature furnish one type of the soul? If so, it\nmight be the ocean; the rough, swelling, fluctuating, unsounded ocean.\nShall it ever _rest? Rest?_ What an infinite, mournful sweetness in the\nword! How perfectly sure I feel that my soul can never rest in _itself_,\nnor in anything of earth; if I find peace, it must be in the bosom of\nGod.\n\n_July 2d._--The vulgar proverb, \"It never rains but it pours,\" is fully\nillustrated in my case. Last week I would have given half the world for\na new book; yesterday and today have overflooded me. Mr. Hubbard has\nsent me Prof. Park's \"German Selections,\" Pliny, Heeren's Ancient\nGreece, two volumes of the Biblical Repository, and two of his own\nmagazines; Mr. Judd has sent me two volumes of Carlyle, and Mr. Ripley\nfour of Lessing--all of these must be despatched _\u00e0 la h\u00e2te. July\n5th._--Last evening we spent upon the Common witnessing a beautiful\nexhibition of fireworks. This morning I have been to Union wharf to see\nthe departure of some missionaries. For a few minutes, time seemed\na speck and eternity near--but how transient with me are such\nimpressions! I am indulging myself too much of late in a sort of\nsentimental reverie. Life and its changes, the depths of the soul,\nthe fluctuations of passion and feeling--these are the subjects which\nattract my thoughts perpetually.... We spent last evening at Richard H.\nDana's. _He_ does not separate his intellectual and sentimental tastes\nfrom his moral convictions as I do--I mean that neither in books nor men\ndoes he find pleasure unless they are such as his conscience approves.\n_Tuesday, 9th._--Have visited the Allston gallery and seen Rosalie for\nthe last time before going home. I could not have believed that I should\nfeel such a pang at parting from a picture. I did not succeed in getting\nto the gallery before others--but, no matter. I forgot the presence of\neverybody else and sat for an hour before Rosalie without moving. I took\nleave of the other pictures mentally, for I could not look. Farewell,\nsweet Beatrice, lovely Inez, beautiful Ursulina--dear, dear Rosalie,\nfarewell!\n\n_Monday, 15th._--Yesterday I was happy; to-day I am not exactly unhappy,\nbut morbid and anxious. I feel continually the pressure of obligation\nto write something, in order to contribute toward the support of the\nfamily--and yet, I can not write. Mother wants me to write children's\nbooks; Lizzy wants me to write a book of Natural Philosophy for schools.\nI wish I had a \"vocation.\" _Sabbath._--Stayed at home on account of\nthe rain and read one of Tholuck's sermons to Julia. Wrote in my other\njournal some account of my thoughts and feelings. Burned up part of an\nold diary.\n\n_Thursday, July 25th._--\"My soul is dark.\" What with the sin I find\nwithin me, and the darkness and error, disputes and perplexities around\nme, I well-nigh despair. Whether I seek to _discover_ truth or to _live_\nit, I am _equally_ unsuccessful. \"I grope at noon-day as in the night.\"\nBut there is a God, holy and changeless. He _is_. From eternity to\neternity, He IS. On this Rock will I rest----. I stopped a moment and my\neye was caught by the waving trees. What do they say to me? How silent\nthey are! and yet how _eloquent!_ And here I sit--to myself the centre\nof the world, wondering and speculating about this same little self. Do\nthe trees so? No; they wave and bend and bloom for _others._ I am ready\nto join with Herbert in wishing that I were a tree; then\n\n        \"At least some bird would trust\n  Her household to me, and I should be just.\"\n\n_Evening._--I read to-day another of Lessing's tragedies--\"Miss Sarah\nSampson,\"--which I do not like nearly as well as Mina von Barnhelm. We\nwere engaged to take tea with \"the Mayor,\" and went with many tremblings\nand hesitations on account of the rain. Very few there, and a most\nuncommonly stupid time.\n\n_Saturday Evening._--I have been alone for a little while, and, as\nusual, this time brings with it thronging remembrances of absent\nfriends. Their forms flit before me; their spirits are around me; I feel\ntheir presence--almost; dear friends, almost I clasp you in my arms. My\nsoul yearns for love and sympathy. I do bless and praise my God for all\nHis goodness to me in this respect, for my _many_ tender and faithful\nand devoted friends. Part of the day I spent in arranging shells in my\ncabinet of drawers. This afternoon I went to Mr. Prentiss' library and\nobtained Schlegel's Lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature.\n\n_Monday Morning._--Have been trying to rouse myself to write Lessing,\nbut can not. It looks so little. When it is all done, what will it\namount to? Why, I shall get a few dollars for mother, which will go to\nbuy bread and butter--and that's the end of it.\n\n_Evening._--S. W. and M. W. made a call on us and the former played and\nsang. Then we sat up till after eleven naming each of our acquaintances\nafter some flower. _Aug. 8th_,--Oh, what a happy half hour I had last\nevening, looking at the sky after sunset! We went down to the water--it\nwas smooth as a crystal lake. The horizon was all in a glow--the\nsoftest, mellowest, warmest glow, and above dark, heavy clouds of\nevery variety of form--the clouds and the glow alike reflected in the\nanswering heaven below--I was almost _too_ happy; but--it _faded_.\n_Evening_.--I had something to wake me up this afternoon, viz., the\narrival of the July No. of the New York Review, containing \"Claudius.\"\nThis led to some conversation about writing, its pecuniary\nprofitableness, subjects for it, etc. Julia wished I would take some\nother topics besides German authors, but when I told her the alternative\nwould be metaphysics, she laughed and retracted the wish. We then\nlaughed over several schemes such as these--that one of us should write\na review and another make the book for it afterward; that I should\nreview some book which did not exist and give professed extracts from\nit, etc. Soon after Mrs. D. came in and began to talk about \"Undine,\"\nwhich she and her husband have just been reading--the new translation.\nI was amused at their opinion of it. The most absurd, ridiculous story,\nshe said--with no _rationality_, nothing that one can _understand_ in\nit--and so on, showing that she had not the slightest idea of a work of\nfancy merely. I have been wishing, as I often do, for some records of my\npast life. What could I not give for a daily journal as minute as this,\nbeginning from my childhood! My past life is mostly a blank to me. _Aug.\n15th_.--I am beginning to see dimly some new truths--such I believe\nthem to be--in theology. I am inclined to think, but do not feel sure,\nthat Redemption, instead of being merely a necessary _remedy_ for a\ngreat evil, is in itself the highest positive good, and that the state\ninto which it brings man, of union with God, is a far nobler and better\ncondition than that of primitive innocence, and at the same time a\ncondition attainable in no other way than through redemption, and, of\ncourse, through sin. In this case the plan of redemption, instead\nof being an _afterthought_ of the divine mind (speaking\nanthropomorphically), is that in reference to which the whole\nworld-system was contrived. These thoughts were partly suggested by\nreading Schleiermacher, who, if I understand him, has some such notions.\nIf there is any truth in them, do they not throw light on the much-vexed\nquestion why God permitted the introduction of moral evil? Another point\nwhich I feel confident is misunderstood by our theologians is the nature\nof the redemptive act. The work of Christ in redemption is generally\nexplained to be His incarnation, sufferings, and death, by which He made\n_atonement_ to justice for the sins of the world. This, it is true, is a\npart of what He did; it is that part which He performed in reference to\nGod and His law, but it is not what Coleridge calls the \"spiritual and\ntranscendent act\" by which He made us one with Himself, and thus secured\nthe possibility of our restoration to spiritual life. _Aug. 17th_.--Have\ndevoted almost the whole day to Coleridge's Literary Remains, which Mr.\nDavenport brought me. My admiration, even veneration, for his almost\nunequalled power is greater than ever, but I can not help thinking that\nhis studies--some of them--exerted an unfavorable influence upon him,\nespecially, perhaps, Spinoza. _Aug. 22d_--Mr. Park sent me the Life of\nMackintosh by his son. I rejoiced much too soon over it, for it proves\nvery uninteresting. This is partly to be accounted for from my want of\ninterest in politics, etc. In great measure, however, it is the fault of\nthe biographer, who has shown us the man at a distance, on stilts, or at\nbest only in his most outward circumstances, never letting us know,\nas Carlyle says, what sort of stockings he wore, and what he ate for\ndinner. I don't think Sir James himself has much _inwardness_ to him,\nbut certainly his son has shown us only the outermost shell. Have read\nthe Iliad and Schleiermacher to-day. _Aug. 24th_.--A queer circumstance\nhappened this evening. Col. Kinsman and Mr. C. S. Davies called. I was\nconsidering what unusual occurrence could have brought Mr. D. here,\nwhen he increased my wonder still more by disclosing his errand. He had\nreceived, he said, a letter from Prof. Woods, requesting that I, or\na \"lady whose taste was as correct in dress as in literature,\" would\ndecide upon the fashion of a gown to be worn by him at his inauguration\nas President of Bowdoin College, and forthwith procure such a gown to be\nmade. _Aug. 25th_.--I have been reading the second volume of Mackintosh,\nwhich is much better than the first, and gives a higher opinion of him.\nHe is certainly well described by Coleridge as the \"king of men of\ntalent.\" It is curious, by the way, to compare what M. says of C.: \"It\nis impossible to give a stronger example of a man, whose talents are\nbeneath his understanding, and who trusts to his ingenuity to atone for\nhis ignorance.... Shakespeare and Burke are, if I may venture on\nthe expression, above talent; but Coleridge is not!\" Ah, well--_de\ngustibus_, etc.\n\nI have been as busy as a bee all day; wrote notes, prepared for leaving\nhome, read Schleiermacher, and Philip von Artevelde, which delighted me;\nwalked after tea with Lizzy, then examined my papers to see what is\nto be burned. I wish I knew what I was made for--I mean, in\n_particular_--what I _can_ do, and what I _ought_ to do. I can not bear\nto live a life of literary self-indulgence, which is no better than\nanother self-indulgence. I _do want_ to be of some use in the world,\nbut I am infinitely perplexed as to the _how_ and the _what_. _Aug.\n26th_.--Hurried through the last 200 pages of Mackintosh today. On the\nwhole, there is much to _like_ as well as to admire in him. One thing\npuzzles me in his case as in others: How men who give no signs through a\nlong life of anything more than the most cold and distant _respect_ for\nreligion--the most unfrequent and uninterested remembrance, if any\nat all--of the Saviour, all at once become so devout--I mean it not\ndisrespectfully--on their death-beds. What strange doubts this and other\nlike mysteries suggest!\n\nAfter tea I carried a bouquet to Mrs. French. Saw all the way a sky\nso magnificent that words can do no justice to it--splendors piled on\nsplendors, till my soul was fairly sick with admiration. Mrs. French\nasked me if life ever looked sad and wearisome to me. _Ever!_\n\nBOSTON, _Saturday morning, Sept. 8th_--The rain keeps me home from\nchurch, but I still have the more time for reading and reflection. At\nevery change in my outward situation I find myself forming new purposes\nand plans for the future.... I _will_ trust that, by the grace of God,\nthe ensuing winter shall be a period of more vigorous effort and more\npersevering self-culture than any previous season of my life. Above all,\nlet me remember that intellectual culture is worthless when dissociated\nfrom moral progress; that true spiritual growth embraces both; and the\nlatter as the basis and mould of the former. Let me remember, too, that\nin the universe _everything_ may be had for a price, but nothing can be\nhad without price. The price of successful self-culture is unremitted\ntoil, labor, and self-denial; am I willing to pay it? I feel that I need\nlight and strength and life; may I find them in _Christ!_ As to studies,\nI mean to study the Bible _much;_ also dogmatic theology--which of late\nhas an increasing interest for me--and ecclesiastical history. To the\nSpirit of all Truth I surrender my mind.\n\n_Monday._--I have fallen in with Swedenborg's writings. Wonder whether\nthe destiny which seems to bring to us just what we chance to be\ninterested in is a real ordinance of fate or only a seeming one--because\ninterest in a subject makes us observant. Am reading Greek with Julia.\nWe began the sixth book of the Iliad. _Tuesday_.--Fifty lines in Homer;\nCompanion proofs; Schleiermacher; the prologue and first scene of\nTerence's comedy of Andria; two Nos. of N. Nickleby, and walked\nround the Common with Julia twice. _Wednesday_.--Studies the same as\nyesterday, except that I read less of Schleiermacher and spent an hour\nor so upon Lessing. Read \"Much Ado about Nothing,\" and disliked Beatrice\nless than ever before. But I am not satisfied with Claudio; he is not\n_half_ sorry and remorseful enough for the supposed death of Hero--and\nthen to think of his being willing to marry another right off! Oh, it\nis abominable! Walked over _four miles_ in the morning, and out again\nbefore tea.\n\n_Tuesday, Sept. 17th_--Well. The family are off--Mr. and Mrs. Willis,\nand Julia too--and the Recorder and Companion [10] are left for a\nfortnight in my charge. I have been much interested in what I have read\nto-day in Schleiermacher. It is his evolution of the idea of God--if I\nmay so say--from holy, human consciousness. It recalls some thoughts\nwhich I had on this subject once before, and which I began to write\nabout. My notion was this--that an absolutely perfect idea of man\nimplies, contains an idea of God. I have a great mind to try and make\nsomething out of it, only I am so hurried just now. They keep sending me\npapers to make selections for the Recorder, and I have just been\nwriting an article for the Companion. I spend half my time looking\nover newspapers. Double, double toil and trouble; most wearisome and\nprofitless. Would not edit a paper for the world.\n\nNo truth can be said to be seen _as it is_ until it is seen in its\nrelation to all other truths. In this relation only is it true.... No\n_error_ is understood till we have seen all the truth there is in it,\nand, therefore, as Coleridge says, you must \"understand an author's\nignorance, or conclude yourself ignorant of his understanding.\"\n\n_Monday, 30th._--I have been very happy this afternoon--writing all the\ntime with a genial flow of thought and without effort. How I love to\nfeel that for this I am indebted to God. He is my intellectual source,\nthe Father of my spirit, as well as the author of everything morally\ngood in me.\n\n_Friday, Oct. 4th._--I have been too busy reading and writing for the\nlast few days to find time for my journal. I go on with Schleiermacher\nand have resumed Lessing. I am reading the Memoir of Mrs. S. L. Smith\nand Tappan's \"Review of Edwards on the Will.\" Fifty lines in the Iliad\nwith Julia. Finished the Andria and to-day began the Adelphi. I am\namused at comparing the comedy of that day with the modern French\nschool. Davus in Andria is but a rough sketch of Moliere's valet, and\nthe whole plot is so bungling in comparison. Have had very few attacks\nof melancholy lately; because, I suppose, my health is good and I am\nconstantly employed.\n\n_Evening_.--I never came nearer losing my wits with delight than this\nafternoon. Went to call on Mr. and Mrs. Ripley, and saw his fine library\nof German books. The sight was enough to excite me to the utmost, but\nto be told that they were all at my service put me into such an ecstasy\nthat I could hardly behave with decency. I selected several immediately\nand promised myself fuller examination of the library very soon.... Mr.\nR. proposed to me to translate something for his series. Shall I? [11]\n\n_Sabbath Evening, Oct. 13th_.--I have just been writing to my dear\nbrother G., for whom as well as for my other brothers, I feel the\ngreatest solicitude. I have separate sources of anxiety for each of\nthem, and hope that the intenseness of this anxiety will make me more\nearnest in commending them to God. _Oct. 14th_.--Gave up the time\nusually devoted to Lessing to writing two articles for the Mother's\nMagazine. Read Homer, and the 149th and 150th Psalms and the first\nchapter of Genesis in Hebrew. Read or rather _studied_ Schleiermacher.\nCorrected proof. Read several articles in the Biblical Repository--one\nby Prof. Park--aloud to Julia. On the whole, I have been pretty\nindustrious. Oh, how many reasons I have for gratitude! Health, friends,\nbooks--nothing is wanting but the heart to enjoy God in all. Wrote to\nmother.\n\n_Oct. 17th._--This morning dear Lizzy came; of course the day has been\ngiven up to _miscellanies_.\n\n_Oct. 21st._--Mr. Albro [12] called and stayed till dinner-time. After\ndinner read Greek with Julia and then wrote a notice of Gesenius' Hebrew\nGrammar, and then set off for Lucy's, where the others were already\ngone. Mr. Albro has concluded to read Schleiermacher with me--that is,\nto keep along at the same rate, that we may talk about it. Letter\nfrom mother, and notes from Mr. Condit and Mr. Hamlin, with a copy of\n\"Payson's Thoughts\" in Armenian. Have just finished reading Mr. Ripley's\nReply to Mr. Norton. Mr. Willis is forming a Bible-class for me to teach\non the Sabbath--am very glad.\n\n_Nov. 14th._--Finished Lessing yesterday, and hope for a little rest\nfrom hurry. Shall resume Schleiermacher and take up Fichte on the\nDestination of Man.\n\n_Nov. 22nd._--I am afraid that I may have to be resigned to a very great\nmisfortune; namely, to the partial loss of eyesight--for a time at\nleast; so yesterday I resolved to give them a holiday, though sorely\nagainst my will, by not opening a book the whole day. Whether I should\nhave succeeded in observing such a desperate resolution without the aid\nof circumstances is quite problematical, but Mr. Gray opportunely came\nwith a request that I should take a ride with him to Cambridge, and\nvisit the libraries there. This occupied four or five hours, and a\nlyceum lecture provided for the evening. I have always congratulated\nmyself on being so little dependent on _others_ for entertainment--but\nnever considered how entirely I am dependent on _books_. If I should be\ndeprived of the use of my eyes, I should be a most miserable creature.\n\n_Thanksgiving, Nov. 29th._--A very pleasant and delightful day--our\nhearts full of gladness and, I hope, of gratitude. I hope dear mother\nand all at home are as happy.\n\n_Dec. 25th._--How plain that all the creations of the ancient mythology\nare but representations of something in the heart of man!... What is the\nend of man? Infinite contradictions--all opposites blended into one--a\nmass of confused, broken parts, of disjointed fragments--such _is_ he.\nThe circumstances that surround him--the events that happen unto him,\nare no less strange. What shall be the end? Oh then, abyss of futurity,\ndeclare it! unfold thy dark depths--let a voice come up from thy cloudy\ninfinite--let a ray penetrate thy unfathomable profound. If we could\nbut _rest_ till the question is decided! if we could but float softly on\nthe current of time till we reach the haven! But no, we must _act_. We\nmust _do_ something. _I_ must do something _now_--WHAT?\n\n_Evening._ But as the morning. In the afternoon I was talking with L.\nW. [13] with as much eagerness and vivacity as if I had never known a\ncloud. This evening I was going to a _dance_ at the _Insane_ Hospital.\nFor me truly it has been a day of opposites--all the elements of life\nhave met and mingled in it.\n\n_Wednesday, 26th._--The end of man, says Carlyle, is an action, not a\nthought. This is partly true, though all noble action has its root in\nthought. Thought, indeed, in its true and highest sense, _is_ action. It\nis never lost. If uttered, it may breathe inspiration into a thousand\nminds and become the impulse to ten thousand good actions. If unuttered,\nand terminating in no single outward act, it yet has an emanative\ninfluence; it impregnates the man and makes itself felt in his life. A\nman can not do so noble and godlike a thing as to think, without being\nthe better for it. Indeed, the distinction between thought and action is\nnot always an accurate one. Many thoughts deserve the name of activities\nmuch better than certain movements of the muscles and changes of the\noutward organization which we denominate actions. In this sense, it is\nbetter of the two to think without acting than to act without thinking.\n\nMrs. Hopkins was the author of the following works, intended mostly for\nthe young. Some of them have had a wide circulation. They are written in\nan attractive style and breathe the purest spirit of Christian love and\nwisdom: 1. The Pastor's Daughter. 2. Lessons on the Book of Proverbs. 3.\nThe Young Christian Encouraged. 4. Henry Langdon; or, What Was I Made\nFor? 5. The Guiding Star; or, The Bible God's Message; a Sequel to Henry\nLangdon. 6. The Silent Comforter; a Companion for the Sick-room. A\nCompilation.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nE.\n\n\nThe following is the rhapsody referred to by Mr. Butler: (The words to\nbe used were _Mosquito, Brigadier, Moon, Cathedral, Locomotive, Piano,\nMountain, Candle, Lemon, Worsted, Charity_, and _Success_).\n\n  A wounded soldier on the ground in helpless languor lay,\n  Unheeding in his weariness the tumult of the day;\n  In vain a pert _mosquito_ buzzed madly in his ear,\n  His thoughts were far away from earth--its sounds he could not hear;\n  Nor noted he the kindly glance with which his _brigadier_\n  Looked down upon his manly form when chance had brought him near.\n  It was a glorious autumn night on which the _moon_ looked down,\n  Calmly she looked and her fair face had neither grief nor frown.\n  Just as she gazed in other lands on some _cathedral_ dim,\n  Whose aisles resounded to the strains of dirges or of hymn.\n  But now with _locomotive_ speed the soldier's thoughts took wing:\n  Back to his home they bore him, and he heard his sisters sing--\n  Heard the softest-toned _piano_ touched by hands he used to love.\n  Was it home or was it heaven? Was that music from above?\n  Oh, for one place or the other! In his mountain air to die,\n  Once more upon his mother's breast, as in infancy, to lie!\n\n  The scene has changed. Where is he now? Not on the cold, damp ground.\n  Whence came this couch? and who are they who smiling stand around?\n  What friendly hands have borne him to his own free _mountain_ air?\n  And father, mother, sisters--every one of them is there.\n  Now gentle ministries of love may soothe him in his pain;\n  Water to cool his fevered lips he need not ask in vain.\n  His mother shades the _candle_ when she steals across the room;\n  A face like hers would radiant make a very desert's gloom.\n  The fragrant _lemon_ cools his thirst, pressed by his sister's hand--\n  Not one can do enough for him, the hero of their band.\n\n  Oh, happy, convalescing days! How full of pleasant pain!\n  How pleasant to take up the old, the dear old life again!\n  Now, sitting on the wooden bench before the cottage door,\n  How many times they make him tell the same old story o'er!\n  How he fought and how he fell; how he longed again to fight;\n  And how he would die fighting yet for the triumph of the right.\n  His good old mother sits all day so fondly by his side;\n  How can she give him up again--her first-born son, her pride?\n  His sisters with their _worsted_ his stockings fashion too,\n  In patriotic colors--the red, the white, the blue.\n  If he should never wear them, a _charity_ 'twill be\n  To give them to some soldier-lad as brave and good as he.\n  They're dreadful homely stockings; one can not well say less,\n  But whosoever wears 'em--why, may he have _success_!\n\nHere are samples of the charades referred to by Miss Morse:\n\nON RETURNING A LOST GLOVE TO A FRIEND.\n\nMARCH, 1873.\n\n  A hand I am not, yet have fingers five;\n  Alive I am not, yet was once alive.\n  Am found in every house and by the dozen,\n  And am of flesh and blood a sort of cousin.\n  Now cut my head off. See what I become!\n  No longer am I lifeless, dead, and dumb.\n  I am the very sweetest thing on earth;\n  Royal in power and of royal birth.\n  I in the palace reign and in the cot--\n  There is no place where man is and I'm not.\n  I am too costly to be bought and sold;\n  I can not be enticed by piles of gold.\n  And yet I am so lowly that a smile\n  Can woo and win me--and so free from guile,\n  That I look forth from many a gentle face\n  In tenderness and truthfulness and grace.\n  Say, do you know me? Have you known my reign?\n  My joy, my rapture, and my silent pain?\n  Beneath your pillow have I roses placed--\n  Your heart's glad festival have I not graced?\n  Ah me! To mother, lover, husband, wife\n  I am the oil and I the wine of life.\n  With you, my dear, I have been hand and _glove_.\n  Shall I return the first and keep the _Love_?\n\nCHARADE.\n\n  My _first_ was born to rule; before him stand\n  The potentates and nobles of the land.\n  He loves his grandeur--hopes to be more grand.\n\n  My second you will find in every lass--\n  Both in the highest and the lowest class,\n  And even in a simple blade of grass.\n\n  But add it to my _first_, and straightway he\n  Becomes my _whole_--loses identity;\n  Parts with his manhood and becomes a _She_.\n\n           (Prince, _ss.,_ Princess).\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nF.\n\n\nHere is another extract from the same letter:\n\nJ'ai peine \u00e0 me mettre \u00e0 l'oraison, et quelquefois quand j'y suis il me\ntarde d'en sortir. Je n'y fais, ce me semble, presque rien. Je me trouve\nm\u00eame dans une certaine ti\u00e9deur et une t\u00e2chet\u00e9 pour toutes sortes de\nbiens. Je n'ai aucune peine consid\u00e9rable ni dans mon int\u00e9rieur, ni dans\nmon ext\u00e9rieur, ainsi je ne saurois dire que je passe par aucune \u00e9preuve.\nIl me semble que c'est un songe, ou que je me moque quand je cherche mon\n\u00e9tat tant je me trouve hors de tout \u00e9tat spirituel, dans la voie\ncommune des gens tiedes qui vivent \u00e0 leur aise. Cependant cette languor\nuniverselle jointe \u00e0 l'abandon qui me fait acceptes tout et qui\nm'emp\u00eache de rien rechercher, ne laisse pas de m'abattre, et je sens\nque j'ai quelquefois besoin de donner \u00e0 mes sens quelque amusement pour\nm'\u00e9gayer. Aussi le fais--je simplement, mais bien mieux quand je suis\nseul que quand je suis avec mes meilleurs amis. Quand je suis seul, je\njoue quelquefois comme un petit enfant, etc., etc.\n\nThe letter may be found in Vol. V., pp. 411-12, of Madame Guyon's\nLETTRES CHR\u00c9TIENNES ET SPIRITUELLES _sur divers Sujets qui regardent\nLa Vie Int\u00e9rieure, ou L'esprit du vrai Christianisme_--enrichie de la\nCorrespondance secrette de MR. DE FENELON avec l'Auteur. London, 1768.\nThe whole work is extremely interesting.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nG.\n\n[From The Evangelist of May 27, 1875.]\n\n\nIN MEMORIAM.\n\nDied in Paris, France, May 8, 1875, VIRGINIA S. OSBORN, only daughter of\nWilliam H. and Virginia S. Osborn, of this city, and granddaughter of\nthe late Jonathan Sturges.\n\nThe sudden death of this gifted young girl has overwhelmed with grief a\nlarge social and domestic circle. Last February, in perfect health and\nfull of the brightest anticipations, she set out, in company with her\nparents and a young friend, on a brief foreign tour. After passing\nseveral weeks at Rome and visiting other famous cities of Italy, she had\njust reached Paris on the way home when a violent fever seized upon her\nbrain, and, in defiance of the tenderest parental care and the best\nmedical skill, hurried her into the unseen world.\n\nAnd yet it is hardly possible to realise that this brilliant young life\nhas forever vanished away from earth, for she seemed formed alike by\nnature and Providence for length of days. Already her character gave the\nfairest promise of a perfect woman. It possessed a strength and maturity\nbeyond her years. Although not yet twenty-one, her varied mental culture\nand her knowledge of almost every branch of English literature, history,\npoetry, fiction, even physical science, were quite remarkable; nor was\nshe ignorant of some of the best French and German, not to speak of\nLatin, authors. We have never known one of her age whose intellectual\ntastes were of a higher order. She seemed to feel equally at home in\nreading Shakespeare and Goethe; Prescott, Motley, and Froude; Mrs.\nAustin, Scott, and Dickens; Taine, Huxley, and Tyndall; or the popular\nbiographies and fictions of the day. And yet her studious habits and\ndevotion to books did not render her any the less the unaffected,\nattractive, and whole-hearted girl. Her friends, both old and young,\ngreatly admired her, but they loved her still more. As was natural in\none of so much character, she was very decided in her ways; but she was\nalso perfectly frank, truthful, and conscientious--resembling in\nthis respect, as she did in some other excellent traits, her honored\ngrandfather, Mr. Sturges.\n\nSeveral years before her death she was enrolled among the disciples of\nJesus. How vividly the writer recalls her earnest look and tones of\nvoice when she declared to him her desire publicly to confess her\nSaviour and to remember Him at His table! When from beneath the deep sea\nthe news that she was dangerously ill and then soon after that she was\ndead stole upon her friends here like a thief in the night, almost\nstunning them with grief; their first feeling was one of tender sympathy\nfor the desolate, sorely-smitten parents, and of prayer that God would\nbe pleased to comfort and uphold them in their affliction.\n\nFrom many hearts, we are sure, that prayer has been offered up\noftentimes since. If it were not for the relief which comes of faith and\nprayer, what a cloud of hopeless gloom would enshroud such an event!\nBlessed be God for this exceeding great and precious relief. The dark\ncloud is not indeed dispersed even by faith and prayer, but with what\na silver lining they are able to invest it! If we really believed that\nsuch tragical events are solely the effects of chance or mere natural\nlaw--if we did not believe that the hand of infinite wisdom and love is\nalso in them, surely the grass would turn black beneath our feet. _The\nLord gave; the Lord hath taken away; and blessed be the name of the\nLord._\n\nG. L. P.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nH.\n\n_Extracts front Dr. Vincent's Memorial Discourse._\n\n\nThe men and women who know how to comfort human sorrow, and to teach\ntheir fellows to turn it to its highest uses, are among God's best gifts\nto the world. The office and the name of Comforter have the highest and\npurest associations. It is the Holy Spirit of God who calls Himself by\nthat name, and to be a true comforter is to be indeed a co-worker with\nGod. But even as the _word_ \"comfort\" goes deeper than those pitying\ncommonplaces which even nature teaches us to utter to those who are\nin any trouble, so the _office_ of a true comforter requires other\nqualifications than mere natural tenderness of heart, or even the\nexperience of suffering. One must know how to _interpret_ as well as how\nto _feel_ sorrow; must know its _lessons_ as well as its _smart_. Hence\nit is that God makes His comforters by processes of His own; by hard\nmasters ofttimes, and by lessons not to be found in books.\n\nIt is in illustration of this truth that I bring to you to-day some\nmemorials of the experience, character, and life-work of one widely\nknown, deeply beloved, and greatly honored by God as an instrument of\nChristian instruction and of Christian comfort. It would, indeed, be\npossible to strike some other keynote. A character presenting so many\npoints of interest might be studied from more than one of those points\nwith both pleasure and profit; but, on the whole, it seems to me that\nthe thought of a _Christian comforter_ best concentrates the lessons of\nher life, and best represents her mission to society; so that we might\naptly choose for our motto those beautiful words of the Apostle:\n\"Blessed be God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father\nof mercies, and the God of all comfort, who comforteth us in all our\ntribulation, that we may be able to comfort them which are in any\ntrouble by the comfort wherewith we ourselves are comforted of God.\"\n\nIn endeavoring to depict a life which was largely shaped by sorrow, I am\nnot going to open the record of a sorrowful life, but rather of a joyful\none; not of a starved and meager life, but of a very rich one, both in\nitself and in its fruits; yet it may be profitable for us to see through\nwhat kind of discipline that life became so rich, and to strike some\nof the springs where arose the waters which refreshed so many of the\nchildren of pain and care.\n\nThe daughter of Edward Payson might justly have appropriated her\nfather's words: \"Thanks to the fervent, effectual prayers of my\nrighteous parents, and the tender mercies of my God upon me, I have\nreason to hope that the pious wishes breathed over my infant head are in\nsome measure fulfilled.\" She might have said with Cowper:\n\n  \"My boast is not that I deduce my birth\n  From loins enthroned and rulers of the earth;\n  But higher far my proud pretensions rise;\n  The child of parents passed into the skies.\"\n\nThe life and work of that devoted minister of Jesus Christ have passed\ninto the religious history of New England--not to say of our whole\ncountry--and no student of that history is unfamiliar with that\ncharacter so tried, yet so exalted by suffering; with that ministry so\nfaithful, so unselfish, marked by such yearning for souls, and with such\npersistence, tact, and success in leading them to Christ; with that\nintellect so richly endowed and so well trained; that devotional spirit\nso rapt, that conscience so acutely sensitive; with that life so\nfruitful and that death so triumphant....\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn the summer of 1869 she found a lovely and peaceful retreat among the\nhills of Vermont. There arose that tasteful home with which, perhaps\nmore than any other spot, memory loves to associate her. There, for ten\nhappy summers, she enjoyed the communion with Nature's \"visible forms,\"\nand heard her \"various language,\" and felt her healing touch on the\nwearied brain and overstrung nerves; there, as I think she would have\nwished, she took leave of earth amid the pomp and flush of the late\nsummer, and gladly ascended to the eternal sunshine of heaven; and\nthere, in the shadow of the giant hills which \"brought peace\" to her,\nand the changing moods of which she so loved to study, her ashes await\nthe morning of the Resurrection.\n\nIn reviewing this life of nearly sixty years, we find its keynote, as\nwas said at the outset, in the thought of the Christian comforter. We\nsee in her one whom God commissioned, so far as we can judge, to bring\nlight and comfort to multitudes, and whom He prepared for that blessed\nwork by peculiar and severe discipline.\n\nThere is nothing in which ordinary minds are more commonly mistaken than\nin their estimate of _suffering._ They seem often unable to conceive it\nexcept in its association with appreciable tragedies, in those grosser\nforms in which it waits upon visible calamity. Such do not know that the\nheart is often the scene of tragedies which can not be written, and that\nthere are sufferings more subtle and more acute than any which torture\nthe nerve or wring the brow. Take a character like this with which we\nare dealing; combine the nature to which love was a necessity of being\nwith those high and pure ideals of character which culled cautiously the\nobjects of affection; add the intense sensitiveness without the self-\nesteem which so often serves as a rock of refuge to the most sensitive;\nadd the sharply-cut individuality which could only see and do and\nexpress in its own way, and which, therefore, so frequently exposed its\nsubject to the misunderstanding of strangers or of unappreciative souls;\ncrown all with the stern conscientiousness which would not compromise\nthe truth even for love's sake, and the exquisite selfreverence, if you\nwill allow the expression, which held the region of religious emotion as\nholy ground, and which regarded the attempt to open or to penetrate the\ninner shrines of Christian feeling as something akin to sacrilege--and\nblend all these in a delicate, highly-strung, nervous organization, and\nyou have the elements of a fearful capacity for suffering.\n\nBesides this _capacity_ for suffering, Mrs. Prentiss had a very clear\ncognition of the sacred _office_ of suffering, and of its relation to\nperfection of character. There were two ideas which pervaded her whole\ntheory of religious experience. The one was that whenever God has\nspecial work for His children to do, He always fits them for it by\nsuffering. She had the most intense conviction of any one I ever knew\nof the necessity of suffering to perfection of character or of work.\nDoubtless there have been others who have learned as well as she its\nvalue as a purifying and exalting power, but very few, I think, who have\nso early and so uncompromisingly taken that truth into their theory of\nChristian education. She quoted with approval the words of Madame Guyon,\nthat \"God rarely, if ever, makes the educating process a painless one\nwhen He wants remarkable results.\" Such must drink of Christ's cup\nand be baptized with His baptism. Along with this went another and a\ncomplementary thought, viz., that as God prepares His workmen for great\nwork by suffering, so there is another class of His children whom He\ndoes not find competent to this preparation; who escape much of the\nconflict and suffering, but never attain the highest enjoyments or fight\nthe decisive battles of time.... In a volume of Fenelon's Christian\nCounsel, which was one of her favorite closet companions, this passage\nis scored: God \"attacks all the subtle resources of self-love within,\nespecially in those souls who have generously and without reserve\ndelivered themselves up to the operations of His grace. The more He\nwould purify them, the more He exercises them interiorly.\" And she has\nadded a special note at the foot of the page: \"He never forces Himself\non ungenerous souls for this work.\"\n\nAlong with this went the thought that God's discipline was intended to\nmake not only _models_, but _ministers_; that one who had passed through\nthe furnace with Christ was to emerge from the fiery baptism not merely\nto be _gazed_ at, but to go down to his brethren telling with power the\nstory of the \"form of the Fourth.\" This is the sentiment of some lines\naddressed by her to an afflicted friend:\n\n  \"O that this heart with grief so well acquainted\n    Might be a fountain, rich and sweet and full,\n  For all the weary that have fallen and fainted\n    In life's parched desert--thirsty, sorrowful.\n\n  \"Thou Man of Sorrows, teach my lips that often\n    Have told the sacred story of my woe,\n  To speak of Thee till stony griefs I soften--\n    Till those that know Thee not, learn Thee to know.\"\n\nAt a comparatively early period of her Christian experience, the theme\nof her prayer was: \"I beseech Thee, show me Thy glory\"; for in the\nanswer to that prayer there seemed, as she said, to be summed up\neverything that she needed or could desire. In a paper in which she\nrecorded some of her aspirations, she wrote: \"Let my life be an\nall-day looking to Jesus. Let my love to God be so deep, earnest, and\nall-pervading, that I can not have even the passing emotion of rebellion\nto suppress. There is such a thing as an implicit faith in, and\nconsequent submission to, Christ. Let me never rest till they are fully\nmine.\"\n\nI do not know the precise date, but I think it could not have been very\nlate when she received a mighty answer to the prayer to behold God's\nglory. New views of Christian privilege and of the relation of Christ\nto believing souls came with prayerful searching of the Scriptures.\nShe entered, to use her own words, upon \"a life of incessant peace and\nserenity--notwithstanding it became, by degrees, one of perpetual self-\ndenial and effort.\" The consciousness of God never left her. The whole\nworld seemed holy ground. Prayer became a perpetual delight. The pride\nand turbulence of nature grew quiet under these gentle influences, and\nanything from God's hand seemed just right and quite good.\n\nThe secret of her peace and of her usefulness lay very largely in the\nprayerfulness of her life. From her early years, prayer was her delight.\nIn describing the comforts of her chamber in the school at Richmond, she\nnoted as its crowning charm the daily presence of the Eternal King, who\ncondescended to make it His dwelling-place. With the deeper experiences\nof which we have spoken came a fresh delight in prayer. \"It was very\ndelightful,\" she says, \"to pray all the time; all day long; not only for\nmyself, but for the whole world--particularly for all those who\nloved Christ.\" Her views of prayer were Scriptural, and, therefore,\ndiscriminating. She fully accepted Paul's statement that \"we know not\nwhat we should pray for as we ought\" without the help of the Spirit;\nand, therefore, she always spoke of prayer as something to be _learned_.\nIf she believed that a Christian \"learns to pray when first he lives,\"\nshe believed also that the prayer of the infant Christian life was like\nthe feeble breath of infancy. She understood by prayer something\nfar more and higher than the mere preferring of petitions. It was\n_communion_; God's Spirit responding harmoniously to our own. With\nColeridge she held, that the act of praying with the total concentration\nof the faculties is the very highest energy of which the human heart is\ncapable. Hence she was accustomed to speak of _learning_ the mysterious\nart of prayer by an apprenticeship at the throne of grace. She somewhere\nwrote: \"I think many of the difficulties attending the subject of prayer\nwould disappear if it could be regarded in early life as an art that\nmust be acquired through daily, persistent habits with which nothing\nshall be allowed to interfere.\" She saw that prayer is not to be made\ndependent on the various emotive states in which one comes to God. \"The\nquestion,\" she said, \"is not one of mere delight.\" The Roman Catholic\npoet accurately expressed her thought on this point:\n\n  \"Prayer was not meant for luxury,\n  Nor selfish pastime sweet;\n  It is the prostrate creature's place\n  At the Creator's feet.\"\n\nShe illustrated in her own quaint way the truth that moods have nothing\nto do with the duty of prayer. When one of your little brothers asks\nyou to lend him your knife, do you inquire first what is the state of\nhis mind? If you do, what reply can he make but this: \"The state of my\nmind is, I want your knife.\"\n\nWith her natural temperament and inherited tendencies she might,\nperhaps, under other influences have been drawn too far over to the\nemotional, or at least to the contemplative side of religious life.\nBut she saw and avoided the danger. She discerned the harmony and just\nbalance between the contemplative and the active Christian life, and\nfelt that they ought to co-exist in every genuine experience. She\nattached as little meaning to a life of mere raptures as to one of bare,\nloveless duty. \"Christian life,\" she wrote, \"is not all contemplation\nand prayer; it is not all muscle and sinew. It is a perfect, practicable\nunion of the two. I believe in your joyful emotions if they result in\nself-denying, patient work for Christ--I believe in your work if it is\nwinged by faith and prayer.\" She had scored this passage in her copy of\nFenelon: \"To be constantly in a state of enjoyment that takes away\nthe feeling of the cross, and to live in a fervor of devotion that\ncontinually keeps Paradise open--this is not dying upon the cross and\nbecoming nothing.\"\n\nSuch experience and such views were behind the active side of her life,\nas represented by her personal ministries and by the work of her pen.\nThe one book in which she endeavored to embody _formally_ her views of\nChristian doctrine and experience did not, as might have been expected,\nfind the same reception or the same response which were accorded to\nother productions. It was a book which appealed to a smaller and higher\nclass of readers. But, when she wrought these same truths into pictures\nof living men and women--when she illustrated them at the points where\nthey touched the drudgery and commonplace of thousands of lives--when\nshe opened outlooks for hundreds of discouraged souls upon the roads\nwhere hundreds more were bearing the very same burdens, and yet stepping\nheavenward under their pressure--when she, who had walked in the fire\nherself, went to her sisters in the same old furnace and told them of\nher vision of the form of the Fourth--when she went down to the many who\nwere sadly working out the mistakes of ill-judged alliances, and lifted\nthe veil from sorrows which separate their subject from human sympathy\nbecause they must be borne in silence--when she told such how heaven\nmight come even into their life--when she, with her hands yet bleeding\nfrom the grasp of her own cross, came to other sufferers, not to mock\nthem by the show of an unattainable beauty and an impossible peace, but\nto _offer_ them _divine_ peace and the beauty of the Lord in the name\nof her Saviour--then she spoke with a power which multitudes felt and\nconfessed.\n\nI am sure that hers is, in an eminent degree, the blessing of them\nthat were ready to perish. Weary, overtaxed mothers; misunderstood and\nunappreciated wives, servants, pale seamstresses, delicate women forced\nto live in an atmosphere of drunkenness and coarse brutality, widows and\norphans in the bitterness of their bereavement, mothers with their tears\ndropping over empty cradles--to thousands of such she was a messenger\nfrom heaven.\n\nOf all her seventeen or eighteen published volumes, \"Stepping\nHeavenward\" is the one which best represents her and her life-work--not\nthat she produced nothing else of value, nor that many of her other\nbooks were not widely read, greatly enjoyed, and truly useful; but\n\"Stepping Heavenward\" seemed to meet so many real, deep, inarticulate\ncravings in such a multitude of hearts, that the response to it was\ninstant and general....\n\nShe wrote for readers of all ages. Not the least fruitful work of her\npen was bestowed upon the little ones; and in the number of copies\ncirculated, the Susy Books stand next to Stepping Heavenward. Through\nthose little half allegories she initiated the children into the\nrudiments of self-control, discipline and consecration, and taught eyes\nand hands and tongue and feet the noble uses of the kingdom of God. Even\nfrom these children's stories the thought of the discipline of suffering\nwas not absent, and _Mr. Pain_, as many mothers will remember, figures\namong Little Susy's Six Teachers. With the same pure and wholesome\nlessons, and with the same easy vivacity she appealed to youth through\n\"The Flower of the Family,\" \"The Percys,\" and \"Nidworth,\" and it would\nbe hard to say by readers of what age was monopolised the interest\nin \"Aunt Jane's Hero,\" \"Fred and Maria and Me,\" and those two little\ngems--\"The Story Lizzie Told,\" and \"Gentleman Jim.\"\n\nWhile all her writings were _religious_ in the best sense, they were in\nnothing more so than in their _cheerfulness_. They were not only happy\nand hopeful in their general tone, but sparkled with her delicate and\nsprightly humor. The children of her books were not religious puppets,\nmoving in time to the measured wisdom of their elders, but real children\nof flesh and blood, acting and talking out their impish conceits, and in\nnowise conspicuous by their precocious goodness.\n\nI think that those who knew her best in her literary relations, will\nagree with me that no better type of a consecrated literary talent can\nbe found in the lists of authors. She received enough evidences of\npopular appreciation to have turned the heads of many writers. Over\n200,000 bound volumes of her books have been sold in this country alone,\nto say nothing of the circulation in England, France, and Germany. She\nwas not displeased at success, as I suppose no one is--but success to\nher meant doing good. She did not write for popularity, and her aversion\nto having her own literary work mentioned to her was so well known\nby her friends, that even those who wished to express to her their\ngratitude for the good they had received from her books were constrained\nto be silent. \"While,\" says her publisher, \"she was very sensitive to\nany criticism based on a misconception or a perversion of her purpose,\nnever, in all my intercourse with her, did I discover the slightest\nevidence of a spirit of literary pique, or pride, or ambition.\"\n\nIn attempting to sum up the characteristics of her writings, time will\nsuffer me only to state the more prominent features without enlarging\nupon details.\n\nFirst, and most prominent, was their _purpose_. Her pen moved always and\nonly under a sense of _duty_. She held her talent as a gift from God,\nand consecrated it sacredly to the enforcement and diffusion of His\ntruth. If I may quote once more the words of her publisher in his\ntribute to her memory--\"her great desire and determination to educate\nin the highest and best schools was never overlooked or forgotten. She\nnever, like many writers of religious fiction, caught the spirit of\nsensationalism that is in the air, or sought for effects in unhealthy\nportraiture, corrupt style, or unnatural combinations.\"\n\nSecond, she was _unconventional_. Her writings were not religious in\nany stereotyped, popular sense. Her characters were not stenciled. The\nholiest of them were strongly and often amusingly individualized. She\ndid not try to make automatons to repeat religious commonplaces, but\nactual men and women, through whose very peculiarities the Holy Spirit\nrevealed His presence and work.\n\nThird, I have already referred to her _sprightliness_. She had naturally\na keen sense of humor which overflowed both in her conversation and in\nher books. She saw nothing in the nature of the faith she professed\nwhich bade her lay violent hands on this propensity; and she once said\nthat if her religion could not stand her saying a funny thing now and\nthen it was not worth much. But, whatever she might say or write of this\ncharacter, one never felt that it betrayed any irreverent lightness\nof spirit. The undertone of her life was so deeply reverential, so\nthoroughly pervaded with adoring love for Christ, that it made itself\nfelt through all her lighter moods, like the ground-swell of the sea\nthrough the sparkling ripples on the surface.\n\nFourth, her style was easy, colloquial, never stilted or affected,\nmarked at times by an energy and incisiveness which betrayed earnest\nthought and intense feeling. She aimed to impress the truth, not her\nstyle, and therefore aimed at plainness and directness. Her hard common\nsense, of which her books reveal a goodly share, was offset by her vivid\nfancy which made even the region of fable tributary to the service of\ntruth.\n\nFifth, her books were intensely _personal_; expressions, I mean, of her\nown experience. Many of her characters and scenes are simple transcripts\nof fact, and much of what she taught in song, was a repetition of what\nshe had learned in suffering.\n\nTo go back once more to her office of consoler. She exercised this not\nonly through her books, but also through her personal ministries in\nthose large and widening circles which centred in her literary and\npastoral life. Those who were favored with her friendship in times of\nsorrow found her a comforter indeed. Her letters, of which, at such\ntimes, she was prodigal, were to many sore hearts as leaves from the\ntree of life. She did not expect too much of a sufferer. She recognized\nhuman weakness as well as divine strength. But in all her attempts at\nconsolation, side by side with her deep and true sympathy, went the\n_lesson_ of the _harvest_ of sorrow. She was always pointing the mourner\n_past_ the floods, to the high place above them--teaching him to\nsing even amid the waves and billows--\"the Lord will command His\nloving-kindness\"; \"I shall yet praise Him for the help of His\ncountenance.\" \"I knew,\" she wrote to a bereaved friend, \"that God would\nnever afflict you so, if He had not something beautiful and blissful to\ngive in place of what He took.\" The insight which her writings revealed\ninto many and subtle aspects of sorrow, made her the recipient of hosts\nof letters from strangers, opening to her their griefs, and asking her\ncounsel; and to all she gave freely and joyfully as far as her strength\nand time and judgment would allow. There was a tonic vein mingling with\nher comforts. Her touch was firm as well as tender. She knew the shoals\nof morbid sentimentality which skirt the deeps of trouble, and sought to\npilot the sorrowing past the shoals to the shore.\n\nAnd now, having thus spoken of her preparation for God's work, the\nwork itself, and its fruits, how can we gather up and depict the many\npersonal traits and associations which crowd upon the memory? Of such\nthings how many are incapable of reproduction, their fine flavor\nvanishing with the moment. How often that which most commends them to\nremembrance lies in the glance of an eye, an inflection of the voice, an\nexpression of the face, which neither pen nor pencil can put on record.\n\nHow many such recollections, for example, group themselves round that\nbeautiful home among the hills. How it bore her mark and was pervaded\nwith her presence, and seemed, more than any other spot, the appropriate\nsetting of her life. Now she was at her chamber window studying the ever\nshifting lights and shadows on the hills; now rambling over the fields\nand through the woods and returning with her hands laden with flowers\nand grasses; now busy with her ferns in her garden; again beguiling the\nhours with her pencil, or stealing away to develop some happy fancy\nor fresh thought on which her mind had been working for days. And how\npleasant her talk. How she would dart off sometimes from the line of the\ngravest theme into some quaint, mirth-provoking conceit. How many odd\nthings she had seen; of how many strange adventures she had partaken,\nand how graphically and charmingly she told them. With what relish she\nwould bring forth some good thing saved up to tell to one who would\nappreciate it; yet, on the other hand, how earnestly, how intelligently,\nwith what simplicity, with what eager delight would she pursue the\ndiscussion of the deep things of God. Nor was her home merely a place of\nrest and retirement. Its doors were ever wide open to congenial spirits,\nand also to some of Christ's poor, to whom the healing breath of the\nmountains and the rare sights and sounds of country life were as gifts\nfrom heaven. In that little community she was not content to be a mere\nsummer idler. There, too, she pursued her ministry of comfort and of\ninstruction. Eternity alone will reveal the fruitage of the seeds she\nsowed in her weekly Bible-reading, to which the women came for miles\nover the mountain roads, through storm and through sunshine.\n\nAnd here the end came. Death, if a surprise at all to her, could only be\na pleasant surprise. In one of her stories an old family servant says\nof her departed mistress: \"Often's the time I've heard her talk about\ndying, and I mind a time when she thought she was going, and there was\na light in her eye, and it was just as she looked when she said, 'Mary,\nI'm going to be married.'\" It was a leaf out of her own life. She had\nmarked in one of her books of devotion a passage which, I imagine,\nsummed up her view of the whole matter: \"A true Christian is neither\nfond of life nor weary of it.\" She had no sentimental disgust with life,\nbut her overmastering desire was to see and be like her Lord, and death\nwas the entrance gate to that perfect vision. Only the opening of that\nportal could bring the full answer to her prayer of years, \"I beseech\nThee, show me Thy glory.\" In this attitude the messenger found her. I\nwill not dwell on the closing scenes.... It is pleasanter to turn from\nthat long, weary Sabbath, when nature in its perfect beauty and repose\nseemed to mock the bitter agony of the death-chamber, to the hour when,\nwith the first full brightness of the morning, the silver cord was\nloosed, and she was present with the Lord. Surely it was something more\nthan an accidental coincidence that, in the little \"Daily Food,\" which\nfor nearly forty years had been her closet companion, the passage for\nthe 13th of August was: \"I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me,\nWrite, blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: yea,\nsaith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labors; and their works\ndo follow them.\" That summer afternoon when she was laid to rest had a\nbrightness which was not all of the glories of the setting sun, as he\nburst forth from the encircling clouds, and touched with his parting\nsplendor the gates of the grave. Nature, with its fulness of summer\nlife, was set in the key of the resurrection by the assurance of her\nvictory over death, and it was with a new and mighty sense of their\ntruth that we spoke over her ashes the words of the Apostle: \"It is sown\nin corruption, it is raised in incorruption; it is sown in dishonor, it\nis raised in glory; it is sown in weakness, it is raised in power; it is\nsown a natural body, it is raised a spiritual body. O death, where is\nthy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?\"\n\nSo now, as then, _more_ even than then, since these months have given us\ntime to study the lesson of that life and the sources of its power, we\ngive thanks to God through Jesus Christ our Lord; thanks for the divine\nprocesses which moulded a daughter of consolation; thanks for the\nfountains of comfort opened by her along life's highways and which\ncontinue to flow while she sleeps in Jesus; thanks for a good and\nfruitful life ended \"in the communion of the Holy Catholic Church, in\nthe confidence of a certain faith, in the comfort of a reasonable,\nreligious, and holy hope, in charity with all mankind, and in peace with\nGod.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI.\n\nA List of Mrs. Prentiss' Writings, with notices of some of them and the\ndates of their publication:\n\n\n1. _Little Susy's Six Birthdays._ 1853.\n\n2. _Only a Dandelion, and other Stories._ 1854.\n\nThe first piece, from which the little book takes its name, was written\nat the time, and is not excelled by anything of the kind written by Mrs.\nPrentiss. Spring Breeze is as fresh and delicate as a May flower. The\nother stories are mostly a selection from her early contributions to The\nYouth's Companion.\n\n3. _Henry and Bessie; or, What they did in the Country._ 1855.\n\n4. _Little Susy's Six Teachers._ 1856.\n\n5. _Little Susy's Little Servants._ 1856.\n\nThe three Little Susy books were republished in England, where they seem\nto have been as popular among the children as at home. Not far from\n50,000 copies have been sold in this country.\n\n6. _The Flower of the Family._ A Book for Girls. 1856.\n\nThis work has had a wide circulation at home and abroad. Some 19,000\ncopies have been sold here. The following is the title-page of one of\nthe French editions:\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  Le Fleur de La Famille\n        ou\n  Simple Histoire pour Les\n  Jeunes Filles.\n\n  Ouvrage Americain.\n\n  Cinqui\u00e8me \u00e9dition.\n\n  Toulouse,\n  Soci\u00e9t\u00e9 des Livres Religieux.\n  1877.\n\n        *       *       *       *       *\n\nDie Perle der Familie is the German title. Here are a few sentences from\na highly laudatory notice in the well-known \"Neue Preuss. Zeitung\":\n\nIn ausserordentlicher lieblicher und sinniger Weise wird uns ein\nh\u00e4usliches, schlichtes, von edlem Christlichen Sinn getragenes Familien-\nleben forgef\u00fchrt, das durch seine treffliche Characterschilderung unser\nlebhaftestes Interesse flir jedes Glied des kinderreichen Hauses in\nAnspruch nimmt. Es ist im eigentlichsten Sinne ein Buch f\u00fcr die Familie.\n\n_The Flower of the Family_ was translated into German,--as were also\n_Stepping Heavenward, The Percys, Fred and Maria and Me_,--by Miss Marie\nMorgenstern, of G\u00f6ttingen. Some omissions in the version of _Stepping\nHeavenward_ mar a little the vivacity of the book; but otherwise her\nwork seems to have been very carefully and well done, and to have met\nwith the warm approval of the German public.\n\n7. _Peterchen and Gretchen; or, Tales of Early Childhood._ 1860.\n\nThis is a translation from the German.\n\n8. _The Little Preacher._ 1867.\n\nOne of the most striking of her smaller works. It has throughout the\nflavor of German peasant life and of the Black Forest. But it seems\nnever to have found its way across the sea.\n\n9. _Little Threads; or, Tangle Thread, Silver Thread, and Golden\nThread._ 1868.\n\nThe aim of _Little Threads_ is happily indicated in its closing\nsentences:\n\nIf you find that you like to have your own way a good deal better than\nyou like your mamma to have hers; if you pout and cry when you can not\ndo as you please; if you never own that you are in the wrong, and are\nsorry for it; never, in short, try with all your might to be docile and\ngentle, then your name is Tangle Thread, and you may depend you cost\nyour mamma many sorrowful hours and many tears. And the best thing you\ncan do is to go away by yourself and pray to Jesus to make you see how\nnaughty you are, and to make you humble and sorry. Then the old and\nsoiled thread that can be seen in your mother's life will disappear, and\nin its place there will come first a silver, and by and by, with time\nand patience, and God's loving help, a sparkling and beautiful golden\none. And do you know of anything in this world you should rather be than\nSomebody's Golden Thread?--especially the Golden Thread of your dear\nmamma, who has loved you so many years, who has prayed for you so many\nyears, and who longs so to see you gentle and docile like Him of whom it\nwas said: \"Behold the _Lamb_ of God!\"\n\n_Little Threads_ is based upon a very keen observation of both the dark\nand the bright side of childhood. The allegory, in which its lessons are\nwrought, is, perhaps, less simple and attractive than that of _Little\nSusy's Six Teachers_, or that of _Little Susy's Little Servants_; but\nthe lessons themselves are full of the sweetest wisdom, pathos, and\nbeauty.\n\n10. _Little Lou's Sayings and Doings_. 1868.\n\nAmong the papers of her sister, Mrs. Prentiss found a journal containing\nnumerous little incidents in the early life of her only child, together\nwith more or less of his boyish sayings. Much of the material found in\nthis journal was used in the composition of _Little Lou_; and that is\none thing that gives it such an air of perfect reality.\n\n11. _Fred and Maria and Me._ 1868.\n\n12. _The Old Brown Pitcher._ 1868.\n\nThis is a temperance tale. It was written at the request of the National\nTemperance Society and issued for their press.\n\n_13. Stepping Heavenward. 1869._\n\nSome interesting details respecting this work have been given already.\nIts circulation has been very large, both at home and abroad; far\ngreater than that of any other of Mrs. Prentiss' books. More than 67,000\ncopies of it have been sold in this country; while in England it was\nissued by several houses, and tens of thousands of copies have been\nsold there, in Canada, in Australia, and in other parts of the British\ndominions.\n\nAmong the English houses that republished _Stepping Heavenward_, were\nJames Nisbet & Co.; Ward, Lock & Co.; Frederick Warne & Co.; Thomas\nNelson & Sons, London and Edinburgh; Milner & Co.; Weldon & Co. An\nedition by the last-named house, neatly printed and intended specially\nfor circulation in Canada and Australia, as well as at home, was sold at\nfivepence, so that the very poorest could buy it. No accurate estimate\ncan be formed of the number of copies circulated in Great Britain and\nits dependencies, but it must have been enormous. It was also issued at\nLeipsic, by Tauchnitz, in his famous \"Collection of British Authors.\"\nThe German translation has already passed into a fourth edition--a\nremarkable proof of its popularity. In the preface to this edition Miss\nMorgenstern, the translator, says: \"So m\u00f6ge sie denn hinausziehen in die\nWelt, diese vierte Auflage, m\u00f6ge wiederum aufklopfen an die Stuben\nund Herzenth\u00fcren, der deutschen Lesewelt, und nachdem ihr aufgethan,\nhineintragen in die Stuben und Herzen, was ihre Vorg\u00e4ngerinnen\nhineintrugen;--Freude und Rath und Trost.\" Nowhere has the work won\nhigher, or more discriminating, praise than in Germany. The following\nextract from one of the critical notices of it may serve as an instance:\n\nIn Form von Tagebuch--Aufzeichnungen, somit Selbstbekenntnissen,\nwird uns das Leben einer Frau erz\u00e4lt, welche--ohne andere _\u00e4ussere_\nSchickungen freudiger und tr\u00fcber Art, als sie in _jedem_ Leben\nvorzukommen pflegen--aus einem zwar gutartigen und wohlbegabten aber\nSusserst reizbaren und leidenshaftlich erregten M\u00fcdchen zu einer\ngel\u00e4uterten J\u00fcngerin des Herrn heranreift. Was aber dies Buch zu einem\nwahren Kleinod macht, das ish nicht die \u00fcberaus wahre und tiefe Analyse\njener menschlichen S\u00fcnde, S\u00fcndenschwachheit und Eitelkeit, die sich auch\nin die fr\u00f6mmsten Regungen einuschleichen sucht, sondern die Angabe des\nwahren Heilmittels. Der goldne Faden n\u00e4mlich, der sich durch das ganze\nBuch zieht, ist die Wahrheit; Nicht _unser_ Rennen und Lanfen, sondern\n_Sein_ Erbarmen! Nicht _wir_ haben _Ihn_ geliebt, sondern _Er_ hat _uns_\ngeliebt, und daran haben _wir_ kindlich zu _glauben_. Sich _Ihm_ an\n_Sein_ Herz werfen mit all unsern Schw\u00e4chen, all unser Armuth--das\n_wirkt_--ja das _ist_ Heilung.... Das Ganze ist im h\u00f6chsten Grade\nfesselnd. Man lebt sich unwillk\u00fcrlich in dies christliche Hauswesen mit\nein, und glaubt in vielen Z\u00fcgen einen Spiegel des eigenen zu erkennen.\n[14]\n\nThe title-page of the French translation is as follows:\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  MARCHANT\n  VERS LE CIEL.\n  par\n  E. PRENTISS.\n\n  Auteur de _La Fleur de la Famille_, etc.\n  Traduit de L'Anglais avec\n  L'Autorization de L'Auteur.\n  Lausanne:\n    Georges Bridel, Editeur.\n\n        *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe following extract from a letter of Madame de Fressens\u00e9, dated Paris,\nJuly 18, 1882, will show what impression the work made not only upon\nthe gifted and accomplished writer, but upon many other of the most\ncultivated Christian women of France and Switzerland:\n\nC'est un livre qui fait aimer celle qui y a mis son \u00e2me, une \u00e9tude du\ncoeur humain bien vraie et bien d\u00e9licate. L'amour de Dieu d\u00e9borde dans\nses pages charmantes, dont la lecture r\u00e9chauffe le coeur. Je crois qu'il\na \u00e9t\u00e9 fort appr\u00e9ci\u00e9 dans nos pays de langue fran\u00e7aise. Une personne dont\ntoute la vie est un service de ceux qui souffrent me disait l'autre\njour: \"C'est _mon_ livre, il m'a fait beaucoup de bien.\"\n\nLe nombre d'editions qu'a atteint la traduction fran\u00e7aise te\u00e9moigne\nqu'il a eu du succ\u00e8s, et je suis s\u00fbre que beaucoup de personnes ont\npr\u00e9f\u00e9r\u00e9, avec raison, le lire dans l'original.\n\nJe suis heureuse que vous m'avez donn\u00e9 l'occasion de le relire, et d'en\n\u00e9prouver de nouveau la bienfaisante influence....\n\nCe serait un vrai privil\u00e9ge de pouvoir faire conna\u00edtre \u00e0 notre public\nfran\u00e7ais cette femme aussi distingu\u00e9e par le coeur que par l'esprit, que\nnous aimons tous.\n\n14. _Nidworth, and his three Magic Wands._ 1869.\n\nThe three Magic Wands are: Riches, Knowledge, and Love; and in depicting\ntheir peculiar and wonderful virtues Mrs. Prentiss has wrought into the\nstory with much skill her own theory of a happy life. She wrote the\nbook with intense delight, and its strange, weird-like scenes and\ncharacters--the home in the forest; Dolman, the poor woodcutter; Cinda,\nhis tall and strong-minded wife; Nidworth, their first-born; wandering\nHidda, boding ill-luck; the hermit; these and all the rest--seemed to\nher, for a while, almost as real as if she had copied them from life.\n\nIts publishers (Roberts Brothers) pronounced _Nidworth_ \"a gem\" and were\nnot a little surprised at its failure to strike the popular fancy. It\ncertainly contains some of the author's brightest pictures of life and\ncharacter.\n\n15. _The Percys._ 1870.\n\nThis work was translated into French and German, and won warm praise in\nboth languages. It is full of spirit, depicts real boys and girls and\na loving Christian mother with equal skill, and abounds in the best\nlessons of domestic peace.\n\n16. _The Story Lizzie Told._ 1870.\n\n17. _Six Little Princesses and what they turned into._ 1871.\n\nNo one of Mrs. Prentiss' lesser works betrays a keener insight into\ncharacter or a finer touch than this. Its aim is to illustrate the truth\nthat all girls are endowed with their own individual talents; and to\nenforce the twofold lesson, that the diligent use of these talents, on\nthe one hand, can furnish innocent pleasures beyond the reach of any\noutward position, however brilliant; and, on the other, is the best\npreparation for the day of adversity.\n\nThe closing sentences of the story will give an inkling of its aim and\nquality:\n\n\"I see how it is,\" said the Countess. \"You must live together. Each\nfeels herself incomplete without the others. Novella needs somebody to\ntake care of her and somebody to love. In return, she will give love and\nendless entertainment. Reima, too, needs looking after, and some one\nwill watch with a friendly eye the growth of her paintings. Our two\nmusicians must not become one-sided by thinking only of melody and\nsong. They must enjoy being clothed by Moina's kind hands, listening to\nNovella's poems, and discussing Reima's works. And you must train all\nyour ears to appreciate the talents of these two marvellous creatures\nwho sing and play with such rare, such exquisite harmony.\"\n\n\"And what shall I do?\" cried Delicieuse.\n\n\"You shall do a little of everything, dear child. You shall help Moina\nto guide the house, and Reima to mix the colors. You shall take care\nthat the piano is never out of tune, or Novella at a loss for pens and\npaper. In a word, you shall be what you always have been, always ready\nwith the oil of gladness, wherever you see friction, the sweetest, the\nmost lovable creature in the world.\"\n\nDelicieuse smiled, and ran to embrace all her sisters, hardly knowing\nwhich she loved best.\n\nIt was not long before those royal maidens, royal only in their virtues\nand their talents, found themselves in a home in a vine-clad land, where\neach could live as Nature had designed she should live.\n\nMoina, whose practical skill was not confined to her needle, kept the\nhouse with such exquisite care and neatness, that her sisters preferred\nit to a palace. She found happiness in forgetting herself, in her pride\nin them, and in the freedom from petty cares from which she shielded\nthem. Her calm, serene character was a continual repose to the varying\nmoods of Reima and Novella; a balance-wheel to works that, running fast,\noften ran irregularly. Reima studied the old masters with no need for\nfurther travel, for her home lay among their works.\n\nMosella and Papeta composed music, made Delicieuse listen to and\nadmire it when other hearers were wanting, and were satisfied with her\ncriticisms.\n\nNovella wrote books, and had her frenzies. She had her gentle and her\ngay moods, also, and made laughter ring through the house at her will.\nNot one of these four was conscious of her powers, or asked for fame.\nNor did their aristocratic breeding make them ashamed to work for their\nbread. They even fancied that bread thus won, needed less butter to help\nit down, than that of charity.\n\nAs to Delicieuse, she was the bright, the golden link that bound the\nhousehold together in peace and harmony. Her smiles, her caresses, the\nlove that flowed forth from her as from a living fountain, made their\nhome glad with perpetual sunshine. Thank God for the gifts of genius He\nhas scattered abroad with a bountiful hand; but thank Him also that,\nwithout such gifts, one may become a joy and a benediction!\n\n18. _Aunt Jane's Hero_. 1871.\n\nThis work was at once republished in England and appeared also in a\nFrench version.\n\n19. _Golden Hours: Hymns and Songs of the Christian Life_. 1873.\n\nSeveral of the pieces in this volume had already appeared; among them\n\"More Love to Thee, O Christ.\" This hymn has passed into most of the\nlater collections. It was translated into Arabic, and is sung in the\nland once trodden by the blessed feet of Him whose name it adores, and\nthroughout the East.\n\n20. _Urbane and His Friends_. 1874.\n\nThis work was reprinted in England.\n\n21. _Griselda: A Dramatic Poem in Five Acts_. Translated from the German\nof Friedrich Halm (Baron M\u00fcnch-Bellinghausen). 1876.\n\nMrs. Prentiss supposed that hers was the first English version of this\npoem. But there is a translation by Sir R. A. Anstruther, which appeared\nin London as early as 1840 and in a new edition four years later. All\nattempts to obtain a copy of this translation in New York, or from\nLondon, have proved futile.\n\n22. _The Home at Greylock_. 1876.\n\nThe following extract from a letter of the author of the French\ntranslation to Mrs. Prentiss deserves a place here:\n\nMADAME,--Vous savez sans doute que, sans votre autorisation, une plume,\nbien hardie peut-\u00eatre, mais pleine de z\u00e8le et de respect pour vous,\ns'est mise \u00e0 traduire un de vos ouvrages, \"The Home at Greylock.\" Sans\nvotre autorisation! Etait-ce bien? \u00e9tait-ce mal? Je me le suis demand\u00e9\nplus d'une fois et je vous l'aurais demand\u00e9, Madame, si j'avais su votre\nadresse assez t\u00f4t.\n\nL'\u00e9diteur m'a mis la conscience \u00e0 l'aise en m'assurant que le droit\n\u00e9tait le m\u00eame pour tous, et que les auteurs am\u00e9ricains ne pouvaient\nconc\u00e9der de privil\u00e9ge \u00e0 qui que ce f\u00fbt. Forte de cette assurance, je me\nmis \u00e0 l'oeuvre, mais j'avoue que j'eus besoin d'encouragements r\u00e9it\u00e9r\u00e9s\npour mener mon travail \u00e0 bonne fin. Encore un mot d'explication, si vous\nle permittez, Madame. Je ne suis pas m\u00e9re, mais je suis tante; j'ai vu\nna\u00eetre mes neveux et ni\u00e9ces, je les ai berc\u00e9s dans mes bras, j'ai veill\u00e9\nsur leurs premiers pas, j'ai observ\u00e9 le d\u00e9veloppement graduel de leur\ncoeur et de leur intelligence, j'ai senti \u00e0 fond combien l'oeuvre\nde l'\u00e9ducation est s\u00e9rieuse et combien il importe d'\u00e9tre disciplin\u00e9\nsoi-m\u00eame par le Seigneur pour discipliner les petits confi\u00e9s \u00e0 nos\nsoins. Il n'est done pas \u00e9tonnant que votre livre m'ait vivement\nint\u00e9ress\u00e9e et que j'aie voulu le mettre \u00e0 la port\u00e9e d'un grand nombre.\nCela e\u00fbt \u00e9t\u00e9 fait t\u00fbt ou tard par d'autres, je ne l'ignore point; mais\nj'avais envie d'essayer mes forces, et.... l'occasion a fait le larron.\nNe seriez-vous pas ma complice, Madame?...\n\nM'appuyant sur votre bienveillame et sur la fraternit\u00e9 qui unit les \u00e2mes\ndans le Seigneur, je vous prie, Madame, de ne pas me consid\u00e9rer comme\nune \u00e9trang\u00e8re et d'agr\u00e9er l'expression de mon estime et mes voeux en\nChrist.\n\n23. _Pemaquid; a Story of Old Times in New England._ 1877.\n\n24. _Gentleman Jim_. 1878.\n\nThis little story was the last production of her pen and appeared a few\ndays only after her death.\n\n25. _Avis Benson; or, Mine and Thine, with other Sketches_. 1879.\n\nThis is a collection of pieces that had already appeared in the Chicago\nAdvance and in the New York Observer. It met with a cordial welcome and\nhas had a large circulation.\n\nSome of the readers of Mrs. Prentiss' books may be glad to see a\nspecimen of her handwriting. The following is a fac-simile of the\nclosing part of a letter to her cousin, Miss Shipman, written at Dorset\nin 1867:\n\n[Illustration: Handwriting Sample]\n\n\n[1] B. J. Lossing, L.L.D., in the Christian Union of Oct. 15, 1879.\n\n[2] B. J. Lossing in The Christian Union.\n\n[3] Mr. Nathaniel Willis, then in his 76th year. He died at Boston, May\n26, 1870, in the 90th year of his age.\n\n[4] Sickness: its Trials and Blessings. A very wise and comforting book.\nShe bequeathed it back to Mrs. Prentiss at her death.\n\n[5] To aid in defending it against the \"Border-Ruffians.\"\n\n[6] Mrs. Prentiss was on her way to Europe. Before sailing she went to\nWilliamstown to say good-bye to her sister, but the latter was too ill\nto see her. They never met again on earth.\n\n[7] Referring to the family of Rev. Wm. James, D.D., of Albany.\n\n[8] Sent from Genevrier.\n\n[9] N. P. Willis.\n\n[10] The Boston Recorder and The Youth's Companion.\n\n[11] The late George Ripley, the eminent scholar and critic, is referred\nto. In a letter, dated New York, Nov. 20, 1879, Mr. Ripley writes:\n\n\"I beg you to accept, dear Dr. Prentiss, my most cordial thanks for\nyour kindness in sending me the extract from Miss Payson's journal. I\nremember perfectly the visits of the young German enthusiast to my house\nin Boston and the great pleasure they always gave to my wife and myself.\nMy acquaintance with her, I think, was through Mr. Tappan's family, of\nwhich your former parishioner and my dear friend and classmate, Thomas\nDenny, afterward became a member. With my infatuation for New England\npeople and New England biography and genealogy and literary endeavor,\nit would give me great delight to be permitted to see Miss Payson's\njournal.\"\n\nThe journal was sent to Dr. Ripley and read by him with great pleasure.\nThe incident led to the renewal of an old acquaintance and to repeated\nvisits at his residence--one shortly before his death--which left upon\nthe writer a strong impression of his deep interest in theological and\nreligious truth, as well as of his genial temper and remarkable literary\naccomplishments.\n\n[12] The late Rev. John Adams Albro, D.D., of Cambridge.\n\n[13] Leonard Woods, Jr., D.D., then President of Bowdoin College.\n\n[14] Allgemeiner literarischer Anzeiger f\u00fcr das evangelische\nDeutschland, Jan., 1873.\n\n\n[Illustration: Dorset Mountains.]\n\n[Illustration: A View of Chateau d'Oex.]\n\n[Illustration: La Maison des Bains.]\n\n[Illustration: The Old Mill and Pond.]","title":"The Life and Letters of Elizabeth Prentiss","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":258196}