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by George L. Prentiss

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Title: The Life and Letters of Elizabeth Prentiss

Author: George L. Prentiss

Release Date: March 12, 2004 [EBook #11549]

Language: English

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[Transcriber's Note: Footnotes have been numbered and relocated to the
end of the chapter in which they occur. They are marked by [1], [2],
etc.]






THE LIFE AND LETTERS

OF

ELIZABETH PRENTISS

AUTHOR OF _STEPPING HEAVENWARD_

BY GEORGE L. PRENTISS




This memoir was undertaken at the request of many of Mrs. Prentiss' old
and most trusted friends, who felt that the story of her life should be
given to the public. Much of it is in the nature of an autobiography.
Her letters, which with extracts from her journals form the larger
portion of its contents, begin when she was in her twentieth year, and
continue almost to her last hour. They are full of details respecting
herself, her home, her friends, and the books she wrote. A simple
narrative, interspersed with personal reminiscences, and varied by a
sketch of her father, and passing notices of others, who exerted a
moulding influence upon her character, completes the story. A picture is
thus presented of the life she lived and its changing scenes, both on
the natural and the spiritual side. While the work may fail to interest
some readers, the hope is cherished that, like STEPPING HEAVENWARD,
it will be welcomed into Christian homes and prove a blessing to many
hearts; thus realising the desire expressed in one of her last letters:
_Much of my experience of life has cost me a great price and I wish to
use it for strengthening and comforting other souls._

G. L. P.

KAUINFELS, September 11, 1882.




CONTENTS.


CHAPTER I.

THE CHILD AND THE GIRL.

1818-1839.

I.

Birth-place and Ancestry. The Payson Family. Seth Payson. Edward Payson.
His Mother. A Sketch of his Life and Character. The Fervor of his Piety.
Despondent Moods, and their Causes. His bright, natural Traits. How he
prayed and preached. Conversational Gift. Love to Christ. Triumphant
Death.

II.

Birth and Childhood of Elizabeth Payson. Early Traits. Devotion to her
Father. His Influence upon her. Letters to her Sister. Removal to New
York. Reminiscences of the Payson Family.

III.

Recollections of Elizabeth's Girlhood by an early Friend and Schoolmate.
Her own Picture of herself before her Father's Death. Favorite Resorts.
Why God permits so much Suffering. Literary Tastes. Letters. "What are
Little Babies For?" Opens a School. Religious Interest.

IV.

The dominant Type of Religious Life and Thought in New England in the
First Half of this Century. Literary Influences. Letter of Cyrus Hamlin.
A strange Coincidence.


CHAPTER II.

THE NEW LIFE IN CHRIST.

1840-1841.

I.

A memorable Experience. Letters to her Cousin. Goes to Richmond as a
Teacher. Mr. Persico's School. Letters.

II.

Her Character as a Teacher. Letters. Incidents of School Life. Religious
Struggles, Aims, and Hope. Oppressive Heat and Weariness.

III.

Extracts from her Richmond Journal.


CHAPTER III.

PASSING FROM GIRLHOOD INTO WOMANHOOD.

1841-1845.

I.

At Home Again. Marriage of her Sister. Ill-health. Letters. Spiritual
Aspiration and Conflict. Perfectionism. "Very, Very Happy." Work for
Christ what makes Life attractive. Passages from her Journal. A Point of
Difficulty.

II.

Returns to Richmond. Trials There. Letters. Illness. School Experiences.
"To the Year 1843." Glimpses of her daily Life. Why her Scholars
love her So. Homesick. A Black Wedding. What a Wife should be. "A
Presentiment." Notes from her Diary.

III.

Her Views of Love and Courtship. Visit of her Sister and Child. Letters.
Sickness and Death of Friends. Ill-health. Undergoes a surgical
Operation. Her Fortitude. Study of German. Fenelon.


CHAPTER IV.

THE YOUNG WIFE AND MOTHER.

1845-1850.

I.

Marriage and Settlement in New Bedford. Reminiscences. Letters. Birth of
her First Child. Death of her Mother-in-Law. Letters.

II.

Birth of a Son. Death of her Mother. Her Grief. Letters. Eddy's Illness
and her own Cares. A Family Gathering at Newburyport. Extracts from
Eddy's Journal.

III.

Further Extracts from Eddy's Journal. Ill-Health. Visit to Newark. Death
of her Brother-in-Law, S. S. Prentiss. His Character. Removal to Newark.
Letters.


CHAPTER V.

IN THE SCHOOL OF SUFFERING.

1851-1858.

I.

Removal to New York, and first Summer there. Letters. Loss of Sleep and
Anxiety about Eddy. Extracts from Eddy's Journal, Describing his last
Illness and Death. Lines entitled, "To My Dying Eddy.".

II.

Birth of her Third Child. Reminiscences of a Sabbath Evening Talk. Story
of the Baby's Sudden Illness and Death. Summer of 1852. Lines entitled,
"My Nursery."

III.

Summer at White Lake. Sudden Death of her Cousin, Miss Shipman.
Quarantined. _Little Susy's Six Birthdays_. How she wrote it. _The
Flower of the Family_. Her Motive in Writing it. Letter of Sympathy to a
bereaved Mother. A Summer at the Seaside. _Henry and Bessie._


IV.

A memorable Year. Lines on the Anniversary of Eddy's Death. Extracts
from her Journal. _Little Susy's Six Teachers_. The Teachers' Meeting.
A New York Waif. Summer in the Country. Letters. _Little Susy's Little
Servants_. Extracts from her Journal. "Alone with God."

V.

Ready for new Trials. Dangerous Illness. Extracts from her Journal.
Visit to Greenwood. Sabbath Meditations. Birth of another Son. Her
Husband resigns his Pastoral Charge. Voyage to Europe.


CHAPTER VI.

IN RETREAT AMONG THE ALPS.

1858-1860.

I.

Life Abroad. Letters about the Voyage, and the Journey from Havre to
Switzerland. Chateau d'Oex. Letters from there. The Châlet Rosat. The
Free Church of the Canton de Vaud. Pastor Panchàud.

II.

Montreux. The Swiss Autumn. Castle of Chillon. Death and Sorrow of
Friends at Home. Twilight Talks. Spring Flowers.

III.

The Campagne Genevrier. Vevay. Beauty of the Region. Birth of a Son.
Visit from Professor Smith. Excursion to Chamouni. Whooping-cough and
Scarlet-fever among the Children. Doctor Curchod. Letters.

IV.

Paris. Sight-seeing. A sick Friend. London and its Environs. The Queen
and Prince Albert. The Isle of Wight. Homeward.


CHAPTER VII.

THE STRUGGLE WITH ILL-HEALTH.

1861-1865.

I.

At Home again in New York. The Church of the Covenant. Increasing
Ill-health. The Summer of 1861. Death of Louisa Payson Hopkins. Extracts
from her Journal. Summer of 1862. Letters. Despondency.

II.

Another care-worn Summer. Letters from Williamstown and Rockaway. Hymn
on Laying the Corner-stone of the Church of the Covenant.

III.

Happiness in her Children. The Summer of 1864. Letters from Hunter.
Affliction among Friends.

IV.

Death of President Lincoln. Dedication of the Church of the Covenant.
Growing Insomnia. Resolves to try the Water-cure. Its beneficial
Effects. Summer at Newburgh. Reminiscences of an Excursion to Palz
Point. Death of her Husband's Mother. Funeral of her Nephew, Edward
Payson Hopkins.


CHAPTER VIII.

THE PASTOR'S WIFE AND DAUGHTER OF CONSOLATION.

1866-1868.

I.

Happiness as a Pastor's Wife. Visits to Newport and Williamstown.
Letters. The Great Portland Fire. First Summer at Dorset. The new
Parsonage occupied. Second Summer at Dorset. _Little Lou's Sayings and
Doings_. Project of a Cottage. Letters. _The Little Preacher_. Illness
and Death of Mrs. Edward Payson and of Little Francis.

II.

Last Visit from Mrs. Stearns. Visits to old Friends at Newport and
Rochester. Letters. Goes to Dorset. _Fred and Maria and Me_. Letters.

III.

Return to Town. Death of an old Friend. Letters and Notes of Love and
Sympathy. An Old Ladies' Party. Scenes of Trouble and Dying Beds. Fifty
Years Old. Letters.


CHAPTER IX.

STEPPING HEAVENWARD.

1869.

I.

Death of Mrs. Stearns. Her Character. Dangerous Illness of Prof. Smith.
Death at the Parsonage. Letters. A Visit to Vassar College. Letters.
Getting ready for the General Assembly. "Gates Ajar".

II.

How she earned her Sleep. Writing for young Converts about speaking the
Truth. Meeting of the General Assembly in the Church of the Covenant.
Reunion, D.D.'s, and Strawberry Short-cake. "Enacting the Tiger."
Getting Ready for Dorset. Letters.

III.

The new Home in Dorset. What it became to her. Letters from there.

IV.

Return to Town. Domestic Changes. Letters. "My Heart sides with God in
everything." Visiting among the Poor. "Conflict isn't Sin." Publication
of _Stepping Heavenward_. Her Misgivings about it. How it was received.
Reminiscences by Miss E. A. Warner. Letters. The Rev. Wheelock Craig.

V.

Recollections by Mrs. Henry B. Smith


CHAPTER X.

ON THE MOUNT.

1870.

I.

A happy Year. Madame Guyon. What sweetens the Cup of earthly Trials and
the Cup of earthly Joy. Death of Mrs. Julia B. Cady. Her Usefulness.
Sickness and Death of other Friends. "My Cup runneth over." Letters.
"More Love to Thee, O Christ".

II.

Her Silver Wedding. "_I have lived, I have loved_." No Joy can put her
out of Sympathy with the Trials of Friends. A Glance backward. Last
Interview with a dying Friend. More Love and more Likeness to Christ.
Funeral of a little Baby. Letters to Christian Friends.

III.

Lines on going to Dorset. A Cloud over her. Faber's Life. Loving Friends
for one's own sake and loving them for Christ's sake. The Bible and the
Christian Life. Dorset Society and Occupations. Counsels to a young
Friend in Trouble. "Don't stop praying for your Life!" Cure for the
Heart-sickness caused by the Sight of human Imperfections. Fenelon's
Teaching about Humiliation and being patient with Ourselves.

IV.

_The Story Lizzie Told_. Country and City. The Law of Christian
Progress. Letters to a Friend bereft of three Children. Sudden Death of
another Friend. "Go on; step faster." Fenelon and his Influence upon her
religious Life. Lines on her Indebtedness to him.


CHAPTER XI.

IN HER HOME.

I.

Home-life in New York.

II.

Home-life in Dorset.

III.

Further Glimpses of her Dorset Life.


CHAPTER XII.

THE TRIAL OF FAITH.

1871-1872.

I.

Two Years of Suffering. Its Nature and Causes. Spiritual Conflicts.
Ill-health. Faith a Gift to be won by Prayer. Death-bed of Dr. Skinner.
Visit to Philadelphia. "Daily Food." How to read the Bible so as to love
it more. Letters of Sympathy and Counsel. "Prayer for Holiness brings
Suffering." Perils of human Friendship.

II.

Her Husband called to Chicago. Lines on going to Dorset. Letters to
young Friends on the Christian Life. Narrow Escape from Death. Feeling
on returning to Town. Her "Praying Circle." The Chicago Fire. The true
Art of Living. God our only safe Teacher. An easily-besetting Sin.
Counsels to young Friends. Letters.

III.

"Holiness and Usefulness go hand-in-hand." No two Souls dealt with
exactly alike. Visits to a stricken Home. Another Side of her Life.
Visit to a Hospital. Christian Friendship. Letters to a bereaved Mother.
Submission not inconsistent with Suffering. Thoughts at the Funeral of
a little "Wee Davie." Assurance of Faith. Funeral of Prof. Hopkins. His
Character.

IV.

Christian Parents to expect Piety in their Children. Perfection. "People
make too much Parade of their Troubles." "Higher Life" Doctrines. Letter
to Mrs. Washburn. Last Visit to Williamstown.


CHAPTER XIII.

PEACEABLE FRUIT.

1873-1874.

I.

Effect of spiritual Conflict upon her religious Life. Overflowing
Affections. Her Husband called to Union Theological Seminary. Baptism of
Suffering. The Character of her Friendships. No perfect Life. Prayer.
"Only God can satisfy a Woman." Why human Friendship is a Snare.
Letters.

II.

Goes to Dorset. Christian Example. At Work among her Flowers. Dangerous
Illness. Her Feeling about Dying. Death an "Invitation" from Christ.
"The Under-current bears _Home_." "More Love, more Love!" A Trait of
Character. Special Mercies. What makes a sweet Home. Letters.

III.

Change of Home and Life in New York. A Book about Robbie. Her Sympathy
with young People. "I have in me two different Natures." What Dr. De
Witt said at the Grave of his Wife. The Way to meet little Trials.
Faults in Prayer-meetings. How special Theories of the Christian Life
are formed. Sudden Illness of Prof. Smith. Publication of _Golden
Hours_. How it was received.

IV.

Incidents of the Year 1874. Starts a Bible-reading in Dorset. Begins
to take Lessons in Painting. A Letter from her Teacher. Publication of
_Urbane and His Friends_. Design of the Work. Her Views of the Christian
Life. The Mystics. The Indwelling Christ. An Allegory.


CHAPTER XIV.

WORK AND PLAY.

1875-1877.

I.

A Bible-reading in New York. Her Painting. "Grace for Grace." Death of
a young Friend. The Summer at Dorset. Bible-readings there. Encompassed
with Kindred. Typhoid Fever in the House. Watching and Waiting. The
Return to Town. A Day of Family Rejoicing. Life a "Battle-field."

II.

The Moody and Sankey Meetings. Her Interest in them. Mr. Moody.
Publication of _Griselda_. Goes to the Centennial. At Dorset again. Her
Bible-readings. A Moody-meeting Convert. Visit to Montreal. Publication
of _The Home at Greylock_. Her Theory of a happy Home. Marrying for
Love. Her Sympathy with young Mothers. Letters.

III.

The Year 1877. Death of her Cousin, the Rev. Charles H. Payson. Last
Illness and Death of Prof. Smith. "Let us take our Lot in Life just as
it comes." Adorning one's Home. How much Time shall be given to it?
God's Delight in His beautiful Creations. Death of Dr. Buck. Visiting
the sick and bereaved. An Ill-turn. Goes to Dorset. The Strangeness of
Life. Kauinfels. The Bible-reading. Letters.

IV.

Return to Town. Recollections of this Period. "Ordinary" Christians and
Spiritual Conflict. A tired Sunday Evening. "We may make an Idol of our
Joy." Publication of _Pemaquid_. Kezia Millet.


CHAPTER XV.

FOREVER WITH THE LORD.

1878.

I.

Enters upon her last Year on Earth. A Letter about The Home at Greylock.
Her Motive in writing Books. Visit to the Aquarium. About "Worry." Her
Painting. Saturday Afternoons with her. What she was to her Friends.
Resemblance to Madame de Broglie. Recollections of a Visit to East
River. A Picture of her by an old Friend. Goes to Dorset. Second Advent
Doctrine. Last Letters.

II.

Little Incidents and Details of her last Days on Earth. Last Visit to
the Woods. Sudden Illness. Last Bible-reading. Last Drive to Hager
Brook. Reminiscence of a last Interview. Closing Scenes. Death. The
Burial.


APPENDIX




CHAPTER I.

THE CHILD AND THE GIRL.

1818-1839.

I. Birth-place and Ancestry. Seth Payson. Edward Payson. His Mother. A
Sketch of his Life and Character. The Fervor of his Piety. Despondent
Moods and their Cause. Bright, natural Traits. How he prayed and
preached. Conversational Gift. Love to Christ. Triumphant Death.


Mrs. Prentiss was fortunate in the place of her birth. She first saw the
light at Portland, Maine. Maine was then a district of Massachusetts,
and Portland was its chief town and seaport, distinguished for beauty of
situation, enterprise, intelligence, social refinement and all the best
qualities of New England character. Not a few of the early settlers had
come from Cape Cod and other parts of the old Bay State, and the blood
of the Pilgrim Fathers ran in their veins. Among its leading citizens at
that time were such men as Stephen Longfellow, Simon Greenleaf, Prentiss
Mellen, Samuel Fessenden, Ichabod Nichols, Edward Payson, and Asa
Cummings; men eminent for private and public virtue, and some of whom
were destined to become still more widely known, by their own growing
influence, or by the genius of their children.

But while favored in the place of her birth, Mrs. Prentiss was more
highly favored still in her parentage. For more than half a century the
name of her father has been a household word among the churches not of
New England only, but throughout the land and even beyond the sea. It is
among the most beloved and honored in the annals of American piety. [1]
He belonged to a very old Puritan stock, and to a family noted during
two centuries for the number of ministers of the Gospel who have sprung
from it. The first in the line of his ancestry in this country was
Edward, who came over in the brig Hopewell, William Burdeck, Master, in
1635-6, and settled in the town of Roxbury. He was a native of Nasing,
Essex Co., England. Among his fellow-passengers in the Hopewell was Mary
Eliot, then a young girl, sister of John Eliot, the illustrious "Apostle
to the Indians." Some years later she became his wife. Their youngest
son, Samuel, was father of the Rev. Phillips Payson, who was born at
Dorchester, Massachusetts, 1705, and settled at Walpole, in the same
State, in 1730. He had four sons in the ministry, all, like himself,
graduates of Harvard College. The youngest of these, the Rev. Seth
Payson, D.D., Mrs. Prentiss' grandfather, was born September 30, 1758,
was ordained and settled at Rindge, New Hampshire, December 4, 1782, and
died there, after a pastorate of thirty-seven years, February 26, 1820.
His wife was Grata Payson, of Pomfret, Conn. He was a man widely known
in his day and of much weight in the community, not only in his own
profession but in civil life, also, having several times filled the
office of State senator. When in 1819 a plan was formed to remove
Williams College to a more central location, and several towns competed
for the honor, Dr. Payson was associated with Chancellor Kent of New
York, and Governor John Cotton Smith of Connecticut, as a committee to
decide upon the rival claims. He is described as possessing a sharp,
vigorous intellect, a lively imagination, a very retentive memory, and
was universally esteemed as an able and faithful minister of Christ. [2]

Edward, the eldest son of Seth and Grata Payson, was born at Rindge,
July 25, 1783. His mother was noted for her piety, her womanly
discretion, and her personal and mental graces. Edward was her
first-born, and from his infancy to the last year of his life she
lavished upon him her love and her prayers. The relation between them
was very beautiful. His letters to her are models of filial devotion,
and her letters to him are full of tenderness, good sense, and pious
wisdom. He inherited some of her most striking traits, and through him
they passed on to his youngest daughter, who often said that she owed
her passion for the use of the pen and her fondness for rhyming to her
grandmother Grata. [3]

Edward Payson was in all respects a highly-gifted man. His genius was as
marked as his piety. There is a charm about his name and the story of
his life, that is not likely soon to pass away. He belonged to a class
of men who seem to be chosen of Heaven to illustrate the sublime
possibilities of Christian attainment--men of seraphic fervor of
devotion, and whose one overmastering passion is to win souls for Christ
and to become wholly like Him themselves. Into this goodly fellowship
he was early initiated. There is something startling in the depth and
intensity of his religious emotions, as recorded in his journal and
letters. Nor is it to be denied that they are often marred by a very
morbid element. Like David Brainerd, the missionary saint of New
England, to whom in certain features of his character he bore no little
resemblance, Edward Payson was of a melancholy temperament and subject,
therefore, to sudden and sharp alternations of feeling. While he had
great capacity for enjoyment, his capacity for suffering was equally
great. Nor were these native traits suppressed, or always overruled, by
his religious faith; on the contrary, they affected and modified his
whole Christian life. In its earlier stages, he was apt to lay too much
stress by far upon fugitive "frames," and to mistake mere weariness,
torpor, and even diseased action of body or mind, for coldness toward
his Saviour. And almost to the end of his days he was, occasionally,
visited by seasons of spiritual gloom and depression, which, no doubt,
were chiefly, if not solely, the result of physical causes. It was
an error that grew readily out of the brooding introspection and
self-anatomy which marked the religious habit of the times. The close
connection between physical causes and morbid or abnormal conditions of
the spiritual life, was not as well understood then as it is now.
Many things were ascribed to Satanic influence which should have been
ascribed rather to unstrung nerves and loss of sleep, or to a violation
of the laws of health. [4] The disturbing influence of nervous and other
bodily or mental disorders upon religious experience deserves a fuller
discussion than it has yet received. It is a subject which both modern
science and modern thought, if guided by Christian wisdom, might help
greatly to elucidate.

The morbid and melancholy element, however, was only a painful incident
of his character. It tinged his life with a vein of deep sadness and led
to undue severity of self-discipline; but it did not seriously impair
the strength and beauty of his Christian manhood. It rather served to
bring them into fuller relief, and even to render more striking those
bright natural traits--the sportive humor, the ready mother wit, the
facetious pleasantry, the keen sense of the ridiculous, and the wondrous
story-telling gift--which made him a most delightful companion to young
and old, to the wise and the unlettered alike. It served, moreover, to
impart peculiar tenderness to his pastoral intercourse, especially with
members of his flock tried and tempted like as he was. He had learned
how to counsel and comfort them by the things which he also had
suffered. He may have been too exacting and harsh in dealing with
himself; but in dealing with other souls nothing could exceed the
gentleness, wisdom, and soothing influence of his ministrations.

As a preacher he was the impersonation of simple, earnest, and
impassioned utterance. Although not an orator in the ordinary sense of
the term, he touched the hearts of his hearers with a power beyond the
reach of any oratory. Some of his printed sermons are models in their
kind; that _e.g._ on "Sins estimated by the Light of Heaven," and that
addressed to Seamen. His theology was a mild type of the old New England
Calvinism, modified, on the one hand, by the influence of his favorite
authors--such as Thomas à Kempis, and Fenelon, the Puritan divines of
the seventeenth century, John Newton and Richard Cecil--and on the
other, by his own profound experience and seraphic love. Of his
theology, his preaching and his piety alike, Christ was the living
centre. His expressions of personal love to the Saviour are surpassed
by nothing in the writings of the old mystics. Here is a passage from a
letter to his mother, written while he was still a young pastor:

I have sometimes heard of spells and charms to excite love, and have
wished for them, when a boy, that I might cause others to love me. But
how much do I now wish for some charm which should lead men to love the
Saviour!... Could I paint a true likeness of Him, methinks I should
rejoice to hold it up to the view and admiration of all creation, and be
hid behind it forever. It would be heaven enough to hear Him praised and
adored. But I can not paint Him; I can not describe Him; I can not make
others love Him; nay, I can not love Him a thousandth part so much as
I ought myself. O, for an angel's tongue! O, for the tongues of ten
thousand angels, to sound His praises.

He had a remarkable familiarity with the word of God and his mind seemed
surcharged with its power. "You could not, in conversation, mention
a passage of Scripture to him but you found his soul in harmony with
it--the most apt illustrations would flow from his lips, the fire of
devotion would beam from his eye, and you saw at once that not only
could he deliver a sermon from it, but that the ordinary time allotted
to a sermon would be exhausted before he could pour out the fullness of
meaning which a sentence from the word of God presented to his mind."
[5]

He was wonderfully gifted in prayer. Here all his intellectual,
imaginative, and spiritual powers were fused into one and poured
themselves forth in an unbroken stream of penitential and adoring
affection. When he said, "Let us pray," a divine influence seemed to
rest upon all present. His prayers were not mere pious mental exercises,
they were devout inspirations.

No one can form an adequate conception of what Dr. Payson was from any
of the productions of his pen. Admirable as his written sermons are, his
extempore prayers and the gushings of his heart in familiar talk were
altogether higher and more touching than anything he wrote. It was my
custom to close my eyes when he began to pray, and it was always a
letting down, a sort of rude fall, to open them again, when he had
concluded, and find myself still on the earth. His prayers always took
my spirit into the immediate presence of Christ, amid the glories of
the spiritual world; and to look round again on this familiar and
comparatively misty earth was almost painful. At every prayer I heard
him offer, during the seven years in which he was my spiritual guide,
I never ceased to feel new astonishment, at the wonderful variety and
depth and richness and even novelty of feeling and expression which were
poured forth. This was a feeling with which every hearer sympathised,
and it is a fact well-known, that Christians trained under his influence
were generally remarkable for their devotional habits. [6]

Dr. Payson possessed rare conversational powers and loved to wield
them in the service of his Master. When in a genial mood--and the mild
excitement of social intercourse generally put him in such a mood--his
familiar talk was equally delightful and instructive. He was, in truth,
an improvisatore. Quick perception, an almost intuitive insight into
character, an inexhaustible fund of fresh, original thought and
incident, the happiest illustrations, and a memory that never faltered
in recalling what he had once read or seen, easy self-control, and
ardent sympathies, all conspired to give him this preeminence. Without
effort or any appearance of incongruity he could in turn be grave
and gay, playful and serious. This came of the utter sincerity and
genuineness of his character. There was nothing artificial about him;
nature and grace had full play and, so to say, constantly ran into
each other. A keen observer, who knew him well, both in private and in
public, testifies: "His facetiousness indeed was ever a near neighbor
to his piety, if it was not a part of it; and his most cheerful
conversations, so far from putting his mind out of tune for acts of
religious worship, seemed but a happy preparation for the exercise of
devotional feelings." [7] This coexistence of serious with playful
elements is often found in natures of unusual depth and richness, just
as tragic and comic powers sometimes co-exist in a great poet.

The same qualities that rendered him such a master of conversation, lent
a potent charm to his familiar religious talks in the prayer-meeting,
at the fireside, or in the social circle. Always eager to speak for
his Master, he knew how to do it with a wise skill and a tenderness of
feeling that disarmed prejudice and sometimes won the most determined
foe. Even in administering reproof or rebuke there was the happiest
union of tact and gentleness. "What makes you blush so?" said a reckless
fellow in the stage, to a plain country girl, who was receiving the
mail-bag at a post office from the hand of the driver. "What makes you
blush so, my dear?" "Perhaps," said Dr. Payson, who sat near him and was
unobserved till now, "Perhaps it is because some one spoke rudely to her
when the stage was along here the last time."

Edward Payson was graduated at Harvard College in the class of 1803.
In the autumn of that year he took charge of an academy then recently
established in Portland. Resigning this position in 1806, he returned
home and devoted himself to the study of divinity under his father's
care. He was licensed to preach in May, 1807, and a few months later
received a unanimous call to Portland, where he was ordained in December
of the same year. On the 8th of May, 1811, he was married to Ann Louisa
Shipman, of New Haven, Conn. An extract from a manly letter to Miss
Shipman, written a few weeks after their engagement, will show the
spirit which inspired him both as a lover and a husband:

When I wrote my first letter after my late visit, I felt almost angry
with you and quite so with myself. And why angry with you? Because I
began to fear you would prove a dangerous rival to my Lord and Master,
and draw away my heart from His service. My Louisa, should this be the
case, I should certainly hate you. I am Christ's; I must be Christ's; He
has purchased me dearly, and I should hate the mother who bore me, if
she proved even the _innocent_ occasion of drawing me from Him. I feared
that you would do this. For a little time the conflict of my feelings
was dreadful beyond description. For a few moments I wished I had never
seen you. Had you been a right hand, or a right eye, had you been the
life-blood in my veins (and you are dear to me as either) I must have
given you up, had I continued to feel as I did. But blessed be God,
He has shown me my weakness only to strengthen me. I now feel very
differently. I still love you dearly as ever, but my love leads me _to_
Christ and not _from_ Him.

Dr. Payson received repeated invitations to important churches in
Boston and New York, but declining them all, continued in the Portland
pastorate until his death, which occurred October 22, 1827, in the
forty-fifth year of his age. The closing months of his life were
rendered memorable by an extraordinary triumph of Christian faith and
patience, as well as of the power of mind over matter. His bodily
suffering and agonies were indescribable, but, like one of the old
martyrs in the midst of the flames, he seemed to forget them all in the
greatness of his spiritual joy. In a letter written shortly after his
death, Mrs. Payson gives a touching account of the tender and thoughtful
concern for her happiness which marked his last illness. Knowing, for
example, that she would be compelled to part with her house, he was
anxious to have a smaller one purchased and occupied at once, so that
his presence in it for a little while might make it seem more home-like
to her and to her children after he was gone. "To tell you (she adds)
what he was the last six memorable weeks would be altogether beyond my
skill. All who beheld him called his countenance angelic." She then
repeats some of his farewell words to her. Begging that, she would "not
dwell upon his poor, shattered frame, but follow his blessed spirit to
the realms of glory," he burst forth into an exultant song of delight,
as if already he saw the King in His beauty! The well-known letter to
his sister Eliza, dated a few weeks before his departure, breathes the
same spirit. Here is an extract from it:

Were I to adopt the figurative language of Bunyan, I might date this
letter from the land of Beulah, of which I have been for some weeks a
happy inhabitant. The celestial city is full in my view. Its glories
beam upon me, its breezes fan me, its odors are wafted to me, its sounds
strike upon my ear, and its spirit is breathed into my heart. Nothing
separates me from it but the river of death, which now appears but as an
insignificant rill, that may be crossed at a single step, whenever God
shall give permission. The Sun of Righteousness has been gradually
drawing nearer and nearer, appearing larger and brighter as He
approached, and now He fills the whole hemisphere, pouring forth a flood
of glory, in which I seem to float like an insect in the beams of the
sun, exulting yet almost trembling while I gaze on this excessive
brightness, and wondering, with unutterable wonder, why God should deign
thus to shine upon a sinful worm. A single heart and a single tongue
seem altogether inadequate to my wants; I want a whole heart for every
separate emotion, and a whole tongue to express that emotion. But why do
I speak thus of myself and my feelings? why not speak only of our God
and Redeemer? It is because I know not what to say--when I would speak
of them my words are all swallowed up.

And thus, gazing already upon the Beatific Vision, he passed on into
glory. What is written concerning his Lord and Master might with almost
literal truth have been inscribed over his grave: _The zeal of Thy house
hath eaten me up._

       *       *       *       *       *

II.

Birth and Childhood of Elizabeth Payson. Early Traits. Devotion to her
Father. His Influence upon her. Letters to her Sister. Removal to New
York. Reminiscences of the Payson Family.


Elizabeth Payson was born "about three o'clock"--so her father records
it--on Tuesday afternoon, October 26, 1818. She was the fifth of eight
children, two of whom died in infancy. All good influences seem to have
encircled her natal hour. In a letter to his mother, dated October 27,
Dr Payson enumerates six special mercies, by which the happy event had
been crowned. One of them was the gratification of the mother's "wish
for a daughter rather than a son." Another was God's goodness to him
in sparing both the mother and the child in spite of his fear that he
should lose them. This fear, strangely enough, was occasioned by the
unusual religious peace and comfort which he had been enjoying. He had
a presentiment that in this way God was forearming him for some
extraordinary trial; and the loss of his wife seemed to him most likely
to be that trial. "God has been so gracious to me in spiritual things,
that I thought He was preparing me for Louisa's death. Indeed it may be
so still, and if so His will be done. Let Him take all--and if He leaves
us Himself we still have all and abound." The next day he writes:

Still God is kind to us. Louisa and the babe continue as well as we
could desire. Truly, my cup runs over with blessings. I can still
scarcely help thinking that God is preparing me for some severe trial;
but if He will grant me His presence as He does now, no trial can seem
severe. Oh, could I now drop the body, I would stand and cry to all
eternity without being weary: God is holy, God is just, God is good;
God is wise and faithful and true. Either of His perfections alone is
sufficient to furnish matter for an eternal, unwearied song. Could I
sing upon paper I should break forth into singing, for day and night I
can do nothing but sing "Let the saints be joyful," etc., etc. But I
must close. I can not send so much love and thankfulness to my parents
as they deserve. My present happiness, all my happiness I ascribe under
God to them and their prayers.

Surely, a home inspired and ruled by such a spirit was a sweet home to
be born into!

The notices of Elizabeth's childhood depict her as a dark-eyed, delicate
little creature, of sylph-like form, reserved and shy in the presence of
strangers, of a sweet disposition, and very intense in her sympathies.
"Until I was three years old mother says I was a little angel," she once
wrote to a friend. Her constitution was feeble, and she inherited from
her father his high-strung nervous temperament. "I never knew what it
was to feel well," she wrote in 1840. Severe pain in the side, fainting
turns, the sick headache, and other ailments troubled her, more or less,
from infancy. She had an eye wide open to the world about her, and quick
to catch its varying aspects of light and beauty, whether on land
or sea. The ships and wharves not far from her father's house, the
observatory and fort on the hill overlooking Casco Bay, the White
Mountains far away in the distance, Deering's oaks, the rope-walk, and
the ancient burying-ground--these and other familiar objects of "the
dear old town," commemorated by Longfellow in his poem entitled "My Lost
Youth," were indelibly fixed in her memory and followed her wherever she
went, to the end of her days. In her movements she was light-footed,
venturesome to rashness, and at times wild with fun and frolic. Her
whole being was so impressionable that things pleasant and things
painful stamped themselves upon it as with the point of a diamond.
Whatever she did, whatever she felt, she felt and did as for her life.
Allusion has been made to the intensity of her sympathies. The sight or
tale of suffering would set her in a tremor of excitement; and in her
eagerness to give relief she seemed ready for any sacrifice, however
great. This trait arrested the observant eye of her father, and he
expressed to Mrs. Payson his fear lest it might some day prove a real
misfortune to the child. "She will be in danger of marrying a blind man,
or a helpless cripple, out of pure sympathy," he once said.

But by far the strongest of all the impressions of her childhood related
to her father. His presence was to her the happiest spot on earth, and
any special expression of his affection would throw her into an ecstasy
of delight. When he was away she pined for his return. "The children
all send a great deal of love, and Elizabeth says, Do tell Papa to
come home," wrote her mother to him, when she was six years old. Her
recollections of her father were singularly vivid. She could describe
minutely his domestic habits, how he looked and talked as he sat by the
fireside or at the table, his delight in and skillful use of carpenters'
tools, his ingenious devices for amusing her and diverting his own
weariness as he lay sick in bed, _e.g._, tearing up sheets of white
paper into tiny bits, and then letting her pour them out of the
window to "make believe it snowed," or counting all the bristles in a
clothes-brush, and then as she came in from school, holding it up and
bidding her guess their number--his coolness and efficiency in the wild
excitements of a conflagration, the calm deliberation with which he
walked past the horror-stricken lookers on and cut the rope by which
a suicide was suspended; these and other incidents she would recall a
third of a century after his death, as if she had just heard of or just
witnessed them. To her child's imagination his memory seemed to be
invested with the triple halo of father, hero, and saint. A little
picture of him was always near her. She never mentioned his name without
tender affection and reverence. Nor is this at all strange. She was
almost nine years old when he died; and his influence, during these
years, penetrated to her inmost being. She once said that of her
father's virtues one only--punctuality--had descended to her. But here
she was surely wrong. Not only did she owe to him some of the most
striking peculiarities of her physical and mental constitution, but her
piety itself, if not inherited, was largely inspired and shaped by his.
In the whole tone and expression of her earlier religious life, at
least, one sees him clearly reflected. His devotional habits, in
particular, left upon her an indelible impression. Once, when four
or five years old, rushing by mistake into his room, she found him
prostrate upon his face--completely lost in prayer. A short time before
her death, speaking of this scene to a friend, she remarked that the
remembrance of it had influenced her ever since. What somebody said
of Sara Coleridge might indeed have been said with no less truth of
Elizabeth Payson: "Her father had looked down into her eyes and left in
them the light of his own."

The only records of her childhood from her own pen consist of the
following letters, written to her sister, while the latter was passing a
year in Boston. She was then nine years old.

PORTLAND, _May 18, 1828._

My dear sister:--I thank you for writing to such a little girl as I am,
when you have so little time. I was going to study a little catechism
which Miss Martin has got, but she said I could not learn it. I want
to learn it. I do not like to stay so long at school. We have to write
composition by dictation, as Miss Martin calls it. She reads to us out
of a book a sentence at a time. We write it and then we write it again
on our slates, because we do not always get the whole; then we write
it on a piece of paper. Miss Martin says I may say my Sunday-school
[lesson] there. Mr. Mitchell has had a great many new books. I have been
sick. Doctor Cummings has been here and says E. is better and he thinks
he will not have a fever.... G. goes to school to Miss Libby, and H.
goes to Master Jackson. H. sends his love. Good-bye.

Your affectionate sister, E. PAYSON,

_September 29, 1828._

My dear sister:--I think you were very kind to write to me, when you
have so little time. I began to go to Mrs. Petrie's school a week ago
yesterday. I stay at home Mondays in the morning to assist in taking
care of Charles or such little things as I can do. G. goes with me. When
mother put Charles and him to bed, as soon as she had done praying with
them, G. said, Mother, will this world be all burnt up when we are dead?
She said, Yes, my dear, it will. What, and all the dishes too? will they
melt like lead? and will the ground be burnt up too? O what a nasty fire
it will make. I saw the Northern lights last night. I sleep in a very
large pleasant room in the bed with mother.... I have a very pleasant
room for my baby-house over the porch which has two windows and a
fireplace in it, and a little cupboard too. E. Wood and I are as
intimate as ever. I suppose you know that Mr. Wood is building him a
brick house. Mrs. Merril's little baby is dead. It was buried yesterday
afternoon. Mr. Mussey lives across the street from us. He has a great
many elm trees in his front yard. His house is three stories high and
the trees reach to the top. We have heard two or three times from E.
since he went away. Yesterday all the Sabbath-schools walked in a
procession and then went to our meeting-house and Mr. William Cutter
addressed them.

I am your affectionate sister, E. Payson.

Her feeble constitution exposed her to severe attacks of disease, and in
May, 1830, she was brought to the verge of the grave by a violent fever.
Her mother was deeply moved by this event, and while recording in her
journal God's goodness in sparing Elizabeth, wonders whether it is
to the end that she may one day devote herself to her Saviour and do
something for the "honor of religion." In the latter part of 1830 Mrs.
Payson removed to New York, where her eldest daughter opened a school
for girls. It was during this residence in New York that Elizabeth, at
the age of twelve years, made a public confession of Christ and came to
the Lord's table for the first time. She was received into the Bleecker
street--now the Fourth avenue--Presbyterian church, then under the
pastoral care of the Rev. Erskine Mason, D.D., May 1, 1831. Toward the
close of the same year the family returned to Portland.

In a letter addressed to her husband, one of Mrs. Prentiss' oldest
friends now living, Miss Julia D. Willis, has furnished the following
reminiscences of her early years. While they confirm what has been said
about her childhood, they are especially valuable for the glimpses they
give of her father and mother and sister. The Willis and Payson families
were very intimate and warmly attached to each other. Mr. Nathaniel
Willis, the father of N. P. Willis the poet, was well known in
connection with "The Boston Recorder," of which he was for many years
the conductor and proprietor. Both Mr. and Mrs. Willis cherished the
most affectionate veneration for the memory of Dr. Payson. So long as
she lived their house was a home to Mrs. Payson and her daughters,
whenever they visited Boston.

As a preacher Dr. Payson could not fail to make a strong impression even
on a child. Years ago in New York I once told Mrs. Prentiss, who was too
young, at her father's death, to remember him well in the pulpit, that
the only public speaker who ever reminded me of him, was Edwin Booth in
Hamlet. I surprised, and, I am afraid, a little shocked her, but it
was quite true. The slender figure, the dark, brilliant eyes, the
deep earnestness of tone, the rapid utterance combined with perfect
distinctness of enunciation, in spite of surroundings the best
calculated to repel such an association, recalled him vividly to my
memory.

My father's connection with the religious press after his removal from
Portland to Boston, brought many clergymen to our house, who often,
in the kindness of their hearts, requited hospitality by religious
conversation with the children, not church members, and presumably,
therefore, impenitent. I did not always appreciate this kindness as it
deserved, and often exercised considerable ingenuity to avoid being
alone with them. In Dr. Payson's case, I soon learned, on the contrary,
to seek such occasions. I was sure that before long he would look up
from his book, or his manuscript, and have something pleasant or
playful to say to me. His general conversation, however, was oftener on
religious than on any other subjects, but it was so evidently from the
fullness of his heart, and his vivid imagination afforded him such a
wealth of illustration, that it was delightful even to an "impenitent"
child. Years afterward when I read in his Memoir of his desponding
temperament, of his seasons of gloom, of the sense of sin under which
he was bowed down, it seemed impossible to me that it could be _my_ Dr.
Payson.

I visited Portland and was an inmate of his family, at the commencement
of the illness that finally proved fatal. He was not confined to his
bed, or to his room, but he was forbidden, indeed unable, to preach,
unable to write or study; he could only read and think. Still he did not
shut himself up in his study with his sad thoughts. I remember him as
usually seated with his book by the side of the fire, surrounded by his
family, as if he would enjoy their society as long as possible, and the
children's play was never hushed on his account. Nor did he forget the
young visitor. When the elder daughter, to whom my visit was made, was
at school, he would care for my entertainment by telling a story, or
propounding a riddle, or providing an entertaining book to beguile the
time till Louisa's return.

Among the group in that cheerful room, I remember Lizzy well, a
beautiful child, slender, dark-eyed, light-footed, very quiet, evidently
observant, but saying little, affectionate, yet not demonstrative.

One evening during my visit, Mrs. Payson not being quite well, the
elders had retired early, leaving Louisa and myself by the side of the
fire, she preparing her school lesson and I occupied in reading. The
lesson finished, Louisa proposed retiring, but I was too much interested
in my book to leave it and promised to follow soon. She left me rather
reluctantly, and I read on, too much absorbed in my book to notice the
time, till near midnight, when I was startled by hearing Dr. Payson's
step upon the stairs. I expected the reproof which I certainly deserved,
but though evidently surprised at seeing me, he merely said, "You here?
you must be cold. Why did you let the fire go out?" Bringing in some
wood he soon rekindled it, and began to talk to me of the book I was
reading, which was one of Walter Scott's poems. He then spoke of a poem
which he had been reading that day, Southey's "Curse of Kehama." He
related to me with perfect clearness the long and rather involved story,
with that wonderful memory of his, never once forgetting or confusing
the strange Oriental names, and repeating word for word the curse:

  I charm thy life, from the weapons of strife,
  From stone and from wood, from fire and from flood,
  From the serpent's tooth, and the beasts of blood,
  From sickness I charm thee, and time shall not harm thee, etc., etc.

I listened, intent, fascinated, forgot to ask why he was there instead
of in his bed, forgot that it was midnight instead of mid-day. It was
not till on bidding me good night he added, "I hope you will have a
better night than I shall," that it occurred to me that he must be
suffering. The next day I learned from his wife that when unable to
sleep on account of his racking cough, he often left his bed at night,
the cough being more endurable when in a sitting posture. I never saw
Dr. Payson after that visit, nor for several years any of the family,
except Louisa, who spent a year with us while attending school in
Boston to fit herself as a teacher to aid in the support of her younger
brothers and sister. When I was next with them, Louisa was already at
the head of a school in which her young sister was the brightest pupil,
and to the profits of which she laid no personal claim, all going
untouched into the family purse. Several young girls, Louisa's pupils,
had been received as boarders in the family, and occasionally a
clergyman was added to the number. It was during this visit that I first
learned to appreciate Mrs. Payson. Now that she stood alone at the head
of the household, either her fine qualities were in bolder relief, or I
being older, was better able to estimate them. The singular vivacity of
her intellect made her a delightful companion. Then her youth had been
passed in the literary circles of New Haven and Andover, and she had
much to tell of distinguished people known to me only by reputation. I
admired her firm yet gentle rule, so skilfully adapted to the varying
natures under her charge; her conscientious study of that homely virtue
economy, so distasteful to one of her naturally lavish temper, always
ready to give to those in need to an extent which called forth constant
remonstrances from more prudent friends; her alacrity also in all
household labors, which the more excited my wonder, knowing the little
opportunity she could have had to practise them amid the wealth of her
father's house before the Embargo, which later wrecked his fortune with
those of so many other New England merchants. She was, indeed, of a most
noble nature, hating all meanness and injustice, and full of helpful
kindness and sympathy. No woman ever had warmer or more devoted friends.

Both at this time and in subsequent visits, as she advanced from
childhood to girlhood, I remember Lizzy well; although my attention
was chiefly absorbed by the elder sister of my own age, my principal
companion when present, and correspondent when absent. The two sisters
were strongly contrasted. Louisa, as a child, was afflicted with a
sensitive, almost morbid shyness and reserve, and an incapacity for
enjoying the society of other children whose tastes were uncongenial
with her own. The shyness passed with her childhood, but the
sensitiveness and exclusiveness never quite left her. Her love of books
was a passion, and she would resent an unfair criticism of a favorite
author as warmly as if it were an attack on a personal friend. To Lizzy,
on the contrary, a friend was a book which she loved to read. Human
nature was her favorite study. There seemed to be no one in whom she
could not find something to interest her, none with whom there was not
some point of sympathy. Combined with this wide and genial sympathy was
another quality which helped to endear her to her companions, viz., an
entire absence of all attempt to show her best side, or put the best
face on anything that concerned her. An ingenuous frankness about
herself and her affairs--even about her little weaknesses--was one
of her most striking traits. No one, indeed, could know her without
learning to love her dearly. Yet if I should say that in my visits to
Portland, Lizzy always appeared to me pre-eminently the life and charm
of the household, it would not be exactly true, though she would
have been so of almost any other household. The Payson family was a
delightful one to visit, all were so bright, and in the contest of wits
that took place often between Lizzy and her merry brothers, it was
sometimes hard to tell which bore off the palm.

I do not know that I ever thought of her at that time as an author. If
anybody had predicted to me that one of that group would be the writer
of books, which would not only have a wide circulation at home, but be
translated into foreign languages, I should certainly have selected
Louisa, and I think most persons who knew them would have done the same.
The elder sister's passion for books, her great powers of acquisition,
the range of her attainments--embracing not only modern languages and
their literature, but Latin, Greek and Hebrew--her ability to maintain
discussions on German metaphysics and theology with learned Professors,
all seemed to point her out as the one likely to achieve distinction in
the literary world.

I do not remember whether it was Lizzy's early contributions to "The
Youth's Companion," showing already the germ of the creative power in
her, or her letters to her sister, which first suggested to me that the
pleasure her friends found in her conversation might yet be enjoyed by
those who would never see her. Louisa had given up her school for the
more congenial employment of contributing to magazines and reviews and
of writing children's books. And as the greater literary resources of
Boston drew her thither, she was often for months a welcome guest at our
house, where she first met Professor Hopkins of Williamstown, and whom
she afterward married. The letters which Lizzy wrote to her at those
times were never allowed to be the monopoly of one person; we all
claimed a right to read them. The ease with which in these she seemed
to talk with her pen, the mingled pathos and humor with which she would
relate all the little joys and sorrows of daily life, leaving her
readers between a smile and a tear, showed the same characteristics
which afterward made her published writings so much more generally
attractive than the graver ones of her elder sister. But Louisa's
failing health soon after her marriage, and the long years of suffering
which followed, prevented her ever doing justice to the expectations her
friends had formed for her.

The occasion of my next visit to Portland was a letter from Mrs. Payson
to my mother, who was her constant correspondent, in which she spoke
sadly of an indisposition she feared was the precursor of serious
illness, but which chiefly troubled her on account of Lizzy's distress
that her school prevented her being constantly with her mother. An
offer on my part to come and take her place, in her hours of necessary
absence, was at once accepted. Mrs. Payson's illness proved less serious
than had been feared, and once more I passed several pleasant weeks in
that house; but the pleasantest hours of the day were those in which
Lizzy, returning from school, sat down at her mother's bedside and
amused her with her talk about her pupils, their various characters and
the progress they had made in their studies, or related little incidents
of the school-room--with her usual frankness not omitting those
which revealed some fault, or what she considered such, on her part,
especially her impulsiveness that led her often to say things she
afterward regretted. As an example, one of her pupils was reading French
to her and coming to the expression Mon Dieu! so common in French
narratives, had pronounced it so badly that Lizzy exclaimed, "Mon Doo?
He would not know himself what you meant!" The laugh which it was
impossible to repress, did not diminish her compunction at what she
feared her pupils would regard as irreverence on her part. I believe I
always cherished sufficient affection for my teachers, and yet I was not
a little astonished on accompanying Lizzy to school one day, to see as
we turned the corner of a street a rush of girls with unbonneted heads,
to greet their young teacher for whom they had been watching, and escort
her to her throne in the school-room, and evidently in their hearts. For
a year or two after this visit I have no recollection of her, or indeed
of any of the Payson family. Death, meanwhile, had been busy in my own
home, and my memory is a blank for anything beyond that sad circle.

Since that date you have known her better than I. I wish that these
recollections of a time when I knew her better than you, were not so
meagre. If we were not thousands of miles apart, and I could talk with
you, instead of writing to you, perhaps they would not appear quite so
unsatisfying. Yet, trivial as they are, I send them, in the persuasion
that any trifle that concerned her or hers is of interest to you.

GENEVA, Switzerland, _Feb. 1, 1879._

       *       *       *       *       *

III.

Recollections of Elizabeth's Girlhood by an early Friend and Schoolmate.
Her own Picture of Herself before her Father's Death. Favorite Resorts.
Why God permits so much Suffering. Literary Tastes. Letters. "What are
Little Babies For?" Opens a School. Religious Interest.


It is to be regretted that the letters referred to by Miss Willis, and
indeed nearly all of Elizabeth's family letters, written before she left
her mother's roof, have disappeared. But the following recollections by
Mrs. M. C. H. Clark, of Portland, will in part supply their place and
serve to fill up the outline, already given, of the first twenty years
of her life.

In the volume of sketches entitled, "Only a Dandelion," you will find,
in the story of Anna and Emily, some very pleasing incidents relating
to the early life of dear Elizabeth. Anna was Lizzy Wood, her earliest
playmate and friend. Miss Wood was a sweet girl, the only sister of Dr.
William Wood, of Portland. She died at an early age. Emily was Mrs.
Prentiss herself. I remember her once telling me about the visit at
"Aunt W.'s," and believe that nearly all the details of the story are
founded in fact. It is her own picture of herself as a little girl,
drawn to the life. Several traits of the character of Emily, as given in
the sketch, are on this account worthy of special note. One is her very
intense desire not only to be loved, but to be loved _alone_, or much
more than any one else; and to be assured of it "over and over again."
When Anna returned from her journey, she brought the same presents to
Susan Morton as to Emily. On discovering this fact Emily was greatly
distressed.

"I thought you would be so glad to get all these things!" said Anna.

"And so I am," said Emily, "I only want you to love me better than any
other little girl, because I love you better."

"Well, and so I do," returned Anna; "I love you ten times as well as I
love Susan Morton."

This satisfied Emily, and "for many days her restless little heart was
as quiet and happy as a lamb's."

Another trait is brought out in the incident that occurred on her
returning home from Anna's. She had written, or rather scratched, the
word "Anna," over one whole side of her room, while odd lines of what
purported to be poetry filled the other.

But this was not all. Her sister produced the beautiful Bible which had
been given Emily by her Aunt Lucy, on her seventh birthday, and showed
her father how all its blank leaves were covered with Annas. Her
father took the book with reverence, and Emily understood and felt the
seriousness with which he examined her idle scrawls. It was a look that
would have risen up before her and made her stay her hand, should she
ever again in her life-long have been tempted thus to misuse the word
of God; just as the angel stood before Balaam in the narrow path he was
struggling to push through. But Emily never again was thus tempted; and
ever after her Bible was sacredly kept free from "blot, or wrinkle, or
any such thing."

Her father now took her with him to his study, and gave her a great many
pieces of paper, some large and some small, on which he told her with a
smile, she could write Anna's name to her heart's content. Emily felt
very grateful; this little kindness on her father's part did her more
good than a month's lecture could have done, and made her resolve never
to do anything that could possibly grieve him again. She went away to
her own little baby-house and wrote on one of the bits of paper, some
verses, in which she said she had the best father in the world. When
they were done, she read them over once or twice, and admired them
exceedingly; after which, with a very mysterious air, she went and threw
them into the kitchen fire.

This incident, so prettily related, illustrates the intensity of her
friendships, shows that she had begun to write verses when a mere child,
and gives a very pleasant glimpse of her father and of her devotion to
him.

My intimate acquaintance with her commenced in 1832, when we were
members of Miss Tyler's Sabbath-school class. Miss Tyler was a daughter
of Rev. Dr. Bennett Tyler, her father's successor. She was greatly
pleased when I told her I was going to attend her sister's school, which
was opened in the spring of 1833, on the corner of Middle and Lime
streets. My seat was next to hers and we were placed in the same
classes. Our homes were near each other on Franklin street, and we
always walked back and forth together. She was at this time a prolific
writer of notes. Sometimes she would meet me on Monday morning with not
less than four, written since we had parted on Saturday afternoon. She
used to complain now and then, that I wrote her only one to four or five
of hers to me. In the pleasant summer afternoons we loved to take long
walks together. One was down by the shore behind the eastern promenade.
Here we would find a sheltered nook, and with our backs to the world
and our faces toward the islands and the ocean, would sit in "rapt
enjoyment" of the scene, speaking scarcely a word, until one or the
other exclaimed with a long-drawn sigh: "Well, it is time for us to go
home."

Another of our places of resort was the old cemetery on Congress street,
which in those days was very retired. Our favorite spot here was the
summit of a tomb, which stood on the highest point in the grounds. It
was the old style of tomb--a broad marble slab, supported by six small
stone pillars on a stone foundation, and surrounded by two steps raised
above the soil. It was a very quiet retreat. We could hear the distant
hum of the city and at the same time enjoy a view of the water and
shipping, as the land sloped down toward the harbor. I remember well
that one dark spring day, as we sat there cuddled up under the broad
slab, Lizzy gave me an account of a book she had just been reading. It
was the Memoir of Miss Susanna Anthony, by old Dr. Hopkins, of Newport.
She told me what a good and holy woman Miss Anthony was, how much she
suffered and how beautifully she bore her sufferings. My sympathy was
strongly excited and I exclaimed, "I do not see how it is _right_ for
God, who can control all things, to permit such suffering!" Lizzy
replied very sweetly, "Well, Carrie, we can't understand it, but I have
been thinking that this _might_ be God's way of preparing His children
for very high degrees of service on earth, or happiness in heaven." I
was deeply impressed with this remark; somehow it seemed to _stand by
me_, and I think it was a corner-stone of her faith.

This summer--that of 1833--her mother fitted up for her exclusive use
a small room called the "Blue Room," where she had all her books and
treasures--among them a writing desk which had been her father's. Here
all her leisure hours were spent. It was my privilege to be admitted
to this sanctuary, and many pleasant hours we passed together there. I
think Elizabeth was always religious. She knew a great deal then about
the Bible and often talked with me of divine things. She seemed to feel
a deep interest in my spiritual welfare. She loved to share with me her
favorite books. To her I was indebted for my acquaintance with George
Herbert, and with Wordsworth. She induced me to read "Owen on the 133d
Psalm," and Flavel's "Fountain of Life." In 1834 we both began to attend
the Free street Seminary, of which the Rev. Solomon Adams was then
Principal. Her sister had become assistant teacher with him. Our desks
adjoined each other and we were together a great deal. She was an
admirable scholar, very studious, prompt and ready at recitation. Her
influence and example, added to her friendship and sympathy, were
invaluable to me at this period. One day, about this time, she told
me of her engagement with Mr. Willis, to become a contributor to "The
Youth's Companion." This paper was one of the first, if not the first,
of its class published in this country, and had a wide circulation among
the children throughout New England. Most of the pieces in "Only a
Dandelion," first appeared, I think, in the "Youth's Companion," among
the rest several in verse. They are written in a sprightly style, are
full of bright fancies as well as sound feeling and excellent sense, and
foretoken plainly the author of the 'Susy' books.

In 1835 Lizzy went to Ipswich and spent the summer in the school there.
It was then under the care of Miss Grant, and was the most noted
institution of its kind in New England. A year or two later, Mr. N. P.
Willis returned from Europe, and with his English bride made a short
visit at Mrs. Payson's. Miss Payson talked with him of Elizabeth's taste
for writing poetry and showed him some of her pieces. He praised and
encouraged her warmly, and this was, I think, one of the influences that
strengthened her in the purpose to become an author. Upon my telling her
one day how much I liked a certain Sunday-school book I had just read,
she smilingly asked, "What would you think if some day I should write a
book as good as that?"

I saw a good deal of her home life at this time. It was full of filial
and sisterly love and devotion. Amidst the household cares by which her
mother was often weighed down and worried, she was an ever-near friend
and sympathizer. To her brothers, too, she endeared herself exceedingly
by her helpful, cheery ways and the strong vein of fun and mirthfulness
which ran through her daily life.

In the spring of 1837 Mrs. Payson sold her house on Franklin street and
rented one in the upper part of the city. Lizzy used to call it "the
pumpkin house," because it was old and ugly; but its situation and the
opportunity to indulge her rural tastes made amends for all its defects.
In a letter to her friend Miss E. T. of Brooklyn, N. Y., dated May 21,
1837, she thus refers to it:

Since your last letter arrived we have left our pleasant home for an
old yellow one above John Neal's. Now don't imagine it to be a delicate
straw-color, neither the smiling hue of the early dandelion. No, it once
shone forth in all the glories of a deep pumpkin; but time's "effacing
fingers" have sadly marred its beauty. Mr. Neal's Aunt Ruth, a quiet old
Quakeress, occupies a part of it and we Paysons bestow ourselves in the
remainder. This comes to you from its great garret. Here I sit every
night till after dark as merry as a grig. "The mind is its own place."
With all the inconveniences of the house I would not exchange it
at present for any other in the city. The situation is perfectly
delightful. Casco Bay and part of Deering's Oaks lie in full view. [8]
The Oaks are within a few minutes' walk. Back-Cove is seen beyond, and
rising far above the _blue_ White Mountains. The Arsenal stares us in
the face, if we look out the end windows and the Westbrook meeting-house
is nearer than Mr. Vail's by a quarter of a mile. I never believed there
was anything half so fine in this region. I think nothing of walking
anywhere now. One day, after various domestic duties, I worked in my
tiny garden four hours, and in the afternoon a party of girls came up
for me to go with them to Bramhall's hill. We walked from three till
half past six, came back and ate a hasty, with some of us a _furious_
supper, and then all paraded down to second parish to singing-school.
I expect to live out in the air most of the summer. I mean to have as
pleasant a one as possible, because we shall never live so near the
Oaks and other pretty places another summer. If you were not so timid I
should wish you were here to run about with me, but who ever heard of
E. T. _running_? Now, Ellen, I never was _meant_ to be dignified and
sometimes--yea, often--I run, skip, hop, and _once_ I did climb over a
fence! Very unladylike, I know, but I am not a lady.

In the fall of 1837 Mrs. Payson moved again. The incident deserves
mention, as it brought Lizzy into daily intercourse with the Rev. Mr.
French and his wife. Mr. French was rector of the Episcopal church in
Portland, and afterward Professor and Chaplain at West Point. He was
a man of fine literary culture and Mrs. French was a very attractive
woman. In a letter dated "Night before Thanksgiving," and addressed to
the early friend already mentioned, Lizzy refers to this removal and
also gives a glimpse of her active home life:

I have been busy all day and am so tired I can scarcely hold a pen.
Amidst the beating of eggs, the pounding of spices, the furious rolling
of pastry of all degrees of shortness, the filling of pies with
pumpkins, mince-meat, apples, and the like, the stoning of raisins and
washing of currants, the beating and baking of cake, and all the other
_ings_, (in all of which I have had my share) thoughts of your ladyship
have somehow squeezed themselves in. We have really bidden adieu to
"Pumpkin Place," as Mrs. Willis calls it, and established ourselves in
a house formerly occupied by old Parson Smith--and very snug and
comfortable we are, I assure you.

In the midst of our "moving," after I had packed and stowed and lifted,
and been elbowed by all the sharp corners in the house, and had my hands
all torn and scratched, I spied the new "Knickerbocker" 'mid a heap of
rubbish and was tempted to peep into it. Lo and behold, the first thing
that met my eye was the Lament of the Last Peach. [9] I didn't care to
read more and forthwith returned to fitting of carpets and arranging
tables and chairs and bureaus--but all the while meditating how I should
be revenged upon you. As to ----'s request I am sorry to answer nay; for
I feel it would be the greatest presumption in me to think of writing
for a magazine like that. I do not wish to publish anything, anywhere,
though it would be quite as wise as to entrust my scraps to _your_ care.
My mother often urges me to send little things which she happens to
fancy, to this and that periodical. Without her interference nothing
of mine would ever have found its way into print. But mammas look
with rose-colored spectacles on the actions and performances of their
offspring. Have you laughed over the Pickwick Papers? We have almost
laughed ourselves to death over them. I have not seen Lizzy D. for a
long time, but hear she is getting along rapidly. If I could go to
school two years more, I should be glad, but of course that is out of
the question.... It is easier for you to write often than it is for me.
You have not three tearing, growing brothers to mend and make for. I am
become quite expert in the arts of patching and darning. I am going to
get some pies and cake and raisins and other goodies to send to our
girl's sick brother. If I had not so dear and happy a home, I should
envy you yours. You say you do not remember whether I love music or not.
I love it extravagantly _sometimes_--but have not the knowledge to enjoy
scientific performances. The simple melody of a single voice is my
delight. Mrs. French, the Episcopal minister's wife, who is a great
friend of ours and lives next door (so near that she and sister talk
together out of their windows), has a baby two days old with black curly
hair and black eyes, and I shall have a nice time with it this winter.
Do you love babies?

The question with which this letter closes, suggests one of Lizzy's most
striking and loveliest traits. She had a perfect passion for babies, and
reveled in tending, kissing, and playing with them. Here are some pretty
lines in one of her girlish contributions to "The Youth's Companion,"
which express her feeling about them:

  What are little babies for?
    Say! say! say!
  Are they good-for-nothing things?
    Nay! nay! nay!

  Can they speak a single word?
    Say! say! say!
  Can they help their mothers sew?
    Nay! nay! nay!

  Can they walk upon their feet?
    Say! say! say!
  Can they even hold themselves?
    Nay! nay! nay!

  What are little babies for?
    Say! say! say!
  Are they made for us to love?
    _Yea_! YEA!! YEA!!!

In the fall of 1838 Mrs. Payson purchased a house in Cumberland street,
which continued to be her residence until the family was broken up. You
remember the charming little room Lizzy had fitted up over the hall in
this house, how nicely she kept it, and how happy she was in it. One of
the windows looked out on a little flower garden and at the close of the
long summer days the sunset could be enjoyed from the west window. She
had had some fine books given her, which, added to the previous store,
made a somewhat rare collection for a young girl in those days.

About this time, having been relieved of her part of domestic service by
the coming into the family of a young relative--whose devotion to her
was unbounded--she opened in the house a school for little girls. It
consisted at first of perhaps eight or ten, but their number increased
until the house could scarcely hold them. She was a born teacher and her
young pupils fairly idolized her. [10] In this year, too, she took
a class in the Sabbath-school composed of nearly the same group who
surrounded her on the week-days, and they remained under her care as
long as she lived in Portland.

The Rev. Mr. Vail having retired from the pastorate of the second parish
in the autumn of 1837, Cyrus Hamlin, just from the Theological Seminary
at Bangor, became the stated supply for some months. His preaching
attracted the young people and during the winter and spring there was
much interest in all the Congregational churches. Following the example
of the other pastors, Mr. Hamlin invited persons seriously disposed to
meet him for religious conversation. Elizabeth besought me, with all
possible earnestness and affection, to "go to Mr. Hamlin's meeting." One
day she came to see me a short time before the hour, saying that I was
ever on her mind and in her prayers, that she had talked with Mr. Hamlin
about me, nor would she leave me until I had promised to attend the
meeting. I did so; and from that time we were united in the strong bonds
of Christian love and sympathy. What a spiritual helper she was to me in
those days! What precious notes I was all the time receiving from
her! The memory of her tender, faithful friendship is still fresh and
delightful, after the lapse of more than forty years. [11]

In the summer of 1838 the Rev. Jonathan B. Condit, D.D., was called from
his chair in Amherst College and installed pastor of our church. He was
a man of very graceful and winning manners and wonderfully magnetic. He
at once became almost an object of worship with the enthusiastic young
people. The services of the Sabbath and the weekly meetings were
delightful. The young ladies had a praying circle which met every
Saturday afternoon, full of life and sunshine. Indeed, the exclusive
interest of the season was religious; our reading and conversation were
religious; well-nigh the sole subject of thought was learning something
new of our Saviour and His blessed service. All Lizzy's friends and
several of her own family were rejoicing in hope. And she herself was
radiant with joy. For a little while it seemed almost as if the shadows
in the Christian path had fled away, and the crosses vanished out of
sight. The winter and spring of 1840 witnessed another period of general
religious interest in Portland. Large numbers were gathered into the
churches. Lizzy was greatly impressed by the work, her own Christian
life was deepened and widened, she was blessed in guiding several
members of her beloved Sunday-school class to the Saviour, and was thus
prepared, also, for the sharp trial awaiting her in the autumn of the
same year, when she left her home and mother for a long absence in
Richmond.

From her earliest years she was in the habit of keeping a journal, and
she must have filled several volumes. I wonder that she did not preserve
them as mementos of her childhood and youth. Perhaps because her
afterlife was so happy that she never needed to refer to such
reminiscences of days gone by.

I have thus given you, in a very informal manner, some recollections of
her earlier years. I have been astonished to find how vividly I recalled
scenes, events and conversations so long past. I was startled and
shocked when the news came of her sudden death. But I can not feel that
she was called to her rest too soon. She seemed to me singularly happy
in all the relations of life; and then as an author, hers was an
exceptional case of full appreciation and success. I have ever regarded
her as "favored among women"--blessed in doing her Master's will and
testifying for Him, blessed in her home, in her friends, and in her
work, and blessed in her death.

PORTLAND, _December 31, 1878._

       *       *       *       *       *

IV.

The Dominant Type of Religious Life and Thought in New England in the
First Half of this Century. Literary Influences. Letter of Cyrus Hamlin.
A Strange Coincidence.


A brief notice of the general type of religious life and thought, which
prevailed at this time in New England, will throw light upon both the
preceding and following pages. Elizabeth's early Christian character,
although largely shaped by that of her father, was also, like his,
vitally affected by the religious spirit and methods then dominant.
Several distinct elements entered into the piety of New England at that
period, (1.) There was, first of all, the old Puritan element which the
Pilgrim Fathers and their immediate successors brought with them from
the mother-country, and which had been nourished by the writings of the
great Puritan divines of the seventeenth century--such as Baxter, Howe,
Bunyan, Owen, Matthew Henry, and Flavel--by the "Imitation of Christ,"
and Bishop Taylor's "Holy Living and Dying," and by such writers as
Doddridge, Watts, and Jonathan Edwards of the last century. This lay at
the foundation of the whole structure, giving it strength, solidity,
earnestness, and power. (2.) But it was modified by the so-called
Evangelical element, which marked large sections of the Church of
England and most of the Dissenting bodies in Great Britain during
the last half of the eighteenth and the early part of the nineteenth
century. The writings of John Newton, Richard Cecil, Hannah More, Thomas
Scott, Cowper, Wilberforce, Leigh Richmond, John Foster, Andrew Fuller,
and Robert Hall--not to mention others--were widely circulated in New
England and had great influence in its pulpits and its Christian homes.
Their admirable spirit infused itself into thousands of lives, and
helped in many ways to improve the general tone both of theological
and devotional sentiment. (3.) But another element still was the new
Evangelistic spirit, which inaugurated and still informs those great
movements of Christian benevolence, both at home and abroad, that are
the glory of the age. Dr. Payson's ministry began just before the
formation of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions,
and before his death mission-work had come to be regarded as quite
essential to the piety and prosperity of the Church. The Lives of David
Brainerd, Henry Martyn, Harriet Newell, and others like them, were
household books. (4.) Nor should the "revival" element be omitted in
enumerating the forces that then shaped the piety and religious thought
of New England. The growth of the Church and the advancement of the
cause of Christ were regarded as inseparable from this influence. A
revival was the constant object of prayer and effort on the part of
earnest pastors and of the more devout among the people. Far more stress
was laid upon special seasons and measures of spiritual interest and
activity than now--less upon Christian nurture as a means of grace, and
upon the steady, normal development of church life. Many of the most
eminent, devoted, and useful servants of Christ, whose names, during the
last half century, have adorned the annals of American faith and zeal,
owed their conversion, or, if not their conversion, some of their
noblest and strongest Christian impulses, to "revivals of religion."
(5.) To all these should perhaps, be added another element--namely, that
of the new spirit of reform and the new ethical tone, which, during the
third and fourth decades of this century especially, wrought with such
power in New England. Of this influence and of the philanthropic idea
that inspired it, Dr. Channing may be regarded as the most eminent
representative. It brought to the front the humanity and moral teaching
of Christ, as at once the pattern and rule of all true progress, whether
individual or social; and it was widely felt, even where it was not
distinctly recognised or understood. Whatever errors or imperfections
may have belonged to it, this influence did much to soften the dogmatism
of opinion, to arouse a more generous, catholic type of sentiment, to
show that the piety of the New Testament is a principle of universal
love to man, as well as of love to God, and to emphasise the sovereign
claims of personal virtue and social justice. These truths, to be sure,
were not new; but in the great moral-reform movements and conflicts--to
a certain extent even in theological discussions--that marked the times,
they were asserted and applied with extraordinary clearness and energy
of conviction; and, as the event has proved, they were harbingers of a
new era of Christian thought, culture and conduct, both in private and
public life.

Such were some of the religious influences which surrounded Mrs.
Prentiss during the first twenty years of her life, and which helped to
form her character. She was also strongly affected, especially while
passing from girlhood into early womanhood, by the literary influences
of the day. Poetry and fiction were her delight. She was very fond of
Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Longfellow; while the successive volumes of
Dickens were read by her with the utmost avidity. Mrs. Payson's house
was a good deal visited by scholars and men of culture. Her eldest
daughter had already become somewhat widely known by her writings. In
the extent, variety and character of her attainments she was, in truth,
a marvel. Indeed, she quite overshadowed the younger sister by her
learning and her highly intellectual conversation. And yet Elizabeth
also attracted no little attention from some who had been first drawn
to the house by their friendship for Louisa. [12] Among her warmest
admirers was Mr. John Neal, then well known as a man of letters; he
predicted for her a bright career as an author. Still, it was her
personal character that most interested the visitors at her mother's
house. This may be illustrated by an extract from a letter of Mr. Hamlin
to a friend of the family in New York, written in April, 1838, while he
was their temporary pastor. Mr. Hamlin has since become known throughout
the Christian world by his remarkable career as a missionary in Turkey,
and as organiser of Robert College. A few months after the letter was
written he set sail for Constantinople, accompanied by his wife, whose
early death was the cause of so much grief among all who knew her. [13]
I should like to write a long letter about dear Elizabeth. I have seen
her more since Louisa left and I love her more. She has a peculiar
charm for me. I think she has a quick and excellent judgment, refined
sensibilities, and an _instinctive_ perception of what is fit and
proper.... It seems to me there is a great deal of purity--of the
_spirituelle_--about her feelings. But I can not tell you exactly what
it is that makes me think so highly of her. It is a nameless something
resulting from her whole self, from her sweet face and mouth, her eye
full of love and soul, her form and motion. I do not think she likes me
much, I have paid so much attention to Louisa and so little to herself.
Yet she is not one of those who _claim_ attention, but rather shrinks
from it. She may have faults of which I have no knowledge. But I am
charmed with everything I have seen of her.

How strange are the chance coincidences of human life! In another letter
to the same friend in New York, in which Mr. Hamlin refers in a similar
manner to Elizabeth, occur these words:

In a few weeks I hope to be in Dorset, among the Green Mountains, where
my thoughts and feelings have their centre above all places on this
earth. I wish you could be present at my wedding there on the third of
September.

How little did he dream, when penning these words, or did his friend
dream while reading them, that, after the lapse of more than forty
years, the "dear Elizabeth" would find her grave near by the old
parsonage in which that wedding was to be celebrated, while the dust of
the lovely daughter of Dorset would be sleeping on the distant shores of
the Bosphorus!


[1] For many years after the publication of his Memoir, it was so often
given to children at their baptism that at one time those who bore it,
in and out of New England, were to be numbered by hundreds, if not
thousands. "I once saw the deaths of _three_ little Edward Paysons in
one paper," wrote Mrs. Prentiss in 1832.

[2] He was the author of a curious work entitled, "Proofs of the real
Existence, and dangerous Tendency, of Illuminism." Charlestown, 1802. By
"Illuminism" he means an organised attempt, or conspiracy, to undermine
the foundations of Christian society and establish upon its ruins the
system of atheism.

[3] "I spent part of last evening reading over some old letters of my
grandmother's and never realised before what a remarkable woman she was
both as to piety and talent."--_From a letter of Mrs. Prentiss, written
in 1864._

[4] In a letter to his mother,--written when Elizabeth was three years
old, he says: "E. has a terrible abscess, which we feared would prove
too much for her slender constitution. We were almost worn out with
watching; and, just as she began to mend, I was seized with a violent
ague in my face, which gave me incessant anguish for six days and nights
together, and deprived me almost entirely of sleep. Three nights I did
not close my eyes. When well nigh distracted with pain and loss of
sleep, Satan was let loose upon me, to buffet me, and I verily thought
would have driven me to desperation and madness."

[5] The late President Wayland.

[6] Prof. Calvin E. Stowe, D.D.

[7] The late Rev. Absalom Peters, D.D.

[8]

  I can see the breezy dome of groves,
    The shadows of Deering's Woods;
  And the friendships old and the early loves
  Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves
    In quiet neighborhoods.
      And the verse of that sweet old song,
      It flutters and murmurs still:
     "A boy's will is the wind's will,
  And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
                 --LONGFELLOW'S _My Lost Youth._

[9] "The Lament of the Last Peach" had been written by her a year
before when in Brooklyn, and her friend's brother had sent it to "The
Knickerbocker," the popular Magazine of that day. Here it is:

  LAMENT OF THE LAST PEACH.

  In solemn silence here I live,
    A lone, deserted peach;
  So high that none but birds and winds
    My quiet bough can reach.
  And mournfully, and hopelessly,
    I think upon the past;
  Upon my dear departed friends,
    And I, the last--the last.

  My friends! oh, daily one by one
    I've seen them drop away;
  Unheeding all the tears and prayers
    That vainly bade them stay.
  And here I hang alone, alone--
    While life is fleeing fast;
  And sadly sigh that I am left
    The last, the last, the last.

  Farewell, then, thou my little world
    My home upon the tree,
  A sweet retreat, a quiet home
    Thou mayst no longer be;
  The willow trees stand weeping nigh,
    The sky is overcast,
  The autumn winds moan sadly by,
    And say, the last--the last!

[10] "Dear Lizzy is in her little school. Her pupils love her dearly.
She will have about thirty in the summer."--_Letter of Mrs. Payson,
March 28, 1839_.

[11] Three years later Elizabeth thus referred to this period in the
life of her friend:--"During the time in which she was seeking the
Saviour with all her heart, I was much with her and had an opportunity
to see every variety of feeling as she daily set the whole before
me. The affection thus acquired is, I believe, never lost. If I live
forever, I shall not lose the impressions which I then received--the
deep anxiety I felt lest she should finally come short of salvation, and
then the happiness of having her lost in contemplation of the character
of Him whom she had so often declared it impossible to love."

[12] Old friends of her father also became much interested in her. Among
them was Simon Greenleaf, the eminent writer on the law of evidence, and
Judge Story's successor at Harvard. On removing to Cambridge, in 1833,
he gave her with his autograph a little volume entitled, "Hours for
Heaven; a small but choice selection of prayers, from eminent Divines of
the Church of England," which long continued to be one of her books of
devotion.

[13] See the touching memorial of her, "Light on the Dark River,"
prepared by her early friend, Mrs. Lawrence.




CHAPTER II.

THE NEW LIFE IN CHRIST.

1840-1841.

I.

A Memorable Experience. Letters to her Cousin. Goes to Richmond as a
Teacher. Mr. Persico's School. Letters.


Miss Payson was now in her twenty-first year, a period which she always
looked back to as a turning-point in her spiritual history. The domestic
influences that encompassed her childhood, her early associations, and
the books of devotion which she read, all conspired to imbue her with an
earnest sense of divine things, and while yet a young girl, as we
have seen, she publicly devoted herself to the service of her God and
Saviour. For several years her piety, if marked by no special features,
was still regarded by her young friends, and by all who knew her, as of
a decided character. But during the general religious interest in the
winter of 1837-8, even while absorbed in solicitude for others, she
began herself to question its reality. "For some months I had no hope
that I was a Christian, and _pride_ made me go on just as if I felt
myself perfectly safe. Nothing could at that time have made me willing
to have any eye a witness to my daily struggles." And yet she "often
longed for the sympathy and assistance of Christian friends," and to her
unwillingness to confide in them she afterwards attributed much of the
suffering that followed. "I do not know exactly how I passed out of that
season, but my school commenced in April, and I became so interested in
it that I had less time to think of and to watch myself. The next winter
most of my scholars were deeply impressed by divine things, and, of
course, I could not look on without having my own heart touched. It was
my privilege to spend many delightful weeks in watching the progress
of minds earnestly seeking the way of life and early consecrating
themselves to their Saviour." [1] But after a while a severe reaction
set in and in the course of the summer she became careless in her
religious habits, shrank from the Lord's table as a "place of absolute
torture," and while spending a fortnight in Boston in the fall, entirely
omitted all exercises of private devotion.

She had now reached a crisis which was to decide her course for life.
During the winter of 1839-40, she passed through very deep and harrowing
exercises of soul. Her spiritual nature was shaken to its foundation,
and she could say with the Psalmist, _Out of the depths have I cried
unto Thee, O Lord._ For several months she was in a state similar
to that which the old divines depict so vividly as being "under
conviction." Her sense of sin, and of her own unworthiness in the
sight of God, grew more and more intense and oppressive. At times she
abandoned all hope, accused herself of having played the hypocrite, and
fancied she was given over to hardness of heart. At length she sought
counsel of her pastor and confided to him her trouble, but he "did not
know exactly what to do with me." In the midst of her distress, and as
its effect, no doubt, she was taken ill and confined to her room, where
in solitude she passed several weeks seeking rest and finding none.
"Sometimes I tried to pray, but this only increased my distress and
made me cry out for annihilation to free me from the agony which seemed
insupportable." With a single interval of comparative indifference, this
state of mind continued for nearly four months. She thus describes it:

It was in vain that I sought the Lord in any of the lofty pathways
through which my heart wished to go. At last I found it impossible to
carry on the struggle any longer alone. I would gladly have put myself
at the feet of a little child, if by so doing I could have found peace.
I felt so guilty and the character of God appeared so perfect in its
purity and holiness, that I knew not which way to turn. The sin which
distressed me most of all was the rejection of the Saviour. This haunted
me constantly and made me fly first to one thing and then another, in
the hope of finding somewhere the peace which I would not accept from
Him. It was at this time that I kept reading over the first twelve
chapters of Doddridge's "Rise and Progress,"--the rest of the book I
abhorred. So great was my agony that I can only wonder at the goodness
of Him who held my life in His hands, and would not permit me in the
height of my despair to throw myself away.

It was in this height of despair that thoughts of the infinite grace
and love of Christ, which she says she had hitherto repelled, began to
irradiate her soul. A sermon on His ability to save "unto the uttermost"
deeply affected her. [2] "While listening to it my weary spirit _rested_
itself, and I thought, 'surely it can not be wrong to think of the
Saviour, although He is not mine.' With this conclusion I gave myself up
to admire, to love and to praise Him, to wonder why I had never done
so before, and to hope that all the great congregation around me were
joining with me in acknowledging Him to be chief among ten thousand and
the One altogether lovely." On going home she could at first scarcely
believe in her own identity, the feeling of peace and love to God and
to all the world was so unlike the turbulent emotions that had long
agitated her soul. "From this time my mind went slowly onward, examining
the way step by step, trembling and afraid, yet filled with a calm
contentment which made all the dealings of God with me appear just
right. I know myself to be perfectly helpless. I can not promise to do
or to be anything; but I do want to put everything else aside, and to
devote myself entirely to the service of Christ."

Her account of this memorable experience is dated August 28, 1840.
"While writing it," she adds, "I have often laid aside my pen, to sit
and think over in silent wonder the way in which the Lord has led me."

How in later years she regarded certain features of this experience, is
not fully known. The record passed at once out of her hands, and until
after her death was never seen by anyone, excepting the friend for whose
eye it was written. Many of its details had, probably, faded entirely
from her memory. It can not be doubted, however, that she would have
judged her previous state much less severely, would hardly have charged
it with hypocrisy, or denied that the Saviour had been graciously
leading her, and that she had some real love to Him, before as well as
after this crisis. So much may be inferred from the record itself and
from the narrative in the preceding chapter. Her tender interest in the
spiritual welfare of her friends and pupils, the high tone of religious
sentiment that marks her early writings, the books she delighted in, her
filial devotion, the absolute sincerity of her character, all forbid
any other conclusion. [3] The indications, too, are very plain that her
morbidly-sensitive, melancholy temperament had much to do with this
experience. Her account of it shows, also, that her mind was unhappily
affected by certain false notions of the Christian life and ordinances
then, and still, more or less prevalent--notions based upon a too narrow
and legal conception of the Gospel. Hence, her shrinking from the Lord's
table as a place of "torture," instead of regarding it in its true
character, as instituted on purpose to feed hungry souls, like her own,
with bread from heaven. But for all that, the experience was a blessed
reality and, as these pages will attest, wrought a lasting change in her
religious life. No doubt the Spirit of God was leading her through all
its dark and terrible mazes. It virtually ended a conflict which the
intensely proud elements of her nature rendered inevitable, if she was
to become a true heroine of faith--the conflict between her Master's
will and her own. Her Master conquered, and henceforth to her dying hour
His will was the sovereign law of her existence, and its sweetest joy
also.

The following extracts from letters to her cousin, George E. Shipman,
of New York, now widely known as the founder of a Foundling Home at
Chicago, will throw additional light upon her state of mind at this
period. Mr. Shipman was the friend to whom the account of her experience
already mentioned was addressed. He had just spent several weeks in
Portland, and to his Christian sympathy, kindness, and counsels while
there and during the two following years, she felt herself very deeply
indebted. [4]

PORTLAND, _August 22, 1840._

I am always wondering if any body in the world is the better off for my
being in it. And so if I was of any comfort to you, I am very glad of
it. I do want, I confess, the privilege of offering you sometimes the
wine and oil of consolation, and if I do it in such a way as to cause
pain with my unskilful hand, why, you must forgive me.... Mr. ----
talked to me as if he imagined me a blue-stocking. Just because my
sister wears spectacles, folks take it for granted that I also am
literary.

_Aug. 25th._--You ask if I find it easy to engage in religious
meditation, referring in particular to that on our final rest. This is
another of my trials. I can not meditate upon anything, except indeed it
be something quite the opposite of what I wish to occupy my mind. You
know that some Christians are able in their solitary walks and rides
to hold, all the time, communion with God. I can very seldom do this.
Yesterday I was obliged to take a long walk alone, and it was made very
delightful in this way; so that I quite forgot that I was alone.... I am
beginning to feel, that I have enough to do without looking out for a
great, wide place in which to work, and to appreciate the simple lines:

  "The trivial round, the common task,
  Would furnish all we ought to ask;
  Room to deny ourselves; a road
  To bring us daily nearer God."

Those words "daily nearer God" have an inexpressible charm for me. I
long for such nearness to Him that all other objects shall fade into
comparative insignificance,--so that to have a thought, a wish, a
pleasure apart from Him shall be impossible.

_Sept. 12th._--At Sabbath-school this morning, while talking with my
scholars about the Lord Jesus, my heart, which is often so cold and so
stupid, seemed completely melted within me, with such a view of His
wonderful, wonderful love for sinners, that I almost believed I had
never felt it till then. Such a blessing is worth toiling and wrestling
for a whole life. If a glimpse of our Saviour here upon earth can be so
refreshing, so delightful, what will it be in heaven!

_Sept. 17th._--I have been reading to-day some passages from Nevins'
"Practical Thoughts." [5] Perhaps you have seen them; if so, do you
remember two articles headed, "I must pray more," and "I must pray
differently"? They interested me much because in some measure they
express my own feelings. I have less and less confidence in _frames_, as
they are called. I am glad that you think it better to have a few books
and to read them over and over, for my own inclination leads me to that.
One gets attached to them as to Christian friends. Do not hesitate to
direct me over and over again, to go with difficulties and temptations
and sin to the Saviour. I love to be led there and _left_ there.
Sometimes when the exceeding "sinfulness of sin" becomes painfully
apparent, there is nothing else for the soul to do but to lie in the
dust before God, without a word of excuse, and that feeling of abasement
in His sight is worth more than all the pleasures in the world.... You
will believe me if I own myself tired, when I tell you that I made
fourteen calls this afternoon. But even the unpleasant business of
call-making has had one comfort. Some of the friends of whom I took
leave, spoke so tenderly of Him whose name is so precious to His
children that my heart warmed towards them instantly, and I thought it
worth while to have parting hours, sad though they may be, if with them
came so naturally thoughts of the Saviour. Besides, I have been thinking
since I came home, that if I did not love Him, it could not be so
refreshing to hear unexpectedly of Him.... I did not know that mother
had anything to do with your father's conversion, and when I mentioned
it to her she seemed much surprised and said she did not know it
herself. Pray tell me more of it, will you? I have felt that if, in the
course of my life, I should be the means of leading one soul to the
Saviour, it would be worth staying in this world for no matter how many
years.

Did you ever read Miss Taylor's "Display"? Sister says the character of
Emily there is like mine. I think so myself save in the best point.

We come now to an important change in her outward life. She had accepted
an invitation to become a teacher in Mr. Persico's school at Richmond,
Virginia. Mr. Persico was an Italian, a brother of the sculptor of that
name, a number of whose works are seen at Washington. He early became
interested in our institutions, and as soon as he was able, came to this
country and settled in Philadelphia as an artist. He married a lady of
that city, and afterward on account of her health went to Richmond,
where he opened a boarding and day school for girls. There were four
separate departments, one of which was under the sole care of Miss
Payson. Her letters to her family, written at this time, have all been
lost, but a full record of the larger portion of her Richmond life is
preserved in letters to her cousin, Mr. Shipman. The following extracts
from these letters show with what zeal she devoted herself to her new
calling and how absorbed her heart was still in the things of God. They
also throw light upon some marked features of her character.

BOSTON, _September 23._

I had, after leaving home, an attack of that terrible pain, of which I
have told you, and believed myself very near death. It became a serious
question whether, if God should so please, I could feel willing to die
there alone, for I was among entire strangers. I never enjoyed more of
His presence than that night when, sick and sad and full of pain, I felt
it sweet to put myself in His hands to be disposed of in His own way.

The attack referred to in this letter resembled _angina pectoris_, a
disease to which for many years she was led to consider herself liable.
Whatever it may have been, its effect was excruciating. "Mother was
telling me the other day," she wrote to a friend, "that in her long life
she had never seen an individual suffer more severe bodily pain than she
had often tried to relieve in me. I remember scores of such hours of
real agony." In the present instance the attack was doubtless brought
on, in part at least, by mental agitation. "No words," she wrote a few
months later, "can describe the anguish of my mind the night I left
home; it seemed to me that all the agony I had ever passed through was
condensed into a small space, and I certainly believe that I should die,
if left to a higher degree of such pain."

RICHMOND, _September 30, 1840._

About twelve o'clock, when it was as dark as pitch, we were all ordered
to prepare for a short walk. In single file then out we went. It seems
that a bridge had been burned lately, and so we were all to go round on
foot to another train of cars. There were dozens of bright, crackling
bonfires lighted at short intervals all along, and as we wound down
narrow, steep and rocky pathways, then up steps which had been rudely
cut out in the side of the elevated ground, and as far as we could see
before us could watch the long line of moving figures in all varieties
of form and color, my spirits rose to the very tiptop of enjoyment. I
wished you could have a picture of the whole scene, which, though one of
real life, was to me at least exceedingly beautiful. We reached
Richmond at one o'clock. Mr. Persico was waiting for us and received
us cordially.... When I awoke at eight o'clock, I felt forlorn enough.
Imagine, if you can, the room in which I opened my eyes. It is in the
attic, is very low and has two windows. My first thought was, "I never
can be happy in this miserable hole;" but in a second this wicked
feeling took flight, and I reproached myself for my ingratitude to Him
who had preserved me through all my journey, had made much of it so
delightful and profitable, and who still promised to be with me.

_Oct. 2._--I will try to give you some account of our doings, although
we are not fully settled. We have risen at six so far, but intend to be
up by five if we can wake. As soon as we are dressed I take my Bible out
into the entry, where is a window and a quiet corner, and read and think
until Louisa [6] is ready to give me our room and take my place. At nine
we go into school, where Miss Lord [7] reads a prayer, and from that
hour until twelve we are engaged with our respective classes. At twelve
we have a recess of thirty minutes. This over, we return again to
school, where we stay until three, when we are to dine. All day Saturday
we are free. This time we are to have Monday, too, as a special
holiday, because of a great Whig convention which is turning the city
upside-down. There is one pleasant thing, pleasant to me at least, of
which I want to tell you. As Mr. Persico is not a religious man, I
supposed we should have no blessing at the table, and was afraid I
should get into the habit of failing to acknowledge God there. But I
was much affected when, on going to dine the first day I came, he stood
leaning silently and reverentially over his chair, as if to allow all of
us time for that quiet lifting up of the heart which is ever acceptable
in the sight of God. It is very impressive. Miss Lord reads prayers at
night, and when Mrs. Persico comes home we are to have singing....

That passage in the 119th Psalm, of which you speak, is indeed
delightful. I will tell you what were some of my meditations on it. I
thought to myself that if God continued His faithfulness toward me, I
shall have afflictions such as I now know nothing more of than the name,
for I need them constantly. I have trembled ever since I came here at
the host of new difficulties to which I am exposed. Surely I did again
and again ask God to decide the question for me as to whether I should
leave home or not, and believed that He _had_ chosen for me. It
certainly was against my own inclinations....

_Oct. 12th._--This morning I had a new scholar, a pale, thin little girl
who stammers, and when I spoke to her, and she was obliged to answer,
the color spread over her face and neck as if she suffered the utmost
mortification. I was glad when recess came, to draw her close to my side
and to tell her that I had a friend afflicted in the same way, and that
consequently, I should know how to understand and pity her. She held my
hand fast in hers and the tears came stealing down one after another,
as she leaned confidingly upon my shoulder, and I could not help crying
too, with mingled feelings of gratitude and sorrow. Certainly it will be
delightful to soothe and to console this poor little thing.... You do
not like poetry and I have spent the best part of my life in reading
or trying to write it. N. P. Willis told me some years ago, that if my
husband had a soul, he would love me for the poetical in me, and advised
me to save it for him.

_Oct. 27th._--Sometimes when I feel almost sure that the Saviour has
accepted and forgiven me and that I _belong to Him_, I can only walk my
room repeating over and over again, _How wonderful_! And then when my
mind strives to take in this love of Christ, it seems to struggle in
vain with its own littleness and falls back weary and exhausted,
to _wonder_ again at the heights and depths which surpass its
comprehension.... If there is a spark of love in my heart for anybody,
it is for this dear brother of mine, and the desire to have his
education thorough and complete has grown with my growth. You, who are
not a sister, can not understand the feelings with which I regard him,
but they are such as to call forth unbounded love and gratitude toward
those who show kindness to him.

_Nov. 3d._--I have always felt a peculiar love for the passage that
describes the walk to Emmaus. I have tried to analyse the feeling of
pleasure which it invariably sheds over my heart when dwelling upon it,
especially upon the words, "Jesus Himself drew near and went with them,"
and these, "He made as though He would go further," but yielded to
their urgent, "Abide with us." ... This is one of the comforts of the
Christian; God understands him fully whether he can explain his troubles
or not. Sometimes I think all of a sudden that I do not love the Saviour
at all, and am ready to believe that all my pretended anxiety to serve
Him has been but a matter of feeling and not of principle; but of late
I have been less disturbed by this imagination, as I find it extends
to earthly friends who are dear to me as my own soul. I thought once
yesterday that I didn't love anybody in the world and was perfectly
wretched in consequence.

_Nov. 12th._--The more I try to understand myself, the more I am
puzzled. That I am a mixture of contradictions is the opinion I have
long had of myself. I call it a compound of sincerity and reserve.
Unless you see just what I mean in your own consciousness, I doubt
whether I can explain it in words. With me it is both an open and a shut
heart--open when and where and as far as I please, and shut as tight as
a vise in the same way. I was probably born with this same mixture of
frankness and reserve, having inherited the one from my mother and the
other from my father.... I have often thought that, humanly speaking, it
would be a strange, and surely a very sad thing if we none of us inherit
any of our father's piety; for when he prayed for his children it was,
undoubtedly, that we might be very peculiarly the Lord's. H. was to
be the missionary; but if he can not go himself, and is prospered in
business, I hope he will be able to help send others. I have been
frightened, of late, in thinking how little good I am doing in the
world. And yet I believe that those who love to do good always find
opportunities enough, wherever they are. Whether I shall do any here, I
dare not try to guess.

_Dec. 3d._--How I thank you for the interest you take in my Bible class.
They are so attentive to every word I say that it makes me deeply feel
the importance of seeking each of those words from the Holy Spirit. Many
of them had not even a Bible of their own until now, nor were they
in the habit of reading it at all. Among others there are two
grand-daughters of Patrick Henry. I wish I could give you a picture of
them, as they sit on Sabbath evening around the table with their eyes
fixed so eagerly on my face, that if I did not feel that the Lord
Jesus was present, I should be overwhelmed with confusion at my
unworthiness.... Mr. Persico is a queer man. Last Sabbath Miss L. asked
him if he had been to church. "Oui, Mlle.," said he; "_vous_ étiez à
l'église de l'homme--_moi_, j'étais à l'église de Dieu--dans les bois."
There is the bell for prayers; it is an hour since I began to write, but
I have spent a great part of it with my eyes shut because I happened
to feel more like meditating than writing, if you know what sort of
a feeling that is. Oh, that we might be enabled to go onward day by
day--and _upward too_.

I have been making violent efforts for years to become meek and lowly in
heart. At present I do hope that I am less irritable than I used to be.
It was no small comfort to me when sister was home last summer, to learn
from her that I had succeeded somewhat in my efforts. But though I have
not often the last year been guilty of "harsh speeches," I have felt
my pride tugging with all its might to kindle a great fire when some
unexpected trial has caught me off my guard. I am persuaded that real
meekness dwells deep within the heart and that it is only to be gained
by communion with our blessed Saviour, who when He was reviled, reviled
not again.

_Sabbath Evening, 8th._--I wanted to write last evening but had a worse
pain in my side and left arm than I have had since I came here. While it
lasted, which was an hour and a half, I had such pleasant thoughts for
companions as would make any pain endurable. I was asking myself if,
supposing God should please suddenly to take me away in the midst of
life, whether I should feel willing and glad to go, and oh, it did seem
_delightful_ to think of it, and to feel sure that, sooner or later, the
summons will come. Those pieces which you marked in the "Observer" I
have read and like them exceedingly, especially those about growth in
grace.... You speak of the goodness of God to me in granting me so much
of His presence, while I am here away from all earthly friends. Indeed I
want to be able to praise Him as I never yet have done, and I don't know
where to begin. I have felt more pain in this separation from home on
mother's account than any other, as I feel that she needs me at home to
comfort and to love her. Since she lost her best earthly friend I have
been her constant companion. I once had a secret desire for a missionary
life, if God should see fit to prepare me for it, but when I spoke of
it to mother she was so utterly overcome at its bare mention that I
instantly promised I would _never_ for any inducement leave or forsake
her. I want you to pray for me that if poor mother's right hand is made
forever useless, [8] I may after this year be a right hand for her, and
be enabled to make up somewhat to her for the loss of it by affection
and tenderness and sympathy.... I don't remember feeling any way in
particular, when I first began to "write for the press," as you call it.
I never could realise that more than half a dozen people would read my
pieces. Besides, I have no desire of the sort you express, for fame.
I care a great deal too much for the approbation of those I love and
respect, but not a fig for that of those I don't like or don't know.

       *       *       *       *       *

II.

Her Character as a Teacher. Letters. Incidents of School-Life. Religious
Struggles, Aims, and Hopes. Oppressive Heat and Weariness.


Miss Payson had been in Richmond but a short time before she became
greatly endeared to Mr. and Mrs. Persico, and to the whole school. She
had a rare natural gift for teaching. Fond of study herself, she
knew how to inspire her pupils with the same feeling. Her method was
excellent. It aimed not merely to impart knowledge but to elicit latent
powers, and to remove difficulties out of the way. While decided and
thorough, it was also very gentle, helpful, and sympathetic. She had a
quick perception of mental diversities, saw as by intuition the weak and
the strong points of individual character, and was skillful in adapting
her influence, as well as her instructions, to the peculiarities of
every one under her care. The girls in her own special department almost
idolised her. The parents also of some of them, who belonged to Richmond
and its vicinity, seeing what she was doing for their daughters, sought
her acquaintance and showed her the most grateful affection.

Although her school labors were exacting, she carried on a large
correspondence, spent a good deal of time in her favorite religious
reading, and together with Miss Susan Lord, the senior teacher and an
old Portland friend, pursued a course of study in French and Italian. At
the table Mr. Persico spoke French, and in this way she was enabled
to perfect herself in the practice of that language. Of her spiritual
history and of incidents of her school life during the new year, some
extracts from letters to her cousin will give her own account.

RICHMOND, _January 3, 1841._

If I tell you that I am going to take under my especial care and
protection one of the family--a little girl of eleven years whom nobody
can manage at all, you may wonder why. I found on my plate at dinner a
note from Mrs. Persico saying that if I wanted an opportunity of doing
good, here was one; that if Nannie could sleep in my room, etc., it
might be of great benefit to her. The only reason why I hesitated was
the fear that she might be in the way of our best hours. But I have
thought all along that I was living too much at my ease, and wanted a
place in which to deny myself for the sake of the One who yielded up
every comfort for my sake. Nannie has a fine character but has been
mismanaged at home, and since coming here. She often comes and puts her
arms around me and says, "There is _one_ in this house who loves me, I
do _know_." I receive her as a trust from God, with earnest prayer to
Him that we may be enabled to be of use to her. From morning to night
she is found fault with, and this is spoiling her temper and teaching
her to be deceitful.... I have been reading lately the Memoir of Martyn.
I have, of course, read it more than once before, but everything appears
to me now in such a different light. I rejoice that I have been led to
read the book just now. It has put within me new and peculiar desires to
live wholly for the glory of God.

_Jan.13th._--I understand the feeling about wishing one's self a dog,
or an animal without a soul. I have sat and watched a little kitten
frisking about in the sunshine till I could hardly help killing it in my
envy--but oh, how different it is now! I have felt lately that perhaps
God has something for me to do in the world. I am satisfied, indeed,
that in calling me nearer to Himself He has intended to prepare me for
His service. Where that is to be is no concern of mine as yet. I only
wish to belong to Him and wait for His will, whatever it may be.

_Jan. 14th_.--I used to go through with prayer merely as a duty, but now
I look forward to the regular time for it, and hail opportunities for
special seasons with such delight as I once knew nothing of. Sometimes
my heart feels ready to break for the longing it hath for a nearer
approach to the Lord Jesus than I can obtain without the use of words,
and there is not a corner of the house which I can have to myself. I
think sometimes that I should be thankful for the meanest place in the
universe. You ask if I ever dream of seeing the Lord. No--I never did,
neither should I think it desirable; but a few days ago, when I woke,
I had fresh in my remembrance some precious words which, as I had been
dreaming, He had spoken to me. It left an indescribable feeling of love
and peace on my mind. I seemed in my dream to be very near Him, and that
He was encouraging me to ask of Him all the things of which I felt the
need.

_Jan. 17th_.--I did not mean to write so much about myself, for when I
took out my letter I was thinking of things and beings far above this
world. I was thinking of the hour when the Christian first enters into
the joy of his Lord, when the first note of the "new song" is borne to
his ear, and the first view of the Lamb of God is granted to his eye. It
seems to me as if the bliss of that one minute would fully compensate
for all the toils and struggles he must go through here; and then to
remember the ages of happiness that begin at that point! Oh, if the
unseen presence of Jesus can make the heart to sing for joy in the midst
of its sorrow and sin here, what will it be to dwell with Him forever!

My Bible class, which consists now of eighteen, is every week more
dear to me. I am glad that you think poor Nannie well off. She has
an inquiring mind, and though before coming here she had received no
religious instruction and had not even a Bible, she is now constantly
asking me questions which prove her to be a first-rate thinker and
reasoner. She went to the theatre last night and came home quite
disgusted, saying to herself, "I shouldn't like to die in the midst of
such gayeties as these." She urged me to tell her if I thought it wrong
for her to go, but I would not, because I did not want her to stay away
for my sake. I want her to settle the question fairly in her own mind
and to be guided by her own conscience rather than mine. She is so
grateful and happy that, if the sacrifice had been greater, we should be
glad that we had made it. And then if we can do her any good, how much
reason we shall have to thank God for having placed her here!

_Feb. 11th._--My thoughts of serious things should, perhaps, be called
prayers, rather than anything else. I have constant need of looking up
to God for help, so utterly weak and ignorant am I and so dependent upon
Him. Sometimes in my walks, especially those of the early morning, I
take a verse from the "Daily Food" to think upon; at others, if my mind
is where I want it should be, everything seems to speak and suggest
thoughts of my Heavenly Father, and when it is otherwise I feel as
if that time had been wasted. This is not "keeping the mind on the
stretch," and is delightfully refreshing. All I wish is that I were
always thus favored. As to a hasty temper, I know that anybody who ever
lived with me, until within the last two or three years, could tell
you of many instances of outbreaking passion. I am ashamed to say how
recently the last real tempest occurred, but I will not spare myself. It
was in the spring of 1838, and I did not eat anything for so long that I
was ill in bed and barely escaped a fever. Mother nursed me so tenderly
that, though she forgave me, I _never_ shall forgive myself. Since then
I should not wish you to suppose that I have been perfectly amiable, but
for the last year I think I have been enabled in a measure to control my
temper, but of that you know more than I do, as you had a fair specimen
of what I am when with us last summer. It has often been a source of
encouragement to me that everybody said I was gentle and amiable till
my father's death, when I was nine years old.... While reading to-night
that chapter in Mark, where it speaks of Jesus as walking on the sea,
I was interested in thinking how frequently such scenes occur in our
spiritual passage over the sea which is finally to land us on the shores
of the home for which we long. "While they were toiling in rowing,"
Jesus went to them upon the water and "would have passed by" till He
heard their cries, and then He manifested Himself unto them saying, _"It
is I."_ And when He came to them, the wind ceased and they "wondered."
Surely we have often found in our toiling that Jesus was passing by
and ready at the first trembling fear to speak the word of love and
of consolation and to give us the needed help, and then to leave
us _wondering_ indeed at the infinite tenderness and kindness so
unexpectedly vouchsafed for our relief.

_Feb. 13th_--I do not think we should make our enjoyment of religion the
greatest end of our struggle against sin. I never once had such an idea.
I think we should fight against sin simply because it is something
hateful to God, because it is something so utterly unlike the spirit of
Christ, whom it is our privilege to strive to imitate in all things. On
all points connected with the love I wish to give my Saviour, and the
service I am to render Him, I feel that I want teaching and am glad to
obtain assistance from any source. I hardly know how to answer your
question. I do not have that constant sense of the Saviour's presence
which I had here for a long time, neither do I feel that I love Him as
I thought I did, but it is not always best to judge of ourselves by our
feelings, but by the general principle and guiding desire of the mind. I
do think that my prevailing aim is to do the will of God and to glorify
Him in everything. Of this I have thought a great deal of late. I have
not a very extensive sphere of action, but I want my conduct, my every
word and look and motion, to be fully under the influence of this desire
for the honor of God. You can have no idea of the constant observation
to which I am exposed here.

_Feb. 21st._--I spent three hours this afternoon in taking care of a
little black child (belonging to the house), who is very ill, and as
I am not much used to such things, it excited and worried me into a
violent nervous headache. I finished Brainerd's Life this afternoon,
amid many doubts as to whether I ever loved the Lord at all, so
different is my piety from that of this blessed and holy man. The book
has been a favorite with me for years, but I never felt the influence of
his life as I have while reading it of late.

She alludes repeatedly in her correspondence to the delight which she
found on the Sabbath in listening to that eminent preacher and divine,
the Rev. Dr. Wm. S. Plumer, who was then settled in Richmond. In a
letter to her cousin she writes:

I have become much attached to him; he seems more than half in heaven,
and every word is full of solemnity and feeling, as if he had just held
near intercourse with God. I wish that you could have listened with me
to his sermons to-day. They have been, I think, blessed messages from
God to my soul.

All her letters at this time glow with religious fervor. "How wonderful
is our divine Master!" she seemed to be always saying to herself. "It
has become so delightful to me to speak of His love, of His holiness, of
His purity, that when I try to write to those who know Him not, I hardly
know what is worthy of even a mention, if He is to be forgotten." And
several years afterwards she refers to this period as a time when she
"shrank from everything that in the slightest degree interrupted her
consciousness of God."

The following letter to a friend, whose name will often recur in these
pages, well illustrates her state of mind during the entire winter.

_To Miss Anna S. Prentiss. Richmond, Feb 26, 1841._

Your very welcome letter, my dear Anna, arrived this afternoon, and, as
my labors for the week are over, I am glad of a quiet hour in which to
thank you for it. I do not thank you simply because you have so soon
answered my letter, but because you have told me what no one else could
do so well about your own very dear self. When I wrote you I doubted
very much whether I might even allude to the subject of religion,
although I wished to do so, since that almost exclusively has occupied
my mind during the last year. I saw you in the midst of temptations to
which I have ever been a stranger, but which I conceived to be decidedly
unfavorable to growth in any of the graces which make up Christian
character. It was not without hesitation that I ventured to yield to the
promptings of my heart, and to refer to the only things which have at
present much interest for it. I can not tell you how I do rejoice
that you have been led to come out thus upon the Lord's side, and to
consecrate yourself to His service. My own views and feelings have
within the last year undergone such an entire change, that I have wished
I could take now some such stand in the presence of all who have known
me in days past, as this which you have taken. My first and only wish is
henceforth to live but for Him, who has graciously drawn my wandering
affections to Himself.... You speak of the faintness of your heart--but
"they who wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength," and I do
believe the truth of these precious words; not only because they are
those of God, but also because my own experience adds happy witness to
them. I have lived many years with only just enough of hope to keep me
from actual despair. The least breath was sufficient to scatter it all
and to leave me, fearful and afraid, to go over and over again the same
ground; thus allowing neither time nor strength for progress in the
Christian course. I trust that you will not go through years of such
unnecessary darkness and despondency. There is certainly enough in our
Saviour, if we only open our eyes that we may see it, to solve every
doubt and satisfy every longing of the heart; and He is willing to give
it in full measure. When I contemplate the character of the Lord Jesus,
I am filled with wonder which I can not express, and with unutterable
desires to yield myself and my all to His hand, to be dealt with in
His own way; and His way is a blessed one, so that it is delightful to
resign body and soul and spirit to Him, without a will opposed to His,
without a care but to love Him more, without a sorrow which His love
can not sanctify or remove. In following after Him faithfully and
steadfastly, the feeblest hopes may be strengthened; and I trust that
you will find in your own happy experience that "joy and peace" go hand
in hand with love--so that in proportion to your devotion to the Saviour
will be the blessedness of your life. When I begin I hardly know where
to stop, and now I find myself almost at the end of my sheet before I
have begun to say what I wish. This will only assure you that I love you
a thousand times better than I did when I did not know that your heart
was filled with hopes and affections like my own, and that I earnestly
desire, if Providence permits us to enjoy intercourse in this or in any
other way, we may never lose sight of the one great truth that we are
_not our own._ I pray you sometimes remember me at the throne of grace.
The more I see of the Saviour, the more I feel my own weakness and
helplessness and my need of His constant presence, and I can not help
asking assistance from all those who love Him.... Oh, how sorry I am
that I have come to the end! I wish I had any faculty for expressing
affection, so that I might tell you how much I love and how often I
think of you.

Her cousin having gone abroad, a break in the correspondence with him
occurred about this time and continued for several months. In a letter
to her friend, Miss Thurston, dated April 21st, she thus refers to her
school:

There are six of us teachers, five of them born in Maine--which is
rather funny, as that is considered by most of the folks here as the
place where the world comes to an end. Although the South lifts up its
wings and crows over the North, it is glad enough to get its teachers
there, and ministers too, and treats them very well when it gets
them, into the bargain. We have in the school about one hundred and
twenty-five pupils of all ages. I never knew till I came here the
influence which early religious education exerts upon the whole future
age. There is such a wonderful difference between most of these young
people and those in the North, that you might almost believe them
another race of beings. Mrs. Persico is beautiful, intelligent,
interesting, and pious. Mr. Persico is just as much like John Neal as
difference of education and of circumstances can permit. Mr. N.'s strong
sense of justice, his enthusiasm, his fun and wit, his independence and
self-esteem, his tastes, too, as far as I know them, all exist in like
degree in Mr. Persico.

The early spring, with its profusion of flowers of every hue, so far in
advance of the spring in her native State, gave her the utmost pleasure;
but as the summer approached, her health began to suffer. The heat was
very intense, and hot weather always affected her unhappily. "I feel,"
she wrote, "as if I were in an oven with hot melted lead poured over my
brain." Her old trouble, too--"organic disease of the heart" it was now
suspected to be--caused her much discomfort. "While writing," she says
in one of her letters, "I am suffering excruciating pain; I can't call
it anything else." Her physical condition naturally affected more or
less her religious feelings. Under date of July 12th, she writes:

The word _conflict_ expresses better than any other my general state
from day to day. I have seemed of late like a straw floating upon the
surface of a great ocean, blown hither and thither by every wind, and
tossed from wave to wave without the rest of a moment. It was a mistake
of mine to imagine that God ever intended man to rest in this world. I
see that it is right and wise in Him to appoint it otherwise.... While
suffering from my Saviour's absence, nothing interests me. But I was
somewhat encouraged by reading in my father's memoir, and in reflecting
that he passed through far greater spiritual conflicts than will
probably ever be mine.... I see now that it is not always best for us to
have the light of God's countenance. Do not spend your time and strength
in asking for me that blessing, but this--that I may be transformed into
the image of Christ in His own time, in His own way.

Early in August she left Richmond and flew homeward like a bird to its
nest.

       *       *       *       *       *

III.

Extracts from her Richmond Journal.


Were her letters to her cousin the only record of Miss Payson's Richmond
life, one might infer that they give a complete picture of it; for they
were written in the freedom and confidence of Christian friendship, with
no thought that a third eye would ever see them. But it had another and
hidden side, of which her letters contain only a partial record. Her
early habit of keeping a journal has been already referred to. She kept
one at Richmond, and was prevented several years later from destroying
it, as she had destroyed others, by the entreaty of the only person who
ever saw it. This journal depicts many of her most secret thoughts and
feelings, both earthward and heavenward. Some passages in it are of
too personal a nature for publication, but the following extracts seem
fairly entitled to a place here, as they bring out several features
of her character with sunlike clearness, and so will help to a better
understanding of the ensuing narrative:

RICHMOND, _October 3, 1840._

How funny it seems here! Everything is so different from home! I foresee
that I shan't live nearly a year under these new influences without
changing my old self into something else. Heaven forbid that I should
grow old because people treat me as if I were grown up! I hate old young
folks. Well! whoever should see me and my scholars would be at a loss to
know wherein consists the difference between them and me. I am only a
little girl after all, and yet folks do treat me as if I were as old and
as wise as Methusaleh. And Mr. Persico says, "Oui, Madame." Oh! oh! oh!
It makes me feel so ashamed when these tall girls, these damsels whose
hearts are developed as mine won't be these half dozen years (to say
nothing of their minds), ask me if they may go to bed, if they may walk,
if they may go to Mr. So-and-so's, and Miss Such-a-one's to buy--a stick
of candy for aught I know. Oh, oh, oh! I shall have to take airs upon
myself. I shall have to leave off little words and use big ones. I shall
have to leave off sitting curled up on my feet, turkey-fashion. I shall
have to make wise speeches (But a word in your ear, Miss--I _won't_).

_Oct. 27th_--This Richmond is a queer sort of a place and I should be as
miserable in it as a fish out of water, only there is sunshine enough
in my heart to make any old hole bright. In the first place, this dowdy
chamber is in one view a perfect den--no carpet, whitewashed walls,
loose windows that have the shaking palsy, fire-red hearth, blue paint
instead of white, or rather a suspicion that there was once some blue
paint here. But what do I care? I'm as merry as a grig from morning till
night. The little witches down-stairs love me dearly, everybody is kind,
and--and--and--when everybody is locked out and I am locked into this
same room, this low attic, there's not a king on the earth so rich, so
happy as I! Here is my little pet desk, here are my books, my papers.
I can write and read and study and moralise, I don't pretend to say
_think_--and then besides, every morning and every night, within these
four walls, heaven itself refuses not to enter in and dwell--and I may
grow better and better and happier and happier in blessedness with which
nothing may intermeddle.

Mr. Persico is a man by himself, and quite interesting to me in one
way, that is, in giving me something to puzzle out. I like him for his
exquisite taste in the picture line and for having adorned his rooms
with such fine ones--at least they're fine to my inexperienced eye; for
when I'm in the mood, I can go and sit and dream as it seemeth me good
over them, and as I dream, won't good thoughts come into my heart? As
to Mrs. P., I hereby return my thanks to Nature for making her so
beautiful. She has a face and figure to fall in love with. K. has also a
fine face and a delicate little figure. Miss ---- I shall avoid as far
as I can do so. I do not think her opinions and feelings would do me
any good. She has a fine mind and likes to cultivate it, and for that I
respect her, but she has nothing natural and girlish in her, and I am
persuaded, never had. She hates little children; says she hates to hear
them laugh, thinks them little fools. Why, how odd all this is to me!
I could as soon hate the angels in heaven and hate to hear them sing.
That, to be sure, is my way, and the other way is hers--but somehow it
doesn't seem good-hearted to be so very, very superior to children as to
shun the little loving beautiful creatures. I don't believe I ever shall
grow up! But, Miss ----, I don't want to do you injustice, and I'm much
obliged to you for all the flattering things you've said about me, and
if you like my eyes and think there is congeniality of feeling between
us, why, I thank you. But oh, don't teach me that the wisdom of the
world consisteth in forswearing the simple beauties with which life is
full. Don't make me fear my own happy girlhood by talking to me about
love--oh, don't!

_Dec. 1._--I wonder if all the girls in the world are just alike? Seems
to me they might be so sweet and lovable if they'd leave off chattering
forever and ever about lovers.... If mothers would keep their little
unfledged birds under their own wings, wouldn't they make better mother-
birds? Now some girls down-stairs, who ought to be thinking about all
the beautiful things in life but just lovers, are reading novels,
love-stories and poetry, till they can't care for anything else.... Now,
Lizzy Payson, where's the use of fretting so? Go right to work reading
Leighton and you'll forget that all the world isn't as wise as you think
you are, you little vain thing, you! Alas and alas, but this is such a
nice world, and the girls don't know it!

_Dec. 2._--What a pleasant walk I had this morning on Ambler's Hill.
The sun rose while I was there and I was so happy! The little valley,
clothed with white houses and completely encircled by hills, reminded me
of the verse about the mountains round about Jerusalem. Nobody was awake
so early and I had all the great hill to myself, and it was so beautiful
that I could have thrown myself down and kissed the earth itself. Oh,
sweet and good and loving Mother Nature! I choose you for my own. I will
be your little lady-love. I will hunt you out whenever you hide, and you
shall comfort me when I am sad, and laugh with me when I'm merry, and
take me by the hand and lead me onward and upward till the image of the
heavenly forceth out that of the earthly from my whole heart and soul.
Oh, how I prayed for a holy heart on that hillside and how sure I am
that I shall grow better! and what companionable thoughts I've had all
day for that blessed walk!

_8th._--My life is a nice little life just now, as regular as clockwork.
We walk and we keep school, and our scholars kiss and love us, and we
kiss and love them, and we read Lamartine and I worship Leighton, good,
wise, holy Leighton, and we discourse about everything together and
dispute and argue and argue and dispute, and I'm quite happy, so I am!
As to Lamartine, he's no great things, as I know of, but I want to keep
up my knowledge of French and so we read twenty pages a day. And as to
our discourses, my fidgety, moralising sort of mind wants to compare its
doctrines with those of other people, though it's as stiff as a poker
in its own opinions. You're a very consistent little girl! you call
yourself a child, are afraid to open your mouth before folks, and yet
you're as obstinate and proud as a little man, daring to think for
yourself and act accordingly at the risk of being called odd and
incomprehensible. I don't care, though! Run on and break your neck if
you will. You're nothing especial after all.

_9th._--To-night, in unrolling a bundle of work I found a little note
therein from mother. Whew, how I kissed it! I thought I should fly out
of my senses, I was so glad. But I can't fly now-a-days, I'm growing
so unetherial. Why, I take up a lot of room in the world and my frocks
won't hold me. That's because my heart is so quiet, lying as still as a
mouse, after all its tossings about and trying to be happy in the things
of this life. Oh, I am so happy now in the _other_ life! But as for
telling other people so--as for talking religion--I don't see how I
_can._ It doesn't come natural. Is it because I am proud? But I pray to
be so holy, so truly a Christian, that my _life_ shall speak and gently
persuade all who see me to look for the hidden spring of my perpetual
happiness and quietness. The only question is: Do I live so? I'm
afraid I make religion seem too grave a thing to my watching maidens
down-stairs; but, oh, I'm afraid to rush into _their_ pleasures.

_25th._-- ... I've been "our Lizzy" all my life and have not had to
display my own private feelings and opinions before folks, but have sat
still and listened and mused and lived within myself, and shut myself up
in my corner of the house and speculated on life and the things thereof
till I've got a set of notions of my own which don't _fit into_ the
notions of anybody I know. I don't open myself to anybody on earth; I
can not; there is a world of something in me which is not known to those
about me and perhaps never will be; but sometimes I think it would be
_delicious_ to love a mind like mine in some things, only better, wiser,
nobler. I do not quite understand life. People don't live as they were
made to live, I'm sure ... I want _soul._ I want the gracious, glad
spirit that finds the good and the beautiful in everything, joined to
the manly, exalted intellect--rare unions, I am sure, yet possible ones.
Little girl! Do you suppose such a soul would find anything in yours to
satisfy it? No--no--no--I do not. I know I am a poor little goose which
ought to be content with some equally poor little gander, but I _won't._
I'll never give up one inch of these the demands of my reason and of my
heart for all the truths you tell me about myself--never! But descend
from your elevation, oh speculating child of mortality, and go down to
school. Oh, no, no school for a week, and I guess I'll spend the week in
fancies and follies. It won't hurt me. I've done it before and got back
to the world as satisfied as ever, indeed I have.

_Jan. 1, 184l._--We've been busy all the week getting our presents ready
for the servants, and a nice time I've had this morning, seeing them
show their ivory thereat. James made a little speech, the amount of
which was, he hoped I wouldn't get married till I'd "done been" here two
or three years, because my face was so pleasant it was good to look at
it! I was as proud as Lucifer at this compliment, and shall certainly
look pleasant all day to-day, if I never did before. Monsieur and the
rest wished me, I won't say how many, good wishes, rushing at me as I
went in to breakfast--and Milly privately informed Lucy that she liked
Miss Payson "a heap" better than she did any body else, and then came
and begged me to buy her! I buy her! Heaven bless the poor little girl.
I had some presents and affectionate notes from different members of the
family and from my scholars--also letters from sister and Ned, which
delighted me infinitely more than I'm going to tell _you_, old journal.
Took tea at Mr. P.'s and Mrs. P. laughed at her husband because he had
once an idea of going to New England to get my little ladyship to wife
(for the sake of my father, of course). Mr. P. blushed like a boy and
fidgeted terribly, but I didn't care a snap--I am not old enough to be
wife to anybody, and I'm not going to mind if people do joke with
me about it. I've had better things to think of on this New Year's
day--good, heavenward thoughts and prayers and hopes, and if I do not
become more and more transformed into the Divine, then are prayers and
hopes things of nought. Oh, how dissatisfied I am with myself. How I
long to be like unto Him into whose image I shall one day be changed
when I see Him as He is!

I believe nobody understands me on religious points, for I can not, and,
it seems to me, _need_ not parade my private feelings before the world.
Cousin G., God bless him! knows enough, and yet my letters to him do not
tell the hundredth part of that which these four walls might tell, if
they would. I do not know that I am not wrong, but I do dislike
the present style of talking on religious subjects. Let people
pray--earnestly, fervently, not simply morning and night, but the _whole
day long_, making their lives one continued prayer; but, oh, don't let
them tell others of, or let others know _half_ how much of communion
with Heaven is known to their own hearts. Is it not true that those who
talk most, go most to meetings, run hither and thither to all sorts of
societies and all sorts of readings--is it not true that such
people would not find peace and contentment--yes, blessedness of
blessedness--in solitary hours when to the Searcher of hearts alone are
known their aspirations and their love? I do not know, I am puzzled; but
I may say here, where nobody will ever see it, what I _do_ think, and I
say it to my own heart as well as over the hearts of others--there is
not enough of real, true communion with God, not enough nearness to Him,
not enough heart-searching before Him; and too much parade and bustle
and noise in doing His work on earth. Oh, I do not know exactly what I
mean--but since I have heard so many apparently Christian people own
that of this sense of nearness to God they know absolutely nothing--that
they pray because it is their habit without the least expectation of
meeting the great yet loving Father in their closets--since I have heard
this I am troubled and perplexed. Why, is it not indeed true that the
Christian believer, God's own adopted, chosen, beloved child, may speak
face to face with his Father, humbly, reverently, yet as a man talketh
with his friend? Is it not true? Do not I _know_ that it is so? Oh, I
sometimes want the wisdom of an angel that I may not be thus disturbed
and wearied.

_14th._--Now either Miss ----'s religion is wrong and mine right, or
else it's just the other way. I wrote some verses, funny ones, and sent
her to-day, and she returned for answer that verse in Proverbs about
vinegar on nitre, and seemed distressed that I ever had such worldly and
funny thoughts. I told her I should like her better if she ever had any
but solemn ones, whence we rushed into a discussion about proprieties
and I maintained that a mind was not in a state of religious health, if
it could not _safely_ indulge in thoughts funny as funny could be. She
shook her head and looked as glum as she could, and I'm really sorry
that I vexed her righteous soul, though I'm sure I feel funny ever so
much of the time, can not help saying funny things and cutting up capers
now and then. I'll take care not to marry a glum man, anyhow; not that
I want my future lord and master to be a teller of stories, a wit, or a
particularly funny man--but he shan't wear a long face and make me wear
a long one, though he may be as pious as the day is long and _must_ be,
what's more. Oh, my! I don't think I was so very naughty. I saw Miss
---- laughing privately at these same verses, and she rushed in to Mrs.
P. and read them to her, and then copied them for her aunt and paid
twenty-five cents postage on the letter. I should like to know how she
dared waste so much time in unholy employments! As I was saying, and am
always thinking, it's rather queer that people are so oddly different in
their ideas of religion. Heaven forbid I should trifle with serious and
holy thoughts of my head and heart--but if my religion is worth a straw,
such verse-writing will not disturb it.

_January 16th_.--I wonder what's got into me to-day--I feel cross,
without the least bit of reason for so feeling. I guess I'm not well,
for I'm sure I've felt like one great long sunbeam, I don't know how
many months, and it doesn't come natural to be fretful.

_17th_.--I knew I wasn't well yesterday and to-day am half sick. We got
through breakfast at twenty minutes to eleven, and as I was up at seven,
I got kind o' hungry and out of sorts. This afternoon went to church and
heard one of Dr. E.'s argumentative sermons. But there's something in
those Prayer-book prayers, certainly, if men won't or can't put any
grace into their sermons. I wish I had a perfect ideal Sunday in my head
or heart, or both. If I'm _very_ good I'm tired at night, and if I'm bad
my conscience smites me--so any way I'm not very happy just now and I'm
sick and mean to go to bed and so!

_18th_.--Had a talk with Nannie. She has a thoughtful mind and who knows
but we may do her some good. I love to have her here, and for once in my
life like to feel a little bit--just the least bit--_old_; that is, old
enough to give a little sage advice to the poor thing, when she asks it.
She says she won't read any more novels and will read the Bible and dear
knows what else she said about finding an angel for me to marry, which
heaven forbid she should do, since I'm too fond of being a little mite
naughty, to desire anything of that sort. After she was in bed she began
to say her prayers most vehemently and among other things, prayed for
Miss Payson. I had the strangest sensation, and yet an almost heavenly
one, if I may say so. May it please Heaven to listen to her prayer for
me, and mine for her, dear child. But suppose I do her no good while she
lives so under my wing?

_19th._--Up early--walked and read Leighton. Mr. P. amused us at dinner
by giving a funny account in his funny way, of a mistake of E.----
H.----'s. She asked me the French for _as_. "Aussi" quoth I. Thereupon
she tucked a great O. C. into her exercise and took it to him and they
jabbered and sputtered over it, and she insisted that Miss Payson said
so and he put his face right into hers and said, "Will you try to prove
that Miss Payson is a fool, you little goose?" and at last Miss A.
understood and explained. Read Leighton after school and thirty-two
pages of Lamartine--then Mr. P. called--then Miss ---- teased me to
love her and kept me in her paws till the bell rang for tea. Why can't I
like her? I should be so ashamed if I should find out after all that
she is as good as she _seems_, but I never did get cheated yet when I
trusted my own mother wits, my instinct, or whatever it is by which I
know folks--and she is found wanting by this something.

_28th_.--Mrs. Persico has comforted me to-day. She says Mr. T. came to
Mr. P. with tears in his eyes (could such a man shed tears?) and told
him that I should be the salvation of his child--that she was already
the happiest and most altered creature, and begged him to tell me so. I
was ashamed and happy too--but I think Mr. P. should have told him
that if good has been done to Nannie, it is _as_ much--to say the
least--owing to Louisa as to me. L. always joins me in everything I do
and say for her, and I would not have even an accident deprive her of
her just reward for anything. Nannie sat on the floor to-night in her
night-gown, thinking. At last she said, "Miss Payson?" "Well, little
witch?" "You wouldn't care much if you should die to-night, should you?"
"No, I think not." "Nor I," said she. "Why, do you think you should be
better off than you are here?" "Yes, in heaven," said she. "Why how do
you know you'll go to heaven?" She looked at me seriously and said, "Oh,
I don't know--I don't know--I don't think I should like to go to the
other place." We had then a long talk with her and it seems she's a
regular little believer in Purgatory--but I wouldn't dispute with her. I
guess there's a way of getting at her heart better than that.... Why is
it that I have such a sensitiveness on religious points, such a dread of
having my own private aims and emotions known by those about me? Is it
right? I should like to be just what the Christian ought to be in these
relations. Miss ---- expects me to make speeches to her, but I _can
not_. If I thought I knew ever so much, I could not, and she annoys me
so. Oh, I wish it didn't hurt my soul so to touch it! It's just like
a butterfly's wing--people can't help tearing off the very invisible
_down_ so to speak, for which they take a fancy to it, if they get it
between fingers and thumb, and so I have to suffer for their curiosity's
sake. Am I bound to reveal my heart-life to everybody who asks? Must I
not believe that the heavenly love may, in one sense, be _hidden_ from
outward eye and outward touch? or am I wrong?

_Feb. 1, 184l._--Rose later than usual--cold, dull, rainy morning. Read
in Life of Wilberforce. Defended Nannie with more valor than discretion.
This evening the storm departed and the moonlight was more beautiful
than ever; and I was so sad and so happy, and the life beyond and above
seemed so beautiful. Oh, how I have longed to-day for heaven within my
own soul! There has been much unspoken prayer in my heart to-night. I
don't know what I should do if I could have my room all to myself--and
not have people know it if even a good thought comes into my mind. I
shall be happy in heaven, I know I shall--for even here prayer and
praise are so infinitely more delightful than anything else.

_3d._--Woke with headache, got through school as best I could, then came
and curled myself up in a ball in the easy-chair and didn't move till
nine, when I crept down to say good-bye to poor Mrs. Persico. Miss L.
and Miss J. received me in their room so tenderly and affectionately
that I was ashamed. What makes them love me? I am sure I should not
think they could.

_10th._--I wonder who folks think I am, and what they think? Sally R----
sent me up her book of autographs with a request that I would add mine.
I looked it over and found very great names, and did not know whether
to laugh or cry at her funny request, which I couldn't have made up my
mouth to grant. How queer it seems to me that people won't let me be
a little girl and will act as if I were an old maid or matron of
ninety-nine! Poor Mr. Persico is terribly unhappy and walks up and down
perpetually with _such_ a step.

_12th._-- ... I am sure that in these little things God's hand is just
as clearly to be seen as in His wonderful works of power, and tried to
make Miss ---- see this, but she either couldn't or wouldn't. It seems
to me that God is my Father, my own Father, and it is so natural to
turn right to Him, every minute almost, with either thank-offerings or
petitions, that I never once stop to ask if such and such a matter is
sufficiently great for His notice. Miss ---- seemed quite astonished
when I said so.

_16th._-- ... I've been instituting an inquiry into myself to-day and
have been worthily occupied in comparing myself to an onion, though
in view of the fragrance of that highly useful vegetable, I hope the
comparison won't go on all fours But I have as many natures as an onion
has--what d'ye call 'em--coats? First the outside skin or nature--kind
o' tough and ugly; _any_body may see that and welcome. Then comes my
next nature--a little softer--a little more removed from curious eyes;
then my inner one--myself--that 'ere little round ball which nobody
ever did or ever will see the whole of--at least, s'pose not. Now most
people see only the outer rind--a brown, red, yellow, tough skin and
that's all; but I _think_ there's something inside that's better and
more truly an onion than might at first be guessed. And so I'm an onion
and that's the end.

_17th._--Mrs. P.'s birthday, in honor of which cake and wine. Mr. P. was
angry with us because we took no wine. If he had asked me civilly to
drink his wife's health, I should probably have done so, but I am not to
be _frightened_ into anything. I made a funny speech and got him out of
his bearish mood, and then we all proceeded to the portico to see if the
new President had arrived--by which means we obtained a satisfactory
view of two cows, three geese, one big boy in a white apron and one
small one in a blue apron, three darkies of feminine gender and one old
horse; but Harrison himself we saw not. Mr. Persico says it's Tyler's
luck to get into office by the death of his superior, and declares
Harrison must infallibly die to secure John Tyler's fate. It's to be
hoped this won't be the case. [9]

_March 6th._--Miss L. read to us to-day some sprightly and amusing
little notes written her years ago by a friend with whom she still
corresponds. I was struck with the contrast between these youthful and
light-hearted fragments and her present letters, now that she is a wife
and mother. I wonder if there is always this difference between the girl
and woman? If so, heaven forbid I should ever cease to be a child!

_18th._--Headache--Nannie sick; held her in my arms two or three hours;
had a great fuss with her about taking her medicine, but at last out
came my word _must_, and the little witch knew it meant all it said and
down went the oil in a jiffy, while I stood by laughing at myself for my
pretension of dignity. The poor child couldn't go to sleep till she had
thanked me over and over for making her mind and for taking care of her,
and wouldn't let go my hand, so I had to sit up until very late--and
then I was sick and sad and restless, for I couldn't have my room to
myself and the day didn't seem finished without it.

It is a perfect mystery to me how folks get along with so little
praying. Their hearts must be better than mine, or something. What is
it? But if God sees that the desire of my whole heart is to-night--has
been all day--towards Himself, will He not know this as prayer, answer
it as such? Yes, prayer is certainly something more than bending of the
knees and earnest words, and I do believe that goodness and mercy will
descend upon me, though with my lips I ask not.

_24th._--Had a long talk with Mr. Persico about my style of governing.
He seemed interested in what I had to say about appeals to the
conscience, but said my _youthful enthusiasm_ would get cooled down when
I knew more of the world. I told him, very pertly, that I hoped I should
never know the world then. He laughed and asked, "You expect to make
out of these stupid children such characters, such hearts as yours?"
"No--but better ones." He shook his head and said I had put him into
good humor. I don't know what he meant. I've been acting like Sancho
to-day--rushing up stairs two at a time, frisking about, catching up
Miss J---- in all her maiden dignity and tossing her right into the
midst of our bed. Who's going to be "schoolma'am" out of school? Not I!
I mean to be just as funny as I please, and what's more I'll make Miss
---- funny, too,--that I will! She'd have so much more health--Christian
health, I mean--if she would leave off trying to get to heaven in such a
dreadful bad "way." I can't think _religion_ makes such a long, gloomy
face. It must be that she is wrong, or else I am. I wonder which? Why
it's all sunshine to me--and all clouds to her! Poor Miss ----, you
might be so happy!

_April 9th._--Holiday. We all took a long walk, which I enjoyed highly.
I was in a half moralising mood all the way, wanted to be by myself very
much. We talked more than usual about home and I grew so sad. Oh, I
wonder if anybody loves me as _I love_! I wonder! I long for mother, and
if I could just see her and know that she is happy and that she will be
well again! It is really a curious question with me, whether provided
I ever fall in love (for I'll _fall_ in love, else not go in at all) I
shall leave off loving mother best of anybody in the world? I suppose I
shall be in love sometime or other, but that's nothing to do with me now
nor I with it. I've got my hands full to take care of my naughty little
self.

_17th._--Mrs. Persico got home to-night [10] and what a meeting we had!
what rejoicing! How beautiful she looked as she sat in her low chair,
and we stood and knelt in a happy circle about her! A queen--an
angel--could not have received love and homage with a sweeter grace. Sue
Irvine cried an hour for joy and I wished I were one of the crying sort,
for I'm sure I was glad enough to do almost anything. Beautiful woman!
We sang to her the Welcome Home, Miss F. singing as much with her eyes
as with her voice, and Mr. and Mrs. Persico both cried, he like a little
child. Oh, that such evenings as this came oftener in one's life! All
that was beautiful and good in each of our hidden natures came dancing
out to greet her at her coming, and all petty jealousies were so quieted
and--why, what a rhapsody I'm writing! And to-morrow, our good
better natures tucked away, dear knows where, we shall descend with
business-like airs to breakfast, wish each other good morning, pretend
that we haven't any hearts. Oh, is this life! I won't believe it.
Our good genius has come back to us; now all things will again go on
smoothly; once more I can be a little girl and frolic up here instead of
playing Miss Dignity down-stairs.

_May 7th._--This evening I passed unavoidably through Miss ----'s room.
She was reading Byron as usual and looked so wretched and restless, that
I could not help yielding to a loving impulse and putting my hand on
hers and asking why she was so sad. She told me. It was just what I
supposed. She is trying to be happy, and can not find out how; reads
Byron and gets sickly views of life; sits up late dreaming about love
and lovers; then, too tired to pray or think good thoughts, tosses
herself down upon her bed and wishes herself dead. She did not tell me
this, to be sure, but I gathered it from her story. I alluded to
her religious history and present hopes. She said she did not think
continued acts of faith in Christ necessary; she had believed on Him
once, and now He would save her whatever she did; and she was not going
to torment herself trying to live so very holy a life, since, after all,
she should get to heaven just as well through Him as if she had been
particularly good (as she termed it). I don't know whether a good or a
bad spirit moved me at that minute, but I forgot that I was a mere child
in religious knowledge, and talked about _my_ doctrine and made it a
very beautiful one to my mind, though I don't think she thought it
so. Oh, for what would I give up the happiness of praying for a holy
heart--of striving, struggling for it! Yes, it is indeed true that we
are to be saved simply, only, apart from our own goodness, through the
love of Christ. But who can believe himself thus chosen of God--who can
think of and hold communion with Infinite Holiness, and not long for
the Divine image in his own soul? It is a mystery to me--these strange
doctrines. Is not the fruit of love aspiration after the holy? Is not
the act of the new-born soul, when it passes from death unto life, that
of desire for assimilation to and oneness with Him who is its all in
all? How can love and faith be _one act_ and then cease? I dare not
believe--I would not for a universe believe--that my very sense of
safety in the love of Christ is not to be just the sense that shall bind
me in grateful self-renunciation wholly to His service. Let me be _sure_
of final rest in heaven--sure that at this moment I am really God's own
adopted child; and I believe my prayers, my repentings, my weariness of
sin, would be just what they now are; nay, more deep, more abundant. Oh,
it is _because_ I believe--fully believe that I shall be saved through
Christ--that I want to be like Him here upon earth It is because I do
not fear final misery that I shrink from sin and defilement here. Oh,
that I could put into that poor bewildered heart of hers just the sweet
repose upon the ever present Saviour which He has given unto me! The
quietness with which my whole soul rests upon Him is such blessed
quietness! I shall not soon forget this strange evening.


[1] She refers to this, doubtless, in a note to Mr. Hamlin, dated March
28, 1839. Mr. H. was then in Constantinople. "It seems as if a letter to
go so far ought to be a good one, so I am afraid to write to you. But we
'_think to you_' every day, and hope you think of us sometimes. I have
been so happy all winter that I have some happiness to spare, and if you
need any you shall have as much as you want."

[2] The sermon was preached by her pastor, the Rev. Dr. Condit, April
19th.

[3] There is one thing I recall as showing the very early religious
tendency of Lizzy's mind. It was a little prayer meeting which she held
with a few little friends, as long ago as her sister kept school in the
large parlor of the house on Middle street, before the death of her
father. It assembled at odd hours and in odd places. I also remember her
interest in the spiritual welfare of her young companions, after the
return of the family from their sojourn in New York. She showed this by
accompanying some of us, in the way of encouragement, to Dr. Tyler's
inquiry-meeting. Then during the special religious interest of 1838, she
felt still more deeply and entered heartily into the rejoicing of those
of us who at that time found "peace in believing." The next year I
accompanied my elder sister Susan to Richmond, and during my absence she
gave up her Christian hope and passed through a season of great darkness
and despondency, emerging, however, into the light upon a higher plane
of religious experience and enjoyment. She sometimes thought this the
very beginning of the life of faith in her soul. But as I used to say
to her when the next year we were together at Richmond, it seemed to me
quite impossible that any one who had not already received the grace of
God, could have felt what she had felt and expressed. I do not doubt
in the least that for years she had been a true follower of
Christ.--_Letter from Miss Ann Louisa P. Lord, dated Portland, December
30, 1878_.

[4] It may be proper to say here, that while but few of her letters are
given entire, it has not been deemed needful specially to indicate all
the omissions. In some instances, also, where two letters, or passages
of letters, relate to the same subject, they have been combined.

[5] An excellent little work by Rev. William Nevins, D.D. Dr. Nevins was
pastor of the first Presbyterian Church in Baltimore, where he died in
1835, at the age of thirty-seven. He was one of the best preachers and
most popular religious writers of his day.

[6] Miss Ann Louisa P. Lord.

[7] Miss Susan Lord.

[8] Referring to a serious accident, by which her mother was for some
time deprived of the use of her right hand.

[9] But, singularly enough, it was. President Harrison died April 4,
1841, just a month after his inauguration, and Mr. Tyler succeeded him.

[10] From Philadelphia, where she had undergone a surgical operation.




CHAPTER III.

PASSING FROM GIRLHOOD INTO WOMANHOOD.

1841-1845.

I.

At Home again. Marriage of her Sister. Ill-Health. Letters. Spiritual
Aspiration and Conflict. Perfectionism. "Very, very Happy." Work for
Christ what makes Life attractive. Passages from Her Journal. A Point of
Difficulty.


Not long after Elizabeth's return from Richmond, her sister was married
to the Rev. Albert Hopkins, Professor in Williams College. The wedding
had been delayed for her coming. "I would rather wait six years than
not have you present," her sister wrote. This event brought her into
intimate relations with a remarkable man; a man much beloved in his day,
and whose name will often reappear in these pages.

The next two or three months showed that her Richmond life, although so
full of happy experiences, had yet drawn heavily upon her strength. They
were marked by severe nervous excitement and fits of depression. This,
however, passed away and she settled down again into a busy home life.
But it was no longer the home life of the past. The year of absence had
left a profound impression upon her character. Her mind and heart had
undergone a rapid development. She was only twenty-two on her return,
and had still all the fresh, artless simplicity of a young girl, but
there was joined to it now the maturity of womanhood. Of the rest of the
year a record is preserved in letters to her cousin. These letters give
many little details respecting her daily tasks and the life she led in
the family and in the world; but they are chiefly interesting for the
light they shed upon her progress heavenward. Her whole soul was still
absorbed in divine things. At times her delight in them was sweet and
undisturbed; then again, she found herself tossed to and fro upon the
waves of spiritual conflict. Perfectionism was just then much discussed,
and the question troubled her not a little, as it did again thirty years
later. But whether agitated or at rest, her thoughts all centered in
Christ, and her constant prayer was for more love to Him.

PORTLAND, _Sept. 15, 1841._

The Lord Jesus is indeed dear to me. I can not doubt it. His name is
exceedingly precious. Oh, help me, my dear cousin, to love Him more, to
attain His image, to live only for Him! I blush and am ashamed when
I consider how inadequate are the returns I am making Him; yet I can
praise Him for all that is past and trust Him for all that is to come.
I can not tell you how delightful prayer is. I feel that in it I have
communion with God--that He is here--that He is mine and that I am His.
I long to make progress every day, each minute seems precious, and I
constantly tremble lest I should lose one in returning, instead of
pressing forward with all my strength. No, not _my_ strength, for I have
none, but with all which the Lord gives me. How can I thank you enough
that you pray for me!

_Sept. 18th._--I am all the time so nervous that life would be
insupportable if I had not the comfort of comforts to rejoice in. I
often think mother would not trust me to carry the dishes to the closet,
if she knew how strong an effort I have to make to avoid dashing them
all to pieces. When I am at the head of the stairs I can hardly help
throwing myself down, and I believe it a greater degree of just such a
state as this which induces the suicide to put an end to his existence.
It was never so bad with me before. Do you know anything of such a
feeling as this? To-night, for instance, my head began to feel all at
once as if it were enlarging till at last it seemed to fill the room,
and I thought it large enough to carry away the house. Then every object
of which I thought enlarged in proportion. When this goes off the sense
of the contraction is equally singular. My head felt about the size of a
pin's head; our church and everybody in it appeared about the bigness of
a cup, etc. These strange sensations terminate invariably with one still
more singular and particularly pleasant. I can not describe it--it is
a sense of smoothness and a little of dizziness. If you never had such
feelings this will be all nonsense to you, but if you have and can
explain them to me, why I shall be indeed thankful. I have been subject
to them ever since I can remember. I never met with a physician yet who
seemed to know what is the matter with me, or to care a fig whether I
got well or not. All they do is to roll up their eyes and shake their
heads and say, "Oh!" ... As to the wedding, we had a regular fuss, so
that I hardly knew whether I was in the body or out of it. The Professor
was here only two days. He is very eminently holy, his friends say, and
from what I saw of him, I should think it true. This was the point which
interested sister in him. As soon as the wedding was over my spirits
departed and fled. It is true enough that "marriage involves one union,
but _many separations_."

_Oct. 17th._--We had a most precious sermon this afternoon from the
Baptist minister on the words, "Christ is all and in all." I longed to
have you hear the Saviour thus dwelt upon. I did not know how full the
Apostles were of His praise--how constantly they dwelt upon Him, till it
was spread before me thus in one delightful view. Oh, may He become our
all--our beginning and our ending--our first and our last! I do love
to hear Him thus honored and adored. Let us, dear cousin, look at our
Saviour more. Let us never allow aught to come between our hearts and
our God. Speak to me as to your own soul, urging me onward, and if you
do not see the fruits of your faithfulness here, may you see when sowing
is turned to reaping.

_Oct. 24th._--I must call upon you to rejoice with me that I have to-day
got back my old Sunday-school class. I wondered at their being so
earnest about having me again, yet I trust that God has given me this
hold upon their affections for some good purpose.... I do not know
exactly how to discriminate between the suggestions of Satan and those
of my own heart, but for a week past, even while my inclinations and my
will were set upon Christ, something followed me in my down-sittings and
my uprisings, urging me to hate the Lord Jesus; asking if His strict
requirements were not too strait to be endured; and it has grieved me
deeply that such a thought could find its way into my mind. "I have
prayed for thee that thy faith fail not" is my last refuge. How
graciously did Jesus provide a separate consolation for each difficulty
which He foresaw could meet His disciples on their way.

_Nov. 8th._--Mother has been sick. The doctor feared inflammation of the
brain; but she is better now. I have had my first experience as a nurse,
and Dr. Mighels says I am a good one.

Whenever I think of God's wonderful, _wonderful_ goodness to me and of
my own sinfulness, I want to find a place low at the foot of the cross
where I may cover my face in the dust, and yet go on praising Him. You
do not know how all things have been made new to me within less than two
years. Still, I struggle fiercely every hour of my life. For instance,
my desire to be much beloved by those dear to me, is a source of
constant grief. Some weeks ago, a person, who probably did not know
this, told me that I was remarkably lovable and that everybody said so.
I was so foolish, so wicked, as to be more pleased by this than I
dare to tell--but enough so to give me after-hours of bitter sorrow.
Sometimes it seems to me that I grow prouder every day, and I wanted to
ask mother if she did not think so; but I thought perhaps God is showing
me my pride as I had never seen it that I may wage war against this, His
enemy and mine. I do not believe anybody else has such an evil nature
as I. But let us never rest till we are satisfied with being counted as
nothing, that our Saviour may be all in all. It seems no small portion
of the joy I long for in heaven, to be thus self-forgetful in love to
Christ. How strange that we do not now supremely love Him. How I do long
to live with those who praise Him. I long to have every Christian with
whom I meet speak of Him with love and exalt Him. [1]

_Nov. 12th._--I have been very unwell and low-spirited. The cause of
this, folks seem to agree, was over-exertion during mother's sickness.
To tell the truth, I was so anxious about her that I did not try to
save my strength at all, and excitement kept me up, so that I was not
conscious of any special fatigue till all was over and the reaction
came, when I just went into a dead-and-alive state and had the "blues"
outrageously. It seemed as if I could do nothing but fold my hands and
cry.

Sister is coming home this winter. I would like you to see this letter
of hers. She is as nearly a perfectionist now as your father is. She
begs me to read the New Testament and to pray for a knowledge of the
truth. And so I have for a year and a half, and this is what I learn
thereby: "The heart is deceitful above all things and desperately
wicked"--at least such I find mine to be. To be sure, that I am not
perfect is no proof that I may not become so; however, I feel most
sympathy with those who, like Martyn, Brainerd, and my father, had to
_fight_ their way through. Yet her remarks threw my mind into great
confusion at first and I knew not what to do; thereupon I went at once
with my difficulties to the Lord and tried to _seek the truth_, whatever
it might be, from Him. It seems to me that I am safe while in His hands,
and that if those things are essential, He will not withhold them from
me. Truly, if there is a royal road to holiness, and if in one moment of
time sin may be crushed and forever slain, I of all others should know
it; for at present the way is thronged with difficulties. [2] It seems
to me that I am made of wants"--I need everything. At the same time, how
great is the goodness of God to me! I long to have my heart so filled
with the one single image of my Redeemer, that it shall ever flow in
spontaneous adoration. Such a Saviour! I am pained to the very depths of
my soul because I love Him so little.... If I am only purified and made
entirely the Lord's, let Him take His own course and make the refining
process ever so painful.

  "When the shore is won at last,
  Who will count the billows past?"

_Dec. 16th._--Do you remember what father said about losing his will
when near the close of his life? That remark has always made the subject
of a _lost will_ interesting to me. There is another place where he
wishes he had known this blessedness twenty years before. [3]

_Dec. 18th._--"I am very, very happy; and yet it is hardly a happiness
which I can describe. You know what it is to rejoice in the sweet
consciousness that there is a Saviour--a near and a present Saviour; and
thus am I now rejoicing; grateful to Him for His holy nature, for His
power over me, for His dealings with me, for a thousand things which I
can only try to express to Him. Oh, how excellent above all treasures
does He now appear! One minute of nearness to the Lord Jesus contains
more of delight than years spent in intercourse with any earthly friend.
I could not but own to-night that God can make me happy without a right
hand or a right eye. Lord, make me Thine, and I will cheerfully give
Thee all.

_Dec. 22d._--"As to my Italian and Tasso, I am ashamed to tell you how
slow I have been. Between company and housework and sewing I have my
hands about full, and precious little time for reading and study. Still,
I feel that I live a life of too much ease. I should love to spend
the rest of my existence in the actual service of the Lord, without a
question as to its ease and comfort. Reading Brainerd this afternoon
made me long for his loose hold on earthly things. I do not know how to
attain to such a spirit. Is it by prayer alone and the consequent sense
of the worth of Divine things that this deadness to the world is to be
gained--or, by giving up, casting away the treasures which withdraw
the heart or have a tendency to withdraw it from God? This is quite an
interesting question to me now, and I should really like it settled. The
thought of living apart from God is more dreadful than any affliction I
can think of.

Here are some passages from two leaves of her journal which escaped the
flames. They touch upon another side of her life at this period.

_December 1, 184l._--"I went to the sewing-circle this afternoon and had
such a stupid time! Enough gossip and nonsense was talked to make one
sick, and I'm sure it wasn't the fault of my head that my hair didn't
stand on end. Now my mother is a very sensible mother, but when she
urges me into company and exhorts me to be more social, she runs the
risk of having me become as silly as the rest of 'em. She fears I may be
harmed by reading, studying and staying with her, but heaven forbid I
should find things in books worse than things out of them. I can't think
the girls are the silly creatures they make themselves appear. They want
an aim in life, some worthy _object;_ give them that, and the good and
excellent which, I am sure, lies hidden in their nature, will develop
itself at once. When the young men rushed in and the girls began looking
unutterable things, I rushed out and came home. I can't and won't talk
nonsense and flirt with those boys! Oh, what is it I do want? Somebody
who feels as I feel and thinks as I think; but where shall I find the
somebody?

_7th._--"Frolicked with G., rushed up stairs with a glass-lamp in my
hand, went full tilt against the door, smashed the lamp, got the oil
on my dress, on two carpets, besides spattering the wall. First
consequence, a horrible smell of lamp-oil; Second, great quakings,
shakings, and wonderings what my ma would say when she came home; Third,
ablutions, groanings, ironings; Fourth, a story for the Companion long
enough to pay for that 'ere old lamp. Letting alone that, I've been a
very good girl to-day; studied, made a call, went to see H. R. with
books, cakes, apples, and what's more, my precious tongue wherewith I
discoursed to her.

_14th._--"Busy all day. Carried a basket full of "wittles" to old Ma'am
Burns, heard an original account of the deluge from the poor woman,
wished I was as near heaven as she seems to be, studied, sewed, taught
T. and E., tried to be a good girl and didn't have the blues once.

_20th._--"Spent most of the afternoon with Lucy, who is sick. She held
my hand in hers and kissed it over and over, and expressed so much love
and gratitude and interest in the Sunday-school that I felt ashamed.

_24th_--Helped mother bake all the morning, studied in the afternoon,
got into a frolic, and went out after dark with G. to shovel snow, and
then paddled down to L----'s with a Christmas-pudding, whereby I got a
real backache, legache, neckache, and all-overache, which is just good
enough for me. I was in the funniest state of mind this afternoon! I
guess anybody, who had seen me, would have thought so!

_25th, Saturday._--Got up early and ran down to Sally Johnson's with a
big pudding, consequence whereof a horrible pain in my side. I don't
care, though. I do love to carry puddings to good old grannies.

_Jan. 1, 1842._--Began the New Year by going to see Lucy, fainting,
tumbling down flat on the floor and scaring everybody half out of their
wits. I don't think people ought to like me, on the whole, but when they
do, aint I glad? I wonder if perfectly honest-hearted people want to be
loved better than they deserve, as in one sense I, with yet a pretty
honest heart, do? I wonder how other folks think, feel inside? Wish I
knew!

Most of the year 1842 was passed at home in household duties, in study,
and in trying to do good. Never had she been busier, or more helpful to
her mother; and never more interested in the things of God. It was a
year of genuine spiritual growth and also of sharp discipline. The
true ideal of the Christian life revealed itself to her more and more
distinctly, while at the same time she had opportunity both to learn and
to practise some of its hardest lessons. A few extracts from letters to
her cousin will give an inkling of its character.

_March 19, 1842._--Sometimes I have thought my desire to live for my
Saviour and to labor for Him had increased. It certainly seems wonderful
to me now that I could ever have wished to die, as I used to do, _when
I had done nothing for God_. The way of life which appears most
attractive, is that spent in persevering and unwearying toil for Him.
There was a warmth and a fervency to my religious feelings the first
year after my true hope which I do not find now and often sigh for; but
I think my mind is more seriously determined for God than it was then,
and that my principles are more fixed. Still I am less than the least of
all.... I have read not quite five cantos of Tasso. You will think me
rather indolent, but I have had a great deal to do, which has hindered
study and reading.

_May 3d_--The Christian life was never dearer to me than it is now, but
it throngs with daily increasing difficulties. You, who have become a
believer in perfection, may say that this conflict is not essential, and
indeed I have been so weary, of late, of struggling that I am almost
ready to fly to the doctrine myself. I have certainly been made more
willing to seek knowledge on this point from the Holy Spirit.

_Sept. 30th_--You speak of indulging unusually, of late, in your natural
vivacity and finding it prejudicial. Here is a point on which I am
completely bewildered. I find that if for a month or two I steadily
set myself to the unwearied pursuit of spirituality of mind and entire
weanedness from the world, a sad reaction _will_ follow. My efforts
slightly relax, I indulge in mirthful or worldly (in the sense of not
religious) conversation, delight in it, and find my health and spirits
better for it. But then my spiritual appetites at once become less keen,
and from conversation I go to reading, from reading to writing, and then
comes the question: Am I not going back?--and I turn from all to follow
hard after the Lord. Is this a part of our poor humanity, above which
we can not rise? This is a hard world to live in; and it will prove
a trying one to me or I shall love it dearly. I have had temptations
during the last six months on points where I thought I stood so safely
that there was no danger of a fall. Perhaps it is good for us to be
allowed to go to certain lengths, that we may see what wonderful
supplies of grace our Lord gives us every hour of our lives.

_October 1st_--I have had two or three singular hours of excitement
since I left writing to you last evening. If you were here I should be
glad to read you a late passage in my history which has come to its
crisis and is over with--thanks to Him, who so wonderfully guides me by
His counsel. If I ever saw the hand of God distinctly held forth for my
help, I have seen it here, coming in the right time, in the right way,
_all_ right.

       *       *       *       *       *

II.

Returns to Richmond. Trials there. Letters. Illness. School Experiences.
"To the Year 1843." Glimpses of her daily Life. Why her Scholars
love her so. Homesick. A Black Wedding. What a Wife should be. "A
Presentiment." Notes from her Diary.


In November of this year, at the urgent solicitation of Mr. Persico,
Miss Payson returned to Richmond, and again became a teacher in his
school. But everything was now changed, and that for the worse. Mr.
Persico, no longer under the influence of his wife, who had fallen a
prey to cruel disease, lost heart, fell heavily in debt, and became at
length hopelessly insolvent. Later, he is said to have been lost at sea
on his way to Italy. The whole period of Miss Payson's second residence
in Richmond was one of sharp trial and disappointment. But it brought
out in a very vivid manner her disinterestedness and the generous warmth
of her sympathies. At the peril of her health she remained far into the
summer of 1843, faithfully performing her duties, although, as she well
knew, it was doubtful if she would receive any compensation for her
services. As a matter of fact, only a pittance of her salary was ever
paid. Of this second residence in Richmond no other record is needed
than a few extracts from letters written to a beloved friend who was
passing the winter at the South, and whose name has already been
mentioned.

A sentence in the first of these letters deserves to be noted as
affording a key to one side of her character, namely: "the depressing
sense of inferiority which was born with me." All her earlier years were
shadowed by this morbid feeling; nor was she ever quite free from its
influence. It was, probably, at once a cause and an effect of the
sensitive shyness that clung to her to the last. Perhaps, too, it grew
in part out of her irrepressible craving for love, coupled with utter
incredulity about herself possessing the qualities which rendered her so
lovable. "It is one of the faults of my character," she wrote, "to fancy
that nobody cares for me."

When, dear Anna, I had taken my last look at the last familiar face
in Portland (I fancy you know whose face it was) I became quite as
melancholy as I ever desire to be, even on the principle that "by the
sadness of the countenance the heart is made better." I dare say
you never had a chance to feel, and therefore will not be able to
understand, the depressing sense of inferiority which was born with me,
which grew with my growth and strengthened with my strength, and
which, though somewhat repressed of late years, gets the mastery very
frequently and makes me believe myself the most unlovable of beings. It
was with this feeling that I left home and journeyed hither, wondering
why I was made, and if anybody on earth will ever be a bit the happier
for it, and whether I shall ever learn where to put myself in the scale
of being. This is not humility, please take notice--for humility is
contented, I think, with such things as it hath.

_To Miss Anna S. Prentiss. Richmond, Nov. 26, 1842_

When I reached Richmond last night, tired and dusty and stupefied, I
felt a good deal like crawling away into some cranny and staying there
the rest of my life; but this morning, when I had remembered mother's
existence and yours and that of some one or two others, I felt more
disposed to write than anything else. Your note was a great comfort to
me during two and a half hours at Portsmouth, and while on my journey.
I thought pages to you in reply. How I should love to have you here in
Richmond, even if I could only see you once a month, or _know_ only that
you were here and never see you! With many most kind friends about me,
I still shall feel very keenly the separation from you. There is nobody
here to whom I can speak confidingly, and my hidden spirit will have to
sit with folded wings for eight months to come. To whom shall I talk
about you, pray? On the way hither I fell in love with a little girl who
also fell in love with me, and as I sat with her over our lonely fire at
Philadelphia and in Washington, I could not help speaking of you now and
then, till at last she suddenly looked up and asked me if you hadn't a
brother, which question effectually shut my mouth. In a religious point
of view I am sadly off here. There is a different atmosphere in the
house from what there used to be, and I look forward with some anxiety
to the future.

The "little girl" referred to received soon after a letter from Miss
Payson. In enclosing it to a friend, more than thirty-seven years later,
she wrote: "I cried bitterly when she left us for Richmond. She was out
and out good and true. When my father was taking leave of us, the
last night in Washington, she proposed that as we had enjoyed so
much together, we should not separate without a prayer of thanks
and blessing-seeking, a proposal to which my father most heartily
responded." Here is an extract from the letter:

When I look over my school-room I am frequently reminded of you, for my
thirty-six pupils are, most of them, about your age. I have some very
lovable girls under my wing. I should be too happy if there were no
"unruly members" among these good and gentle ones; but in the little
world where I shall spend the greater part of the next eight months, as
well as in the great and busy one, which as yet neither you or I know
much about, I fancy there are mixtures of "the just and the unjust," of
"the evil and the good." We have a very pleasant family this year. The
youngest (for I omit the black baby in the kitchen) we call Lily. She
is my pet and plaything, and is quite as affectionate as you are. Then
comes a damsel named Beatrice, who has taken me upon _trust_ just as you
did. You may be thankful that your parents are not like hers, for she is
to be educated _for the world_; music, French and Italian crowd almost
everything else out of place, and as for religious influences, she is
under them here for the first time. How thankful I feel when I see such
cases as this, that God gave me pious parents, who taught me from my
very birth, that His fear is the _beginning_ of wisdom! My room-mate we
call Kate. She is pious, intelligent, and very warm-hearted, and I love
her dearly. She is an orphan--Mrs. Persico's daughter ...

I am rather affectionate by nature, if not in practice, and though I
know that nearness to the Friend, whom I hope I have chosen, could make
me happy in any circumstances, I do not pretend to be above the desire
for earthly friends, provided He sees fit to give them to me. I believe
my father used to say that we could not love them too much, if we only
gave Him the first place in our hearts. Let us earnestly seek to make
Him our all in all. It is delightful, in the midst of adversities and
trials, to be able to say "There is none upon earth that I desire
besides Thee," but it requires more grace, I think, to be able to use
such language when the world is bright about us. You have known little
of sorrow as yet, but if you have given your whole, undivided heart to
God, you will not need affliction, or to have your life made so desolate
that "weariness must toss you to His breast." There is a bright side to
religion, and I love to see Christians walking in the sunshine. I trust
you have found this out for yourself, and that your hope in Christ makes
you happy in the life that now is, as well as gives you promise of
blessedness in that which is to come.

Before she had been long in Richmond she was seized with an illness
which caused her many painful, wearisome days and nights. Referring to
this illness, in a letter to Miss Prentiss, she writes:

It is dull music being sick away from one's mother, but I have a knack
at submitting myself to my fate; so my spirit was a contented one, and I
was not for a moment unhappy, except for the trouble which I gave those
who had to nurse me. I thought of you, at least two-thirds of the time.
As my little pet, Lily L., said to me last night, when she had very
nearly squeezed the breath out of my body, "I love you a great deal
harder than I hug you"; so I say to you--I love you harder than I tell,
or can tell you. A happy New-Year to you, dear Anna. How much and how
little in those few old words! Consider yourself kissed and good-night.

The "New Year" was destined to be a very eventful one alike to her
friend and to herself. She seemed to have a presentiment of it, at least
in her own case, as some lines written on a blank leaf of her almanac
for that year attest:

  With mingling hope and trust and fear
  I bid thee welcome, untried year;
  The paths before me pause to view;
  Which shall I shun and which pursue?
  I read my fate with serious eye;
  I see dear hopes and treasures fly,
  Behold thee on thy opening wing
  Now grief, now joy, now sorrow bring.
  God grant me grace my course to run
  With one blest prayer--_His_ will be done.

A little journal kept by her during the following months gives bright
glimpses of her daily life. The entries are very brief, but they show
that while devoted to the school, she also spent a good deal of time
among her books, kept up a lively correspondence with absent friends,
and contributed her full share to the entertainment of the household by
"holding soirees" in her room, "reading to the girls," writing stories
for them, and helping to "play goose" and other games.

_To Miss Anna S. Prentiss, Richmond, Feb. 22, 1843._

Thanks to the Father of his Country for choosing to be born in Virginia!
for it gives us a holiday, and I can write to you, dearest of Annas. You
don't know how delighted I was to get your long-watched-for letter.
You very kindly express the wish that you could bear some of my school
drudgery with me. I would not give you that, but you should have love
from some of these warm-hearted damsels, which would make you happy even
in the midst of toil and vexation. I can't think what makes my scholars
love me so. I'm sure it is a gift for which I should be grateful, as
coming from the same source with all the other blessings which are about
me. I believe my way of governing is a more fatiguing one than that
of scolding, fretting, and punishing. There is a little bit of a tie
between each of these hearts and mine--and the least mistake on my part
severs it forever; so I have to be exceedingly careful what I do and
say. This keeps me in a constant state of excitement and makes my pulse
fly rather faster than, as a pulse arrived at years of discretion, it
ought to do. I come out of school so happy, though half tired to death,
wishing I were better, and hoping I shall become so; for the more my
scholars love me, the more I am ashamed that I am not the pink of
perfection they seem to fancy me.

_Evening._--I have just come up here to my lonely room (which, if I
hadn't the happiest kind of a heart in the world, would look right
gloomy) and have read for the third time your dear, good letter, and all
I wish is that I could tell you how I love you, and how angry I am with
myself that I did not know and love you sooner. It seems so odd that we
should have been born and "raised" so near each other and yet apart. You
say you are a believer in destiny. So am I--particularly in affairs of
the heart; and I hope that we are made friends now for something more
than the satisfaction which we find in loving. I am in danger of
forgetting that I am to stay in this world only a little while and
then _go home._ Will you help me to bear it in mind?... How must the
"Pilgrim's Progress" interest a mind that has never learned the whole
book by rote in childhood. I have often wished I could read it as a
first-told tale, and so I wish about the xiv. of John and some other
chapters in the Bible.

Your incidental mention that you have family prayers every evening
produced a thousand strange sensations in my mind. I hardly know why.
Did I ever tell you how I love and admire the new Bishop Johns? And how
if I _am_ a "good Presbyterian," as they say here, I go to hear him
whenever and wherever he preaches. I don't think him a _great_ man, but
he has that sincerity and truthfulness of manner which win your love at
once. [4] ... What nice times you must have studying German! I dreamed
the night I read your account of it that I was with you, and that you
said I was as stupid as an owl. I have the queerest mind somehow. It
won't work like those of other people, but goes the farthest way round
when it wants to go home, and I never could do anything with it but just
let it have its own way, and live the longer. They are having a nice
time down in the parlor worshipping Miss Ford, the light and sunshine of
the house, who leaves to-morrow for Natchez, and I am going down to help
them. So, good-night.

_To the same. April 24._

Since I wrote you last we have all had a good deal to put our patience
and philosophy and faith to the test, and I must own that I have been
for some weeks about as uncomfortable as mortal damsel could be.
Everything went wrong with Mr. Persico, and his gloom extended to all
of us. I never spent such melancholy weeks in my life, and became so
homesick that I could hardly drag myself into school. In the midst of
it, however, I made fun for the rest, as I believe I should do in a
dungeon; and now it is all over, I look back and laugh still.

We had a black wedding--a very black one--in my schoolroom the other
night; our cook having decided to take to herself a lord and master. It
was the funniest affair I ever saw. Such comical dresses! such heaps of
cake, wine, coffee, and candy! such kissings and huggings! The man who
performed the ceremony prayed that they might _obey each other,_ wherein
I think he showed his originality and good sense, too. Then he held
a book upside down and pretended to read, dear knows what! but the
Professor--that is to say, Mrs. P.--laughed so loud when he said, "Will
you take this _wo-_man to be your wedded _husband_" that we all joined in
full chorus, whereupon the poor priest (who was only the sexton of St.
James') was so confused that he married them over twice. I never saw
a couple in their station in life provided with a tenth part of the
luxuries with which they abounded. We worked all day Saturday in the
kitchen, making and icing cake for them, and a nice frolic we had of it,
too. Do you love babies? We have a black one in the lot whom I pet for
want of something on which to expend my love.

When I find anything that will interest the whole family, I read it
aloud for general edification. The girls persuaded me into writing a
story to read to them, and locked me into my room till it was done. It
was the first love-story I ever wrote, for hitherto I have not known
enough about such things to be able to do it. This reminds me that you
asked if I intend forgetting you after I am married. I have no sort of
idea what I shall do, provided I ever marry. But if I ever fall in love
I dare say I shall do it so madly and absorbingly as to become, in a
measure and for a season, forgetful of everything and everybody else.
Still, though I hate professions, I don't see how I can ever cease to
love you, whatever else I forget or neglect. There is a restlessness
in my affection for you that I don't understand--a half wish to avoid
enjoyment now, that I may in some future time share it with you. And yet
I have a presentiment that we may have sympathy in trials of which I now
know nothing.

I am ashamed of myself, of late, that these subjects of love and
matrimony find a place in my thoughts which I never have been in the
habit of giving them, but people here talk of little else and I am borne
on with the current. I think that to give happiness in married life a
woman should possess oceans of self-sacrificing love and I, for one,
haven't half of that self-forgetting spirit which I think essential.

I am glad you like the "Christian Year," and I see you are quite an
Episcopalian. Well, if you are like the good old English divines, nobody
can find fault with your choice. Mr. Persico was brought up a Catholic
but professes to be a nothingarian now. For myself, this only I know
that I earnestly wish all the tendencies of my heart to be heavenward,
and I believe that the sincere inquirer after truth will be guided by
the Infinite Mind. And so on that faith I venture myself and feel safe
as a child may feel, who holds his father's hand. Life seems full of
mysteries to me of late--and I am tempted to strange thoughtfulness in
the midst of its gayest scenes.

How true was the "presentiment" described in this letter, will appear in
her correspondence with the same friend more than a quarter of a century
later.

_To Anna S. Prentiss, Richmond, June 1, 1843_

I believe you and I were intended to know each other better I have found
a certain something in you that I have been wanting all my life. While I
wish you to know me just as I am, faults and all, I can t bear to
think of ever seeing anything but the good and the beautiful in your
character, dear Anna, and I believe my heart would break outright should
I find you to be otherwise than just that which I imagine you are. I
don't know why I am saying this; but I have learned more of the world
during the last year than in any previous half dozen of my life, and the
result is dissatisfaction and alarm at the things I see about me. I wish
I could always live, as I have hitherto done, under the shelter of my
mother's wing.... I ought to ask your pardon for writing in this horrid
style, but I was born to do things by steam, I believe, and can't do
them moderately. As I write to, so I love you, dear Anna, with all my
interests and energies tending to that one point. I was amused the other
day with a young lady who came and sat on my bed when I was sick (for I
am just getting well from a quite serious illness), and after some half
dozen sighs, wished she were Anna Prentiss that she might be loved as
intensely as she desired. This is a roundabout way of saying how very
dear you are to me. What chatter-boxes girls are! I wonder how many
times I've stopped to say "My dear, don't talk so much--for I am writing
in school."

_June 27th_--Mr. ---- brought "The Home" to me and I have laughed and
cried over it to my heart's content. Out of pure self-love, because they
said she was like me, I liked poor Petra with the big nose, best of the
bunch--though, to be sure, they liken me to somebody or other in
every book we read till I begin to think myself quite a bundle of
contradictions. I have a thousand and one things to say to you, but I
wonder if as soon as I see you I shall straightway turn into a poker,
and play the stiffy, as I always do when I have been separated from
my friends. I am writing in a little bit of a den which, by a new
arrangement, I have all to myself. What if there's no table here and
I have to write upon the bureau, sitting on one foot in a chair and
stretching upwards to reach my paper like a monkey? What do I care? I am
writing to _you_, and your spirit, invoked when I took possession of the
premises, comes here sometimes just between daylight and dark, and talks
to me till I am ready to put forth my hand to find yours. Oh! Anna, you
must be everything that is pure and good, through to the very depths
of your heart, that mine may not ache in finding it has loved only an
imaginary being. Not that I expect you to be perfect--for I shouldn't
love you if you were immaculate--but pure in aim and intention and
desire, which I believe you to be.

_29th._--Do you want to know what mischief I've just been at? There lay
poor Miss ----, alias "Weaky" as we call her, taking her siesta in the
most innocent manner imaginable, with a babe-in-the-wood kind of air,
which proved so highly attractive that I could do no less than pick her
up in my arms and pop her (I don't know _but_ it was _head_ first),
right into the bathing-tub which happened to be filled with fresh cold
water. Poor, good little Weaky! There she sits shaking and shivering and
laughing with such perfect sweet humor, that I am positively taking a
vow never to do so again. Well, I had something quite sentimental to say
to you when I began writing, but as the spirit moved me to the above
perpetration of nonsense, I've nothing left in me but fun, and for that
you've no relish, have you?

I made out to cry yesterday and thereby have so refreshed my soul as
to be in the best possible humor just now. The why and wherefore of my
tears, which by the way I don't shed once in an age, was briefly the
withdrawal from school of one of my scholars, one who had so attached
herself to me as to have become almost a part of myself, and whom I
had taught to love you, dear Anna, that I might have the exquisite
satisfaction of talking about you every day--a sort of sweet interlude
between grammar and arithmetic which made the dull hours of school grow
harmonious. She had a presentiment that her life was to close with our
school session, from which I couldn't move her even when her health was
good, and she says that she prays every day, not that her life may be
lengthened, but that she may die before I am gone. I am superstitious
enough to feel that the prayer may have its answer, now that I see her
drooping and fading away without perceptible disease. The only time I
ever witnessed the rite of confirmation was when the hands of the good
bishop rested upon her head, and no wonder if I have half taken up arms
in defense of this "laying-on of hands," out of the abundance of my
heart if not from the wisdom of my head. Well, I've lost my mirthful
mood, speaking of her, and don't know when it will come again.

I have taken it into my head that you will visit Niagara on your way
home from the South and have half a mind to go there myself. Did your
brother bring home the poems of R. M. Milnes? I half hope that he did
not, since I want to see you enjoy them for the first time, particularly
a certain "Household Brownie" story, with which I fell in love when
President Woods sent us the volume.

Here follow a few entries in her diary:

_May 1._---Holiday. Into the country all of us, white, black, and gray.
Sue Empie devoted herself to me like a lover and so did Sue Lewis, so
I was not at a loss for society. My girls made a bower, wherein I was
ensconced and obliged to tell stories to about forty listeners till my
tongue ached. _July 18th._--Left Richmond. _Aug. 2nd._--Left Reading
for Philadelphia. _5th._--Williamstown and saw mother, sister and baby.
_16th._--President Hopkins' splendid address before the Alumni--also
that of Dr. Robbins. _18th._--Left Williamstown and reached Nonantum
House at night. Saw Aunt Willis, Julia, Sarah, Ellen, etc. _22nd._--Came
home, oh so very happy! Dear, good home! _23rd._--Callers all day, the
second of whom was Mr. P. There have been nineteen people here and I'm
tired! _25th._--What _didn't_ I hear from Anna P. to-day! _31st._--Rode
with Anna P. to Saccarappa to see Rev. Mr. and Mrs. H. B. Smith--took
tea at the P.s and went with them to the Preparatory Lecture. I do
nothing but go about from place to place. _Sept. 1st._--Just as cold as
cold could be all day. Spent evening at Mrs. B.'s, talking with Neal
Dow. _9th._--Cold and blowy and disagreeable. Went to see Carrie H. Came
home and found Mr. P. here; he stayed to tea--read us some interesting
things--told us about Mary and William Howitt. _10th._--Our church was
re-opened to-day. Mr. Dwight preached in the morning and Mr. Chickering
in the afternoon.

September 11th she marked with a white stone and kept ever after as one
of the chief festal days of her life, but of the reason why there is
here no record. The diary for the rest of the year is blank with the
exception of a single leaf which contains these sentences:

"Celle qui a besoin d'admirer ce qu'elle aime, celle, don't le jugement
est pénétrant, bien que son imagination exaltée, il n'y a pour elle
qu'un objet dans l'univers."

"Celui qu'on aime, est le vengeur des fautes qu'on a commis sur cette
terre; la Divinité lui prête son pouvoir."

MAD. DE STAEL.

       *       *       *       *       *

III.

Her Views of Love and Courtship. Visit of her Sister and Child. Letters.
Sickness and Death of Friends. Ill-Health. Undergoes a Surgical
Operation. Her Fortitude. Study of German. Fenelon.


The records of the next year and a half are very abundant, in the form
of notes, letters, verses and journals; but they are mostly of too
private a character to furnish materials for this narrative, belonging
to what she called "the deep story of my heart." They breathe the
sweetness and sparkle with the morning dew of the affections; and while
some of them are full of fun and playful humor, others glow with all
the impassioned earnestness of her nature, and others still with deep
religious feeling. She wrote:

My heart seems to me somewhat like a very full church at the close of
the services--the great congregation of my affections trying to find
their way out and crowding and hindering each other in the general rush
for the door. Don't you see them--the young ones scampering first down
the aisle, and the old and grave and stately ones coming with proud
dignity after them?... I feel now that "dans les mystères de notre
nature aimer, _encore aimer,_ est ce qui nous est resté de notre
heritage céleste," and oh, how I thank God for my blessed portion of
this celestial endowment!

Love in a word was to her, after religion, the holiest and most
wonderful reality of life; and in the presence of its mysteries she
was--to use her own comparison--"like a child standing upon the
seashore, watching for the onward rush of the waves, venturing himself
close to the water's edge, holding his breath and wooing their approach,
and then, as they come dashing in, retreating with laughter and mock
fear, only to return to tempt them anew." Her only solicitude was lest
the new interest should draw her heart away from Him who had been its
chief joy. In a letter to her cousin, she touches on this point:

You know how by circumstances my affections have been repressed, and
now, having found _liberty to love,_ I am tempted to seek my heaven in
so loving. But, my dear cousin, there is nothing worth having apart from
God; I feel this every day more and more and the fear of satisfying
myself with something short of Him--this is my only anxiety. This drives
me to the throne of His grace and makes me refuse to be left one moment
to myself. I believe I desire first of all to love God supremely and to
do something for Him, if He spares my life.

Early in December her sister, Mrs. Hopkins, with an infant boy, came to
Portland and passed a part of the winter under the maternal roof. The
arrival of this boy--her mother's first grandchild--was an event in the
family history. Here is her own picture of the scene:

It was a cold evening, and grandmamma, who had been sitting by the fire,
knitting and reading, had at last let her book fall from her lap, and
had dropped to sleep in her chair. The four uncles sat around the table,
two of them playing chess, and two looking on, while Aunt Fanny, with
her cat on her knees, studied German a little, looked at the clock very
often, and started at every noise.

"I have said, all along, that they wouldn't come," she cried at last.
"The clock has just struck nine, and I am not going to expect them any
longer. I _knew_ Herbert would not let Laura undertake such a journey in
the depth of winter; or, at any rate, that Laura's courage would tail at
the last moment."

She had hardly uttered these words, when there was a ring at the
doorbell, then a stamping of feet on the mat, to shake off the snow, and
in they Came, Lou, and Lou's papa, and Lou's mamma, bringing ever so
much fresh, cold air with them. Grandmamma woke up, and rose to meet
them with steps as lively as if she were a young girl; Aunt Fanny tossed
the cat from her lap, and seized the bundle that held the baby; the four
uncles crowded about her, eager to get the first peep at the little
wonder. There was such a laughing, and such a tumult, that poor Lou,
coming out of the dark night into the bright room, and seeing so many
strange faces, did not know what to think. When his cloaks and shawls
and capes were at last pulled off by his auntie's eager hands, there
came into view a serious little face, a pair of bright eyes, and a head
as smooth as ivory, on which there was not a single hair. His sleeves
were looped up with corals, and showed his plump white arms, and he sat
up very straight, and took a good look at everybody.

"What a perfect little beauty!" "What _splendid_ eyes!" "What a lovely
skin!" "He's the perfect image of his father!" "He's _exactly_ like his
mother!" "What a dear little nose!" "What fat little hands, full of
dimples!" "Let _me_ take him!" "Come to his own grandmamma!" "Let his
uncle toss him--so he will!" "What does he eat?" "Is he tired?" "Now,
_Fanny!_ you've had him ever since he came; he wants to come to me; I
know he does!"

These, and nobody knows how many more exclamations of the sort, greeted
the ears of the little stranger, and were received by him with unruffled
gravity.

"Aunt Fanny" devoted herself during the following weeks to the care of
her little nephew. Her letters written at the time--some of them with
him in her arms--are full of his pretty ways; and when, more than a
score of years later, he had given his young life to his country and
was sleeping in a soldier's grave, his "sayings and doings" formed the
subject of one of her most attractive juvenile books.

A few extracts from her letters will give glimpses of her state of mind
during this winter, and show also how the thoughtful spirit, which from
the first tempered the excitements of her new experience, was deepened
by the loss of very dear friends.

PORTLAND, _December 9, 1843._

Last evening I spent at Mrs. H.----'s with Abby and a crowd of other
people. John Neal told me I had a great bump of love of approbation, and
conscientiousness very large, and self-esteem hardly any; and that he
hoped whoever had most influence over me would remedy that evil. He then
went on to pay me the most extravagant compliments, and said I could
become distinguished in any way I pleased. Thinks I to myself, "I should
like to be the best little wife in the world, and that's the height of
my ambition." Don't imagine now that I believe all he says, for he has
been saying just such things to me since I was a dozen years old, and I
don't see as I am any great things yet. Do you?

_Jan. 3d, 1844._--Sister is still here and will stay with us a month
or two yet. Her husband has gone home to preach and pray himself into
contentment without her. Though he was here only a week, his quiet
Christian excellence made us all long to grow better. It is always the
case when he comes, though he rather lives than talks his religion. I
never saw, as far as piety is concerned, a more perfect specimen of a
man in his every-day life.

Do you pray for me every night and every morning? Don't forget how I
comfort myself with thinking that you every day ask for me those graces
of the Spirit which I so long for. Indeed, I have had lately such
heavenward yearnings!... Why do you ask _if_ I pray for you, as if I
could love you and _help_ praying for you continually and always. I have
no light sense of the holiness a Christian minister should possess. I
half wish there were no veil upon my heart on this point, that you
might see how, from the very first hour of your return from abroad, my
interest in you went hand-in-hand with this _looking upward_.

_Jan. 22d._--We have all been saddened by the repeated trials with which
our friends the Willises are visited this winter. Mrs. Willis is still
very ill, and there is no hope of her recovery; and Ellen, the pet
of the whole household--the always happy, loving, beautiful young
thing--who had been full of delight in the hope of becoming a mother,
lies now at the point of death; having lost her infant, and with it her
bright anticipations. For fourteen years there had not been a physician
in their house, and you may imagine how they are all now taken, as it
were, by surprise by the first break death has threatened to make in
their peculiarly happy circle. Our love for all the family has grown
with our growth and strengthened with our strength, and what touches
them we all feel.

_Feb. 8th._--How is it that people who have no refuge in God live
through the loss of those they love? I am very sad this morning, and
almost wish I had never loved you or anybody. Last night we heard of the
death of Julia Willis' sister, and this morning learn that a dear little
girl in whom we all were much interested, and whom I saw on Saturday
only slightly unwell, is taken away from her parents, who have no
manner of consolation in losing this only child. There is a great cloud
throughout our house, and we hardly know what to do with ourselves. When
I met mother and sister yesterday on my return from your house, I saw
that something was the matter of which they hesitated to tell me; and of
whom should I naturally think but of you--you in whom my life is bound
up; and, when mother finally came to put her arms around me, I suffered
for the moment that intensity of anguish which I should feel in knowing
that something dreadful had befallen you. She told me, however, of poor
Ellen's death, and I was so lost in recovering you again that I cared
for nothing else all the evening, and until this morning had scarcely
thought of the aching, aching hearts she has left behind. Her poor young
husband, who loved her so tenderly, is half-distracted.

Oh, I have blessed God to-day that until He had given me a sure and
certain hold upon Himself, He had not suffered me to love as I love now!
It is a mystery which I can not understand, how the heart can live on
through the moment which rends it asunder from that of which it has
become a part, except by hiding itself in God. I have felt Ellen's death
the more, because she and her husband were associated in my mind with
you. I hardly know how or why; but she told me much of the history of
her heart when I saw her last summer on my way home from Richmond, at
the same time that she spoke much of you. She had seen you at our house
before you went abroad, and seemed to have a sort of presentiment that
we should love each other.

But I ought to beg you to forgive me for sending you this gloomy page;
yet I was restless and wanted to tell you the thoughts that have been in
my heart towards you to-day--the serious and saddened love with which I
love you, when I think of you as one whom God may take from me at any
moment. I do not know that it is unwise to look this truth in the face
sometimes--for if ever there was heart tempted to idolatry, to giving
itself up fully, utterly, with perfect abandonment of every other hope
and interest, to an earthly love, so is mine tempted now.

_Feb. 13th._--Mother is going to Boston with sister on Saturday,
provided I am well enough (which I mean to be), as Mrs. Willis has
expressed a strong wish to see her once more. We heard from them
yesterday again. Poor Ellen's coffin was placed just where she stood as
a bride, less than eight months ago, and her little infant rested on her
breast. There is rarely a death so universally mourned as hers; she was
the most winning and attractive young creature I ever saw.

_Feb. 21st._--Are you in earnest? Are you in earnest? Are you really
coming home in March? I am afraid to believe, afraid to doubt it. I am
crying and laughing and writing all at once. You would not tell me so
unless you _really were coming_, I know ... And you are coming home!
(How madly my heart is beating! lie still, will you?) I almost feel that
you are here and that you look over my shoulder and read while I write.
Are you sure that you will come? Oh, don't repent and send me another
letter to say that you will wait till it is pleasanter weather; it is
pleasant now. I walked out this morning, and the air was a spring air,
and gentlemen go through the streets with their cloaks hanging over
their arms, and there is a constant plashing against the windows, of
water dripping down from the melting snow; yes, I verily believe that
it is warm, and that the birds will sing soon--I do, upon my word ...
I wouldn't have the doctor come and feel my pulse this afternoon for
anything. He would prescribe fever powders or fever drops, or something
of the sort, and bleed me and send me to bed, or to the insane hospital;
I don't know which. I could cry, sing, dance, laugh, all at once. Oh,
that I knew exactly when you will be here--the day, the hour, the
minute, that I might know to just what point to govern my impatient
heart--for it would be a pity to punish the poor little thing too
severely. I have been reading to-day something which delighted me very
much; do you remember a little poem of Goethe's, in which an imprisoned
count sings about the flower he loves best, and the rose, the lily, the
pink, and the violet, each in turn fancy themselves the objects of his
love. [5] You see I put you in the place of the prisoner at the outset,
and I was to be the flower of his love, whatever it might be. Well,
it was the "Forget-me-not." If there were a flower called the
"Always-loving," maybe I might find out to what order and class I
belong. Dear me; there's the old clock striking twelve, and I verily
meant to go to bed at ten, so as to sleep away as much of the time as
possible before your coming, but I fell into a fit of loving meditation,
and forgot everything else. You should have seen me pour out tea
to-night! Why, the first thing I knew, I had poured it all out into my
own cup till it ran over, and half filled the waiter, which is the first
time I ever did such a ridiculous thing in my life. But, dearest, I
bid you good night, praying you may have sweet dreams and an inward
prompting to write me a long, long, blessed letter, such as shall make
me dance about the house and sing.

_Feb. 22d._--Oh, I am frightened at myself, I am so happy! It seems
as if even this whole folio would not in the least convey to you the
gladness with which my heart is dancing and singing and making merry.
The doctor seems quite satisfied with my shoulder, and says "_it's
first-rate;_" so set your heart at rest on that point. I hope there'll
be nobody within two miles of our meeting. Suppose you stop in some out
of the way place just out of town, and let me trot out there to see you?
Oh, are you really coming?

_To G, E. S. March 4, 1844._

I must write a few lines to tell you, my dear cousin, that I am thinking
of and praying for you on your birthday. I have but one request to offer
either for you or for myself, and that is for more love to our Redeemer.
I bless God that I have no other want.... I do not know why it is, but I
never have thought so much of death and of the certainty that I, sooner
or later, must die, as within a few months past. I am not exactly
superstitious, but this daily and hourly half-presentiment that my life
will not be a long one, is singularly subduing, and seems to lay a
restraining hand upon future plans. I am not sorry, whatever may be the
event, that it is so. I dread clinging to this world and seeking my rest
in it. I am not afraid to die, or afraid that anything I love may be
taken from me; I only have this serious and thoughtful sense of death
upon my mind. You know how we have loved the Willis family, and can
imagine how we felt the death of their youngest daughter, who was dear
to everybody. And Mrs. Willis is, probably, not living. This has added
to my previous feeling on the subject, which was, perhaps, first
occasioned by the sudden and terrible loss of my poor friend, Mr.
Thatcher, a year ago this month. [6] God forbid I should ever forget the
lessons He saw I needed, and dare to feel that there is a thing upon
earth which death may not touch. Oh, in how many ways He has sought to
win my whole heart for His own!

_March 22d._--I was interrupted last night by the arrival of G. L. P.,
after his four months' absence in Mississippi, improved in health, and
in looks, and in spirits, and quite as glad to see me, I believe, as
even you, in your goodness of heart, say my lover ought to be. But I
will tell you the truth, my dear cousin, I am _afraid_ of love. There is
no other medium, save that of the happiness of loving and being loved,
by which my affections could be effectually turned from divine to
earthly things. Am I not then on dangerous ground? Yet God mercifully
shows me that it is so, and when I think how He has saved me hitherto
through sharp temptations, it seems wicked, distrust of Him, not to feel
that He will save me through those to come. I know now there are some of
the great lessons of life yet to be learned; I believe I must _suffer_
as long as I have an earthly existence. Will not then God make that
suffering but as a blessed reprover to bring me nearer Himself? I hope
so.

During the winter her health had become so much impaired, that great
anxiety was felt as to the issue. In a letter to her friend, Miss Ellen
Thurston, dated April 20, 1844, she writes:

You remember, perhaps, that on the afternoon you were so good as to
come and spend with me, I was making a fuss about a little thing on
my shoulder. Well, I had at last to have it removed, and though the
operation was not in itself very painful, its effects on my whole
nervous system have been most powerful. I have lost all regular habits
of sleep--for a week I do not know that I slept two hours--and am ready
to fly into a fit at the bare thought of sitting still long enough to
write a common letter. I have, however, the consolation of being pitied
and consoled with, as there's something in the idea of cutting at the
flesh which touches the heart, a thousand times more than some severer
sufferings would do. I am getting quite thin and weak upon it, and I
believe mother firmly expects me to shrink into nothing, though I am a
pretty bouncing girl still.

Owing to some mishap the healing process was entirely thwarted, and
after a very trying summer, the operation had to be repeated. This time
it was performed by that eminent surgeon and admirable Christian man,
Dr. John C. Warren of Boston, assisted by his son, Dr. J. M. W. Dr.
Warren told Miss Payson's friend, who had accompanied an invalid sister
to New York, that he thought it would require "about five minutes;" but
it proved to be much more serious than he had anticipated. Miss Willis,
in her letter from Geneva already quoted, thus refers to it:

My next meeting with Lizzy revealed a striking trait of her character,
which hitherto I had had no opportunity of observing--her wonderful
fortitude under suffering. I was at the seashore with my sister and
family when, her little child being taken suddenly very ill in the
night, I went up to Boston by an early train to bring down as soon
as possible our family physician. On arriving at his house I was
disappointed at being told that he could not come at once, being engaged
to perform an operation that morning. While waiting for the return
train, I called at my father's office and was surprised to hear that
Lizzy was the patient. A painful tumor had developed itself on the back
of her neck, and she had come up with her mother to Boston to consult
Dr. Warren, who had advised its immediate removal.

I went at once to see her. She greeted me with even more than her usual
warmth and after stating in a few words the object of her coming to
Boston and that she was expecting the doctors every moment, she added:
"You will stay with me, I am sure. Mother insists on being present, but
she can not bear it. She will be sure to faint. If you will promise
to stay, I can persuade her to remain in the next room." Seeing the
distress in my face at the request, she said, "I will be very good. You
will have nothing to do but sit in the room, to satisfy mother." It was
impossible to refuse and I remained. There was no chloroform then to
give blessed unconsciousness of suffering and every pang had to be
endured, but she more than kept her promise to "be good." Not a sound or
a movement betrayed suffering. She spoke only once. After the knife was
laid aside and the threaded needle was passed through the quivering
flesh to draw the gaping edges of the wound together, she asked, after
the first stitch had been completed, in a low, almost calm tone, with
only a slight tremulousness, how many more were to be taken. When the
operation was over, and the surgeons were preparing to depart, she
questioned them minutely as to the mark which would be left after
healing. I was surprised that she could think of it at such a moment,
knowing how little value she had always set on her personal appearance,
but her mother explained it afterward by referring to her betrothal to
you, and the fear that you would find the scar disfiguring. [7]

In a letter to Mrs. Stearns, [8] she herself writes, Sept. 6:

I had no idea of the suffering which awaited me. I thought I should get
off as I did the first time. But I have a great deal to be thankful for.
On Wednesday, to my infinite surprise and gladness, George pounced down
upon me from New York, having been quite cut to the heart by the account
mother gave him. Everybody is so kind, and I have had so many letters,
and seen so many sympathising faces, and "dear Lizzy" sounds so sweet
to my insatiable ears; and yet--and yet--I would rather die than live
through the forty-eight hours again which began on Monday morning.
Somebody must have prayed for me, or I never should have got through.

An extract from another of her letters, dated Portland, September 11th,
belongs here:

I must tell you, too, about Dr. Warren (the old one). When mother
asked him concerning the amount he was to receive from her for his
professional services, he smiled and said: "I shall not charge _you_
much, and as for Miss Payson, when she is married and rich, she may pay
me and welcome--but not till then." I told him I never expected to be
rich, and he replied, with what mother thought an air of contentment
that said he knew all about it: "Well, we can be happy without riches,"
and such a good, happy smile shone all over his face as I have seldom
been so fortunate as to see in an old man. As for the young one, he
seemed as glad when I was dressed on Sunday with a clean frock and no
shawl, as if it were really a matter of consequence to him to see his
patients looking comfortable and well. I am getting along finely; there
is only one spot on my shoulder which is troublesome, and they ordered
me on a very strict diet for that--so I am half-starved this blessed
minute. We went to Newburyport on Monday, and stayed there with Anna
till yesterday afternoon. I think the motion of the cars hurt me
somewhat, but by the time you get here I do hope I shall be quite well.

_Evening_.-- ... I have had such happy thoughts and prayers to-night!
You should certainly have knelt with me in my little room, where, for
the first time a year ago this evening, I asked God to bless _us_; and
you too, perhaps, then began first to pray for me. Oh, what a wonderful
time it was!... I hope you have prayed for me to-day--I don't mean as
you always do, but with new prayers wherewith to begin the new year. God
bless you and love you!

But this period was also one of large mental growth. It was marked
especially by two events that had a shaping influence upon both her
intellectual and religious character. One was the study of German. She
was acquainted already with French and Italian; she now devoted her
leisure hours to the language and works of Schiller and Goethe. These
opened to her a new world of thought and beauty. Her correspondence
contains frequent allusions to the progress of her German reading. Here
is one in a letter to her cousin:

I have read George Herbert a good deal this winter. I have also read
several of Schiller's plays--William Tell and Don Carlos among the
rest--and got a great deal more excited over them than I have over
anything for a long while. George has a large German library, but
I don't suppose I shall be much the wiser for it, unless I turn to
studying theology. Did you read in Goethe's Wilhelm Meister, the
"Bekenntnisse einer schönen Seele"? I do think it did my soul good when
I read it last July. The account she gives of her religious history
reminded me of mine in some points very strongly.

The other incident was her introduction to the writings of Fenelon--an
author whom, in later years, she came to regard as an oracle of
spiritual wisdom. In the letter just quoted, she writes: "I am reading
Fenelon's 'Maximes des Saints,' and many of his ideas please me
exceedingly. Some of his 'Lettres Spirituelles' are delicious--so
heavenly, so child-like in their spirit." [9]


[1] _Jan, 1, 1845._--I used never to confide my religious feelings to
any one in the world. I went on my toilsome, comfortless way quite by
myself. But when at the end of this long, gloomy way, I saw and knew and
rejoiced in Christ, then I forgot myself and my pride and my reserve,
and was glad if a little child would hear me say "I love Him!"--glad if
the most ignorant, the most hitherto despised, would speak of Him.

[2] Later she writes: "I have had a long talk with sister to-day about
Leighton. She claims him, as all the Perfectionists do, as one of their
number; though, by the way, in the common acceptation of the word, she
is not a Perfectionist herself, but only on the boundary-line of the
enchanted ground. I am completely puzzled when I think on such subjects.
I doubt if sister is right, yet know not where she is wrong. She
does not obtrude her peculiar opinions on any one, and I began the
conversation this afternoon myself."

[3] "Oh, what a blessed thing it is to lose one's will! Since I have
lost my will I have found happiness. There can be no such thing as
disappointment to me, for I have no desires but that God's will may be
accomplished." "Christians might avoid much trouble if they would only
believe what they profess, viz.: that God is able to make them happy
without anything but Himself. They imagine that if such a dear friend
were to die, or such and such blessings to be removed, they should be
miserable; whereas God can make them a thousand times happier without
them. To mention my own case: God has been depriving me of one blessing
after another; but as every one was removed, He has come in and filled
up its place; and now, when I am a cripple and not able to move, I am
happier than ever I was in my life before or ever expected to be; and
if I had believed this twenty years ago, I might have been spared much
anxiety."

[4] The Right Rev. John Johns, Bishop of the Protestant Episcopal Church
of Virginia, was a man of apostolic simplicity and zeal, and universally
beloved. An almost ideal friendship existed between him and Dr. Charles
Hodge, of Princeton. _Dear, blessed, old John,_ Dr. H. called him when
he was seventy-nine years old. See Life of Dr. Hodge, pp. 564-569.
Bishop Johns died in 1876.

[5] Das Blümlein Wunderschön. _Lied des gefangenen Grafen_, is the title
of the poem. Goethe's Samtliche Werke. Vol. I., p. 151.

[6] See appendix A, p. 533.

[7] The horrible operation is over, Heaven be praised! It was far more
horrible than we had anticipated. They were _an hour and a quarter_,
before all was done. I was very brave at first and wouldn't leave the
room, but I found myself so faint that I feared falling and had to go.
Lizzy behaved like a heroine indeed, so that even the doctors admired
her fortitude. She never spoke, but was deadly faint, so that they were
obliged to lay her down that the dreadful wound might bleed; then there
was an artery to be taken up and tied; then six stitches to be taken
with a great big needle. Most providentially dear Julia Willis came
in about ten minutes before the doctors and though she was greatly
distressed, she never faints, and staid till Lizzy was laid in bed....
She was just like a marble statue, but even more beautiful, while the
blood stained her shoulders and bosom. You couldn't have looked on such
suffering without fainting, man that you are.--_From a letter of Mrs.
Payson, dated Boston, Sept. 2, 1844._

[8] Her friend, Miss Prentiss, had been married, in the previous autumn,
to the Rev. Jonathan F. Stearns, of Newburyport.

[9] "Explication des Maximes des Saints sur la Vie Intérieure" is
the full title of the famous little work first named. It appeared in
January, 1697. If measured by the storm it raised in France and at Rome,
or by the attention it attracted throughout Europe, its publication may
be said to have been one of the most important theological events of
that day. The eloquence of Bossuet and the power of Louis XIV. were
together exerted to the utmost in order to brand its illustrious author
as a heretical Quietist; and, through their almost frantic efforts, it
was at last condemned in a papal brief. But, for all that, the little
work is full of the noblest Christian sentiments. It pushes the doctrine
of pure love, perhaps, to a perilous extreme, but still an extreme that
leans to the side of the highest virtue. After its condemnation the
Pope, Innocent XII., wrote to the French prelates, who had been most
prominent in denouncing Fenelon: _Peccavit excessu amoris divini, sed
vos peccastis defectu amoris proximi_--i.e., "He has erred by too much
love of God, but ye have erred by too little love of your neighbor."




CHAPTER IV.

THE YOUNG WIFE AND MOTHER.

1845-1850.

I.

Marriage and Settlement in New Bedford. Reminiscences. Letters. Birth of
her First Child. Death of her Sister-in-Law. Letters.


On the 16th of April, 1845, Miss Payson was married to the Rev. George
Lewis Prentiss, then just ordained as pastor of the South Trinitarian
church in New Bedford, Mass. Here she passed the next five and a half
years; years rendered memorable by precious friendships formed in them,
by the birth of two of her children, by the death of her mother, and by
other deep joys and sorrows. New Bedford was then known, the world over,
as the most important centre of the whale-fishery. In quest of the
leviathans of the deep its ships traversed all seas, from the tumbling
icebergs of the Arctic Ocean to the Southern Pacific. But it was also
known nearer home for the fine social qualities of its people. Many of
the original settlers of the town were Quakers, and its character had
been largely shaped by their friendly influence. Husbands and wives,
whether young or old, called each other everywhere by their Christian
names, and a charming simplicity marked the daily intercourse of life.
Into this attractive society Mrs. Prentiss was at once welcomed. The
Arnold family in particular--a family representing alike the friendly
spirit, the refinement and taste, the wealth, and the generous
hospitality of the place--here deserve mention. Their kindness was
unwearied; flowers and fruit came often from their splendid garden and
greenhouses; and, in various other ways, they contributed from the
moment of her coming to render New Bedford a pleasant home to her.

But it was in her husband's parish that she found her chief interest
and joy. His people at first welcomed her in the warmest manner on her
sainted father's account, but they soon learned to love her for her own
sake. She early began to manifest among them that wonderful sympathy,
which made her presence like sunshine in sick rooms and in the house of
mourning, and, in later years, endeared her through her writings to so
many hearts. While her natural shyness and reserve caused her to shrink
from everything like publicity, and even from that leadership in the
more private activities of the church which properly belonged to her sex
and station, any kind of trouble instantly aroused and called into play
all her energies. The sickness and death of little children wrought upon
her with singular power; and, in ministering aid and comfort to bereaved
mothers, she seemed like one specially anointed of the Lord for this
gentle office. Now, after the lapse of more than a third of a century,
there are those in New Bedford and its vicinity who bless her memory, as
they recall scenes of sharp affliction cheered by her presence and her
loving sympathy.

The following reminiscences by one of her New Bedford friends, written
not long after her death, belong here:

Oh, that I had the pen of a ready writer! How gladly would I depict her
just as she came to New Bedford, a youthful bride and our pastor's wife,
more than a third of a century ago! My remembrances of her are still
fresh and delightful; but they have been for so many years _silent_
memories that I feel quite unable fully to express them. And yet I will
try to give you a few simple details. Several things strike me as I
recall her in those days. Our early experiences in the struggle of life
had been somewhat similar and this drew us near to each other. She was
naturally very shy and in the presence of strangers, or of
uncongenial persons, her reserve was almost painful; but with her
friends--especially those of her own sex--all this vanished and she was
full of animated talk. Her conversation abounded in bright, pointed
sayings, in fine little touches of humor, in amusing anecdotes and
incidents of her own experience, which she related with astonishing ease
and fluency, sometimes also in downright girlish fun and drollery; and
all was rendered doubly attractive by her low, sweet woman's voice and
her merry, fitful laugh. Yet these things were but the sparkle of a very
deep and serious nature. Even then her religious character was to me
wonderful. She seemed always to know just what was prompting her,
whether, nature or grace; and her perception of the workings of the two
principles was like an instinct. While I, though cherishing a Christian
hope, was still struggling in bondage under the law, she appeared to
enjoy to the full the glorious liberty of the children of God. And when
I would say to her that I was constantly doing that which I ought not
and leaving undone so much that I ought to do, she would try to comfort
me and to encourage me to exercise more faith by responding, "Oh, you
don't know what a great sinner I am; but Christ's love is greater
still." There was a helpful, assuring, sunshiny influence about her
piety which I have rarely seen or felt in any other human being. And
almost daily, during all the years of separation, I have been conscious
of this influence in my own life.

I remember her as very retiring in company, even among our own people.
But if there were children present, she would gather them about her and
hold them spell-bound by her talk. Oh, she was a marvellous storyteller!
How often have I seen her in the midst of a little group, who, all eyes
and ears, gazed into her face and eagerly swallowed every word, while
she, intent on amusing them, seemed quite unconscious that anybody else
was in the room. Mr. H---- used to say, "How I envy those children and
wish I were one of them!"

Mrs. Prentiss received much attention from persons outside of our
congregation, and who, from their position and wealth, were pretty
exclusive in their habits. But they could not resist the attraction of
her rare gifts and accomplishments. New Bedford at that time, as you
know, had a good deal of intellectual and social culture. This was
particularly the case among the Unitarians, whose minister, when you
came to us, was that excellent and very superior man, the Rev. Ephraim
Peabody, D.D., afterwards of King's Chapel in Boston. One of the leading
families of his flock was the "Arnold family," whose garden and grounds
were then among the finest in the State and at whose house such men
as Richard H. Dana, the poet, the late Professor Agassiz, and others
eminent for their literary and scientific attainments, were often to be
seen. This whole family were warmly attached to Mrs. Prentiss, and after
you left New Bedford, often referred to their acquaintance with her in
the most affectionate manner. And I believe Mr. Arnold and his daughter
used to visit you in New York. The father, mother, daughter, and aunt
are all gone. And what a change have all these vanished years wrought
in the South Trinitarian society! I can think of only six families then
worshipping there, that are worshipping there now. But so long as a
single one remains, the memory of Mrs. Prentiss will still be precious
in the old church.

The story of the New Bedford years may be told, with slight additions
here and there, by Mrs. Prentiss' own pen. Most of her letters to her
own family are lost; but the letters to her husband, when occasionally
separated from her, and others to old friends, have been preserved and
afford an almost continuous narrative of this period. A few extracts
from some of those written in 1845, will show in what temper of mind she
entered upon her new life. The first is dated Portland, January both,
just after Mr. Prentiss received the call to New Bedford:

I have wished all along, beyond anything else, not so much that we might
have a pleasant home, pleasant scenery and circumstances, good society
and the like, as that we might have good, holy influences about us, and
God's grace and love within us. And for you, dear George, I did not so
much desire the intellectual and other attractions, about which we have
talked sometimes, as a dwelling-place among those whom you might train
heavenward or who would not be a hindrance in your journey thither.
Through this whole affair I know I have thought infinitely more of you
than of myself. And if you are happy at the North Pole shan't I be happy
there too? I shall be heartily thankful to see you a pastor with a
people to love you. Only I shall be jealous of them.

To her friend, Miss Thurston, she writes from New Bedford, April 28th:

I thank you with all my heart for your letter and for the very pretty
gift, which I suppose to be the work of your own hands. I can not tell
you how inexpressibly dear to me are all the expressions of affection I
have received and am receiving from old friends. We have been here ten
days, and very happy days they have been to me, notwithstanding I have
had to see so many strange faces and to talk to so many new people. And
both my sister and Anna tell me that the first months of married life
are succeeded by far happier ones still; so I shall go on my way
rejoicing. As to what your brother says about disappointment, nobody
believes his doctrine better than I do; but life is as full of blessings
as it is of disappointments, I conceive, and if we only know how, we may
often, out of mere _will_, get the former instead of the latter. I have
had some experience of the "conflict and dismay" of this present evil
world; but then I have also had some of its smiles. Neither of these
ever made me angry with this life, or in love with it. I believe I am
pretty cool and philosophical, but it won't do for me at this early day
to be boasting of what is in me. I shall have to wait till circumstances
bring it out. I can only answer for the past and the present--the one
having been blessed and gladdened and the other _being_ made happy and
cheerful by lover and husband. I'll tell you truly, as I promised to do,
if my heart sings another tune on the 17th of April, 1848. I only hope
I shall enter soberly and thankfully on my new life, expecting sunshine
and rain, drought and plenty, heat and cold--and adapting myself to
alternations contentedly--but who knows? We are boarding at a hotel,
which is not over pleasant. However, we have two good rooms and have
home things about us. I like to sit at work while Mr. Prentiss writes
his sermons and he likes to have me--so, for the present, a study can be
dispensed with. In a few weeks we hope to get to housekeeping. I like
New Bedford very much.

To her husband she writes, June 18:

I can not help writing you again, though I did send you a letter last
night. It is a very pleasant morning, and I think of you all the time
and love you with the happiest tears in my eyes. I have just been making
some nice crispy gingerbread to send Mrs. H----, as she has no appetite,
and I thought anything from home would taste good to her. I hope this
will please you. Mother called with me to see her yesterday. She looks
very ill. I have no idea she will ever get well. We had a nice time at
the garden last night. Mr. and Miss Arnold came out and walked with us
nearly an hour, though tea was waiting for them, and Miss A. was very
particularly attentive to me (for your dear sake!), and gave me flowers,
beautiful ones, and spoke with much interest of your sermons. Oh, I am
ready to jump for joy, when I think of seeing you home again. Do please
be glad as I am. I suppose your mother wants you too; but then she can't
love you as I do--I'm sure she can't--with all the children among whom
she has to divide her heart. Give my best love to her and Abby. How I
wish I were in Portland, helping you pack your books. But I can't write
any more as we are going to Mrs. Gibbs' to tea. Mother is reading Hamlet
in her room. She is enjoying herself very much.

Mrs. Gibbs, whose name occurs in this letter, was one of those
inestimable friends, who fulfill the office of mother, as it were, to
the young minister's wife. She was tenderly attached to Mrs. Prentiss
and her loving-kindness, which was new every morning and fresh every
evening, ceased only with her life. Her husband, the late Capt. Robert
Gibbs, was like her in unwearied devotion to both the pastor and the
pastor's wife.

The summer was passed in getting settled in her new home, and receiving
visits from old friends. Early in the autumn she spent several weeks in
Portland. After her return, Nov. 2, she writes to Miss Thurston:

I was in Portland after you had left, and got quite rested and recruited
after my summer's fatigue, so that I came home with health and strength,
if not to lay my hand to the plough, to apply it to the broom-handle and
other articles of domestic warfare. Just what I expected would befall me
has happened. I have got immersed in the whirlpool of petty cares and
concerns which swallow up so many other and higher interests, and
talk as anxiously about good "help" and bad, as the rest of 'em do. I
sometimes feel really ashamed of myself to see how virtuously I fancy I
am spending my time, if in the kitchen, and how it seems to be wasted if
I venture to take up a book. I take it that wives who have no love and
enthusiasm for their husbands are more to be pitied than blamed if they
settle down into mere cooks and good managers.... We have had right
pleasant times since coming home; never pleasanter than when, for a day
or two, I was without "help," and my husband ground coffee and drew
water for me, and thought everything I made tasted good. One of the
deacons of our church--a very old man--prays for me once a week at
meeting, especially that my husband and I may be "mutual comforts and
enjoyments of each other," which makes us laugh a little in our sleeves,
even while we say Amen in our hearts. We have been reading aloud Mary
Howitt's "Author's Daughter," which is a very good story indeed--don't
ask me if I have read anything else. My mind has become a complete
mummy, and therefore incapable of either receiving or originating a new
idea. I did wade through a sea of words, and nonsense on my way home in
the shape of two works of Prof. Wilson--"The Foresters" and "Margaret
Lindsay"--which I fancy he wrote before he was out of his mother's arms
or soon after leaving them. The girls in Portland are marrying off like
all possessed. It reminds me of a shovel full of popcorn, which the more
you watch it the more it won't pop, till at last it all goes racketing
off at once, pop, pop, pop; without your having time to say Jack
Robinson between.

My position as wife of a minister secures for me many affectionate
attentions, and opens to me many little channels of happiness, which
conspire to make me feel contented and at home here. I do not know how
a stranger would find New Bedford people, but I am inclined to think
society is hard to get into, though its heart is warm when you once do
get in. We are very pleasantly situated, and our married life has been
abundantly blessed. I doubt if we could fail to be contented anywhere if
we had each other to love and care for.

We went to hear Templeton sing last night. I was perfectly charmed with
his hunting song and with some others, and better judges than I were
equally delighted. I had a letter from Abby last week. She is in
Vicksburg and in fine spirits, and fast returning health.

Her letters during 1846 glow with the sunshine of domestic peace and
joy. In its earlier months her health was unusually good and she depicts
her happiness as something "wonderful." All the day long her heart, she
says, was "running over" with a love and delight she could not begin
to express. But her letters also show that already she was having
foretastes of that baptism of suffering, which was to fit her for doing
her Master's work. In January she revisited Portland, where she had the
pleasure of meeting Prof, and Mrs. Hopkins with their little boy, and
of passing several weeks in the society of her own and her husband's
family. But Portland had now lost for her much of its attraction. "I've
seen all the folks," she wrote, "and we've said about all we've got to
say to each other, and though I love to be at home, of course, it is not
the home it used to be before you had made such another dear, dear home
for me. Oh, do you miss me? do you feel a _little bit_ sorry you let me
leave you? Do say, yes.... But I can't write, I am so happy! I am so
glad I am going home!" Early in December her first child was born.
Writing a few weeks later to Mrs. Stearns, she thus refers to this
event:

What a world of new sensations and emotions come with the first child! I
was quite unprepared for the rush of strange feelings--still more so for
the saddening and chastening effect. Why should the world seem more than
ever empty when one has just gained the treasure of a living and darling
child?

The saddening effect in her own case was owing in part, no doubt, to
anxiety occasioned by the fatal illness of her husband's eldest sister,
to whom she was tenderly attached. The following letter was written
under the pressure of this anxiety:

_To Miss Thurston, New Bedford, Jan. 31, 1847_

I dare say the idea of _Lizzy Payson_ with a _baby_ seems quite funny
to you, as it does to many of the Portland girls; but I assure you it
doesn't seem in the least funny to me, but as natural as life and I may
add, as wonderful, almost. She is a nice little plump creature, with a
fine head of dark hair which I take some comfort in brushing round a
quill to make it curl, and a pair of intelligent eyes, either black or
blue, nobody knows which. I find the care of her very wearing, and have
cried ever so many times from fatigue and anxiety, but now I am getting
a little better and she pays me for all I do. She is a sweet, good
little thing, her chief fault being a tendency to dissipation and
sitting up late o' nights. The ladies of our church have made her a
beautiful little wardrobe, fortunately for me.

I had a lot of company all summer; my sister, her husband and boy, Mr.
Stearns and Anna, Mother Prentiss, Julia Willis, etc. I had also my last
visit from Abby, whom I little thought then I should never see again.
Our happiness in our little one has been checked by our constant anxiety
with regard to Abby's health, and it is very hard now for me to give up
one who has become in every sense a sister, and not even to have the
privilege of bidding her farewell. George went down about a week since
and will remain till all is over. I do not even know that while I write
she is yet living. She had only one wish remaining and that was to see
George, and she was quite herself the day of his arrival, as also the
day following, and able to say all she desired. Since then she has been
rather unconscious of what was passing, and I fervently trust that by
this time her sufferings are over and that she is where she longed
and prayed to be. [1] You can have no idea how alike are the emotions
occasioned by a birth and a death in the family. They seem equally
solemn to me and I am full of wonder at the mysterious new world into
which I have been thrown. I used to think that the change I saw in
young, giddy girls when they became mothers, was owing to suffering and
care wearing upon the spirits, but I see now that its true source lies
far deeper. My brother H. has been married a couple of months, so I have
one sister more. I shall be glad when they are all married. Some sisters
seem to feel that their brothers are lost to them on their marriage, but
if I may judge by my husband, there is fully as much gain as loss. I am
sure no son or brother could be more devoted to mother and sisters than
he is. Of course the baby is his perfect comfort and delight; but I need
not enlarge on this point, as I suppose you have seen papas with their
first babies. A great sucking of a very small thumb admonishes me that
the little lady in the crib meditates crying for supper, so I must hurry
off my letter.

Abby Lewis Prentiss died on Saturday, January 30, 1847, at the age
of thirty-two. Long and wearisome sufferings, such as usually attend
pulmonary disease, preceded the final struggle. It was toward the close
of a stormy winter's day, that she gently fell asleep. A little while
before she had imagined herself in a "very beautiful region" which her
tongue in vain attempted to describe, surrounded by those she loved.
Among her last half-conscious utterances was the name of her brother
Seargent. The next morning witnessed a scene of such wondrous splendor
and loveliness as made the presence of Death seem almost incredible. The
snow-fall and mist and gloom had ceased; and as the sun rose, clear and
resplendent, every visible object--the earth, trees, houses--shone as
if enameled with gold and pearls and precious stones. It was the Lord's
day; and well did the aspect of nature symbolise the glory of Him, who
is the Resurrection and the Life.

On receiving the news of his sister's death, her brother Seargent,
writing to his mother, thus depicted her character:

My heart bleeds to the core, as I sit down to mingle my tears with
yours, my dear, beloved mother. I can not realise that it is all over;
that I shall never again, in this world, see our dear, dear Abby.
Gladly would I have given my own life to preserve hers. But we have
consolation, even in our extreme grief; for she was so good that we know
she is now in heaven, and freed from all care, unless it be that her
affectionate heart is still troubled for us, whom she loved so well. We
can dwell with satisfaction, after we have overcome the first sharpness
of our grief, upon her angel-like qualities, which made her, long before
she died, fit for the heaven where she now is.... You have lost the
purest, noblest, and best of daughters; I, a sister, who never to my
knowledge did a selfish act or uttered a selfish thought. With the
exception of yourself, dear mother, she was, of all our family circle,
the best prepared to enter her Father's house.

Some extracts from letters written at this time, will show the
tenderness of Mrs. Prentiss' sisterly love and sympathy, and give a
glimpse also of her thoughts and occupations as a young mother.

_To Mrs. Stearns, New Bedford, Feb. 17, 1847_

If I loved you less, my dear Anna, I could write you twenty letters
where I now can hardly get courage to undertake one. How very dearly
I do love you I never knew, till it rushed upon my mind that we might
sometime lose you as we have lost dear Abby. How mysteriously your and
Mary's and my baby are given us just at this very time, when our hearts
are so sore that we are almost afraid to expose them to new sufferings
by taking in new objects of affection! But it does seem to me a great
mercy that, trying as it is in many respects, these births and this
death come almost hand in hand. Surely we three young mothers have
learned lessons of life that must influence us forever in relation to
these little ones!

I have been like one in the midst of a great cloud, since the birth
of our baby, entirely unconscious how much I love her; but I am just
beginning to take comfort in and feel sensible affection for her. I long
to show the dear little good creature to you. But I can hardly give up
my long-cherished plans and hopes in regard to Abby's seeing and loving
our first child. Almost as much as I depended on the sympathy and
affection of my own mother in relation to this baby, I was depending on
Abby's. But I rejoice that she is where she is, and would not have her
back again in this world of sin and conflict and labor, for a thousand
times the comfort her presence could give. But you don't know how I
dread going home next summer and not finding her there! It was a great
mercy that you could go down again, dear Anna. And indeed there are
manifold mercies in this affliction--how many we may never know, till we
get home to heaven ourselves and find, perhaps, that this was one of the
invisible powers that helped us on our way thither. I had a sweet little
note from your mother to-day. I would give anything if I could go right
home, and make her adopt me as her daughter by a new adoption, and be a
real blessing and comfort to her in this lonely, dark time. Eddy Hopkins
calls my baby _his_. How children want to use the possessive case in
regard to every object of interest!

I find the blanket that Mrs. Gibbs knit for me so infinitely preferable,
from its elasticity, to common flannel, that I could not help knitting
one for you. If I say that I have thought as many affectionate thoughts
to you, while knitting it, as it contains stitches, I fancy I speak
nothing but truth and soberness--for I love you now with the love I have
returned on my heart from Abby, who no longer is in want of earthly
friends. Dear little baby thought I was knitting for her special
pleasure, for her bright eyes would always follow the needles as she lay
upon my lap, and she would smile now and then as if thanking me for my
trouble. The ladies have given her an elegant cloak, and Miss Arnold has
just sent her a little white satin bonnet that was made in England, and
is quite unlike anything I ever saw. Only to think, I walked down to
church last Sunday and heard George preach once more!

_March 3d._--We could with difficulty, and by taking turns, get through
reading your letter--not only because you so accurately describe our own
feelings in regard to dear Abby, but because we feel so keenly for you.
I often detect myself thinking, "Now I will sit down and write Abby a
nice long letter"; or imagining how she will act when we go home with
our baby; and as you say, I dream about her almost every night. I used
always to dream of her as suffering and dying, but now I see her just as
she was when well, and hear her advising this and suggesting that, just
as I did when she was here last summer. Life seems so different now from
what it did! It seems to me that my _youth_ has been touched by Abby's
death, and that I can never be so cheerful and light-hearted as I have
been. But, dear Anna, though I doubt not this is still more the case
with you, and that you see far deeper into the realities of life than I
do, we have both the consolations that are to be found in Christ--and
these will remain to us when the buoyancy and the youthful spirit have
gone from our hearts.

_March 12th._ ... I had been reading a marriage sermon to George from
"Martyria," and we were having a nice _conjugal_ talk just as your
little stranger was coming into the world. G. is so hurried and driven
that he can not get a moment in which to write. He has a funeral this
afternoon, that of Mrs. H., a lady whom he has visited for two years,
and a part, if not all, of that time once a week. I have made several
calls since I wrote you last--two of them to see babies, one of whom
took the shine quite off of mine with his great blue-black eyes and
eyelashes that lay halfway down his cheeks.

The latter part of April she visited Portland; while there she wrote to
her husband, April 27:

Just as I had the baby to sleep and this letter dated, I was called down
to see Dr. and Mrs. Dwight and their little Willie. The baby woke before
they had finished their call, and behaved as prettily and looked as
bright and lovely as heart could wish. Dr. Dwight held her a long time
and kissed her heartily. [2] I got your letter soon after dinner, and
from the haste and the _je ne sais quoi_ with which it was written, I
feared you were not well. Alas, I am full of love and fear. How came you
to _walk_ to Dartmouth to preach? Wasn't it by far too long a walk to
take in one day? I heard Dr. Carruthers on Sunday afternoon. He made the
finest allusion to my father I ever heard and mother thought of it as
I did. To-day I have had a good many callers--among the rest Deacon
Lincoln. [3] When he saw the baby he said, "Oh, what a homely creature.
Do tell if the New Bedford babies are so ugly?" Mrs. S., thinking him in
earnest, rose up in high dudgeon and said, "Why, we think her beautiful,
Deacon Lincoln." "Well, I don't wonder," said he. I expect she will get
measles and everything else, for _lots_ of children come to see her and
eat her up. Mother, baby and I spend to-morrow at your mother's. Do up a
lot of sleeping and grow fat, pray do! And oh, love me and think I am
a darling little wife, and write me loving words in your next letter.
_Wednesday_.--We have a fine day for going up to your mother's. And the
baby is bright as a button and full of fun. Aren't you glad?

_To Mrs. Stearns, Portland, May 22, 1847_

We have just been having a little quiet Saturday evening talk about dear
Abby, as we sat here before the lighting of the lamps, and I dare say
I was not the only one who wished you here too. I came up here from my
mother's on Monday morning and have had a delightful week. I can not
begin to tell you how glad I am that we are going to make you a little
visit on our way home. I do so want to see you and your children, and
show you our darling little baby that I can hardly wait till the time
comes. I suppose you have got your little folks off to bed, and so if
you will take a peep into the parlor here you will see how we are all
occupied--mother in her rocking-chair, with her "specs" on, studying my
Dewees on Children; George toe to toe with her, reading some old German
book, and Lina [4] curled upon the sofa, asleep I fancy, while I sit in
the corner and write you from dear Abby's desk with her pen. Mercy
and Sophia watch over the cradle in the dining-room, where mother's
fifteenth grandchild reposes, unconscious of the honor of sleeping where
honorables, reverends, and reverendesses have slumbered before her. How
strange it seems that _my_ baby is one of this family--bone of their
bone, and flesh of their flesh! I need not say how I miss dear Abby, for
you will see at once that that which was months ago a reality to you,
has just become such to me. It pains me to my heart's core to hear how
she suffered. Dear, dear Abby! how I did love her, and how thankful I
am for her example to imitate and her excellencies to rejoice in! Your
uncle James Lewis [5] spent last night here, and this morning he prayed
a delightful prayer, which really softened my whole soul. I do not
know when I have had my own wants so fervently expressed, or been more
edified at family worship, and his allusion to Abby was very touching.

The following extracts from letters written to her husband, while he was
absent in Maine, may be thought by some to go a little too much into
the trifling details of daily life and feeling, but do not such details
after all form no small part of the moral warp and woof of human
experience?

_To her husband New Bedford, August 27th_.

I heard this morning that old Mrs. Kendrick was threatened with typhus
fever, and went down soon after breakfast to see how she did, and, as I
found Mrs. Henrietta had watched with her and was looking all worn out,
I begged her to let me have her baby this afternoon, that she might have
a chance to rest; so, after dinner, Sophia went down and got her. At
first she set up a lamentable scream, but we huddled on her cloak and
put her with our baby into the carriage and gave them a ride. She is
a _proper_ heavy baby, and my legs ache well with trotting round the
streets after the carriage. Think of me as often as you can and pray for
me, and I will think of you and pray for you all the time.

_Tuesday Evening_.--You see I am writing you a sort of little journal,
as you say you like to know all I do while you are away. Our sweet baby
makes your absence far less intolerable than it used to be before she
came to comfort me.... I have felt all soul and as if I had no body,
ever since your precious letter came this morning. I have so pleased
myself with imagining how funny and nice it would be if I could creep in
unperceived by you, and hear your oration! I long to know how you got
through, and what Mr. Stearns and Mr. Smith thought of it. I always pray
for you more when you are away than I do when you are at home, because I
know you are interrupted and hindered about your devotions more or less
when journeying. I have had callers a great part of to-day, among them
Mrs. Leonard, Mrs. Gen. Thompson, Mrs. Randall, and Capt. Clark. [6]
Capt. C. asked for nobody but the baby. The little creature almost
sprang into his arms. He was much gratified and held her a long while,
kissing and caressing her. I think it was pretty work for you to go to
reading your oration to your mother and old Mrs. Coe, when you hadn't
read it to me. I felt a terrible pang of jealousy when I came to that in
your letter. I am going now to call on Miss Arnold.

_Friday, Sept, 3d._--Yesterday forenoon I was _perfectly wretched_. It
came over me, as things will in spite of us, "Suppose he didn't get
safely to Brunswick!" and for several hours I could not shake it off.
It had all the power of reality, and made me so faint that I could do
nothing and fairly had to go to bed. I suppose it was very silly, and
if I had not tried in every way to rise above it might have been even
wicked, but it frightened me to find how much I am under the power of
mere feeling and fancy. But do not laugh at me. Sometimes I say to
myself, "What MADNESS to love any human being so intensely! What would
become of you if he were snatched from you?" and then I think that
though God justly denies us comfort and support for the future, and
bids us lean upon Him _now_ and trust Him for the rest, He can give us
strength for the endurance of His most terrible chastisements when their
hour comes.

_Saturday._--I am a mere baby when I think of your getting sick in this
time of almost universal sickness and sorrow and death.... Yesterday
Mrs. Gibbs and Mrs. Leonard took me, with Sophia and baby, to the
cemetery, and on a long ride of three hours--all of which was
delightful. In the afternoon baby had an ill-turn which alarmed me
excessively, because so many children are sick, but I gave her medicine
and think she will soon be well again. Mrs. Gibbs and Mrs. Randall and
others sent me yesterday a dozen large peaches, two melons, a lot
of shell-beans and tomatoes, a dish of blackberries and some fried
corn-cakes--not an atom of the whole of which shall I touch, taste,
handle, or smell; so you need not fear my killing myself. Mrs. Capt.
Delano, where the Rev. Mr. Brock from England stayed, has just lost two
children after a few days' illness. They were buried in one coffin. Old
Gideon Howland, the richest man here, is also dead. The papers are full
of deaths. Our dear baby is nine months old to-day, and may God, if He
_sees best_, spare her to us as many more; and if He does not, I feel as
if I could give her up to Him--but we don't know what we can do till
the time comes. I hear her sweet little voice down stairs and it sounds
happy, so I guess she feels pretty comfortable.

_Sabbath Evening._--The baby is better, and I dare say it is my
imagination that says she looks pale and puny. She is now asleep in your
study, where too I am sitting in your chair. I came down as soon as I
could this morning, and have stayed here all day. It is so quiet and
pleasant among your books and papers, and it was so dull up-stairs! I
thought before your letter came, while standing over the green, grassy
graves of Lizzie Read, Mary Rodman, and Mrs. Cadwell, [7] how I should
love to have dear Abby in such a green, sweet spot, where we could
sometimes go together to talk of her. I must own I should like to be
buried under grass and trees, rather than cold stone and heavy marble.
Should not you?

       *       *       *       *       *

II.

Birth of a Son. Death of her Mother. Her Grief. Letters. Eddy's Illness
and her own Cares. A Family Gathering at Newburyport. Extracts from
Eddy's Journal.


Passing over another year, which was marked by no incidents requiring
special mention, we come again to a birth and a death in close
conjunction. On the 22d of October, 1848, her second child, Edward
Payson, was born. On the 17th of November, her mother died. Of the life
of this child she herself has left a minute record, portions of which
will be given later. In a letter to his sister, dated New Bedford,
November 21st, her husband thus refers to her mother's departure:

We have just received the sad intelligence of Mother Payson's death. She
passed away very peacefully, as if going to sleep, at half-past five on
Friday afternoon. Dear Lizzy was at first quite overwhelmed, as I knew
she would be--for her attachment to her mother was uncommonly tender and
devoted; but she is now perfectly tranquil and will soon, I trust, be
able to think of her irreparable loss with a melancholy pleasure even.
There is much in the case that is peculiarly fitted to produce a
cheerful resignation. Mrs. Payson has been a severe sufferer; and since
the breaking up of her home in Portland, she has felt, I think, an
increasing detachment from the world. I was exceedingly struck with this
during her visit here last winter. She seemed to me to be fast ripening
for heaven. It is such a comfort to us that she was able to _name_ our
little boy! [8]

Mrs. Payson died in the 65th year of her age. She was a woman of most
attractive and admirable qualities, full of cheerful life and energy,
and a whole-hearted disciple of Jesus. A few extracts from Mrs.
Prentiss' letters will show how deeply she felt her loss. To her
youngest brother she writes:

How gladly I would go, if I could, to see you all, and talk over with
you the thousand things that are filling our minds and hearts! We can
not drain this bitter cup at one draught and then go on our way as
though it had never been. The loss of a mother is never made up or
atoned for; and ours was such a mother; so peculiar in her devotion and
tenderness and sympathy! I can not mourn that her sorrowful pilgrimage
is over, can not think for a moment of wishing she were still on earth,
weeping and praying and suffering--but for myself and for you and for
all I mourn with hourly tears. She has sacrificed herself for us.

To her friend, Miss Lord, she writes, Jan. 31:

It seems to me that every day and hour I miss my dear mother more and
more, and I feel more and more painfully how much she suffered during
her last years and months. Dear Louise, I thought I knew that she could
not live long, but I never realised it, and even now I keep trying to
hope that she has not really gone. Just in this very spot where I now
sit writing, my dear mother's great easy-chair used to sit, and here,
only a year ago, she was praying for and loving me. O, if I had only
_known_ she was dying then, and could have talked with her about heaven
till it had grown to seeming like a home to which she was going, and
whither I should follow her sooner or later! But it is all over and I
would not have her here again, if the shadow of a wish could restore
her to us. I only earnestly long to be fitting, day by day, to meet
her again in heaven. God has mingled many great mercies with this
affliction, and I do not know that I ever in my life so felt the delight
of praying to and thanking Him. When I begin to pray I have so much to
thank Him for, that I hardly know how to stop. I have always thought
I would not for the universe be left unchastised--and now I feel the
smart, I still can say so. Lotty's visit was a great comfort and service
to me, but I was very selfish in talking to her so much about my own
loss, while she was so great a sufferer under hers. Since she left
my little boy has been worse than ever and pined away last week very
rapidly. You can form no idea, by any description of his sufferings, of
what the dear little creature has undergone since his birth. I feel a
perfect longing to see Portland and mother's many dear friends there,
especially your mother and a few like her. I am very tired as I have
written a great part of this with baby in my lap--so I can write no
more.

_To Mrs. Stearns, Feb. 17, 1849._

Dear little Eddy has found life altogether unkind thus far, and I have
had many hours of heartache on his account but I hope he may weather
the storm and come out safely yet. The doctor examined him all over
yesterday, particularly his head, and said he could not make him out a
_sick_ child, but that he thought his want of flesh owing partly to
his sufferings but more to the great loss of sleep occasioned by his
sufferings. Instead of sleeping twelve hours out of the twenty-four, he
sleeps but about seven and that by means of laudanum. Isn't it a mercy
that I have been able to bear so well the fatigue and care and anxiety
of these four hard months? I feel that I have nothing to complain of,
and a _great deal_ to be thankful for. On the whole, notwithstanding my
grief about my dear mother's loss, and my perplexity and distress about
baby, I have had as much real happiness this winter as it is possible
for one to glean in such unfavorable circumstances. _By far_ the
greatest trial I have to contend with, is that of losing all power
to control my time. A little room all of my own, and a regular hour,
morning and night, all of my own would enable me, I think, to say,
"_Now_ let life do its worst!"

I am no stranger, I assure you, to the misgivings you describe in your
last letter; I think them the result of the _wish_ without the _will_
to be holy. We pray for sanctification and then are afraid God will
sanctify us by stripping us of our idols and feel distressed lest we
can not have them and Him too. Reading the life of Madame Guyon gave me
great pain and anxiety, I remember. I thought that if such spiritual
darkness and trial as she was in for many years, was a necessary
attendant on eminent piety, I could not summon courage to try to live
such a life. Of all the anguish in the world there is nothing like
this--the sense of God, without the sense of nearness to Him. I wish you
would always "think aloud" when you write to me. I long to see you and
the children and Mr. S., and so does George. Poor G. has had a very hard
time of it ever since little Eddy's birth--so much care and worry and
sleeplessness and labor, and how he is ever to get any rest I don't see.
These are the times that try our souls. Let nobody condole with me about
our _bodies_. It is the struggle to be patient and gentle and cheerful,
when pressed down and worn upon and distracted, that costs us so much. I
think when I have had all my children, if there is anything left of me,
I shall write about the "Battle of Life" more eloquently than Dickens
has done. I had a pleasant dream about mother and Abby the other night.
They came together to see me and both seemed so well and so happy! I
feel _perfectly happy_ now, that my dear mother has gone home.

_To the Same, May 7, 1849._

I used to think it hard to be sick when I had dear mother hanging over
me, doing all she could for my relief, but it is harder to be denied the
poor comfort of being let alone and to have to drag one's self out of
bed to take care of a baby. Mr. Stearns must know how to pity me, for my
real sick headaches are very like his, and when racked with pain, dizzy,
faint and exhausted with suffering, starvation and sleeplessness, it is
terrible to have to walk the room with a crying child! I thought as I
lay, worn out even to childishness, obliged for the baby's sake to have
a bright sunlight streaming into the chamber, and to keep my eyes and
ears on the alert for the same cause, how still we used to think the
house must be left when my father had these headaches and how mother
busied herself all day long about him, and how nice his little plate of
hot steak used to look, as he sat up to eat it when the sickness had
gone--and how I am suffering here all alone with nobody to give me even
a look of encouragement. George was out of town on my sickest day. When
he was at home he did everything in the world he could do to keep the
children still, but here they must be and I must direct about every
trifle and have them on the bed with me. I am getting desperate and feel
disposed to run furiously in the traces till I drop dead on the way.
Don't think me very wicked for saying so. I am jaded in soul and body
and hardly know what I do want. If T. comes, George, at all events, will
get relief and that will take a burden from my mind.... I want Lina to
come this summer. There is a splendid swing on iron hooks under a tree,
at the house we are going to move into. Won't that be nice for Jeanie
and Mary's other children, if they come? I wish I had a little fortune,
not for myself but to gather my "folks" together with. I shall not write
you, my dear, another complaining letter; do excuse this.

This letter shows the extremity of her trouble; but it is a picture,
merely. The reality was something beyond description; only young
mothers, who know it by experience, can understand its full meaning.
Now, however, the storm for a while abated. The young relative, whose
loving devotion had ministered to the comfort of her dying mother, came
to her own relief and passed the next six months at New Bedford, helping
take care of Eddy. In the course of the spring, too, his worst symptoms
disappeared and hope took the place of fear and despondency. Referring
to this period, his mother writes in Eddy's journal:

On the Saturday succeeding his birth, we heard of my dear mother's
serious illness, and, when he was about three weeks old, of her death.
We were not surprised that his health suffered from the shock it thus
received. He began at once to be affected with distressing colic, which
gave him no rest day or night. His father used to call him a "little
martyr," and such indeed he was for many long, tedious months. On the
16th of February, the doctor came and spent two hours in carefully
investigating his case. He said it was a most trying condition of
things, and he would gladly do something to relieve me, as he thought
I had been through "enough to _kill ten men_." ... When Eddy was about
eight months old, the doctor determined to discontinue the use of
opiates. He was now a fine, healthy baby, bright-eyed and beautiful, and
his colic was reducing itself to certain seasons on each day, instead of
occupying the whole day and night as heretofore. We went through fire
and water almost in trying to procure for him natural sleep. We swung
him in blankets, wheeled him in little carts, walked the room with
him by the hour, etc., etc., but it was wonderful how little sleep he
obtained after all. He always looked wide awake and as if he did not
_need_ sleep. His eyes had gradually become black, and when, after a day
of fatigue and care with him he would at last close them, and we would
flatter ourselves that now we too should snatch a little rest, we would
see them shining upon us in the most amusing manner with an expression
of content and even merriment. About this time he was baptized. I well
remember how in his father's study, and before taking him to church,
we gave him to God. He was very good while his papa was performing the
ceremony, and looked so bright and so well, that many who had never seen
him in his state of feebleness, found it hard to believe he had been
aught save a vigorous and healthy child. My own health was now so broken
down by long sleeplessness and fatigue, that it became necessary for me
to leave home for a season. Dr. Mayhew promised to run in _every day_ to
see that all went well with Eddy. His auntie was more than willing to
take this care upon herself, and many of our neighbors offered to go
often to see him, promising to do everything for his safety and comfort
if I would only go. Not aware how miserable a state I was in, I resolved
to be absent only one week, but was away for a whole month.

A part of the month, with her husband and little daughter, she passed at
Newburyport. His brother, S. S. Prentiss--whose name was then renowned
all over the land as an orator and patriot--had come North for the
last time, bringing his wife and children with him. It was a
never-to-be-forgotten family gathering under the aged mother's roof.

On my return (she continues in Eddy's journal) I found him looking
finely. He had had an ill-turn owing to teething which they had kept
from me, but had recovered from it and looked really beautiful. His
father and uncle S. S. had been to see him once during our vacation,
and we were now expecting them again with his Aunt Mary and her three
children and his grandmother. We depended a great deal on seeing Eddy
and Una together, as she was his _twin_ cousin and only a few hours
older than he. But on the very evening of their arrival he was taken
sick, and, although they all saw him that night looking like himself, by
the next morning he had changed sadly. He grew ill and lost flesh and
strength very fast, and no remedies seemed to have the least effect on
his disorder, which was one induced by teething.... For myself I did not
believe anything could now save my precious baby, and had given him to
God so unreservedly, that I was not conscious of even a wish for his
life.... When at last we saw evident tokens of returning health and
strength, we felt that we received him a second time as from the grave.
To me he never seemed the same child. My darling Eddy was lost to me and
another--_and yet the same_--filled his place. I often said afterward
that a little stranger was running about my nursery, not mine, but
God's. Indeed, I can't describe the peculiar feelings with which I
always regarded him after this sickness, nor how the thought constantly
met me, "He is not mine; he is God's." Every night I used to thank Him
for sparing him to me one day longer; thus truly enjoying him _a day at
a time_.

An extract from a letter to Miss Lord, written on the anniversary of her
mother's death, will close the account of this year.

If I were in Portland now, I should go right down to see you. I feel
just like having a dear, old-fashioned talk with you. I was thinking how
many times death had entered that old Richmond circle of which you and I
once formed a part; Mrs. Persico, Susan, Charlotte Ford, Kate Kennedy,
and now our own dearest Lotty, all gone. I can not tell you how much I
miss and grieve for Lotty. [9] I can not be thankful enough that I went
to Portland in the summer and had that last week with her, nor for her
most precious visit here last winter. Whenever you think of any little
thing she said, I want you to write it down for me, no matter whether
it seems worth writing or not. I know by experience how precious such
things are. This is a sad day to me. Indeed, all of this month has been
so, recalling as it has done, all I was suffering at this time last
year, and all my dear mother was then suffering. I can hardly realise
that she has been in heaven a whole year, and that I feel her loss as
vividly as if it were but yesterday--indeed, more so. I do not feel that
this affliction has done me the good that it ought to have done and that
I hoped it would. As far as I have any excuse it lies in my miserable
health. I want so much to be more of a Christian; to live a life of
constant devotion. Do tell me, when you write, if you have such troubled
thoughts, and such difficulty in being steadfast and unmovable? Oh, how
I sigh for the sort of life I led in Richmond, and which was more or
less the life of the succeeding years at home! My husband tries to
persuade me that the difference is more in my way of life, and that then
being my time for contemplation, now is my time for action. But I know,
myself, that I have lost ground. You must bear me in mind when you pray,
my dear Louise, for I never had so much need of praying nor so little
time or strength for it.

       *       *       *       *       *

III.

Further Extracts from Eddy's Journal. Ill-health. Visit to Newark. Death
of her Brother-in-law, S. S. Prentiss. His Character. Removal to Newark.
Letters.

The record of the new year opens with this entry in Eddy's journal:


_January, 1850._--Eddy is now fourteen months old, has six teeth, and
walks well, but with timidity. He is, at times, really beautiful. He is
very affectionate, and will run to meet me, throw his little arms round
my neck and keep pat-pat-patting me, with delight. Miss Arnold sent him,
at New Year's, a pretty ball, with which he is highly pleased. He rolls
it about by knocking it with a stick, and will shout for joy when he
sees it moving. He is _crazy_ to give everybody something, and when he
is brought down to prayers, hurries to get the Bible for his father, his
little face all smiles and exultation, and his body in a quiver with
emotion. He is like lightning in all his movements, and is never still
for an instant. It is worth a good deal to see his face, it is so
_brimful_ of life and sunshine and gladness.

Her letters, written during the winter and spring, show how in the midst
of bodily suffering, depression, and sorrow her views of life were
changing and her faith in God growing stronger. Three of her brothers
were now in California, seeking their fortunes in the newly-discovered
gold mines. To one of them she writes, March 10th:

I was delighted yesterday by the reception of your letter. I do not
wonder that Lotty's death affected you as it did--but however sharp the
instruments by which these lessons come to us, they are full of good
when they do come. As I look back to the time when I did not know what
death was doing and could do, I seem to myself like a child who has not
yet been to school. The deaths of our dear mother and of Lotty have
taken fast hold of me. Life is _entirely changed_. I do not say this
in a melancholy or repining temper, for I would not have life appear
otherwise than in its true light. All my sickly, wicked disgust with it
has been put to the blush and driven away. I see now that to live for
God, whether one is allowed ability to be actively useful or not, is a
great thing, and that it is a wonderful mercy to be allowed to live and
suffer even, if thereby one can glorify Him. I desire to live if it is
God's will, though I confess heaven looks most attractive when either
sin, sorrow, or sickness weary me. But I must not go on at this rate,
for I could not in writing begin to tell you how different everything
looks as I advance into a knowledge of life and see its awful sorrows
and sufferings and changes and know that I am subject to all its laws,
soon to take my turn in its mysterious close. My dear brother, let us
learn by heart the lessons we are learning, and go in their strength
and wisdom all our days.... Our children are well. Eddy has gone to be
weighed (he weighed twenty-four pounds). He is a fine little fellow.
I have his nurse still, and ought to be in excellent health, but am
a nervous old thing, as skinny and bony as I can be. I can think of
nothing but birds' claws when I look at my hands. But I have so much to
be thankful for in my dear husband and my sweet little children, and
love all of you so dearly, that I believe I am as rich as if I had the
flesh and strength of a giant. I am going this week to hear Miss Arnold
read a manuscript novel. This will give spice to my life. Warmest love
to you all.

Again, May 10th, she writes:

It would be a great pleasure to me to keep a journal for you if I were
well enough, but I am not. I have my sick headache now once a week, and
it makes me really ill for about three days. Towards night of the third
day I begin to brighten up and to eat a morsel, but hardly recover my
strength before I have another pull-down, just as I had got to this
point the door-bell rang, and lo! a beautiful May-basket hanging on the
latch for "Annie," full of pretty and good things. I can hardly wait
till morning to see how her eyes will shine and her little feet fly when
she sees it. George has been greatly distressed about S. S., and has, I
think, very little, if any, hope that he will recover. Dr. Tappan [10]
spent Tuesday night here. We had a really delightful visit from him. He
spoke highly of your classmate, Craig, who is just going to be married.
He told us a number of pleasant anecdotes about father. Eddy has got big
enough to walk in the street. He looks like a little picture, with his
great forehead and bright eyes. He is in every way as large as most
children are at two years. His supreme delight is to tease A. by making
believe strike her or in some other real boy's hateful way. She and he
play together on the grass-plat, and I feel quite matronly as I sit
watching them with their balls and wheel-barrows and whatnots. This
little scamp has, I fear, broken my constitution to pieces. It makes me
crawl all over when I think of you three fagging all day at such dull
and unprofitable labor. But I am sure Providence will do what is really
best for you all. We think and talk of and pray for you every day and
more than once a day, and, in all my ill-health and sufferings, the
remembrance of you is pleasant and in great measure refreshing. I
depend more upon hearing from you all than I can describe. What an
unconquerable thing family affection is!

She thus writes, May 30th, to her old Portland friend, Miss Lord:

I have written very few letters and not a line of anything else the
past winter, owing to the confusion my mind is in most of the time from
distress in my head. Three days out of every seven I am as sick as I
well can be--the rest of the time languid, feeble, and exhausted by
frequent faint turns, so that I can't do the smallest thing in my
family. I hardly know what it is so much as to put a clean apron on to
one of my children. To me this is a constant pain and weariness; for
our expense in the way of servants is greater than we can afford and
everything is going to destruction under my face and eyes, while I dare
not lift a finger to remedy it. I live in constant alternations of hope
and despondency about my health. Whenever I feel a little better, as I
do to-day, I am sanguine and cheerful, but the next ill-turn depresses
me exceedingly. I don't think there is any special danger of my dying,
but there is a good deal of my getting run down beyond the power of
recovery, and of dragging out that useless existence of which I have a
perfect horror. But I would not have you think I am not happy; for I can
truly say that I _am_, most of the time, as happy as I believe one can
be in this world. All my trials and sufferings shut me up to the one
great Source of peace, and I know there has been need of every one of
them.

I have not yet made my plans for the summer. Our doctor urges me to go
away from the children and from the salt water, but I do not believe it
would do me a bit of good. I want you to see my dear little boy. He is
now nineteen months old and as fat and well as can be. He is a beautiful
little fellow, we think, and very interesting. He is as gallant to A.
as you please, and runs to get a cushion for her when their supper is
carried in, and won't eat a morsel himself till he sees her nicely
fixed. George has gone to Boston, and I am lonely enough. I would write
another sheet if I dared, but I don't dare.

What she here says of her happiness, amidst the trials of the previous
winter, is repeated a little later in a letter to her husband:

I can truly say I have not spent a happier winter since our marriage, in
spite of all my sickness. It seems to me I can never recover my spirits
and be as I have been in my best days, but what I lose in one way
perhaps I shall gain in another. Just think how my ambition has been
crushed at every point by my ill-health, and even the ambition to be
useful and a comfort to those about me trampled underfoot, to teach me
what I could not have learned in any other school!

In the month of June she went on a visit to Newark, New Jersey, where
her husband's mother and sister now resided; Dr. Stearns having in the
fall of 1849 accepted a call to the First Presbyterian church in that
city. While she was in Newark news came of the dangerous illness, and,
soon after, of the death at Natchez of her brother-in-law, Mr. S. S.
Prentiss. The event was a great shock to her, and she knew that it would
be a crushing blow to her husband. Her letters to him, written at this
time, are full of the tender love and sympathy that infuse solace into
sorrow-stricken hearts. Here is an extract from one of them, dated July
11th:

I can't tell you how it grieves and distresses me to have had this
long-dreaded affliction come upon you when you were alone. Though I
could do so little to comfort you, it seems as if I _must_ be near
you.... But I know I am doing right in staying here--doing as you would
tell me to do, if I could have your direct wish, and you don't know how
thankful I am that it has pleased God to let me be with dear mother at a
time when she so needed constant affection and sympathy. Yes there are
wonderful mercies with this heavy affliction, and we all see and feel
them. Poor mother has borne all the dreadful suspense and then the
second blow of to-day far better than any of us dared to hope, but she
weeps incessantly. Anna is with her all she can possibly be, and Mr.
Stearns is an angel of mercy. I have prayed for you a great deal this
week, and I know God is with you, comforts you, and will enable you to
bear this great sorrow. And yet I can't help feeling that I want to
comfort you myself. Oh, may we all reap its blessed fruits as long as we
live! Let us withdraw a while from everything else, that we may press
nearer to God.

We were in a state of terrible suspense all day Tuesday, all day
Wednesday, and until noon to-day; starting at every footfall, expecting
telegraphic intelligence either from you or from the South, and
deplorably ignorant of Seargent's alarming condition, notwithstanding
all the warning we had had. With one consent we had put far off the evil
day.... And now I must bid you good-night, my dearest husband, praying
that you may be the beloved of the Lord and rest in safety by Him.

The early years of Mrs. Prentiss' married life were in various ways
closely connected with that of this lamented brother; so much so that he
may be said to have formed one of the most potent, as well as one of the
sunniest, influences in her own domestic history. Not only was he very
highly gifted, intellectually, and widely known as a great orator, but
he was also a man of extraordinary personal attractions, endeared to all
his friends by the sweetness of his disposition, by his winning ways,
his wit, his playful humor, his courage, his boundless generosity, his
fraternal and filial devotion, and by the charm of his conversation. His
death at the early age of forty-one called forth expressions of profound
sorrow and regret from the first men of the nation. After the lapse of
nearly a third of a century his memory is still fresh and bright in the
hearts of all, who once knew and loved him. [11]

Notwithstanding the shock of this great affliction, Mrs. Prentiss
returned to New Bedford much refreshed in body and mind. In a letter to
her friend Miss Lord, dated September 14th, she writes:

I spent six most profitable weeks at Newark; went out very little, saw
very few people, and had the quiet and retirement I had long hungered
and thirsted for. Since I have had children my life has been so
distracted with care and sickness that I have sometimes felt like giving
up in despair, but this six weeks' rest gave me fresh courage to start
anew. I have got some delightful books--Manning's Sermons. [12] They are
(letting the High-churchism go) most delightful; I think Susan would
have feasted on them. But she is feasting on angels' food and has need
of none of these things.

In October of this year Mrs. Prentiss bade adieu to New Bedford,
never to revisit it, and removed to Newark; her husband having become
associate pastor of the Second Presbyterian church in that place. In the
spring of the following year he accepted a call to the Mercer street
Presbyterian church in New York, and that city became her home the
rest of her days. Although she tarried so short a time in Newark, she
received much kindness and formed warm friendships while there. She
continued to suffer much, however, from ill-health and almost entirely
suspended her correspondence. A few letters to New Bedford friends
are all that relate to this period. In one to Mrs. J. P. Allen, dated
November 2d, she thus refers to an accident, which came near proving
fatal:

Yesterday we went down to New York to hear Jenny Lind; a pleasure to
remember for the rest of one's life. If anything, she surpassed our
expectations. In coming home a slight accident to the cars obliged us to
walk about a mile, and I must needs fall into a hole in the bridge which
we were crossing, and bruise and scrape one knee quite badly. The wonder
is that I did not go into the river, as it was a large hole, and pitch
dark. I think if I had been walking with Mr. Prentiss I should not only
have gone in myself, but pulled him in too; but I had the arm of a
stronger man, who held me up till I could extricate myself. You can't
think how I miss you, nor how often I wish you could run in and sit with
me, as you used to do. I have always loved you, and shall remember you
and yours with the utmost interest. We had a pleasant call the other day
from Captain Gibbs. Seeing him made me homesick enough. I could hardly
keep from crying all the time he stayed. It seems to us both as if
we had been gone from New Bedford more months than we have days. Mr.
Prentiss said yesterday that he should expect if he went back directly,
to see the boys and girls grown up and married.

_To Mrs. Reuben Nye, Newark, Feb 12, 1851._

Mr. Prentiss and Mr. Poor have just taken Annie and Eddy out to walk,
and I have been moping over the fire and thinking of New Bedford
friends, and wishing one or more would "happen in." I am just now
getting over a severe attack of rheumatism, which on leaving my back
intrenched itself in Mr. P.'s shoulder. I dislike this climate and am
very suspicious of it. Everybody has a horrible cold, or the rheumatism,
or fever and ague. Mr. Prentiss says if I get the latter, he shall be
off for New England in a twinkling. I think he is as well as can be
expected while the death of his brother continues so fresh in his
remembrance. All the old cheerfulness, which used to sustain me amid
sickness and trouble, has gone from him. But God has ordered the iron to
enter his soul, and it is not for me to resist that will. Our children
are well. We have had much comfort in them both this winter. Mother
Prentiss is renewing her youth, it is so pleasant to her to have us all
near her. (Eddy and A. are hovering about me, making such a noise that I
can hardly write. Eddy says, "When I was tired, _Poor_ tarried me.") Mr.
Poor carries all before him. [13] He is _very_ popular throughout
the city, and I believe Mrs. P. is much admired by their people. Mr.
Prentiss is preaching every Sabbath evening, as Dr. Condit is able to
preach every morning now. I feel as much at home as I possibly could
anywhere in the same time, but instead of mourning less for my New
Bedford friends, I mourn more and more every day.

To Mrs. Allen she writes, Feb. 21:

I know all about those depressed moods, when it costs one as much to
smile, or to give a pleasant answer, as it would at other times to make
a world. What a change it will be to us poor sickly, feeble, discouraged
ones, when we find ourselves where there is neither pain or lassitude or
fatigue of the body, or sorrow or care or despondency of the mind!

I miss you more and more. People here are kind and excellent and
friendly, but I can not make them, as yet, fill the places of the
familiar faces I have left in New Bedford. I am all the time walking
through our neighborhood, dropping into Deacon Barker's or your house,
or welcoming some of you into our old house on the corner. Eddy is
pretty well. He is a sweet little boy, gentle and docile. He learns to
talk very fast, and is crazy to learn hymns. He says, "Tinkle, tinkle
_leetleeverybody_, and give 'tatoes to beggar boys." Mother Prentiss
seems to _thrive_ on having us all about her. She lives so far off that
I see her seldom, but Mr. P. goes every day, except Sundays, when
he can't go--rain or shine, tired or not tired, convenient or not
convenient. Since my mother's death he has felt that he must do quickly
whatever he has to do for his own.


[1] "I found dear Abby still alive and rejoiced beyond expression to see
me. She had had a very feeble night, but brightened up towards noon and
when I arrived seemed entirely like her old self, smiling sweetly and
exclaiming, "This is the last blessing I desired! Oh, how good the Lord
is, isn't He?" It was very delightful. The doctor has just been in and
he says she may go any instant, and yet may live a day or two. Mother is
wonderfully calm and happy, and the house seems like the very gate of
heaven.... I so wish you could have seen Abby's smile when I entered her
room. And then she inquired so affectionately for you and baby: "Now
tell me everything about them." She longs and prays to be gone. There
is something perfectly childlike about her expressions and feelings,
especially toward mother. She can't bear to have her leave the room and
holds her hand a good deal of the time. She sends ever so much love."--
_Extract from a letter, dated Portland, January 27, 1847._

[2] The late Rev. William T. Dwight, D.D., pastor of the Third Church in
Portland. He was a son of President Dwight, an accomplished man, a noble
Christian citizen, and one of the ablest preachers of his day. For many
years his house almost adjoined Mrs. Payson's, and both he and Mrs.
Dwight were among her most cherished friends.

[3] A devoted friend of her father's, one of his deacons, and a genial,
warm-hearted, good man.

[4] A niece of her husband, a lovely child, who died a few years later
in Georgia.

[5] Rev. James Lewis, a venerated elder and local preacher of the
Methodist Episcopal Church, then nearly eighty years of age. He died
in 1855, universally beloved and lamented. He entered upon his work in
1800. During most of those fifty-five years he was wont to preach every
Sabbath, often three times, rarely losing an appointment by sickness,
and still more rarely by storms in summer or winter. He lived in Gorham,
Maine, and his labors were pretty equally divided among all the towns
within fifteen miles round. His rides out and back, often over the
roughest roads or through heavy snows, averaged, probably, from fifteen
to twenty miles. It was estimated that he had officiated at not less
than 1,500 funerals, sometimes riding for the purpose forty miles. His
funeral and camp-meeting sermons included, he could not have preached
less than from 8,000 to 9,000 times. He never received a dollar of
compensation for his ministerial services. Though a hard-working farmer,
his hospitality to his itinerant brethren was unbounded. In several
towns of Cumberland and adjoining counties, he was the revered
patriarch, as half a century earlier he had been the youthful pioneer of
Methodism. When he departed to be with Christ, there was no better man
in all the State to follow after him.

[6] One of a number of old whaling captains in her husband's
congregation, in whom she was interested greatly. They belonged to
a class of men _sui generis_--men who had traversed all oceans,
had visited many lands, and were as remarkable for their jovial
large-hearted, social qualities, when at home, as for their indomitable
energy, Yankee push, and adventurous seamanship, when hunting the
monsters of the deep on the other side of the globe.

[7] Two bright girls and a young mother, who had died not long before.

[8] Her sickness lasted six weeks, dating from the day of her being
entirely confined to bed. Her life was prolonged much beyond what her
physicians or any one else who saw her, had believed possible. During
the last week her sufferings were less, and she lay quiet part of the
time. Friday morning she had an attack of faintness, in the course of
which she remarked "I am dying." She recovered and before noon sank
into a somnolent state from which she never awoke. Her breathing became
softer and fainter till it ceased at half-past five in the afternoon.
Oh, what a transition was that! from pain and weariness and woe to the
world of light! to the presence of the Saviour! to unclouded bliss! I
felt, and so I believe did all assembled round her bed, that it was time
for exultation rather than grief. We could not think of ourselves, so
absorbed were we in contemplation of her happiness. She was able to say
scarcely anything during her sickness, and left not a single message
for the absent children, or directions to those who were present. Her
extreme weakness, and the distressing effect of every attempt to speak,
made her abandon all such attempts except in answer to questions. But
the tenor of her replies to all inquiries was uniform, expressing entire
acquiescence in the will of God, confidence in Him through Christ, and
a desire to depart as soon as He should permit. Tranquillity and peace,
unclouded by a single doubt or fear, seem to have filled her mind. There
were several reasons which led us to decide that the interment should
take place here; but on the following Saturday a gentleman arrived from
Portland, sent by the Second Parish to remove the remains to that place,
if we made no objection. As we made none, the body was disinterred and
taken to P., my brother G. accompanying it. So that her mortal remains
now rest with those of my dear father.--_Letter from Mrs. Hopkins to her
aunt in New Haven, dated Williamstown, Dec. 1, 1848._

[9] The wife of her brother, Mr. Henry M. Payson.

[10] The Rev. Benjamin Tappan, D.D., an old friend of her father's and
one of the patriarchs of the Maine churches.

[11] See appendix B, p. 534, for a brief sketch of his life.

[12] Sermons by Henry Edward Manning, Archdeacon of Chichester (now
Cardinal Manning), 1st, 2d, and 3d Series.

[13] The Rev. D. W. Poor, D.D., now of Philadelphia. He had been settled
at Fair Haven, near New Bedford, and was then a pastor in Newark.




CHAPTER V.

IN THE SCHOOL OF SUFFERING.

1851-1858.

I.

Removal to New York and first Summer there. Letters. Loss of Sleep and
Anxiety about Eddy. Extracts from Eddy's Journal, describing his last
Illness and Death. Lines entitled "To my Dying Eddy."


Mrs. Prentiss' removal to New York was an important link in the chain
of outward events which prepared her for her special life-work. It
introduced her at once into a circle unsurpassed, perhaps, by any other
in the country, for its intelligence, its domestic and social virtues,
and its earnest Christian spirit. The Mercer street Presbyterian church
contained at that time many members whose names were known and honored
the world over, in the spheres of business, professional life,
literature, philanthropy, and religion; and among its homes were some
that seemed to have attained almost the perfection of beauty. In these
homes the new pastor's wife soon became an object of tender love and
devotion. Here she found herself surrounded by all congenial influences.
Her mind and heart alike were refreshed and stimulated in the healthiest
manner. And to add to her joy, several dear old friends lived near her
and sat in adjoining pews on the Sabbath.

But happy as were the auspices that welcomed her to New York, the
experience of the past two years had taught her not to expect too much
from any outward conditions. She entered, therefore, upon this new
period of her life in a very sober mood. Nor had many months elapsed
before she began to hear premonitory murmurs of an incoming sea of
trouble. Most of the summer of 1851 she remained in town with the
children. An extract from a letter to her youngest brother, dated August
1, will show how she whiled away many a weary hour:

It has been very hot this summer; our house is large and cool, and above
all, I have a nice bathing-room opening out of my chamber, with hot and
cold water and a shower-bath, which is a world of comfort. We spent part
of last week at Rockaway, L. I., visiting a friend. [1] I nearly froze
to death, but George and the children were much benefited. I have
improved fast in health since we came here. Yesterday I walked two and a
half miles with George, and a year ago at this time I could not walk a
quarter of a mile without being sick after it for some days. When I
feel miserably I just put on my bonnet and get into an omnibus and go
rattlety-bang down town; the air and the shaking and the jolting and the
sight-seeing make me feel better and so I get along. If I could safely
leave my children I should go with George. He hates to go alone and
surely I hate to be left alone; in fact instead of liking each other's
society less and less, we every day get more and more dependent on each
other, and take separation harder and harder. Our children are well.

To her husband, who had gone to visit an old friend, at Harpswell, on
the coast of Maine, she writes a few days later:

On Saturday very early Professor Smith called with the House of Seven
Gables. I read about half of it in the evening. One sees the hand of the
_artist_ as clearly in such a work as in painting, and the hand of a
skilful one, too. I have read many books with more interest, but never
one in which I was so diverted from the story to a study of the author
himself. So far there is nothing exciting in it. I don't know who
supplied the pulpit on Sunday morning. The sermon was to young men,
which was not so appropriate as it might have been, considering there
were no young men present, unless I except our Eddy and other sprigs of
humanity of his age. I suppose you will wonder what in the world I let
Eddy go for. Well, I took a fancy to let Margaret try him, as nobody
would know him in the gallery and he coaxed so prettily to go. He was
highly excited at the permission, and as I was putting on his sacque, I
directed Margaret to take it off if he fell asleep. "Ho! I shan't go to
sleep," quoth he; "Christ doesn't have rocking-chairs in His house." He
set off in high spirits, and during the long prayer I heard him laugh
loud; soon after I heard a rattling as of a parasol and Eddy saying,
"There it is!" by which time Margaret, finding he was going to begin a
regular frolic, sagely took him out.

_August 7th_--The five girls from Brooklyn all spent yesterday here.
They had a regular frolic towards night, bathing and shower-bathing.
Afterwards we all went on top of the house. It was very pleasant up
there. I took the children to Barnum's Museum, as I proposed doing. They
were delighted, particularly with the "Happy Family," which consisted of
cats, rats, birds, dogs, rabbits, monkeys, etc., etc., dwelling together
in unity. I observed that though the cats forbore to lay a paw upon
the rats and mice about them, they yet took a melancholy pleasure in
_looking_ at these dainty morsels, from which nothing could persuade
them to turn off their eyes. I am glad that you got away from New
Bedford alive and that you did not stay longer, but hearing about our
friends there made me quite long to see them myself. Do have just the
best time in the world at Harpswell, and don't let the Rev. Elijah drown
you for the sake of catching your mantle as you go down. I dare not tell
you how much I miss you, lest you should think I do not rejoice in your
having this vacation. May God bless and keep you.

During the autumn she suffered much again from feeble health and
incessant loss of sleep. "I have often thought," she wrote to a friend,
"that while so stupefied by sickness I should not be glad to see my own
mother if I had to speak to her." But neither sick days nor sleepless
nights could quench the Brightness of her spirit or wholly spoil her
enjoyment of life. A little diary which she kept contains many gleams of
sunshine, recording pleasant visits from old friends, happy hours and
walks with the children, excursions to Newark, and how "amazingly" she
"enjoyed the boys" (her brothers) on their return from the pursuit of
golden dreams in California. In the month of November the diary shows
that her watchful eye observed in Eddy signs of disease, which filled
her with anxiety. Before the close of the year her worst fears began
to be realised. She wrote, Dec. 31: "I am under a constant pressure of
anxiety about Eddy. How little we know what the New Year will bring
forth." Early in January, 1852, his symptoms assumed a fatal type, and
on the 16th of the same month the beautiful boy was released from his
sufferings, and found rest in the kingdom of heaven, that sweet home of
the little children. A few extracts from Eddy's journal will tell the
story of his last days:

On the 19th of December the Rev. Mr. Poor was here. On hearing of it,
Eddy said he wanted to see him. As he took now so little interest in
anything that would cost him an effort, I was surprised, but told Annie
to lead him down to the parlor; on reaching it they found Mr. Poor not
there, and they then went up to the study. I heard their father's joyous
greeting as he opened his door for them, and how he welcomed Eddy, in
particular, with a perfect shower of kisses and caresses. This was the
last time the dear child's own feet ever took him there; but his father
afterwards frequently carried him up in his arms and amused him with
pictures, especially with what Eddy called the "bear books." [2] One
morning Ellen told him she was going to make a little pie for his
dinner, but on his next appearance in the kitchen told him she had let
it burn all up in the oven, and that she felt _dreadfully_ about it.
"Never mind, Ellie," said he, "mamma does not like to have me eat pie;
but when I _get well_ I shall have as many as I want."

On the 24th of December Mr. Stearns and Anna were here. I was out with
the latter most of the day; on my return Eddy came to me with a little
flag which his uncle had given him, and after they had left us he ran
up and down with it, and as my eye followed him, I thought he looked
happier and brighter and more like himself than I had seen him for a
long time. He kept saying, "Mr. Stearns gave me this flag!" and then
would correct himself and say, "I mean my _Uncle_ Stearns." On this
night he hung up his bag for his presents, and after going to bed,
surveyed it with a chuckle of pleasure peculiar to him, and finally fell
asleep in this happy mood. I took great delight in arranging his and
A.'s presents, and getting them safely into their bags. He enjoyed
Christmas as much as I had reason to expect he would, in his state of
health, and was busy among his new playthings all day. He had taken a
fancy within a few weeks to kneel at family prayers with me at my chair,
and would throw one little arm round my neck, while with the other hand
he so prettily and seriously covered his eyes. As their heads touched my
face as they knelt, I observed that Eddy's felt hot when compared with
A.'s; just enough so to increase my uneasiness. On entering the nursery
on New Year's morning, I was struck with his appearance as he lay in
bed; his face being spotted all over. On asking Margaret about it, she
said he had been crying, and that this occasioned the spots. This did
not seem probable to me, for I had never seen anything of this kind on
his face before. How little I knew that these were the last tears my
darling would ever shed.

On Sunday morning, January 4, not being able to come himself, Dr. Buck
sent Dr. Watson in his place. I told Dr. W. that I thought Eddy had
water on the brain; he said it was not so, and ordered nothing but a
warm bath. On Thursday, January 8, while Margaret was at dinner, I knelt
by the side of the cradle, rocking it very gently, and he asked me to
tell him a story. I asked what about, and he said, "A little boy," on
which I said something like this: Mamma knows a dear little boy who was
very sick. His head ached and he felt sick all over. God said, I must
let that little lamb come into my fold; then his head will never ache
again, and he will be a very happy little lamb. I used the words little
lamb because he was so fond of them. Often he would run to his nurse
with his face full of animation and say, "Marget! Mamma says I am her
little lamb!" While I was telling him this story his eyes were fixed
intelligently on my face. I then said, "Would you like to know the name
of this boy?" With eagerness he said, "Yes, yes, mamma!" Taking his dear
little hand in mine, and kissing it, I said, "It was Eddy." Just then
his nurse came in and his attention was diverted, so I said no more.

On Sunday, January 11, at noon, while they were all at dinner, I was
left alone with my darling for a few moments, and could not help kissing
his unconscious lips. To my utter amazement he looked up and plainly
recognised me and warmly returned my kiss. Then he said feebly, but
distinctly twice, "I want some meat and potato." I do not think I should
have been more delighted if he had risen from the dead, once more to
recognise me. Oh, it was _such_ a comfort to have one more kiss, and to
be able to gratify one more wish!

On Friday, January 16th, his little weary sighs became more profound,
and, as the day advanced, more like groans; but appeared to indicate
extreme fatigue, rather than severe pain. Towards night his breathing
became quick and laborious, and between seven and eight slight spasms
agitated his little feeble frame. He uttered cries of distress for a few
minutes, when they ceased, and his loving and gentle spirit ascended to
that world where thousands of holy children and the blessed company of
angels and our blessed Lord Jesus, I doubt not, joyfully welcomed him.
Now we were able to say, _It is well with the child!_

"Oh," said the gardener, as he passed down the garden-walk, "who plucked
that flower? Who gathered that plant?" His fellow-servants answered,
"The MASTER!" And the gardener held his peace.

The feelings of the mother's heart on Friday found vent in some lines
entitled _To My Dying Eddy; January 16th_. Here are two stanzas:

  Blest child! dear child! For thee is Jesus calling;
  And of our household thee--and only thee!
  Oh, hasten hence! to His embraces hasten!
  Sweet shall thy rest and safe thy shelter be.

  Thou who unguarded ne'er hast left our threshold,
  Alone must venture now an unknown way;
  Yet, fear not! Footprints of an Infant Holy
  Lie on thy path. Thou canst not go astray.

In a letter to her friend Mrs. Allen, of New Bedford, dated January 28,
she writes:

During our dear little Eddy's illness we were surrounded with kind
friends, and many prayers were offered for us and for him. Nothing that
could alleviate our affliction was left undone or unthought of, and we
feel that it would be most unchristian and ungrateful in us to even
wonder at that Divine will which has bereaved us of our only boy--the
light and sunshine of our household. We miss him _sadly_. I need not
explain to you, who know all about it, _how_ sadly; but we rejoice that
he has got away from this troublous life, and that we have had the
privilege of giving so dear a child to God. When he was well he was one
of the happiest creatures I ever saw, and I am sure he is well now,
and that he is as happy as his joyous nature makes him susceptible of
becoming. God has been most merciful to us in this affliction, and, if
a bereaved, we are still a _happy_ household and full of thanksgiving.
Give my love to both the children and tell them they must not forget
us, and when they think and talk of their dear brother and sisters in
heaven, they must sometimes think of the little Eddy who is there too.

       *       *       *       *       *

II.

Birth of her Third Child. Reminiscence of a Sabbath-Evening Talk. Story
of the Baby's Sudden Illness and Death. Summer of 1852. Lines entitled
"My Nursery."


The shock of Eddy's death proved almost too much for Mrs. Prentiss'
enfeebled frame. She bore it, however, with sweet submission, and on the
17th of the following April her sorrow was changed to joy, and Eddy's
empty place filled, as she thought, by the birth of Elizabeth, her third
child, a picture of infantine health and beauty. But, although the child
seemed perfectly well, the mother herself was brought to the verge of
the grave. For a week or two her life wavered in the balance, and she
was quite in the mood to follow Eddy to the better country. Her husband,
recording a "long and most interesting conversation" with her on Sabbath
evening, May 2d, speaks of the "depth and tenderness of her religious
feelings, of her sense of sin and of the grace and glory of the
Saviour," and then adds, "Her old Richmond exercises seem of late
to have returned with their former strength and beauty increased
many-fold." On the 14th of May she was able to write in pencil these
lines to her sister, Mrs. Hopkins:

I little thought that I should ever write to you again, but I have been
brought through a great deal, and now have reason to expect to get well.
I never knew how much I loved you till I gave up all hope of ever seeing
you again, and I have not strength yet to tell you all about it. Poor
George has suffered much. I hope all will be blessed to him and to me. I
am still confined to bed. The doctor thinks there may be an abscess near
the hip-joint, and, till that is cured, I can neither lie straight in
bed or stand on my feet or ride out. Everybody is kind. Our cup has run
over. It is a sore trial not to be allowed to nurse baby. She is kept
in another room. I only see her once a day. She begins to smile, and is
very bright-eyed. I hope your journey will do you good. If you can, do
write a few lines--not more. But, good-by.

Hardly had she penned these lines, when, like a thunderbolt from a clear
sky, another stunning blow fell upon her. On the 19th of May, after an
illness of a few hours, Bessie, too, was folded forever in the arms of
the Good Shepherd. Here is the mother's own story of her loss:

Our darling Eddy died on the 16th of January. The baby he had so often
spoken of was born on the 17th of April. I was too feeble to have any
care of her. Never had her in my arms but twice; once the day before she
died and once while she was dying. I never saw her little feet. She was
a beautiful little creature, with a great quantity of dark hair and very
dark blue eyes. The nurse had to keep her in another room on account
of my illness. When she was a month old she brought her to me one
afternoon. "This child is perfectly beautiful," said she; "to-morrow I
mean to dress her up and have her likeness taken." I asked her to get me
up in bed and let me take her a minute. She objected, and I urged her
a good deal, till at last she consented. The moment I took her I was
struck by her unearthly, absolutely angelic expression; and, not having
strength enough to help it, burst out crying bitterly, and cried all the
afternoon while I was struggling to give her up.

Her father was at Newark. When he came home at dark I told him I was
sure that baby was going to die. He laughed at me, said my weak health
made me fancy it, and asked the nurse if the child was not well. She
said she was--perfectly well. My presentiment remained, however, in full
force, and the first thing next morning I asked Margaret to go and see
how baby was. She came back, saying, "She is very well. She lies there
on the bed scolding to herself." I cried out to have her instantly
brought to me. M. refused, saying the nurse would be displeased. But my
anxieties were excited by the use of the word "scolding," as I knew no
baby a month old did anything of that sort, and insisted on its being
brought to me. The instant I touched it I felt its head to be of a
burning heat, and sent for the nurse at once. When she came, I said,
"This child is _very sick_." "Yes," she said, "but I wanted you to have
your breakfast first. At one o'clock in the night I found a little
swelling. I do not know what it is, but the child is certainly very
sick." On examination I knew it was erysipelas. "Don't say that," said
the nurse, and burst into tears. I made them get me up and partly dress
me, as I was so excited I could not stay in bed.

Dr. Buck came at ten o'clock; he expressed no anxiety, but prescribed
for her and George went out to get what he ordered. The nurse brought
her to me at eleven o'clock and begged me to observe that the spot had
turned black. I knew at once that this was fearful, fatal disease, and
entreated George to go and tell the doctor. He went to please me, though
he saw no need of it, and gave the wrong message to the doctor, to the
effect that the swelling was increasing, to which the doctor replied
that it naturally would do so. The little creature, whose moans Margaret
had termed scolding, now was heard all over that floor; every breath a
moan that tore my heart in pieces. I begged to have her brought to me
but the nurse sent word she was too sick to be moved. I then begged the
nurse to come and tell me exactly what she thought of her, but she said
she could not leave her. I then crawled on my hands and knees into the
room, being unable then and for a long time after to bear my own weight.

What a scene our nursery presented! Everything upset and tossed about,
medicines here and there on the floor, a fire like a fiery furnace, and
Miss H. sitting hopelessly and with falling tears with the baby on a
pillow in her lap--all its boasted beauty gone forever. The sight was
appalling and its moans heart-rending. George came and got me back to my
sofa and said he felt as if he should jump out of the window every time
he heard that dreadful sound. He had to go out and made me promise not
to try to go to the nursery till his return. I foolishly promised. Mrs.
White [3] called, and I told her I was going to lose my baby; she was
very kind and went in to see it but I believe expressed no opinion as
to its state. But she repeated an expression which I repeated to myself
many times that day, and have repeated thousands of times since--"_God
never makes a mistake_."

Margaret went soon after she left to see how the poor little creature
was, and did not come back. Hour after hour passed and no one came. I
lay racked with cruel torture, bitterly regretting my promise to George,
listening to those moans till I was nearly wild. Then in a frenzy of
despair I pulled myself over to my bureau, where I had arranged the
dainty little garments my darling was to wear, and which I had promised
myself so much pleasure in seeing her wear. I took out everything she
would need for her burial, with a sort of wild pleasure in doing for her
one little service, where I had hoped before to render so many. She it
was whom we expected to fill our lost Eddy's vacant place; we thought
we had _had_ our sorrow and that now our joy had come. As I lay back
exhausted, with these garments on my breast, Louisa Shipman [4] opened
the door. One glance at my piteous face, for oh, how glad I was to see
her! made her burst into tears before she knew what she was crying for.

"Oh, go bring me news from my poor dying baby!" I almost screamed, as
she approached me. "And see, here are her grave-clothes." "Oh, Lizzy,
have you gone crazy?" cried she, with a fresh burst of tears. I besought
her to go, told her how my promise bound me, made her listen to those
terrible sounds which two doors could not shut out. As she left the room
she met Dr. B. and they went to the nursery together. She soon came
back, quiet and composed, but very sorrowful. "Yes, she is dying," said
she, "the doctor says so; she will not live an hour." ... At last we
heard the sound of George's key. Louise ran to call him. I crawled once
more to the nursery, and snatched my baby in fierce triumph from the
nurse. At least once I would hold my child, and nobody should prevent
me. George, pale as death, baptized her as I held her in my trembling
arms; there were a few more of those terrible, never-to-be-forgotten
sounds, and at seven o'clock we were once more left with only one child.
A short, sharp conflict, and our baby was gone.

Dr. B. came in later and said the whole thing was to him like a
thunderclap--as it was to her poor father. To me it followed closely on
the presentiment that in some measure prepared me for it. Here I sit
with empty hands. I have had the little coffin in my arms, but my baby's
face could not be seen, so rudely had death marred it. Empty hands,
empty hands, a worn-out, exhausted body, and unutterable longings to
flee from a world that has had for me so many sharp experiences. God
help me, my baby, my baby! God help me, my little lost Eddy!

But although the death of these two children tore with anguish the
mother's heart, she made no show of grief, and to the eye of the world
her life soon appeared to move on as aforetime. Never again, however,
was it exactly the same life. She had entered into the fellowship of
Christ's sufferings, and the new experience wrought a great change in
her whole being.

A part of the summer and the early autumn of 1852 were passed among
kind friends at Newport, in Portland, and at the Ocean House on Cape
Elizabeth. She returned much refreshed, and gave herself up cheerfully
to her accustomed duties. But a cloud rested still upon her home, and at
times the old grief came back again with renewed poignancy. Here are a
few lines expressive of her feelings. They were written in pencil on a
little scrap of paper:

  MY NURSERY. 1852.

  I thought that prattling boys and girls
  Would fill this empty room;
  That my rich heart would gather flowers
  From childhood's opening bloom.

  One child and two green graves are mine,
  This is God's gift to me;
  A bleeding, fainting, broken heart--
  This is my gift to Thee.

       *       *       *       *       *

III.

Summer at White Lake. Sudden Death of her Cousin, Miss Shipman.
Quarantined. _Little Susy's Six Birthdays._ How she wrote it. _The
Flower of the Family._ Her Motive in writing it. Letter of Sympathy to a
bereaved Mother. A Summer at the Seaside. _Henry and Bessie._


The year 1853 was passed quietly and in better health. In the early
summer she made a delightful visit at The Island, near West Point, the
home of the author of "The Wide, Wide World." She was warmly attached to
Miss Warner and her sister, and hardly less so to their father and aunt,
whose presence then adorned that pleasant home with so much light and
sweetness.

Early in August she went with her husband and child to White Lake,
Sullivan Co., N. Y., where, in company with several families from the
Mercer street church, she spent six weeks in breathing the pure country
air, and in healthful outdoor exercise. [5]

About the middle of October she was greatly distressed by the sudden
death of the young cousin, already mentioned, who was staying with her
during her husband's absence on a visit to New Bedford. Miss Shipman
was a bright, attractive girl, and enthusiastic in her devotion to
Mrs. Prentiss. The latter, in a letter to her husband, dated Saturday
morning, October 15th, 1853, writes:

I imagine you enjoying this fine morning, and can't rejoice enough, that
you are having such weather. A. is bright and well and is playing in
her baby-house and singing. Louise is still quite sick, and I see no
prospect of her not remaining so for some time. The morning after you
left I thought to be sure she had the small-pox. The doctor, however,
calls it a rash. It makes her look dreadfully and feel dreadfully.
She gets hardly a moment of sleep and takes next to no nourishment.
Arrowroot is all the doctor allows. He comes twice a day and seems
_very_ kind and full of compassion. She crawled down this morning to the
nursery, and seems to be asleep now. Mrs. Bull very kindly offered to
come and do anything if Louise should need it, but I do not think she
will be sick enough for that. I feel well and able to do all that is
necessary. The last proof-sheets came last night, so that job is off my
hands. [6] And now, darling, I can't tell you how I miss you. I never
missed you more in my life, if as much. I hope you are having a nice
visit. Give my love to Capt. and Mrs. Gibbs and all our friends. Your
most loving little wife.

On the following Wednesday, October 19th, she writes to her husband's
mother:

You will be shocked to hear that Louisa Shipman died on Sunday night
and was buried yesterday. Her disease was spotted fever of the most
malignant character, and raged with great fury. She dropped away most
unexpectedly to us, before I had known five minutes that she was in
danger, and I came near being entirely alone with her. Dr. M. happened
to be here and also her mother-in-law; but I had been alone in the house
with her all day. It is a dreadful shock to us all, and I feel perfectly
stupefied. George got home in time for the funeral, but Dr. Skinner
performed the services. Anna will go home to-morrow and tell you all
about it. She and Mr. S. slept away, as the upper part of the house is
airing; and to-night they will sleep at Prof. Smith's.

The case was even more fearful than she supposed while writing this
letter. Upon her describing it to Dr. Buck, who called a few hours
later, he exclaimed, "Why, it was malignant small-pox! You must all be
vaccinated instantly and have the bedding and house disinfected." This
was done; but it was too late. Her little daughter had the disease,
though in a mild form; and one of her brothers, who was passing the
autumn with her, had it so severely as barely to escape with his life.
She herself became a nurse to them both, and passed the next two months
quarantined within her own walls. To her husband's mother she wrote:

I am not allowed to see _anyone_--am very lonesome, and hope Anna will
write and tell me every little thing about you all. The scenes I have
lately passed through make me tremble when I think what a fatal malady
lurks in every corner of our house. And speaking after the manner of
men, does it not seem almost incredible that this child, watched from
her birth like _the apple of our eyes_, should yet fall into the jaws of
this loathsome disease? I see more and more that parents _must_ leave
their children to Providence.

In the early part of this year Mrs. Prentiss wrote _Little Susy's Six
Birthdays_, the book that has given so much delight to tens of thousands
of little children, wherever the English tongue is spoken. Like most
of her books, it was an inspiration and was composed with the utmost
rapidity. She read the different chapters, as they were written, to
her husband, child and brother, who all with one voice expressed their
admiration. In about ten days the work was finished. The manuscript was
in a clear, delicate hand and without an erasure. Upon its publication
it was at once recognised as a production of real genius, inimitable
in its kind, and neither the popular verdict nor the verdict of the
children as to its merits has ever changed.

Mrs. Prentiss, as has been stated already, began to write for the press
at an early age. But from the time of her going to Richmond till 1853--a
period of thirteen years--her pen was well nigh idle, except in the way
of correspondence. When, therefore, she gave herself again to literary
labor, it was with a largely increased fund of knowledge and experience
upon which to draw. These thirteen years had taught her rich lessons,
both in literature and in life. They had been especially fruitful in
revealing to her the heart of childhood and quickening her sympathy with
its joys and sorrows. And all these lessons prepared her to write Little
Susy's Six Birthdays and the other Susy books.

The year 1854 was marked by the birth of her fourth child, and by the
publication of _The Flower of the Family._ This work was received with
great favor both at home and abroad. It was soon translated into French
under the title, _La Fleur de la Famille,_ and later into German under
the title, _Die Perle der Familie_. In both languages it received the
warmest praise.

In a letter to her friend Mrs. Clark, of Portland, she thus refers to
this book:

I long to have it doing good. I never had such desires about anything
in my life; and I never sat down to write without first praying that I
might not be suffered to write anything that would do harm, and that, on
the contrary, I might be taught to say what would do good. And it
has been a great comfort to me that every word of praise I ever have
received from others concerning it has been "it will do good," and this
I have had from so many sources that amid much trial and sickness ever
since its publication, I have had rays of sunshine creeping in now and
then to cheer and sustain me.

To the same friend, just bereft of her two children, she writes a few
months later:

Is it possible, is it possible that you are made childless? I feel
distressed for you, my dear friend; I long to fly to you and weep with
you; it seems as if I _must_ say or do something to comfort you. But God
only can help you now, and how thankful I am for a throne of grace and
power where I can commend you, again and again, to Him who doeth all
things well.

I never realise my own affliction in the loss of my children as I do
when death enters the house of a friend. Then I feel that _I can't have
it so._ But why should I think I know better than my Divine Master what
is good for me, or good for those I love! Dear Carrie,'! trust that in
this hour of sorrow you have with you that Presence, before which alone
sorrow and sighing flee away. _God_ is left; _Christ_ is left; sickness,
accident, death can not touch you here. Is not this a blissful
thought?... As I sit at my desk my eye is attracted by the row of books
before me, and what a comment on life are their very titles: "Songs in
the Night," "Light on Little Graves," "The Night of Weeping," "The Death
of Little Children," "The Folded Lamb," "The Broken Bud," these have
strayed one by one into my small enclosure, to speak peradventure a word
in season unto my weariness. And yet, dear Carrie, this is not all of
life. You and I have tasted some of its highest joys, as well as its
deepest sorrows, and it has in reserve for us only just what is best for
us. May sorrow bring us both nearer to Christ! I can almost fancy my
little Eddy has taken your little Maymee by the hand and led her to the
bosom of Jesus. How strange our children, our own little infants, have
seen Him in His glory, whom we are only yet longing for and struggling
towards!

If it will not frighten you to own a Unitarian book, there is one called
"Christian Consolation" by Rev. A. P. Peabody, that I think you would
find very profitable. I see nothing, or next to nothing, Unitarian
in it, while it is _full_ of rich, holy experience. One sermon on
"Contingent Events and Providence" touches your case exactly.

No event of special importance marked the year 1855. She spent the month
of July among her friends in Portland, and the next six weeks at the
Ocean House on Cape Elizabeth. This was one of her favorite places of
rest. She never tired of watching the waves and their "multitudinous
laughter," of listening to the roar of the breakers, or climbing the
rocks and wandering along the shore in quest of shells and sea-grasses.
In gathering and pressing the latter, she passed many a happy hour. In
August of this year appeared one of her best children's books, _Henry
and Bessie; or, What they Did in the Country._

       *       *       *       *       *

IV.

A Memorable Year. Lines on the Anniversary of Eddy's Death. Extracts
from her Journal. _Little Susy's Six Teachers._ The Teachers' Meeting.
A New York Waif. Summer in the Country. Letters. _Little Susy's Little
Servants._ Extracts from her Journal. "Alone with God."


The records of the year 1856 are singularly full and interesting. It was
a year of poignant suffering, of sharp conflicts of soul, and of great
peace and joy. Its earlier months, especially, were shadowed by a dark
cloud of anxiety and distress. And her feeble bodily state caused by
care-worn days and sleepless nights, added to the trouble. Old sorrows,
too, came back again. On the 16th of January, the anniversary of Eddy's
death, she gave vent to her feelings in some pathetic verses, of which
the following lines form a part:

  Four years, four weary years, my child,
  Four years ago to-night,
  With parting cry of anguish wild
  Thy spirit took its flight; ah me!
  Took its eternal flight.

  And in that hour of mortal strife
  I thought I felt the throe,
  The birth-pang of a grief, whose life
  Must soothe my tearless woe, must soothe
  And ease me of my woe.

  Yet folded far through all these years,
  Folded from mortal eyes,
  Lying alas "too deep for tears,"
  Unborn, unborn it lies, within
  My heart of heart it lies.

  My sinless child! upon thy knees
  Before the Master pray;
  Methinks thy infant hands might seize
  And shed upon my way sweet peace;
  Sweet peace upon my way.

Here follow some extracts from her journal.

_Jan 3d. 1856._--Had no time to write on New Year's day, as we had a
host of callers. It was a very hard day, as I was quite unwell, and had
at last to give up and go to bed.

_15th_--Am quite uneasy about baby, as it seems almost impossible she
should long endure such severe pain and want of sleep. My life is a
very anxious one. I feel every day more and more longing for my home
in heaven. Sometimes I fear it amounts almost to a sinful longing--for
surely I ought to be willing to live or die, just as God pleases.

_Feb. 1st._--I have had no heart to make a record of what has befallen
us since I last wrote. And yet I may, sometime, want to recall this
experience, painful as it is. Dear little baby had been improving in
health, and on Wednesday we went to dine at Mrs. Wainright's. We went at
four. About eight, word came that she was ill. When I got home I found
her insensible, with her eyes wide open, her breathing terrific, and her
condition in every respect very alarming. Just as Dr. Buck was coming
in, she roused a little, but soon relapsed into the same state. He told
us she was dying. I felt like a stone, _In a moment_ I seemed to give up
my hold on her. She appeared no longer mine but God's. It is always
so in such great emergencies. _Then_, my will that struggles so about
trifles, makes no effort. But as we sat hour after hour watching the
alternations of color in her purple face and listening to that terrible
gasping, rattling sound, I said to myself "A few more nights like this,
and I do believe my body and soul would yield to such anguish." Oh, why
should I try to tell myself what a night it was. God knows, God only!
How He has smitten me by means of this child, He well knows. She
remained thus about twelve hours. Twelve hours of martyrdom to me such
as I never had known. Then to our unspeakable amazement she roused up,
nursed, and then fell into a sweet sleep of some hours.

_Sunday, Feb. 3d._--The stupor, or whatever it is, in which that
dreadful night has left me, is on me still. I have no more sense or
feeling than a stone. I kneel down before God and do not say a word.
I take up a book and read, but get hold of nothing. At church I felt
afraid I should fall upon the people and tear them. I could wish no one
to pity me or even know that I am smitten. It does seem to me that those
who can sit down and cry, know nothing of misery.

_Feb. 4th_.--At last the ice melts and I can get near my God--my only
comfort, my only joy, my All in all! This morning I was able to open my
heart to Him and to cast some of this burden on Him, who alone _knows_
what it is.... I see that it is sweet to be a pilgrim and a stranger,
and that it matters _very little_ what befalls me on the way to my
blessed home. If God pleases to spare my child a little longer, I will
be very thankful. May He take this season, when earthly comfort fails
me, to turn me more than ever to Himself. For some months I have enjoyed
a _great deal_ in Him. Prayer has been very sweet and I have had some
glimpses of joys indescribable.

_6th._--She still lives. I know not what to think. One moment I think
one thing and the next another. It is harder to submit to this suspense
than to a real, decided blow. But I desire to leave it to my God. He
knows all her history and all mine. He orders all these aggravating
circumstances and I would not change them. My darling has not lived in
vain. For eighteen months she has been the little rod used by my Father
for my chastisement and not, I think, quite in vain. Oh my God! stay
not Thy hand till Thou hast perfected that which concerneth me. Send
anything rather than unsanctified prosperity.

_Feb. 10th._--To help divert my mind from such incessant brooding over
my sorrows, I am writing a new book. I had just begun it when baby's
ill-turn arrested me. I trust it may do some little good; at least I
would not dare to write it, if it _could_ do none. May God bless it!

_Feb. 14th._--Wanted to go to the prayer-meeting but concluded to take
A. to hear Gough at the Tabernacle. Seeing such a crowd always makes
me long to be in that happy crowd of saints and angels in heaven, and
hearing children sing so sweetly made me pray for an entrance into the
singing, praising multitude there. Oh, when shall I be one of that
blessed company who _sin_ not! My book is done; may God bless it to
_one_ child at least--then it will not have been wasted time.

The book referred to was _Little Susy's Six Teachers_. It was published
in the spring, and at once took its place beside the _Six Birthdays_ in
the hearts of the children; a place it still continues to hold. The six
teachers are Mrs. Love, Mr. Pain, Aunt Patience, Mr. Ought, Miss Joy,
and the angel Faith. At the end of six years they hold a meeting and
report to little Susy's parents what they have been doing. The closing
chapter, herewith quoted, gives an account of this meeting, and may
serve as a specimen of the style and spirit of all the Little Susy
books.

"If Mr. Pain is to be at the meeting, I can't go," said Miss Joy.

She stood on tip-toe before the glass, dressing herself in holiday
clothes.

"Perhaps he would be willing to leave his rod behind him," said Mrs.
Love. "I will ask him at all events."

Mr. Pain thought he should not feel at home without his rod. He said he
always liked to have it in his hands, whether he was to use it or not.

Miss Joy was full of fun and mischief about this time, so she slipped
up slyly behind Mr. Pain while he was talking and snatched away the
rod before he could turn round. Mrs. Love smiled on seeing this little
trick, and they all went down to the parlor and seated themselves with
much gravity. Little Susy sat in the midst in her own low chair looking
wide awake, you may depend. Her papa and mamma sat on each side like two
judges. Mrs. Love rocked herself in the rocking-chair in a contented,
easy way; and Aunt Patience, who liked to do such things, helped Miss
Joy to find the leaves of her report--which might have been rose-leaves,
they were so small.

Mr. Ought looked very good indeed, and the angel Faith shone across the
room like a sunbeam.

"Susy will be six years old to-morrow," said her papa. "You have all
been teaching her ever since she was born. We will now listen to your
reports and hear what you have taught her, and whether you have done her
any good."

They were all silent, but everybody looked at Mrs. Love as much as to
say she should begin. Mrs. Love took out a little book with a sky-blue
cover and began to read:

"I have not done much for Susy, but love her dearly; and I have not
taught her much, but to love everybody. When she was a baby I tried to
teach her to smile, but I don't think I could have taught her if Miss
Joy had not helped me. And when she was sick, I was always sorry for
her, and tried to comfort her."

"You have done her a great deal of good," said Susy's papa, "we will
engage you to stay six years longer, should God spare her life."

Then Mr. Pain took up his book. It had a black cover, but the leaves
were gilt-edged and the cover was spangled with stars.

"I have punished Susy a good many times," said Mr. Pain. "Sometimes I
slapped her with my hand; sometimes I struck her with my rod; sometimes
I made her sick; but I never did any of these things because I was angry
with her or liked to hurt her. I only came when Mrs. Love called me."

"You have taught her excellent lessons," said Susy's papa, "if it had
not been for you she would be growing up disobedient and selfish. You
may stay six years longer."

Then Mr. Pain made a low bow and said he was thinking of going away and
sending his brother, Mr. Sorrow, and his sister, Mrs. Disappointment, to
take his place."

"Oh, no!" cried Susy's mamma, "not yet, not yet! Susy is still so
little!"

Then Mr. Pain said he would stay without a rod, as Susy was now too old
to be whipped.

Then Miss Joy took up her book with its rainbow cover and tried to read.
But she laughed so heartily all the time, and her leaves kept flying out
of her hands at such a rate, that it was not possible to understand what
she was saying. It was all about clapping hands and running races, and
picking flowers and having a good time. Everybody laughed just because
she laughed, and Susy's papa could hardly keep his face grave long
enough to say:

"You have done more good than tongue can tell. You have made her just
such a merry, happy, laughing little creature as I wanted her to be. You
must certainly stay six years longer."

Then Mr. Ought drew forth his book. It had silver covers and its leaves
were of the most delicate tissue.

"I have taught little Susy to be good," said he. "Never to touch what
is not hers; never to speak a word that is not true; never to have a
thought she would not like the great and holy God to see. If I stay six
years longer I can teach her a great deal more, for she begins now to
understand my faintest whisper. She is such a little girl as I love to
live with."

Then Susy turned rosy-red with pleasure, and her papa and mamma got up
and shook hands with Mr. Ought and begged him never, never to leave
their darling child as long as she lived.

It was now the turn of Aunt Patience. Her book had covers wrought by her
own hands in grave and gay colors well mingled together.

"When I first came here," she said, "Susy used to cry a great deal
whenever she was hurt or punished. When she was sick she was very hard
to please. When she sat down to learn to sew and to read and to write,
she would break her thread in anger, or throw her book on the floor, or
declare she never could learn. But now she has left off crying when she
is hurt, and tries to bear the pain quietly. When she is sick she does
not fret or complain, but takes her medicine without a word. When she
is sewing she does not twitch her thread into knots, and when she is
writing she writes slowly and carefully. I have rocked her to sleep
a thousand times. I have been shut up in a closet with her again and
again, and I hope I have done her some good and taught her some useful
lessons."

"Indeed you have, Aunt Patience," said Susy's papa, "but Susy is not yet
perfect. We shall need you six years longer."

And now the little angel Faith opened his golden book and began to read:

"I have taught Susy that there is another world besides this, and have
told her that it is her real home, and what a beautiful and happy one it
is. I have told her a great deal about Jesus and the holy angels. I do
not know much myself. I am not very old, but if I stay here six years
longer I shall grow wiser and I will teach Susy all I learn, and we will
pray together every morning and every night, till at last she loves the
Lord Jesus with all her heart and soul and mind and strength."

Then Susy's papa and mamma looked at each other and smiled, and they
both said:

"Oh, beautiful angel, never leave her!"

And the angel answered:

"I will stay with her as long as she lives, and will never leave her
till I leave her at the very door of heaven."

Then the teachers began to put up their books, and Susy's papa and mamma
kissed her, and said:

"We have had a great deal of comfort in our little daughter; and, with
God's blessing, we shall see her grow up a loving, patient, and obedient
child--full of joy and peace and rich in faith and good works."

So they all bade each other good-night and went thankfully to bed.

The next entry in the journal notes a trait of character, or rather of
temperament, which often excited the wonder and also the anxiety of
her friends. It caused her no little discomfort, but she could never
withstand its power.

_March 21st_.--I have been busy with a sewing fit and find the least
interesting piece of work I can get hold of, as great a temptation
as the most charming. For if its _charm_ does not absorb my time and
thoughts, the eager haste to finish and get it out of the way, does.
This is my life. I either am stupefied by ill-health or sorrow, so as
to feel no interest in anything, or am _absorbed_ in whatever business,
work or pleasure I have on hand.

But neither anxiety about her child, household cares, or any work she
had in hand, so absorbed her thoughts as to render her insensible to the
sorrows and trials of others. On the contrary, they served rather to
call forth and intensify her kindly sympathies. A single case will
illustrate this. A poor little girl--one of those waifs of humanity in
which a great city abounds--had been commended to her by a friend. In a
letter to this friend, dated March 17, 1856, she writes:

That little girl came, petticoat and all; we gave her some breakfast,
and I then went down with her to Avenue A. On the way, she told me that
you gave her some money. To my great sorrow we found, on reaching the
school, that they could not take another one, as they were already
overflowing. As we came out, I saw that the poor little soul was just
ready to burst into tears, and said to her "Now you're disappointed, I
know!" whereupon she actually looked up into my face and _smiled_. You
know I was afraid I never should make her smile, she looked so forlorn.
I brought her home to get some books, as she said she could read, and
she is to come again to-morrow. A lady to whom I told the whole story,
sent me some stockings that would about go on to her big toe; however,
they will be nice for her little sister. The weather has been so mild
that I thought it would not be worth while to make her a cloak or
anything of that sort; but next fall I shall see that she is comfortably
clad, if she behaves as well as she did the day she was here. Oh, dear!
what a drop in the great bucket of New York misery, one such child is!
Yet somebody must look out for the drops, and I am only too thankful to
seize on this one.

In June she went, with the children, to Westport, Conn., where in rural
quiet and seclusion she passed the next three months. Here are some
extracts from her letters, written from that place:

Westport, _June 25, 1856._

We had a most comfortable time getting here; both the children enjoyed
the ride, and baby seemed unusually bright. Judge Betts was very
attentive and kind to us. Mrs. G. grows more and more pleasant every
day. We have plenty of good food, but she worries because I do not eat
more. You know I never was famous for eating meat, and country dinners
are not tempting. You can't think how we enjoy seeing the poultry fed.
There are a hundred and eighty hens and chickens, and you should see
baby throw her little hand full of corn to them. We went strawberrying
yesterday, all of us, and the way she was poked through bars and lifted
over stone-walls would have amused you. She is already quite sunburnt;
but I think she is looking sweetly. I find myself all the time peeping
out of the window, thinking every step is yours, or that every wagon
holds a letter for me.

_To Miss A. H. Woolsey, Westport, June 27._

Mr. P. enclosed your kind note in one of his own, after first reading it
himself, if you ever heard of such a man. I had to laugh all alone while
reading it, which was not a little provoking. We are having very nice
times here indeed. Breakfast at eight, dinner at half-past twelve, and
tea at half-past six, giving us an afternoon of unprecedented length
for such lounging, strawberrying or egg-hunting as happens to be on
the carpet. The air is perfectly loaded with the fragrance of clover
blossoms and fresh hay. I never saw such clover in my life; roses are
nothing in comparison. I only want an old nag and a wagon, so as to
drive a load of children about these lovely regions, and that I hope
every moment to attain. To be sure, it would be amazingly convenient
if I had a table, and didn't have to sit on the floor to write upon
a trunk; but then one can't have everything, and I am almost too
comfortable with what I have. A. is busy reading Southey to her
"children"; baby is off searching for eggs, and her felicity reached its
height when she found an ambitious hen had laid two in her carriage,
which little thought what it was coming to the country for. I think the
dear child already looks better; she lives in the open air and enjoys
everything.

Mrs. Buck lives about half a mile below us, and we run back and forth
many times a day. I have already caught the country fashion of rushing
to the windows the moment a wheel or an opening gate is heard. I fancy
everybody is bringing me a letter or else want to send one to the
office, and the only way to do that is to scream at passers-by and
ask them if they are going that way. If you hear that I am often seen
driving a flock of geese down the road, or climbing stone walls, or
creeping through bar fences, you needn't believe a word of it, for I am
a pattern of propriety, and pride myself on my dignity. I hope, now
you have begun so charmingly, that you will write again. You know what
letters are in the country.

_To her Husband, Westport, June 27._

I wonder where you are this lovely morning? Having a nice time
somewhere, I do hope, for it is too fine a day to be lost. If you want
to know where I am, why I'm sitting at the window writing on a trunk
that I have just lifted into a chair, in order to make a table. For
table there, is none in this room, and how am I to write a book without
one? If ever I get down to the village, I hope to buy, beg, borrow or
steal one, and until that time am putting off beginning my new
Little Susy. [7] That note from Miss Warner, by the by, spoke so
enthusiastically of the Six Teachers that I felt compensated for the
mortification of hearing -------- call it a "nice" book. You will be
sorry to hear that I have no prospect of getting a horse. I am quite
disappointed, as besides the pleasure of driving our children, I hoped
to give Mrs. Buck and the boys a share in it. Only to think of her
bringing up from the city a beefsteak for baby, and proposing that the
doctor should send a small piece for her every day! Thank you, darling,
for your proposal about the Ocean House. I trust no such change will be
needful. We are all comfortable now, the weather is delicious, and there
are so many pretty walks about here, that I am only afraid I shall be
too well off. Everything about the country is charming to me, and I
never get tired of it. The first few days nurse seemed a good deal out
of sorts; but I must expect some such little vexations; of course, I can
not have perfection, and for dear baby's sake I shall try to exercise
all the prudence and forbearance I can.

_Sunday._--We went to church this morning and heard a most instructive
and, I thought, superior sermon from Mr. Burr of Weston, on progress in
religious knowledge. He used the very illustration about the cavern and
the point of light that you did.

_July 7th._--We all drove to the beach on Saturday. It was just the very
day for such a trip, and baby was enchanted. She sat right down and
began to gather stones and shells, as if she had the week before her. We
were gone three hours and came home by way of the village, quite in
the mood for supper. Yesterday we had a pleasant service; Mr. Atkinson
appears to be a truly devout, heavenly man to whom I felt my heart knit
at the outset on this account, I am taking great delight in reading the
Memoir of Miss Allibone. [8] How I wish I had a friend of so heavenly a
temper! I fear my new Little Susy will come out at the little end of the
horn. I am sure it won't be so good as the others. It is more than one
quarter done.

_July 21st._--What do you think I did this forenoon? Why, I finished
Little Susy and shall lay it aside for some days, when I shall read it
over, correct, and pack it off out of the way. Yes, I wish you would
bring my German Hymn Book. I am so glad you liked the hymns I had
marked! [9] And do get well so as not to have to leave off preaching the
Gospel. My heart dies within me whenever I think of your leaving the
ministry. Every day I live, it appears to me that the office of a
Christian pastor and teacher is the best in the world. I shall not be
able to write you a word to-morrow, as we are to go to Greenfield Hill
to Miss Murray's, and you must take to-morrow's love to-night--if you
think you can stand so much at once. God be with you and bless you.

_July 30th._--Baby and I have just been having a great frolic. She was
so pleased with your message that she caught up your letter and kissed
it, which I think very remarkable in a child who, I am sure, never saw
such a thing done. A. seems well and happy, and is as good as I think we
ought to expect. I see more and more every day, that if there ever _was_
such a thing as human perfection, it was as long ago as David's time
when, as he says, he saw the "end" of it. How very kind the W.'s have
been!

_August 3d._--I got hold of Dr. Boardman's "Bible in the Family," at the
Bucks yesterday, and brought it home to read. I like it very much. There
is a vein of humor running through it which, subdued as it is, must have
awakened a good many smiles. He quotes some lines of Coleridge, which I
wonder I did not have as a motto for Susy's Teachers:

  Love, Hope and Patience, these must be thy graces,
  And in thine own heart let them first _keep school_.

_To Miss Mary B. Shipman, Westport, August 11._

Dr. Buck, who has seen her twice since we came here, thinks baby
wonderfully improved, and says every day she lives increases her chance
of life. I have been exceedingly encouraged by all he has said, and feel
a great load off my heart. Last Friday, on fifteen minutes' notice, I
packed up and went _home_, taking nurse and biddies, of course. I was so
restless and so perfectly _possessed_ to go to meet George, that I could
not help it. We went in the six o'clock train, as it was after five when
I was "taken" with the fit that started me off; got home in a soft rain,
and to our great surprise and delight found G. there, he having got
homesick at Saratoga, and just rushed to New York on his way here. We
had a great rejoicing together, you may depend, and I had a charming
visit of nearly three days. We got back on Monday night, rather tired,
but none of us at all the worse for the expedition. Mr. P. sits here
reading the Tribune, and A. is reading "Fremont's Life." She is as brown
as an Indian and about as wild.

A few passages from her journal will also throw light upon this period:

_June 30th._--I am finding this solitude and leisure very sweet and
precious; God grant it may bear the rich and abundant fruit it ought to
do! Communion with Him is such a blessing, here at home in my own room,
and out in the silent woods and on the wayside. Saturday, especially,
I had a long walk full of blissful thoughts of Him whom I do believe I
love--oh, that I loved Him better!--and in the evening Mrs. Buck came
and we had some very sweet beginnings of what will, I trust, ripen into
most profitable Christian communion. My heart delights in the society of
those who love Him. Yesterday I had a more near access to God in prayer
than usual, so that during the whole service at church I could hardly
repress tears of joy and gratitude.

_July 7th._--I do trust God's blessed, blessed Spirit is dealing
faithfully with my soul--searching and sifting it, revealing it somewhat
to itself and preparing it for the indwelling of Christ. This I do
heartily desire. Oh, God! search me and know me, and show me my own
guilty, poor, meagre soul, that I may turn from it, humbled and ashamed
and penitent, to my blessed Saviour. How very, very thankful I feel for
this seclusion and leisure; this quiet room where I can seek my God and
pray and praise, unseen by any human eye--and which sometimes seems like
the very gate of heaven.

_July 23d._--This is my dear little baby's birthday. I was not able to
sleep last night at all, but at last got up and prayed specially for
her. God has spared her two years; I can hardly believe it! Precious
years of discipline they have been, for which I do thank Him. I have
prayed much for her to-day, and with some faith, that if her life is
spared it will be for His glory. How far rather would I let her go this
moment, than grow up without loving Him! Precious little creature!

_27th._--This has been one of the most oppressive days I ever knew. I
went to church, however, and enjoyed all the services unusually. As we
rode along and I saw the grain ripe for the harvest, I said to myself,
"God gathers in _His_ harvest as soon as it is ripe, and if I devote
myself to Him and pray much and turn entirely from the world I shall
ripen, and so the sooner get where I am _all the time_ yearning and
longing to go!" I fear this was a merely selfish thought, but I do not
know. This world seems less and less homelike every day I live. The more
I pray and meditate on heaven and my Saviour and saints who have crossed
the flood, the stronger grows my desire to be bidden to depart hence and
go up to that sinless, blessed abode. Not that I forget my comforts, my
mercies here; they are _manifold_; I know they are. But Christ appears
so precious; sin so dreadful! so dreadful! To-day I gave way to pride
and irritation, and my agony on account of it outweighs weeks of merely
earthly felicity. The idea of a Christian as he should be, and the
reality of most Christians--particularly myself--why, it almost makes
me shudder; my only comfort is, in heaven, I _can_ not sin! In heaven I
shall see Christ, and see Him as He is, and praise and honor Him as I
never do and never shall do here. And yet I know my dear little ones
need me, poor and imperfect a mother as I am; and I pray every hour to
be made willing to wait for their sakes. For at the longest it will not
be long. Oh, I do believe it is the _sin_ I dread and not the suffering
of life--but I know not; I may be deluded. My love to my Master seems to
me very shallow and contemptible. I am astonished that I love anything
else. Oh, that He would this moment come down into this room and tell me
I never, never, shall grieve Him again!

Some verses entitled "Alone with God," belong here:

  Into my closet fleeing, as the dove
    Doth homeward flee,
  I haste away to ponder o'er Thy love
     Alone with Thee!

  In the dim wood, by human ear unheard,
    Joyous and free,
  Lord! I adore Thee, feasting on Thy word,
    Alone with Thee!

  Amid the busy city, thronged and gay,
    But One I see,
  Tasting sweet peace, as unobserved I pray
    Alone with Thee!

  Oh, sweetest life! Life hid with Christ in God!
    So making me
  At home, and by the wayside, and abroad,
    Alone with Thee!

    WESTPORT, _August 22, 1856._

       *       *       *       *       *

V.

Ready for new Trials. Dangerous Illness. Extracts from her Journal.
Visit to Greenwood. Sabbath Meditations. Birth of another Son. Her
Husband resigns his pastoral Charge. Voyage to Europe.


The summer at Westport was so beneficial to the baby and so full both of
bodily and spiritual refreshment to herself, that on returning to town,
she resumed her home tasks with unwonted ease and comfort. The next
entry in her journal alludes to this:

_November 27th_.--Two months, and not a word in my journal! I have done
far more with my needle and my feet than with my pen. One comes home
from the country to a good many cares, and they are worldly cares, too,
about eating and about wearing. I hope the worst of mine are over now
and that I shall have more leisure. But no, I forget that now comes the
dreaded, dreaded experience of weaning baby. But what then? I have had
a good rest this fall. Have slept unusually well; why, only think, some
nights not waking once--and some nights only a few times; and then we
have had no sickness; baby better--all better. Now I ought to be willing
to have the trials I need so much, seeing I have had such a rest. And
heaven! heaven! let me rest on that precious word. Heaven is at the end
and God is there.

Early in March, 1857, she was taken very ill and continued so until May.
For some weeks her recovery seemed hardly possible. She felt assured
her hour had come and was eager to go. All the yearnings of her heart,
during many years, seemed on the point of being gratified. The next
entry in her journal refers to this illness:

_Sunday, May 24th, 1857._--Just reading over the last record how ashamed
I felt of my faithlessness! To see dear baby so improved by the very
change I dreaded, and to hear her pretty, cheerful prattle, and to
find in her such a source of joy and comfort--what undeserved, what
unlooked-for mercies! But like a physician who changes his remedies as
he sees occasion, and who forbears using all his severe ones at once, my
Father first relieved me from my wearing care and pain about this dear
child, and then put me under new discipline. It is now nearly six months
since I have been in usual health, and eight weeks of great prostration
and suffering have been teaching me many needed lessons. Now, contrary
to my hopes and expectations, I find myself almost well again. At first,
having got my heart _set_ toward heaven and after fancying myself almost
there, I felt disappointed to find its gates still shut against me. [10]

But God was very good to me and taught me to yield in this point to His
wiser and better will; He made me, as far as I know, as peaceful in
the prospect of living as joyful in the prospect of dying. Heaven
did, indeed, look very attractive when I thought myself so near it;
I pictured myself as no longer a sinner but a blood-washed saint; I
thought I shall soon see Him whom my soul loveth, and see Him as He is;
I shall never wound, never grieve Him again, and all my companions will
be they who worship Him and adore Him. But not yet am I there! Alas, not
yet a saint! My soul is oppressed, now that health is returning, to find
old habits of sin returning too, and this monster Self usurping God's
place, as of old, and pride and love of ease and all the infirmities of
the flesh thick upon me. After being encompassed with mercies for two
months, having every comfort this world could offer for my alleviation,
I wonder at myself that I can be anything but a meek, docile child,
profiting by the Master's discipline, sensible of the tenderness that
went hand-in-hand with every stroke, and walking softly before God and
man! But I am indeed a wayward child and in need of many more stripes.
May I be made willing and thankful to bear them.

Indeed, I do thank my dear Master that He does not let me alone, and
that He has let me suffer so much; it has been a rich experience, this
long illness, and I do trust He will so sanctify it that I shall have
cause to rejoice over it all the rest of my life. Now may I return
patiently to all the duties that lie in my sphere. May I not forget how
momentous a thing death appeared when seen face to face, but be ever
making ready for its approach. And may the glory of God be, as it never
yet has been, my chief end. My love to Him seems to me so very feeble
and fluctuating. Satan and self keep up a continual struggle to get the
victory. But God is stronger than either. He must and will prevail, and
at last, and in a time far better than any I can suggest, He will open
those closed gates and let me enter in to go no more out, and then "I
shall never, never sin."

As might be inferred from this record, she was at this time in the
sweetest mood, full of tenderness and love. The time of the singing of
birds had now come, and all nature was clothed with that wondrous beauty
and verdure which mark the transition from spring to summer. The drives,
which she was now able to take into the country, on either side of the
river, gave her the utmost delight. On the 30th of May--the day that has
since become consecrated to the memory of the Nation's heroic dead--she
went, with her husband and eldest daughter, to visit and place flowers
upon the graves of Eddy and Bessie. Never is Greenwood more lovely and
impressive than at the moment when May is just passing into June. It is
as if Nature were in a transfiguration and the glory of the Lord shone
upon the graves of our beloved! Mrs. Prentiss made no record of this
visit, but on the following day thus wrote in her journal:

_May 31st._--Another peaceful, pleasant Sunday, whose only drawback has
been the want of strength to get down on my knees and praise and pray to
my Saviour, as I long to do. For well as I am and astonishingly improved
in every way, a very few minutes' use of my voice, even in a whisper,
in prayer, exhausts me to such a degree that I am ready to faint. This
seems so strange when I can go on talking to any extent--but then it is
talking without emotion and in a desultory way. Ah well! God knows best
in what manner to let me live, and I desire to ask for nothing but a
docile, acquiescent temper, whose only petition shall be, "What wilt
Thou have me to do?" not how can I get most enjoyment along the way. I
can not believe if I am His child, that He will let anything hinder my
progress in the divine life. It seems dreadful that I have gone on so
slowly, and backward so many times--but then I have been thinking this
is "to humble and to prove me, and to do me good in the latter end." ...
I thank my God and Saviour for every faint desire He gives me to see
Him as He is, and to be changed into His image, and for every struggle
against sin He enables me to make. It is all of Him. I do wish I loved
Him better! I do wish He were never out of my thoughts and that the
aim to do His will swallowed up all other desires and strivings. Satan
whispers that will never be. But it shall be! One day--oh, longed-for,
blessed, blissful day!--Christ will become my All in all! Yes, even
mine!

This is the last entry in her journal for more than a year; her letters,
too, during the same period are very few. In August of 1857, she was
made glad by the birth of another son, her fifth child. Her own health
was now much better than it had been for a long time; but that of her
husband had become so enfeebled that in April, 1858, he resigned his
pastoral charge and by the advice of his physician determined to go
abroad, with his family, for a couple years; the munificent kindness of
his people having furnished him with the means of doing so. The tender
sympathy and support which she gave him in this hour of extreme weakness
and trial, more than everything else, after the blessing of Heaven,
upheld his fainting spirits and helped to restore him at length to his
chosen work. They set sail for the old world in the steamship Arago,
Capt. Lines, June 26th, amidst a cloud of friendly wishes and
benedictions.

[1] The friend was Mr. Wm. G. Bull, who had a summer cottage at
Rockaway. He was a leading member of the Mercer street church and one
of the best of men. The poor and unfortunate blessed him all the
year round. To Mrs. Prentiss and her husband he was indefatigable in
kindness. He died at an advanced age in 1859.

[2] Godman's "American Natural History."

[3] Mrs. Norman White, mother of the Rev. Erskine N. White, D.D., of New
York.

[4] Her cousin, whose sudden death occurred under the same roof in
October of the next year.

[5] "We were all weighed soon after coming here," she wrote, "and my
ladyship weighed 96, which makes me out by far the leanest of the ladies
here. When thirteen years old I weighed but 50 pounds."

[6] Referring to "Little Susy's Six Birthdays."

[7] _Little Susy's Little Servants._

[8] A Life bid with Christ in God, being a memoir of Susan Allibone. By
Alfred Lee, Bishop of the Protestant Episcopal Church in Delaware.

[9] See appendix C, p. 539.

[10] Many years afterward, speaking to a friend of this illness, she
related the following incident. One day she lay, as was supposed,
entirely unconscious and _in articulo mortis_. Repeated but vain
attempts had been made to administer a medicine ordered by the doctor to
be used in case of extremity. Her husband urged one more attempt still;
it might possibly succeed. She heard distinctly every word that was
spoken and instantly reasoned within herself, whether she should consent
or refuse to swallow the medicine. Fancying herself just entering the
eternal city, she longed to refuse but decided it would be wrong and so
consented to come back again to earth.




CHAPTER VI.

IN RETREAT AMONG THE ALPS.

1858-1860.

I.

Life abroad. Letters about the Voyage and the Journey from Havre to
Switzerland. Chateau d'Oex. Letters from there. The Châlet Rosat. The
Free Church of the Canton de Vaud. Pastor Panchaud.


Mrs. Prentiss passed more than two years abroad, mostly in Switzerland.
They were years burdened with heavy cares, with ill-health and keen
solicitude concerning her husband. But they were also years hallowed by
signal mercies of Providence, bright every now and then with floods
of real sunshine, and sweetened by many domestic joys. Although quite
secluded from the world a large portion of the time, her solitude was
cheered by the constant arrival of letters from home. During these years
also she was first initiated into full communion with Nature; and what
exquisite pleasure she tasted in this new experience, her own pen will
tell. Indeed, this period affords little of interest except that which
blossomed out of her domestic life, her friendships, and her love of
nature. She travelled scarcely at all and caught only fugitive glimpses
of society or of the treasures of European art.

A few simple records, therefore, of her retired home-life and of the
impressions made upon her by Alpine scenery, as contained in
her letters, must form the principal part of this chapter. Her
correspondence, while abroad, would make a large volume by itself; in
selecting from it what follows, the aim has been to present, as far
as possible, a continuous picture of her European sojourn, drawn by
herself. Were a faithful picture of its quiet yet varied scenes to be
drawn by another hand, it would include features wholly omitted by her;
features radiant with a light and beauty not of earth. It would reflect
a sweet patience, a heroic fortitude, a tender sympathy, a faith in God
and an upholding, comforting influence, which in sharp exigencies the
Christian wife and mother knows so well how to exercise, and which are
inspired only by the Lord Jesus Himself.

The friend to whom the following letter was addressed years ago passed
away from earth. But her name is still enshrined in many hearts. The
story of her generous and affectionate kindness, as also that of her
children, would fill a whole chapter. "You will never know how we have
loved and honored you all, _straight through_" wrote Mrs. Prentiss to
one of them, many years later.

_To Mrs. Charles W. Woolsey, Havre, July 11, 1858._

How many times during our voyage we had occasion to think of and thank
you and yours, a dozen sheets like this would fail to tell you. Of all
your kind arrangements for our comfort not one failed of its object.
Whether the chair or my sacque had most admirers I do not know, but
I can't imagine how people ever get across the ocean without such
consolations on the way. As to the grapes they kept perfectly to
the last day and proved delicious; the box then became a convenient
receptacle for the children's toys; while the cake-box has turned into
a medicine-chest. We had not so pleasant a voyage as is usual at this
season, it being cold and rainy and foggy much of the time. However,
none of us suffered much from sea-sickness--Mr. Prentiss not in the
least; his chief discomfort was from want of sleep. On the whole, we had
a less dreary time than we anticipated, and perhaps the stupidity in
which we were engulfed for two weeks was a wholesome refuge from the
excitement of the month previous to our departure. We landed in a
deluge of rain, and the only article in our possession that alarmed the
officers of the Custom House was _not_ the sewing-machine, which was
hardly vouchsafed a look, but your cake-box. We were thankful to tumble
pell-mell into a carriage, and soon to find ourselves in a comfortable
room, before a blazing fire. We go round with a phrase-book and talk
out of it, so if anybody ever asks you what sort of people the Prentiss
family are and what are our conversational powers, you may safely and
veraciously answer, "They talk like a book." M. already asks the French
names of almost everything and is very glad to know that "we have got
at Europe," and when asked how she likes France, declares, "Me likes
_that_." We go off to Paris in the morning. I will let Mr. Prentiss
tell his own story. Meanwhile we send you everyone our warmest love and
thanks.

After a few days in Paris the family hastened to Chateau d'Oex, where
New York friends awaited them. Chateau d'Oex is a mountain valley in the
canton of Vaud, on the right bank of the Sarine, twenty-two miles east
of Lausanne, and is one of the loveliest spots in Switzerland. Aside
from its natural beauties, it has some historical interest. It was
once the home of the Counts of Gruyere, and the ruins of their ancient
chateau are still seen there. The Free church of the village was at this
time under the care of Pastor Panchaud, a favorite pupil and friend of
Vinet. He was a man of great simplicity and sweetness of character,
an excellent preacher, and wholly devoted to his little flock. Mrs.
Prentiss and her husband counted his society and ministrations a smile
of Heaven upon their sojourn in Chateau d'Oex.

_To Mrs. Henry B. Smith, Chateau D'Oex July 25, 1858._

Our ride from Havre to Paris was charming. We had one of those luxurious
cars, to us unknown, which is intended to hold only eight persons, but
which has room for ten; the weather was perfect, and the scenery all the
way very lovely and quite novel. A. and I kept mourning for you and M.
to enjoy it with us, and both agreed that we would gladly see only half
there was to see, and go half the distance we were going, if we could
only share with you our pleasures of every kind. On reaching Paris and
the hotel we found we could not get pleasant rooms below the fifth
story. They were directly opposite the garden of the Tuileries, where
birds were flying and singing, and it was hard to realise that we were
in the midst of that great city. We went sight-seeing very little. A.
and I strolled about here and there, did a little shopping, stared in at
the shop windows, wished M. had this and you had that, and then strolled
home and panted and toiled and groaned up our five flights, and wrote in
our journals, or rested, or made believe study French. We went to the
Jardin des Plantes in order to let the children see the Zoological
Garden. We also drove through the Bois de Boulogne, and spent part of
an evening in the garden of the Palais Royal, and watched the people
drinking their tea and coffee, and having all sorts of good times. We
found Paris far more beautiful than we expected, and certainly as to
cleanliness it puts New York ages behind. We were four days in coming
from Paris to this place. We went up the lake of Geneva on one of the
finest days that could be asked for, and then the real joy of our
journey began; Paris and all its splendors faded away at once and
forever before these mountains, and as George had never visited Geneva,
or seen any of this scenery, my pleasure was doubled by his. Imagine, if
you can, how we felt when Mt. Blanc appeared in sight! We reached Vevay
just after sunset, and were soon established in neat rooms of quite
novel fashion. The floors were of unpainted white wood, checked off with
black walnut; the stairs were all of stone, the stove was of porcelain,
and every article of furniture was odd. But we had not much time to
spend in looking at things within doors, for the lake was in full view,
and the mountain tops were roseate with the last rays of the setting
sun, and the moon soon rose and added to the whole scene all it wanted
to make us half believe ourselves in a pleasant dream. I often asked
myself, "Can this be I!" "And _if_ it be I, as I hope it be"--

Early next morning, which was dear little M.'s birthday, we set off in
grand style for Chateau d'Oex. We hired a monstrous voiture which had
seats inside for four, and on top, with squeezing, seats for three,
besides the driver's seat; had five black horses, and dashed forth in
all our splendor, ten precious souls and all agog. I made a sandwich
between Mr. S. and George on top, and the "bonnes" and children were
packed inside. This was our great day. The weather was indescribably
beautiful; we felt ourselves approaching a place of rest and a welcome
home; the scenery was magnificent, and already the mountain air was
beginning to revive our exhausted souls and bodies. We sat all day hand
in hand, literally "lost in wonder." With all I had heard ever since I
was born about these mountains, I had not the faintest idea of their
real grandeur and beauty. We arrived here just after sunset, and soon
found ourselves among our friends. Mrs. Buck brought us up to our new
home, which we reached on foot (as our voiture could not ascend so high)
by a little winding path, by the side of which a little brook kept
running along to make music for us. It is a regular Swiss châlet, much
like the little models you have seen, only of a darker brown, and on
either side the mountains stand ranged, so that look where we will we
are feasted to our utmost capacity.

We have four small, but very neat, pretty rooms. Our floors are of
unpainted pine, as white and clean as possible. The room in which we
spend our time, and where I am now writing, I must fully set before
you.... Our centre table has had a nice new red cover put on it to-day,
with a vase of flowers; it holds all our books, and is the ornament of
the room. In front of the sofa is a red rug on which we say our prayers.
Over it is a picture, and over G.'s table is another. Out of the window
you see first a pretty little flower garden, then the valley dotted with
brown châlets, then the background of mountains. Behind the house you go
up a little winding path--and can go on forever without stopping if you
choose--along the sides of which flowers such as we cultivate at home
grow in profusion; you can't help picking them and throwing them away to
snatch a new handful. The brook takes its rise on this side, and runs
musically along as you ascend. Yesterday we all went to church at nine
and a half o'clock, and had our first experience of French preaching,
and I was relieved to find myself understanding whole sentences here
and there. And now I need not, I suppose, wind up by saying we are in
a charming spot. All we want, as far as this world goes, is health
and strength with which to enjoy all this beauty and all this sweet
retirement, and these, I trust, it will give us in time. Isabella "wears
like gold." She is everything I hoped for, and from her there has not
been even a _tone_ of discomfort since we left. But my back aches and my
paper is full. We all send heaps of love to you all and long to hear.

_August 10th._--We breakfast at eight on bread and honey, which is the
universal Swiss breakfast, dine at one, and have tea at seven. I usually
sew and read and study all the forenoon. After dinner we take our Alpen-
stocks and go up behind the house--a bit of mountain-climbing which
makes me realise that I am no longer a young girl. I get only so high,
and then have to come back and lie down. George and Annie beat me all
to pieces with their exploits. I do not believe we could have found
anywhere in the world a spot better adapted to our needs. How _you_
would enjoy it! I perfectly yearn to show you these mountains and all
this green valley. The views I send will give you a very good idea of
it, however. The smaller châlet in the print is ours. In a little summer
house opposite Isabella now sits at work on the sewing-machine. My best
love to all three of your dear "chicks," and to your husband if "he's
willin'."

_To Mrs. H.B. Washburn, Chateau d'Oex, August 21, 1858._

... We slipped off without any leave-taking, which I was not sorry for.
I did not want to bid you good-bye. We had to say it far too often as it
was, and, when we fairly set sail we had not an emotion left, but sank
at once into a state of entire exhaustion and stupidity.... We thought
Paris very beautiful until we came in view of the Lake of Geneva, Mt.
Blanc, and other handiworks of God, when straightway all its palaces and
monuments and fountains faded into insignificance. I began to feel that
it was wicked for a few of my friends, who were born to enjoy the land
of lakes and mountains, not to be here enjoying it, and you were one of
them, you may depend. However, whenever I have had any such pangs of
regret in relation to you, I have consoled myself with the reflection
that with your enthusiastic temperament, artist eye, and love of nature,
you never would survive even a glimpse of Switzerland; the land of
William Tell would be the death of you. When you are about eighty years
old, have cooled down about ten degrees below zero, have got a little
dim about the eyes, and a little stiff about the knees, it may possibly
be safe for you to come and break yourself in gradually. I have not
forgotten how you felt and what you did at the White Mountains, you see.

Well, joking apart, we are in a spot that would just suit you in every
respect. We are not in a street or a road or any of those abominations
you like to shun, but our little châlet, hardly accessible save on foot,
is just tucked down on the side of the gentle slope leading up the
mountain. It is remote from all sights but those magnificent ones
afforded by the range of mountains, the green rich valley, and the
ever-varying sky and cloudland, and all sounds save that of a brook
which runs hurrying down its rocky little channel and keeps us company
when we want it. I ought, however, to add that my view of this
particular valley is that of a novice. People say the scenery here is
tame in comparison with what may be seen elsewhere; but look which way I
will, from front windows or back windows, at home or abroad, I am as one
at a continual feast; and what more can one ask? Mr. Prentiss feels that
this secluded spot is just the place for him, and as it is a good point
from which to make excursions on foot or otherwise, he and Mr. Stearns
have already made several trips and seen splendid sights. How much we
have to be grateful for! For my part, I would rather--far rather--have
come here and stayed here blindfold, than not to have come with my dear
husband. So all I have seen and am experiencing I regard as beauty and
felicity _thrown in_.

_To Mrs. Abigail Prentiss, Chateau d'Oex, Sept. 5, 1858._

I wish we had you, my dear mother, here among these mountains, for the
cool, bracing air would help to build you up. Both Mr. Stearns and
George have come back from Germany looking better than when they started
on their trip two weeks ago. It has been very cold; the thermometer some
mornings at eight o'clock standing at 46ş, and the mountains being all
covered with snow. We slept with a couple of bottles of hot water at our
feet, and two blankets and a comforter of eiderdown over us, after going
to bed early to get warm. My sewing-machine is a great comfort, and the
peasants enjoy coming down from the mountains to see it. Besides, I find
something to do on it every day.

I often wish I could set you down in the midst of the church to which we
go every Sunday, if only to show you how the people dress. A bonnet is
hardly seen there; everybody wearing a black silk cap or a bloomer. _I_
wear a bloomer; a brown one trimmed with brown ribbon. An old lady sits
in front of me who wears a white cap much after the fashion of yours,
and on top of that is perked a monstrous bloomer trimmed with black
gauze ribbon. Her dress is linsey-woolsey, and for outside garment she
wears a black silk half-handkerchief, as do all the rest. No light dress
or ribbon is seen. I must tell you now something that amused A. and me
very much yesterday at dinner. A French gentleman, who married a Spanish
lady four years ago, sits opposite us at the table, and he and his
wife are quite fascinated with M., watch all her motions, and whisper
together about all she does. Yesterday they got to telling us that the
lady had been married when only twelve years old to a gentleman of
thirty-two, had two children, and was a grandmother, though not yet
thirty-six years old. She said she carried her doll with her to her
husband's house, and he made her learn a geography lesson every day till
she was fourteen, when she had a baby of her own. I asked her if she
loved her husband, and she said "Oh, yes," only he was very grave and
scolded her and shut her up when she wouldn't learn her lessons.
She said that her own mother when thirty-six years old had fourteen
children, all of whom are now living, twelve of them boys, and that the
laws of Spain allow the father of six sons to ask a favor for them of
the King, but the father of twelve may ask a favor for each one; so
every one of her brothers had an office under the Government or was an
officer in the army. I don't know when I have been more amused, for she,
like all foreigners, was full of life and gesture, and showed us how she
tore her hair and threw down her books when angry with her husband.

The children are all bright and well. The first time we took the cars
after landing, M. was greatly delighted. "Now we're going to see
grandma," she cried. Mrs. Buck got up a picnic for her, and had a treat
of raspberries and sponge-cake--frosted. The cake had "M." on the top
in red letters. Baby is full of life and mischief. The day we landed
he said "Papa," and now he says "Mamma." Isabella [1] is everything we
could ask. She is trying to learn French, and A. hears her recite every
night. George found some furnished rooms at Montreux, which he has taken
for six months from October, and we shall thus be keeping house. A. has
just rushed in and snatched her French Bible, as she is going to the
evening service with some of the English family. You will soon hear all
about us from Mr. Stearns.

The following letter will show how little power either her own cares, or
the charms of nature around her, had to quench her sympathy for friends
in sorrow:

_To Miss A. H. Woolsey, Chateau D'Oex, Sept. 11, 1858._

We received your kind letter this morning. We had already had our
sympathies excited in behalf of you all, by seeing a notice of the death
of the dear little child in a paper lent to us by Mrs. Buck, and were
most anxious to hear all the particulars you have been so good as to
give us. This day, which fifteen years ago we marked with a white stone,
and which we were to celebrate with all our hearts, has passed quite
wearily and drearily. There is something indescribably sad in the
details of the first bereavement which has fallen within the circle
of those we love; perhaps, too, old sorrows of our own clamored for a
hearing; and then, too, there was the conviction, "This is not all death
will do while the ocean severs you from kindred and friends." We longed
to speak to you many words of affectionate sympathy and Christian cheer;
but long before we can make them reach you, I trust you will have felt
sure that you were at least remembered and prayed for. It is a comfort
that no ocean separates us from Him who has afflicted you. The loss to
you each and all is very great, but to the mother of such a child it
is beyond description. Faith alone can bear her through it, but faith
_can_. What a wonderful little creature the sweet Ellie must have been!
We were greatly touched by your account of her singing that beautiful
hymn. It must have been divinely ordered that she should leave such a
precious legacy behind her. And though her loveliness makes her loss the
greater, the loss of an unlovely wayward child would surely be a heavier
grief.

I never know where to stop when I begin to talk about the death of a
little one; but before I stop I want to ask you to tell Mrs. H. one word
from me, which will not surprise and will perhaps comfort her. It is
this. Neither his father nor myself would be willing to have God now
bereave us of the rich experience of seven years ago, when our noble
little boy was taken away. We have often said this to each other, and
oftener said it to Him, who if He took, also gave much. But after all,
we can not _say_ much to comfort either Mrs. H. or you. We can only
truly, heartily and always sympathise with you.... Mr. Prentiss and Mr.
Stearns have spent a fortnight in jaunting about; beginning at Thun and
ending at Munich. They both came home looking fresher and better than
when they left, but Mr. P. is not at all well now, and will have his ups
and downs, I suppose, for a long time to come.... We can step out at
any moment into a beautiful path, and, turn which way we will, meet
something charming. Yesterday he came back for me, having found a new
walk, and we took our sticks, and went to enjoy it together till we got,
as it were, fairly locked in by the mountains, and could go no further.
Only to think of having such things as gorges and water-falls and
roaring brooks, right at your back door! The seclusion of this whole
region is, however, its great charm to us, and to tell the truth, the
primitive simplicity of style of dress, etc., is quite as charming to me
as its natural beauty. We took tea one night last week with the pastor
of the Free church; he lives in a house for which he pays thirty dollars
a year, and we were quite touched and pleased with his style of living;
white pine walls and floors, unpainted, and everything else to match. We
took our tea at a pine table, and the drawing-room to which we retired
from it, was a corner of the same room, where was a little mite of a
sofa and a few books, and a cheerful lamp burning.

All this time I have not answered your question about the Fourth of
July. We had great doings, I assure you. Mr. P. made a speech, and ran
up and down the saloon like a war horse. He was so excited and pale that
I did not enjoy it much, thinking any instant he would faint and fall.
Mr. Cleaveland was the orator of the day and acquitted himself very
well, they all said. I was in my berth at the time of its delivery,
saving myself for the dinner and toasts, and so did not hear it. The
whole affair is to be printed. There was a great cry of "Prentiss!
Prentiss!" after the "Captain's dinner," and at last the poor man had to
respond in a short speech to a toast to the ladies. I suppose you know
that he considers all women as angels. Mr. Stearns left us on Thursday
to set his face homewards.

       *       *       *       *       *

II.

Montreux. The Swiss Autumn. Castle of Chillon. Death and Sorrow of
Friends at Home. Twilight Talks. Spring Flowers.


Early in October the family removed to Montreux, at the upper end of the
lake of Geneva, where the next six months were passed in what was then
known as the Maison des Bains. Montreux was at this time the centre of
a group of pleasant villages, scattered along the shore of the lake, or
lying back of it among the hills. One of these villages, Clarens, was
rendered famous in the last century by the pen of Rousseau, and early
in this by the pen of Byron. The grave of Vinet, the noble leader, and
theologian of the Free Church of the canton of Vaud, now renders the
spot sacred to the Christian scholar. Montreux was then a favorite
resort of invalids in quest of a milder climate. At many points it
commands fine views of the lake, and the whole region abounds in
picturesque scenery. The Maison des Bains is said to have long since
disappeared; but in 1858, it seemed to hang upon the side of the
Montreux hill and was one of the most noticeable features of the
landscape, as seen from the passing steamer.

_To Mrs. Henry B. Smith, Montreux, October 31, 1858._

Your letter was a real comfort and I am so thankful to the man that
invented letter-writing that I don't know what to do. We feast on
everything we hear from home, however sick, or weak; it is a sort of
sea-air appetite. Your letters are not a thousandth part long enough,
but if you wrote all the time I suppose they wouldn't be.... You see I
am experimenting with two kinds of ink, hoping my letters may be more
easy to read. George tried it the other day by writing me a little note,
telling me first how he loved me in black ink and then how he loved me
in blue, after which he tore it up; wasn't that a shame? Anna writes
that you seemed miserable the day she was at your house. The fact is,
people of such restless mental activity as you and I, my dear, never
need expect to be well long at a time--for, as soon as we get a little
health we consume it just as children do candy. George and I are both
able, however, to take long walks, and the other day we went to see the
castle of Chillon. I was much impressed with all I saw. Under Byron's
name, which I saw on one of the columns, there were the initials "H. B.
S."--"H. B. Smith," says I. "You don't say so!" cries George, "where?
let me see--oh, I don't think it can be his, for here are some more
letters," which I knew all the time, but for all that H. B. S. _does_
stand for H. B. Smith. There are ever so many charming walks about here
and from some points the scenery is wonderfully picturesque. I never was
in the country so late as to see the trees after a frost, and although
the foliage here is less brilliant, it is said, than that of American
forests, I find it hard to believe that there can be anything more
beautiful than the wooded mountains covered with the softest tints of
every shade and coloring interspersed with snowcapped peaks and bare,
gray rocks. The glory has departed somewhat within two days, as we have
had a little snow-storm, and the leaves have fallen sadly. We began to
have a fire yesterday and to put on some of our winter clothing; yet
roses bloom just outside our door, and mignonette, nasturtiums, and a
variety of other flowers adorn every house. The Swiss love for flowers
is really beautiful. I wish you would let the children go to the
hot-house which they pass on the way from school and get me some
flower-seeds, as it will be pleasant to me to have the means of giving
pleasure. I presume the gardener would be able to select a dozen or so
of American varieties which would be a treasure here. I amuse myself
with making flower-pictures, with which to enliven our parlor, and
assure you that these works of art are remarkable specimens of genius. I
do not know where the time goes, but I do not have half enough of it, or
else do not understand the art of making the most of it. We have just
subscribed to a library at a franc a month, and hope to read a little
French.... I suppose Z. will be a regular young lady by the time we come
home, and that I shall be afraid of her, as I am of all young ladies.
How nicely she and M. would look in the jaunty little hats they all wear
here. I wonder if the fashion will stretch across the ocean? I dare say
it will. Never was there anything so becoming in the world.

_To Mrs. Stearns, Montreux, Nov. 21, 1858._

We were glad to hear from your last letter that you are all so well,
and especially to hear such good accounts of Mr. Stearns. It is a real
comfort to us to find that his little trip has done him so much good.
I was sorry to hear of the loss of that friend of the Thurstons in the
Austria, for I heard Ellen speak of her in the most rapturous manner.
This world is full of mysteries. Only to think of the shock George
received when expecting to meet Mr. Butler in Paris and perhaps spend
several weeks with him there, he heard at Geneva the news of his sudden
death! [2] He loved and honored Mr. B. most warmly and truly. You will
remember that the latter came abroad on account of the health of his
daughter; her younger sister accompanied them, and they were all full
of the brightest anticipations. But the same steamer which brought them
over, carried home his remains on the next trip, and those two poor
young girls are left in a strange land, afflicted and disappointed and
alone. Mr. Butler died a most peaceful and happy death, and George was
very glad to be in Paris in time to comfort the young ladies, who
were perfectly delighted to see him. He got back yesterday very much
exhausted and has spent most of the day on the sofa. A. has a teacher
who comes three times a week from Vevay, and spends most of the day. She
is a young lady of about twenty-five, well educated and accustomed to
teaching, and has taken hold of A. with no little energy. She can not
speak a word of English. Tell your A. we can't get over it that the
horses, dogs and cats here all understand French. I have been ever so
busy fixing and fussing for winter, which has come upon us all in a
rush. Isabella has been bewitched for about a week, having got at last a
letter from her beau, and every speck of work she has done on the sewing
machine was either wrongside out or upside down. While George was gone I
made up a lot of flower-pictures to adorn the walls of our parlor; he is
walking about admiring them, and I wish you would drop in and help him.
He had a real homesick fit to see you all to-day, feeling so tired after
his journey; but seems brighter to-night, and promises faithfully to get
well now, right off.

_Dec. 5th._--The death of Sarah P. must have excited all your
sympathies. The loss of a little child--and I shudder when I recall
the pangs of such a loss!--can be nothing in comparison with such an
affliction as this. I well remember what a bright young thing she was.
Her poor mother's grief and amazement must be all the greater for the
fact of the perfect vigor and sound health which had, as it were,
assured her of long life and happiness and usefulness. I had an
inexpressible sadness upon me as soon as I heard that she was
dangerously ill; often in such moments one bitterly realises that all
this world's idols are likewise perishable.

A.'s teacher gives lessons also in a family half an hour from Vevay, who
are going to Germany to spend a year, and she gave such an account of
the place, that George let her persuade him into going to see it, as the
owner desired to rent it during his absence. He took A. with him, as
I could not go. They came back in ecstasies, and have both set their
hearts so on taking it that I should not at all wonder if that should be
the end. We left some of our things at Chateau d'Oex, fully expecting
to return there, but this Vevay country seat with its cherry, apple and
pear trees, its seclusion, its vicinity to reading-room and library,
has quite disgusted George with the idea of spending another summer "en
pension." The family entertained G. and A. very hospitably, gave them a
lunch of bologna sausage, bread and butter, cake, wine and grapes, and
above all, the little girls gave A. two little Guinea pigs, which you
may imagine filled her with delight. The whole affair was very agreeable
to her, as she had not spoken to a child (save M.) since we came to
Montreux.

_January 3d, 1859._--We read your letter, written at Bedford, with no
little interest and sympathy. While we could not but rejoice that one
more saint had got safely and without a struggle home, we felt the
exceeding disappointment you must have had in losing the last smile you
came so near receiving. [3] I think you had a sort of presentiment last
winter what this one might bring forth, for I remember your saying it
would probably be the last visit to you, and that you wanted to make it
as pleasant as possible. And pleasant I do not doubt you and the whole
household made it to her. Still there always will be regrets and vain
wishes after the death of one we love. What a pity that we can not be
to our friends while they live all we wish we had been after they have
gone! George and I feel an almost childish clinging to mother, while we
hope and believe she will live to bless us if we ever return home.

_Jan. 23d._--We have been afflicted in the sudden death of our dear
friend, Mrs. Wainwright. The news came upon us without preparation--for
she was ill only a few days--and was a great shock to us. You and mother
know what she was to us during the whole time of our acquaintance
with her; I loved her most heartily. I can not get over the saddening
impression which such deaths cause, by receiving new ones; our lives
here are so quiet and uneventful, that we have full leisure to meditate
on the breaches already made in our circle of friends at home, and to
forebode many more such sorrowful tidings. Mrs. Wainwright was like a
_mother_ to me, and I am too old to take up a new friend in her place.
[4]

I do not know whether I mentioned the afflictions of my cousin H. They
have been very great, and have excited my sympathies keenly. Her first
child died when eighteen months old, after a feeble, suffering life.
Then the second child, an amiable, loving creature--I almost see her now
sitting up so straight with her morsel of knitting in her hands!--she
was taken sick and died in five days. Her sister, about eight years old,
came near dying of grief; she neither played, ate or slept, and they
wrote me that her wails of anguish were beyond description. Just as she
was getting a little over the first shock, the little boy, then
about three years old, died suddenly of croup. Poor H. is almost
broken-hearted. I have felt dreadfully at being away when she was so
afflicted; they had not been long enough in New York to have a minister
of their own, and they all said, oh, if George and I had only been
there!

Her letters during the rest of the winter are tinged with the sadness
caused by these and other distressing afflictions among friends at
home. Her sympathies were kept under a constant strain. But her letters
contain also many gleams of sunshine. Although very quiet and secluded,
and often troubled by torturing neuralgic pains, as well as by sudden
shocks of grief, her life at Montreux was not without its own peculiar
joys. One of the greatest of these was to while away the twilight or
evening hours in long talks with her husband about home and former days.
Distance, together with the strange Alpine scenes about her, seemed to
have the effect of a score of years in separating her from the past, and
throwing over it a mystic veil of tenderness and grace. Old times and
old friends, when thus viewed from the beautiful shores of Lake Leman,
appeared to the memory in a softened light and invested with something
of that ideal loveliness which the grave itself imparts to the objects
of our affections. Many of these old friends, indeed, had passed through
the Grave--some, long before, some recently--and to talk of _them_ was
sweet talk about the blessed home above, as well as the home beyond the
ocean.

Another joy that helped to relieve the monotony and weariness of the
Montreux life, was in her children; especially as, on the approach of
spring, she wandered with them over the hill-sides in quest of flowers;
then her delight knew no bounds. In a letter to Mrs. Washburn, dated
March 19, she writes:

M. and G. catch A.'s and my enthusiasm, and come with their little hands
full of dandelions, buttercups and daisies, and their hats full of
primroses. Even Mr. Prentiss conies in with his hands full of crocuses,
purple and white, and lots of an extremely pretty flower, "la fille
avant la mère," which he gathers on the mountains where I can not
climb.... I often think of you and Mrs. B----, when I revel among the
beautiful profusion of flowers with which this country is adorned. So
early as it is, the hills and fields are _covered_ with primroses,
daisies, cowslips, violets, lilies, and I don't know what not; in five
minutes we can gather a basketful.

       *       *       *       *       *

III.

The Campagne Genevrier. Vevay. Beauty of the Region. Letters. Birth of a
Son. Visit from Professor Smith. Excursion to Chamouni. Whooping-cough
and Scarlet-fever among the Children. Doctor Curchod. Letters.


At the end of March the family removed to the campagne Genevrier, about
two miles back of Vevay, in the direction of St. Leger. At one point
it overlooked the town and the lake, and commanded a fine view of the
mountains of Savoy and of the distant Jura range. On the opposite shore
of the lake is the village where Lord Byron passed some time in 1816,
and where he is said to have written the wonderful description of a
thunder-storm, in the third canto of Childe Harold. At all events the
very scene, so vividly depicted by him, was witnessed from Genevrier.
[5]

_To Mrs. Stearns, Genevrier, April 5, 1859_

Your letter describing how nicely your party went off, followed us from
Montreux, to enliven us here in our new home. We only wish we could have
been there. You need not have apologised for giving so many details, for
it is just such little events of your daily life that we want to hear
about. My mouth quite waters for a bit of the cake they sent you; I
remember Mrs. Dr. J. and others used to send us big loaves which were
delicious, and such as I never tasted out of Newark. We came here last
Thursday in a great snow-storm, which was cheerless and cold enough
after the warm weather we had had for so many weeks. I do not suppose
more snow fell on any day through the winter, and we all shivered and
lamented and huddled over the fire at a great rate. Yet I have just been
driven indoors by the heat of the sun, having begun to write at a little
table just outside the house, and fires and snow have disappeared.
George has gone to town with Jules in the wagon to buy sugar, oil, oats,
buttons, and I do not know what not, and is no doubt thinking of you
all; for we do nothing but cry out how we wish you were here with us to
enjoy this beautiful spot. We are entirely surrounded by mountains in
the distance, and with green fields, vineyards, and cultivated grounds
nearer home. How your children would delight in the flowers, the white
doves, the seven little tiny guinea pigs, no bigger than your Annie's
hand shut up, and the ample, neat play-places all about us. I can't tell
you how George and I enjoy seeing M. trotting about, so eager and so
happy, and gathering up, as we hope, health and strength every hour! We
find the house, on the whole, very convenient, and it is certainly as
pleasant as can be; every room cheerful and every window commanding a
view which is ravishing.

_To Mrs. Smith, Genevrier, April 7, 1859._

You will be surprised, I dare say, to hear that I am writing out of
doors; I can hardly, myself, believe that it is possible to do so with
comfort and safety at this season, but it is perfectly charming weather,
neither cold or hot, and with a small shawl and my bloomer on, I am out
a large part of the day. You would fly here in a balloon if you knew
what a beautiful spot we are in. We are surrounded with magnificent
views of both the lake and the mountains, and can not turn in any
direction without being ravished. The house is pretty, and in most
respects well and even handsomely furnished; damask curtains, a Titian,
a Rembrandt, and a Murillo in the parlor; the floors are waxed and
carpetless, to be sure, but Mrs. Buck has given us lots of large pieces
of carpeting such as are used in this country to cover the middle of the
rooms, and these will make us comfortable next winter. But the winters
here are so short that one hardly gets fixed to meet them, when they are
over.

We have quite a nice garden, from which we have already eaten lettuce,
spinach, and parsley; our potatoes were planted a day or two ago, and
our peas are just up. One corner of the house, unconnected with our
part, is occupied by a farmer who rents part of the land; he is obliged
to do our marketing, etc., and we get milk and cream from him. I wish
the latter was as easy to digest as it is palatable and cheap. They beat
it up here till it looks like pure white lather and eat it with sugar.
The grounds about our house are very neat and we shall have oceans of
flowers of all sorts; several kinds are in full bloom now. The wild
flowers are so profuse, so beautiful and so various that A. and I are
almost demented on the subject. From the windows I see first the wide,
gravelled walk which runs round the house; then a little bit of a green
lawn in which there is a little bit of a pond and a tiny _jet d'eau_
which falls agreeably on the ear; beyond this the land slopes gently
upward till it is not land but bare, rugged mountain, here and there
sprinkled with snow and interspersed with pine-trees. The sloping land
is ploughed up and men and women are busy sowing and planting; too far
off to disturb us with noise, but looking, the women at least, rather
picturesque in their short blue dresses and straw hats. On the right
hand the Dent du Midi is seen to great advantage; it is now covered with
snow. The little village of St. Leger lies off in the distance; you can
just see its roofs and the quaint spire of a very old church; otherwise
you see next to no houses, and the stillness is very sweet. _Now_ won't
you come? The children seem to enjoy their liberty greatly, and are
running about all the time. They have each a little garden and I hope
will live out of doors all summer.

The state of her health during the next three months was a source of
constant and severe suffering, but could not quench her joy in the
wonders of nature around her. "My drives about this lovely place," she
wrote in June, "have begun to give me an _immense_ amount of pleasure;
indeed, my faculty for enjoyment is so great, that I sometimes think one
day's felicity pays for weeks of misery, and that if it hadn't been
for my poor health, I should have been _too_ happy here." Nor did her
suffering weaken in the least her sympathy with the troubles of her
friends at home. While for the most part silent as to her own peculiar
trials, her letters were full of cheering words about theirs. To one of
these she wrote at this time:

God has taken care that we should not enjoy so much of this world's
comfort since we left home as to _rest_ in it. Your letters are so sad,
that I have fancied you perhaps overestimated our situation, feeling
that you and your feeble husband were bearing the burden and heat of
the day while we were standing idle. My dear ----, there are trials
everywhere and in every sphere, and every heart knoweth its own
bitterness, or else physical burdens are sent to take the place of
mental depression. After all, it will not need more than _an hour_ in
heaven to make us ashamed of our want of faith and courage here on
earth. Do cheer up, dear child, and "look aloft!" Poor Mr. ----! I know
his work is hard and up the hill, but it will not be _lost_ work and can
not last forever. It seems to me God might accept with special favor
the services of those who "_toil_ in rowing." After all, it is not the
_amount_ of work He regards, but the spirit with which it is done.

Early in July she was made glad by the birth of her sixth child--her
"Swiss boy," as she liked to call him. Her gladness was not a little
increased by a visit soon after from Professor Henry B. Smith, of the
Union Theological Seminary. This visit was one of the memorable events
of her life abroad. Professor Smith was not merely a great theologian
and scholar; he was also a man of most attractive personal qualities.
And, when unbending among friends from his exacting literary labors,
the charm of his presence and conversation was perfect. His spirits ran
high, and he entered with equal zest into the amusements of young or
old. His laugh was as merry as that of the merriest girl; no boy took
part more eagerly in any innocent sport; nobody could beat him in
climbing a mountain. He was a keen observer, and his humor--sometimes
very dry, sometimes fresh and bright as the early dew--rendered his
companionship at once delightful and instructive. His learning and
culture were so much a part of himself, that his most familiar talk
abounded in the happiest touches about books and art and life. All his
finest traits were in full play while he was at Genevrier, and, when he
left, his visit seemed like a pleasant dream.

_To Mrs. Smith, Genevrier, July 25th._

I am only too glad of the chance your husband gives me to write you
another bit of a note. We are enjoying his visit amazingly. There are
only two drawbacks to its felicity; one is that he won't stay all
summer, and the other that you are not here. The children were enchanted
with the presents he brought them. When I shall be on my feet and well
and strong again time only can tell. A. has _devoted_ herself to me in
the sweetest way. What she has been to me all winter and up to this
time, tongue could not tell. My doctor is as kind as a brother. He was
a perfect stranger to me, and was brought to my bedside when I was
writhing in agony; but in ten minutes his tenderness and sympathy made
me forget that he was a stranger, and, through that long night of
distress and the long day that followed, he did _every_ thing that
mortal could do to relieve and comfort me. He brought his wife up to see
me the other day, and I begged her to tell him how grateful I felt. "He
_is_ kind," she answered, "but then he _loves you so!_" (They both
speak English.) I am so puffed up by his praises! I am sure I thought I
groaned, but he says "pas une gemissement."

_August 14th._--Our two husbands have gone to Lausanne for the day,
taking A. with them. They seem to be having real nice times together,
and if, as your husband says, "his old wife were here," his felicity and
ours would be too great. They lounge about, talk, drink soda-water, and
view the prospect. Dr. Buck came up from Geneva on Thursday and spent
the night and part of Friday with us, and it would have done you good to
hear him and your husband laugh. He was quite enchanted with the place,
and says we never shall want to go home. _August 23d._--Your husband has
given me leave to write you a little bit of a note out of my little bit
of a heart on this little bit of paper. He and A. have just gone off to
get some pretty grass for you. He will tell you when he gets home how
he baptized his namesake on Sunday. We have enjoyed his visit more than
tongue can tell. George says _he_ has enjoyed it as much as he thought
he should, and I am sure I have enjoyed it a great deal more, as I have
been so much better in health than I expected. But how you must miss
him!

On the 12th of September--a faultless autumn day--she set out with her
husband and eldest daughter for Chamouni. It was her first excursion
for pleasure since coming to Switzerland. A visit to this great and
marvelous handiwork of God is an event in the dullest life. In her
case the experience was so full of delight, that it seemed almost to
compensate for the cares and disappointments of the whole previous year.
The plan was to return to Genevrier and then pass on to the Bernese
Oberland, but the visit to Chamouni proved to be her last as well as her
first pleasure excursion in Switzerland.

_To Mrs. Stearns, Genevrier, October 2, 1859._

I have, been so absorbed with anxiety about the children since we
got back from our journey, that I have not felt like writing you a
description of it. George told you, I suppose, that the news awaiting us
when we reached Vevay was of the baby's having whooping-cough. It was
a great shock to us, for the weather was dismally cold, and it did not
seem as if the little thing could get safely through the disease at so
unfavorable a time of year. Then there were the other two to have it
also. On Friday last baby's cry had become a sad sort of wail, and he
was so pale and weak, that I did not see how he was going to rally; but
he is better to-day, so that I begin to take breath.... To go back to
Chamouni, it seems a mercy that we went when we did. We enjoyed the
whole trip. We made the excursion to the Mer de Glace in a pouring rain,
without injury to any of us, and were well repaid for our trouble by the
novelty of the whole expedition and the extraordinary sights we saw.
George intended taking us to the Oberland if we found the children
well on our return, but all hope of accomplishing another journey was
destroyed when we found what different business was before us. It is a
real disappointment, for the weather is now mild and very fine, just
adapted to journeying, and so many things have conspired to confine
me to this spot, that I have found it quite hard to be as patient and
cheerful as I am sure I ought to be. Alas and alas! what an insatiable
thing human nature is! How it craves _every_ thing the world can offer,
instead of contenting itself with what ought to content it. However, I
shall soon get over my fidgets, and as to George, of course he is only
disappointed for me and A., as he has visited the Oberland, and was only
going to give us pleasure. And, if I must choose between the two, I'd
rather have the littlest baby in the world than see all the biggest
mountains in it. We are thankful to hear that mother still continues to
be so well. We long to see her, and I think a look at her or a smile
from her would do George good like a medicine.

_October 17th._--I went to church yesterday for the first time in ten
months; we came out at half-past ten, so you see we have a tolerably
long day before us when church is done. It is not at all like going to
church at home; you not only find it painful to listen with such strict
attention as the foreign tongue requires, but you miss the neat,
well-ordered sanctuary, the picture of family life (for there are
no little children present!) and the agreeable array of dress. The
flapping, monstrous bloomers tire your eyes, and so do the grotesque,
coarse clothes and the tokens of extreme poverty. I grow more and more
patriotic every day, and am astonished at what I see and hear of life in
Europe.

I snatched one afternoon when the baby was better than usual to go to
Villeneuve with George to call on Mr. and Mrs. H. and the sister of Mrs.
H., who is one of our Mercer street young ladies. They were at the Hotel
Byron, where you stayed. What a beautiful spot it is! Mr. H. afterwards
came and dined with us, and was so charmed with the place that he was
tempted to take it when we leave; his wife, however, had set her heart
on going home at that time, as she had left one child there. The vintage
is going on here at Genevrier to-day, and we are all invited to go and
eat our fill.

_To Mrs. Henry B. Smith, Genevrier, Oct. 20, 1859._

You ask how I find time to make flower-pictures. Why, I have been
confined to the house a good deal by the baby's sickness, and could
hardly set myself about anything else when I was not watching and
worrying about him. When we got home from Chamouni we found him with
what proved to be a very serious disease in the case of so young a
child. It has shaken his little frame nearly to pieces, leaving him
after weeks of suffering not much bigger than a doll, and all eyes and
bones. It was a pretty hard struggle for life, and I hardly know how he
has weathered the storm. The idea of leaving our dear little Swiss baby
in a little Swiss grave, instead of taking him home with us, was very
distressing to me, and I can not help earnestly desiring that death may
not assail us in this foreign land.

Our trip to Chamouni was very pleasant and did me a deal of good. If I
could have kept on the mule-riding and mountain-viewing a few weeks
I should have got quite built up, but the children's coughs made it
impossible to take any more journeys. Mr. de Palèzieux, our landlord,
called Monday to see if I would sell him my sewing-machine, as his wife
was crazy to have one, and didn't feel as if she could wait to get one
from New York. I told him I would, and all night could not sleep for
teaching him how to use it--for his wife is in Germany, and he had to
learn for her. I invited him to come to dinner on Wednesday and take his
lessons. On Tuesday George said he wanted me to make a pair of sleeves
for Mrs. Tholuck before the machine went off, so I went to town to get
the stuff, at three o'clock began the sleeves and worked like a lion for
a little over two hours, when they were done, beautifully. This morning
I made four collars, which I shall want for Christmas presents, and a
shirt for Jules (our old hired man), who never had one made of linen,
and will go off the handle when he gets it. So I am tolerably used up,
and shall be almost glad to send away the tempter to-morrow, though I
dare say I shall miss it. I wish you could look out of my window this
minute, and see how beautiful the autumnal foliage is already beginning
to look. But my poor old head, what shall I do with it! You ask about
my health; I am as well as I can be without sleep. I have had only one
really good night since the baby came, to say nothing of those before;
some worse than others, to be sure; but all wakeful to a degree that
tries my faith not a little. I don't see what is to hinder my going
crazy one of these days. However, I won't if I can help it. George goes
to Germany this week. Well, my dear, good-bye.

_To Mrs. Stearns, Dec. 12th._

George got home a fortnight ago, after his three weeks' absence; looking
nicely, and more like himself than I have seen him in a long time. He
had a most refreshing time in Germany among his old friends. It does my
heart good to see him so cheery and hopeful. I have just seen the three
babies safely in bed, after no little scampering and carrying-on, and
now am ready for a little chat with you and dear mother. George sits by
me, piously reading "Adam Bede." I was disappointed in the "Minister's
Wooing," which he brought from Germany, and can not think Mrs. Stowe
came up to herself this time, whatever the newspapers may say about it;
and as for the plot, I don't see why she couldn't have let Mary
marry good old Dr. Hopkins, who was vastly more of a man than that
harum-scarum James. As to "Adam Bede," I think it a wonderful book,
beyond praise. I hope these literary observations will be blessed to
you, my dear. Mrs. Tholuck sent me a very pretty worsted cape to wear
about house, or under a cloak. We went to Lausanne last Wednesday
(George, A. and I) to do a little shopping for Christmas, and had quite
a good time, only as life is always mingled in sweet and bitter, bitter
and sweet, we had the melancholy experience of finding, when we got
ready to come home, that Jules had taken a drop too much, and was in a
state of ineffable silliness, which made George prefer to drive himself.

We begin now to think and talk about Paris. We have been buying this
afternoon some Swiss châlets and other things, brought to the door by
two women, and I had hard work to keep George from taking a bushel or
two. He got leaf-cutters enough to stab all his friends to the heart.
Most of our lady friends will receive a salad-spoon and fork from one
or the other of us. In fact, I have no doubt we shall be seized at the
Custom-house as merchants in disguise. Well, I must bid you good night.

The latter part of December her husband was requested to go to Paris and
take the temporary charge of the American chapel there. He decided to do
so, with the understanding that she and the children should soon follow
him. But scarcely had he left Geneva, when first one and then another of
the children was seized with scarlet fever. Here are a few extracts from
her letters on the subject:

_Dec. 31st._--Jules had hardly gone to the office, when I became
satisfied that G. had scarlet fever beyond a doubt, and therefore sent
Jeanette instantly to town to tell the doctor so, and to ask him to come
up. He came, and said at once I was quite right.... As to our leaving
here, he said decidedly that it _could_ not be under less than forty
days. I can not tell you, my darling, how grieved I am for you to hear
this news. Now I know your first impulse will be to come home, and
perhaps to renounce the chaplaincy, but I beg you to think twice--thrice
before you decide to do so.... How one thing hurries on after another!
But it is the universal cry, everywhere; everybody is groaning and
travailing in pain together; and we shall doubtless learn, in eternity,
that our lot was not peculiar, but that we had millions of unknown
fellow-sufferers on the way. Don't be too disappointed, but let us
rather be thankful, that if our poor children must be sick, it was here
and not in Paris, and now, good night. Betake yourself to your knees,
when you have read this, and pray for us with all your might.

Jan. 5, 1860.--The doctor has been here and says the other children
must not meet G. till the end of this month, unless they are taken sick
meantime. Poor M. melted like a snow-flake in the fire, when she heard
that; she begins to miss her little playmate, and keeps running to say
things to him through the key-hole, and to serenade him with singing,
accompanied with a rattling of knives. I see but one thing to be done;
for you to stay and preach and me to stay and nurse, each in the place
God has assigned us.... You must pray for me, that I may be patient and
willing to have my coming to Europe turn out a failure as far as my
special enjoyment of it is concerned. There are better things than going
to Paris, being with you and hearing you preach; pray that I may have
them in full measure. I can't bear to stop writing--good-bye, my dearest
love!

_Jan. 15th_--If you could look in upon us this evening, you would be not
a little surprised to see me writing in the corner of my room, close to
the wash-stand where my lamp is placed; but you would see at a glance
that the curtain of the bed is let down to shade our darling little M.'s
eyes, as she lies close at my side. How sorry I am, as you can not see
all this, to have to tell it to you! I have let her decide for me, and
she wants dear papa to know that she is sick. Oh, why need I add another
care to those you already suffer on our account!... As to baby, we are
disposed to think that _he has had the fever_. Of course we do not know,
but it is pleasant to hope the best.... And now, my precious darling,
you see there is more praying work to do, as I hinted in my Saturday's
note when my heart was pretty heavy within me. I need not tell you what
to ask for the dear child; but for me do pray that I may have no will of
my own. All these trials and disappointments are so purely Providential
that it frightens me to think I may have much secret discontent about
them, or may like to plan for myself in ways different from God's plans.
Yet in the midst of so much care and fatigue I hardly know how I
do feel; I am like a feather blown here and there by an unexpected
whirlwind and I suppose I ought not to expect much of myself. "Though He
slay me yet will I trust in Him," I keep saying over and over to myself,
and if you are going to write a new sermon this week, suppose you take
that for your text. I have not had one regret that you went to Paris,
and as to your coming on, I do hope you will not think of it, unless
you are sent for. You could do nothing and would be very lonely and
uncomfortable. The doctor told me to tell you to stay where you were,
and that you ought to rejoice that the children are not sick in Paris.
I do trust that in the end we shall come forth from this troublous time
like gold from the furnace. So far I have been able to do all that was
necessary and I trust I shall continue so. God bless you, and bring us
to a happy meeting in His own good time!

_To Mrs. Stearns, Genevrier, Jan. 21, 1860._

... Boiling over does one good of itself, and I am sure you feel the
better for having done so. I do not know why _men_ seem to get along
without such reliefs as women almost always seek in this way; whether
there is less water in their kettles or whether their kettles are bigger
than ours and boil with more safety. It is a comfort to believe that,
whatever our troubles, in the end all will work together for our good.
The new year has opened upon us here at Genevrier pretty gloomily, as
George has told you. You will not be surprised, therefore, to hear that
M. is also quite sick, much sicker than G. She is one of those meek,
precious little darlings whom it is painful to see suffer, and I have
hardly known what I was about, or where I was, since she was taken down.
My baby is deserted by us all; I have only seen him in _moments_ for
three weeks. You can not think how lonely poor A. is; half the time she
eats alone in the big solitary dining-room; nobody has any time to walk
out with her, what few children she knew are afraid to come here or to
have her come nigh them, and I feel as if I should fly, when I think of
it--for she is not strong or well and her life here in Switzerland has
been a series of disappointments and anxieties. The only leisure moments
I can snatch in the course of the twenty-four hours I have to spend in
writing to George; but the last few evenings M. has slept, so that I
could play a game of chess with her and try to cheer and brace her up
against next day's dreariness. All her splendid dreams of getting off
from this solitude to the life and stir of Paris have been dissipated,
but she has never uttered one word of complaint; I have not heard her
say as much as "Isn't it too bad!" And indeed we ought none of us to say
so or to feel so, for the doctor assures me that for three such delicate
children as he considers ours, to pass safely through whooping-dough and
scarlet-fever, is a perfect wonder and that he is sure it is owing to
the pure country air. And when I think how different a scene our house
might present if our three little ones had been snatched away, as three
or four even have been from other families, I am ashamed of myself that
I dare to sigh, that I am lonely and friendless here, or that I have
anything to complain of. It has been no small trial, however, to pass
through such anxieties in so remote a place, with George gone; while on
the other hand I have been most thankful that he has been spared all
the details of the children's ailments, and permitted once more to feel
himself about his Master's business. Providence most plainly called him
to Paris, and I trust he will stay there and get good till we can join
him. But I feel uneasy about him, too, lest his anxiety about the
children should hang as a dead weight on his not quite rested head and
heart. At any rate, I shall be tolerably glad to see him again at the
end of our two months' separation. How I should love to drop in on you
to-night! Doesn't it seem as if one _could_ if one tried hard enough!
Well, good night to you.

_To Mrs. Smith, Genevrier, Jan. 29, 1860._

I believe George has written you about our private hospital. He had not
been gone to Paris forty-eight hours when G. was taken sick; that was a
month ago, and I have only tasted the air twice in all that time. G. had
the disease lightly. M., poor little darling, was much sicker than he
was. It is a fortnight since she was taken and she hardly sits up at
all; an older child would be in bed, but little ones never will give up
if they can help it; I suppose it is because they can be held in the
arms and rocked, and carried about. I have passed through some most
anxious hours on account of M., and it seems little less than a miracle
that she is still alive. The baby is well, and he is a nice little rosy
fellow. It was a dreadful disappointment to us to be detained here
instead of going to Paris. I felt that I couldn't live longer in such
entire solitude; and just then, lo and behold, George was whisked off
and I was shut up closer than ever. It is a great comfort to me that he
got off just when he did, and has had grace to stay away; on the other
hand, I need not say how his absence has aggravated my cares, how
solitary the season of anxiety has been, and how, at times, my faith and
courage have been put to their utmost stretch. The whole thing has
been so evidently ordered and planned by God that I have not dared to
complain; but, my dear child, if you had come in now and then with a
little of your strengthening talk, I can't deny I should have been most
thankful. It has been pretty trying for George to hear such doleful
accounts from home, but I hope the worst is over, and that we shall be
the wiser and the better for this new lesson of life. Dr. Curchod's rule
is the same as Dr. Buck's--forty days confinement to one room; so we
have a month more to spend here. I am afraid I am writing a gloomy
letter. If I am, you must try to excuse me and say, "Poor child, she
isn't well, and she hasn't had any good sleep lately, and she's tired,
and I don't believe she _means_ to grumble." Do so much for me, and
I'll do as much for you sometime. I hear your husband has taken up a
Bible-class. It is perfectly shocking. Does he _want_ to kill himself,
or what ails him? The pleasantest remembrance we shall have of this
place is his visit.... Our doctor and his family stand out as bright
lights in this picture; he has been like a brother in sympathy and
kindness. We shall never forget it. God has been so good to you and to
me in sparing our children when assailed by so fearful a disease, that
we ought to love Him better than we ever did. I do so want my weary
solitude to bear that fruit.

       *       *       *       *       *

IV.

Paris. Sight-seeing. A sick Friend. London and its Environs. The Queen
and Prince Albert. The Isle of Wight. Homeward.


On the 20th of February the family gladly bade adieu to Switzerland
and set out for Paris, arriving there on the morning of the 22d. Mrs.
Prentiss was overjoyed to find herself once more in the world. On the
23d she wrote to Mrs. Smith:

We have got here safe and sound with our little batch of invalids. They
bore the journey very well and are heartily glad to get into the world
again. I am chock-full of worldliness. All I think of is dress and
fashion, and, on the whole, I don't know that you are worth writing to,
as you were never in Paris and don't know the modes, and have perhaps
foolishly left off hoops and open sleeves. I long, however, to hear from
you and your new babby, and will try to keep a small spot swept clear of
finery in my heart of hearts, where you can sit down when you've a mind.
Our little fellow is getting to be a sweet-looking baby, with what his
nurse calls a most "gracieuse" smile--if you can guess what kind of a
smile that is. But he is getting teeth and is looking delicate and soft,
and your Hercules will knock him down, I know.

But Paris was far from fulfilling to her or to the children the bright
anticipations with which it had been looked forward to from lonely
Genevrier. The weather could hardly have been worse; the house soon
became another hospital; and sight-seeing was a task. Friends, however,
soon gathered about her, and by their hospitality and little kindnesses,
relieved the tedium of the weary days.

_To Mrs. Stearns, Paris, March 27, 1860._

We pass many lonely hours in this big city, and often long for you and
Mr. Stearns to drop in, or for a chance to run in to see dear mother.
Getting nearer home makes it attractive. It works in the natural life
just as it does in the spiritual in that respect. The weather is
_dreadful_ and has been for five months--scarcely one cheery day in that
whole time. What with this and the children's ill-health, I should not
wonder if we left Paris as ignorant of its beauties as when we came. But
I hope we shall not let that worry us too much, but rather be thankful
that, bad as things are, they are not so bad as they might be. Our
sympathies are greatly excited now for the Rev. Mr. Little, formerly of
Bangor, who is in Paris--alone, friendless, and sick. If we could
by any miraculous power stretch our scanty accommodations, we should
certainly take him home and nurse him till his wife could be got here.
You know, perhaps, that Mrs. Little is a daughter of Dr. Cornelius; and,
when I recall the love and honor I was taught to feel towards him when I
was a little girl, my heart quite yearns towards her, especially in this
time of fearful anxiety about her husband. How insignificant my own
trials look to me, when I think of the sorrow which is probably before
her.

_April 26th._--Our patience is still tried by the cold, damp, and most
unwholesome weather, which prevents the children from going to see
anything. But we do not care so much for ourselves or for them as for
poor Mr. Little, who is exceedingly feeble, chiefly confined to his
room, and so forlorn in this strange, homeless land. While George was
with him last evening, he had a bad fit of coughing, which resulted in
the raising of a gill or so of blood. I know you will feel interested
to hear about him, and will not wonder that our hearts are so full of
sympathy for him and for his poor wife, that we can hardly talk of
anything else. He expects her in about a week. What a coming to Europe
for her! How little those who stand on the shore to watch the
departure of a foreign steamer, know what they do when they envy its
passengers!... We buckled on our armor and began sight-seeing the other
day, going to see the Sainte Chapelle and the galleries and museum of
the Louvre among the rest. The Sainte Chapelle is quite unlike anything
I ever saw and delighted us extremely. As to the Louvre, one needs
several entire days to do justice to it, besides an amount of youthful
enthusiasm and bodily strength which we do not possess; for, amid
midnight watchings over our sick children and the like, the oil of
gladness has about burnt out, and we find sight-seeing a weary task.

_May 25th._--It does seem as if George's preaching was listened to with
more and more serious attention, and it may be seen long after he has
rested from his labors on earth, that he has done a good work here. We
both are much interested in Professor [6] Huntington's sermons, [7] sent
us by Miss W. This is a great deal for me to say, because I do not like
to read sermons. During the last three weeks, before Mr. and Mrs. Little
left, we accomplished very little. It was not that we did or could do so
very much for them, but they had nobody to depend on but us, and George
was constantly going back and forth trying to make them comfortable,
arranging all their affairs, etc. She had a weary, anxious two weeks
here, and now has set her face homewards, not knowing but Mr. L. may
sink before reaching America. It is a great comfort to us to have been
able to soothe them somewhat as long as they stayed in Paris. George
says it was worth coming here for that alone. I say _we,_ but I _mean_
George, for what was done he did. The most I could do was to feel
dreadfully for them. [8]

We are now to begin sight-seeing again, and do all we can as speedily as
possible, for only two weeks remain. The children are now pretty well.
The baby is at that dangerous age when they are forever getting upon
their feet and tumbling over backward on their heads. M. is the oddest
little soul. Belle says she would rather go to a funeral than see all
the shops in Paris, and, when they are out, she can hardly keep her from
following every such procession they meet. I asked her the last time
they went out if she had had a nice walk. She said not very nice, as she
had only seen _one_ pretty thing, and that was a police-officer taking a
man to jail. The idea of going to England is very pleasant, and, if we
only keep tolerably well, I think it will do us all good. What is dear
mother doing about these times? I always think of her as sitting by the
little work-table in her room, knitting and watching the children. Give
lots of love and kisses to her, and tell her we long to see her face to
face. Kiss all the children for us--I suppose they'll let _you_! boys
and all--and you may do as much for Mr. S. if you want to. Good-bye.

On the 7th of June the family left Paris for London. A first visit to
England--

    That precious stone set in the silver sea--

is always an event full of interest to children of the New England
Puritans. The "sceptered isle" is still in a sense their mother-country,
and a thousand ancestral ties attract them to its shores. There is no
other spot on earth where so many lines of their history, domestic
and public, meet. And in London, what familiar memories are for them
associated with almost every old street and lane and building!

The winter and spring of 1860 had been cold, wet and cheerless well-nigh
beyond endurance; and the summer proved hardly less dreary. It rained
nearly every day, sometimes all day and all night; the sun came out only
at long intervals, and then often but for a moment; the atmosphere, much
of the time, was like lead; the moon and stars seemed to have left the
sky; even the English landscape, in spite of its matchless verdure and
beauty, put on a forbidding aspect. All nature, indeed, was under a
cloud. This, added to her frail health, made the summer a very trying
one to Mrs. Prentiss, and yet it afforded her not a little real delight.
Some of her pleasantest days in Europe were spent in England. The
following extracts are from a little journal kept by her in London:

_June 10th._--We went this morning to hear Dr. Hamilton, and were
greatly edified by the sermon, which was on the text: "Hitherto hath the
Lord helped us." In the afternoon we decided to go to Westminster Abbey.
It began to rain soon after we got out, and we had a two miles' walk
through the mud. The old abbey looked as much like its picture as it
could, but pictures can not give a true idea of the grandeur of such a
building. We were a little late, and every seat was full and many were
standing, as we had to do through the whole service. The sermon struck
me as a very ordinary affair, though it was delivered by a lord. But the
music was so sweet, performed for aught I know by angel--for the choir
was invisible--and we stood surrounded by such monuments and covered by
such a roof, that we were not quite throwing away our time. Albert B----
dined with us, and in the evening, with one accord, we went to hear Dr.
Hamilton again. We had good seats and heard a most beautiful as well as
edifying discourse on the first verses of the 103d Psalm. Some of the
images were very fine, and the whole tone of the sermon was moderate,
sensible, and serious. I use these words advisedly, for I had an
impression that he was a flowery, popular man whom I should not relish.
At the close of the service a little prayer-meeting of half an hour was
held, and we came home satisfied with our first English Sunday, feeling
some of our restless cravings already quieted as only contact with God's
own people could quiet them.

_11th._--Went to see the Crystal Palace. It proved a fine day, and we
took M. with us. None of us felt quite well, but we enjoyed this new and
beautiful scene for all that. It is a little fairy land.

_14th._--Went to Westminster Abbey, and spent some time there. On coming
out we made a rapid, but quite amusing passage through several courts
where we saw numerous great personages in stiff little gray wigs. To my
untrained, irreverent eyes they all looked perfectly funny. George was
greatly interested and edified. It has been raining and shining by turns
all day, and is this evening very cold.

_15th._--Another of those days which the English so euphoniously term
"_nasty_." Not knowing what else to do with it, we set off in search of
No. 5 Sermon Lane, a house connected with a stereoscopic establishment
in Paris, which we reached after many evolutions and convolutions, and
found it to be a wholesale concern only. Pitying us for the trouble we
had been at in seeking them, they let us have what views we wanted, but
at higher prices than they sell them at Paris. We then went to the Tract
House, and while selecting French and other tracts, a gentleman came and
asked for a quantity of the "Last Hours of Dr. Payson."

_16th._--Went to the Tower, and had a most interesting visit there. We
were particularly struck by some spots shown us by one of the wardens,
after the regular round had been gone through with, and the other
visitors dispersed--namely, the cell where prisoners were confined with
thumbscrews attached to elicit confession, and the floor where Lady Jane
Grey was imprisoned. We looked from the window where she saw her husband
carried to execution, and A. was locked up in the room so as to be able
to say she had been a prisoner in the Tower.

_17th._--Heard Dr. Hamilton again. Met Dr. and Mrs. Adams of New York
there, and had a most kind and cordial greeting from them. Dr. A.
introduced us to Dr. Hamilton. In the evening we went to hear Dr. Adams
at Dr. H.'s church, and came home quite proud of our countryman, who
gave us a most excellent sermon. At the close of the service Dr. H.
invited us to take tea with him next week, and introduced us to his
wife; a young, quiet little lady, looking as unlike most of us American
parsonesses as possible, her parochial cares being, perhaps, less
weighty than ours.

_18th._--Two things made this day open pleasantly. One was a decided
attempt on the part of the sun to come out and shine. The second was Dr.
Adams' dropping in and taking breakfast with us. We also got letters
from home, and the news that Mr. Little had reached New York in safety.
After lunch, George went off in glory to the House of Commons, hinting
that he might stay there till to-morrow morning, and begging for a
night-key to let himself in. The rest of us went to the Zoological
Garden, which is much more ample and interesting than the Jardin des
Plantes.

_20th._--Yesterday it poured in torrents all day, so that going out was
not possible. To-day we went out in the drops and between the drops, to
do a little shopping in the way of razors, scissors, knives, needles,
and such like sharp and pointed things. We stepped into Nesbit's and
took a view of Little Susy, who looked as usual, bought a few books,
subscribed to a library, coveted our neighbor's property, and came home
covered with mud and mire.

_22d._--Went out to Barnet to call on Miss Bird. On reaching the
station, we found Miss B. awaiting us with phaeton and pony. We were
driven over a pretty three miles route to "Hurst Cottage," where we were
introduced to Mrs. Bird and a younger daughter, and I had a nice little
lunch, together with pleasant chat about America in general and E. L. S.
in particular. Miss Bird said she showed her likeness to a gentleman,
who is a great physiognomist, and asked his opinion of her. He replied,
"She is a genius, a poetess, a Christian, and a true wife and mother."
We then went up-stairs, and looked at Miss B.'s little study, after
which she took us to see the church in Hadley, a very old building
dating back to 1494. It has been repaired and restored and is a
beautiful little church. On leaving it Miss Bird came with us a part of
the way to the station and we got home in good season for dinner. The
weather, true to its rule, could not last fine, and so this evening it
is raining again. [9]

_24th._--No rain all day! Can it be true? George went in the morning to
hear Mr. Binney, and A. and I to Dr. Hamilton's, who preached a very
good sermon on a favorite text of mine, "I beseech Thee show me Thy
glory." In the evening Dr. Patton, of New York, induced us to go with
himself and wife to a meeting at a theatre three miles off. The Rev. Mr.
Graham preached. It was an interesting, but touching and saddening sight
to look upon the congregation; to wonder why they came, and whether they
would come again, and whether under those stolid and hardened faces
there yet lay humanity. Many came with babies in their arms, who made
themselves very much at home; some were in dirty week-day clothes; "some
in rags and some in jags." Coming home we passed the spot where John
Rogers was burned, and that where in time of the plague dead bodies were
thrown in frightful heaps into one grave.

_25th._--We took tea at Dr. Hamilton's, where we had a very pleasant
evening, meeting Dr. and Mrs. Adams, as well as all Dr. H.'s session.
Dr. H. strikes one most agreeably, and seems as genial and as full of
life as a boy.

_26th._--Visited Windsor Castle with Dr. Adams and his party, ten of us
in all. We drove afterward to see the country church-yard, where Grey
wrote his elegy and where he now lies buried. This was a most charming
little trip and we all enjoyed it exceedingly. The young folks gathered
leaves and flowers for their books.

_29th._--Last evening we had a nice time and a cup of tea with the
Adamses. To-day--another nasty day--they lunched with us, which broke
up its gloom and we went with them to see Sloan's museum, a most
interesting collection. We all enjoyed its novelty as well as its
beauty.

She also records the pleasure with which she visited the National
Gallery, Madame Tussaud's Collection, the British Museum, Richmond, the
Kew Gardens, and Bunhill Fields Burying-Ground, and, in particular, the
grave of "Mr. John Bunyan."

Not long before leaving London she attended a Sunday evening service
for the people in Westminster Abbey, which interested her deeply. It
suggested--or rather was the original of--the scene in The Story Lizzie
Told:

When we first got into that grand place, I was scared, and thought they
would drive us poor folks out. But when I looked round, most everybody
was poor too. At last I saw some of them get down on their knees, and
some shut their eyes, and some took off their hats and held them over
their faces. Father couldn't, because he had me in his arms; and so I
took it off, and held it for him.

"What's it for?" says I.

"Hush," says father, "the parson's praying."

When I showed IT to God, the room seemed full of Him. But that's a small
room. The church is a million and a billion times as big, isn't it,
ma'am? But when the minister prayed, that big church seemed just as
full as it could hold. Then, all of a sudden, they burst out a-singing.
Father showed me the card with large letters on it, and says he, "Sing,
Lizzie, Sing!"

And so I did. It was the first time in my life. The hymn said,

  Jesus, lover of my soul,
  Let me to Thy bosom fly,

and I whispered to father, "Is Jesus God?" "Yes, yes," said he, "Sing,
Lizzie, sing!"

After the praying and the singing, came the preaching, I heard every
word. It was a beautiful story. It told how sorry Jesus was for us when
we did wrong, bad things, and how glad He was when we were good and
happy. It said we must tell Him all our troubles and all our joys, and
feel sure that He knew just how to pity us, because He had been a poor
man three and thirty years, on purpose to see how it seemed.

The most stirring sight by far which she witnessed while in London, was
a review of 20,000 volunteers by the Queen in Hyde Park, on the 23d of
June. She waited for it several hours, standing much of the time upon a
camp-stool. As her Majesty appeared, accompanied by Prince Albert,
the curiosity of the immense crowd "rose to such a pitch that every
conceivable method was resorted to, to catch a glimpse of the field. Men
climbed on each other's shoulders, gave 'fabulous prices' for chairs,
boxes, and baskets, raised their wives and sweethearts high in the air,
and so by degrees our view was quite obstructed." [10] The scene did
not, perhaps, in numbers or in the brilliant array of fashion, rank, and
beauty surpass, nor in military pomp and circumstance did it equal, a
grand review she had witnessed not long before in the Champ de Mars; but
in other respects it was far more impressive. Among the volunteers were
thousands of young men in whose veins ran the best and most precious
blood in England. And then to an American wife and mother, Queen
Victoria was a million times more interesting than Louis Napoleon. She
stood then, as happily she still stands, at the head of the Christian
womanhood of the world; and that in virtue not solely of her exalted
position and influence, but of her rare personal and domestic virtues as
well. She was then also at the very height of her felicity. How little
she or any one else in that thronging multitude dreamed, that before the
close of the coming year the form of the noble Prince, who rode by her
side wearing an aspect of such manly beauty and content, and who was so
worthy to be her husband, would lie mouldering in the grave! [11]

About the middle of July Mrs. Prentiss with her husband and children
left London for Ventnor on the Isle of Wight, where, in spite of cold
and rainy weather, she passed two happy months. With the exception of
Chateau d'Oex, no place in Europe had proved to her such a haven of
rest. Miss Scott, the hostess, was kindness itself. The Isle of Wight in
summer is a little paradise; and in the vicinity of Ventnor are some of
its loveliest scenes. Her enjoyment was enhanced by the society of Mr.
and Mrs. Jacob Abbott, who were then sojourning there. An excursion
taken with Mr. Abbott was doubly attractive; for, as might be inferred
from his books, he was one of the most genial and instructive of
companions, whether for young or old. A pilgrimage to the home and grave
of the Dairyman's Daughter and to the grave of "Little Jane," and a
day and night at Alum Bay, were among the pleasantest incidents of the
summer at Ventnor.

Of the visit to "Little Jane's" grave she gives the following account in
her journal:

_Aug. 10th._--To-day being unusually fine, we undertook our
long-talked-of expedition to Brading. On reaching the churchyard we
asked a little boy who followed us in if he could point out "Little
Jane's" grave; he said he could and led us at once to the spot. How
little she dreamed that pilgrimages would be made to her grave! Our
pigmy guide next conducted us to the grave-stones, where her task was
learned. "How old are you, little fellow?" I asked. "_Getting an
to five_," he replied. "And does everybody who comes here give you
something?" "_Some_ don't." "That's very naughty of them," I continued;
"after all your trouble they ought to give you something." A shrewd
smile was his answer, and George then gave him some pennies. "What do
you do with your pennies?" I asked. "I puts them in my pocket." "And
then what do you do?" "I saves them up." "And what then?" "My mother
buys shoe's when I get enough. She is going to buy me some soon with
_nails_ in them! These are dropping to pieces" (no such thing). "If that
is the case," quoth George, "I think I must give you some more pennies."
"Thank you," said the boy. "Do you see my sword?" George then asked him
if he went to church and to Sunday-school. "Oh, yes, and there was
an organ, and they learned to sing psalms." "And to love God?" asked
George. "Yes, yes," he answered, but not with much unction, and so we
turned about and came home.

_To Mrs. Stearns, Ventnor, Aug. 24, 1860._

As this is to be our last letter home, it ought to be a very brilliant
one, but I am sure it won't; and when I look back over the past two
years and think how many stupid ones I have written you, I feel almost
ashamed of myself. But on the other hand I wonder I have written no
duller ones, for our staying so long at a time in one place has given
small chance for variety and description. It is raining and blowing at a
rate that you, who are roasting at home, can hardly conceive; we agreed
yesterday that if you were blindfolded and suddenly set down here and
told to guess what season of the year it was, you would judge by your
feelings and the wind roaring down the chimney, that it was December.
However disagreeable this may be it is more invigorating than hot
weather, and George and the children have all improved very much. George
enjoys bathing and climbing the "downs" and the children are out nearly
all day when it does not rain. You may remember that the twilight is
late in England, and even the baby is often out till half-past eight or
nine.... I just keep my head above water by having no cares or fatigue
at night. I feel _dreadfully_ that I am so helpless a creature, but I
believe God keeps me so for my mortification and improvement, and that I
ought to be willing to lead this good-for-nothing life if He chooses.
We have had the pleasure of meeting Mr. and Mrs. Abbott here. They have
gone now to spend the winter in Paris. Mrs. A. sent her love to you
again and again, and I was very glad to meet her for your sake as well
as her own, and to know Mr. A. better than I did before, and it was very
pleasant to George to chat with him. We walked together to see Shanklin
Chine. A. went with us, and Mr. Abbott amused her so on the way that she
came home quite dissatisfied with her stupid papa and mamma.

We are talking of little else now but getting home, and it is a pity you
could not take down the walls of our hidden souls and see the various
wishes and feelings we have on the subject. I forgot to say how glad we
were that you found George Prentiss such a nice boy. [12] I always loved
him for Abby's sake and he certainly was worthy of the affection she
felt for him as the most engaging child I ever knew; he is a thorough
Prentiss still, it seems. What is he going to be? You must feel queer
to have a boy in college; it is like a strange dream. Our boys are two
spunky little toads who need, or will need, all our energies to bring
up. I have quite got my hand out, M. is so good--and hate to begin. But
good-bye, with love to mother, Mr. S. and the children.

The family embarked at Cowes on the magnificent steamship "Adriatic,"
September 13th, and, after a rough voyage, reached New York on the 24th
of the same month. Old friends awaited their coming and welcomed them
home again with open arms. It was a happy day for Mrs. Prentiss, and
in the abundance of its joy she forgot the anxious and solitary months
through which she had just been passing. She came back with four
children instead of three; her husband was, partially at least, restored
to health; and she breathed once more her native air.


[1] A most faithful servant, to whom Mrs. P. was greatly attached.

[2] The Hon. Benjamin F. Butler, of New York, was one of the most
honored members of the Mercer street church. He was known throughout the
country as an eminent lawyer and patriotic citizen. In the circle of his
friends he was admired and beloved for his singular purity of character,
his scholarly tastes, the kindness of his heart, and all the other fine
qualities that go to form the Christian gentleman. During a portion of
President Jackson's administration Mr. Butler was Attorney-General of
the United States. He died in the sixty-third year of his age.

[3] Referring to the death of Dr. Stearns' mother, Mrs. Abigail Stearns,
of Bedford, Mass.

[4] Mrs. Wainwright and her husband, the late Eli Wainwright, were
members of the old Mercer street Presbyterian church, and both of them
unwearied in their kindness to Mrs. Prentiss and her husband.

[5]

  "Far along,
  From peak to peak, the rattling crags among,

  Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud,
  But every mountain now hath found a tongue,

  And Jura answers, through her misty shroud,
  Back to the joyous Alps, which call to her aloud!"

[6] Now Bishop of the P. E. Church of Central New York.

[7] "Christian Believing and Living."

[8] The Rev. George B. Little was born in Castine, Maine, December
21, 1821. He was graduated at Bowdoin College in 1843. Having studied
theology at Andover, he was ordained in 1849 pastor of the First
Congregational church in Bangor, Me. In 1850 he married Sarah Edwards,
daughter of that admirable and whole-souled servant of Christ, the Rev.
Elias Cornelius, D.D. In November, 1857, Mr. Little was installed as
pastor of the Congregational church in West Newton, Mass. Early in
March, 1860, he went abroad for his health, but returned home again in
May, and died among his own people, July 20, 1860. The last words he
littered were, "I shall soon be with Christ." Mr. Little was a man
of superior gifts, full of scholarly enthusiasm, and devoted to his
Master's work.

[9] Miss Bird is known to the world by her remarkable books of travel in
Japan and elsewhere.

[10] An account of the Volunteer Review in Hyde Park is given in Sir
Theodore Martin's admirable Life of the Prince Consort, Vol. V., pp.
105-6, Am. Ed. The Prince himself, in responding to a toast the same
evening, speaks of it as "a scene which will never fade from the memory
of those who had the good fortune to be present."

[11] It is hardly possible to allude to the great affliction of this
illustrious lady without thinking also of the persistent acts of womanly
sympathy by which, during the anguish and suspense of the past two
months, she has tried to minister comfort to the stricken wife of our
suffering and now sainted President. Certainly, the whole case is
unique in the history of the world. By this most tender and Christ-like
sympathy, she has endeared herself in a wonderful manner to the heart
of the American people. God bless Queen Victoria! they say with one
voice.--_New York, September_ 24, 1881.

[12] The eldest son of her brother-in-law, Mr. S. S. Prentiss, a youth
of rare promise, and who had especially endeared himself to his Aunt
Abby. He died of fever at Tallahoma, Tennessee, during the war.




CHAPTER VII

THE STRUGGLE WITH ILL-HEALTH.

1861-1865.

I.

At Home again in New York. The Church of the Covenant. Increasing
Ill-health. The Summer of 1861. Death of Louisa Payson Hopkins. Extracts
from her Journal. Summer of 1862. Letters. Despondency.


We come now to a new phase of Mrs. Prentiss' experience as a pastor's
wife. Before her husband resigned his New York charge, during the winter
of 1857-8, the question of holding a service in the upper part of the
city, with the view to another congregation, was earnestly discussed in
the session and among the leading members of the church, but nothing
then came of it. Soon after his return from Europe, however, the project
was revived, and resulted at length in the formation of the Church of
the Covenant. In consequence of the great civil war, which was then
raging, the undertaking encountered difficulties so formidable, that
nothing but extraordinary zeal, liberality, and wise counsel on the part
of his friends and the friends of the movement could overcome them. For
two or three years the new congregation held service in what was then
called Dodworth's Studio Building at the corner of Fifth avenue and
Twenty-sixth street, but in 1864 it entered the chapel on Thirty-fifth
street, and in 1865 occupied the stately edifice on Park avenue. In the
manifold labors, trials, and discouragements connected with this work,
Mrs. Prentiss shared with her husband; and, when finally crowned with
the happiest success, it owed perhaps as much to her as to him. This
brief statement seems needful in order to define and render clear her
position, as a pastor's wife, during the next twelve years.

After spending some weeks in Newark and Portland, she found herself once
more in New York in a home of her own and surrounded by friends, both
old and new. The records of the following four or five years are
somewhat meagre and furnish few incidents of special significance. The
war, with its terrible excitement and anxieties, absorbed all minds
and left little spare time for thought or feeling about anything else.
Domestic and personal interests were entirely overshadowed by the one
supreme interest of the hour--that of the imperiled National life. It
was for Mrs. Prentiss a period also of almost continuous ill-health. The
sleeplessness from which she had already suffered so much assumed more
and more a chronic character, and, aggravated by other ailments and
by the frequent illness of her younger children, so undermined her
strength, that life became at times a heavy burden. She felt often that
her days of usefulness were past. But the Master had yet a great work
for her to do, and--

  In ways various,
  Or, might I say, contrarious--

He was training her for it during these years of bodily infirmity and
suffering.

The summer of 1861 was passed at Newport. In a letter to Mrs. Smith,
dated July 28th, she writes:

We find the Cliff House delightful, within a few minutes' walk of the
sea, which we have in full view from one of our windows. And we have no
lack of society, for the Bancrofts, Miss Aspinwall and her sister, as
well as the Skinners, are very friendly. But I am so careworn and out of
sorts, that this beautiful ocean gives me little comfort. I seem to
be all the time toting one child or another about, or giving somebody
paregoric or rhubarb, or putting somebody to sleep, or scolding somebody
for waking up papa, who is miserable, and his oration untouched. There,
don't mind me; it's at the end of a churchless Sunday, and I dare say I
am "only peevis'," as the little boy said.

But in a few weeks the children were well again and her own health so
much improved, that she was able to indulge in surf-bathing, which she
"enjoyed tremendously," and early in the fall the whole family returned
to town greatly refreshed by the summer's rest.

On the 24th of January, 1862, her sister, Mrs. Hopkins, died. This event
touched her deeply. She hurried off to Williamstown, whence she wrote to
her husband, who was unable to accompany her:

If you had known that I should not get here till half-past nine last
night, and that in an open sleigh from North Adams, you would not have
let me come. But so far I am none the worse for it; and, when I came in
and found the Professor and T. and Eddy sitting here all alone and so
forlorn in their unaccustomed leisure, I could not be thankful enough
that a kind Providence had allowed me to come. It is a very great
gratification to them all, especially to the Professor, and even more
so than I had anticipated. In view of the danger of being blocked up by
another snow-storm, I shall probably think it best to return by another
route, which they all say is the best. I hope you and my precious
children keep well.

No picture of Mrs. Prentiss' life would be complete, in which her
sister's influence was not distinctly visible. To this influence she
owed the best part of her earlier intellectual training; and it did much
to mould her whole character. Mrs. Hopkins was one of the most learned,
as well as most gifted, women of her day; and had not ill-health early
disabled her for literary labors, she might, perhaps, have won for
herself an enduring name in the literature of the country. There were
striking points of resemblance between her and Sara Coleridge; the same
early intellectual bloom; the same rare union of feminine delicacy and
sensibility with masculine strength and breadth of understanding; the
same taste for the beautiful in poetry, in art, and in nature, joined to
similar fondness for metaphysical studies; the same delight in books of
devotion and in books of theology; and the same varied erudition. Only
one of them seems to have been an accomplished Hebraist, but both were
good Latin and Greek scholars; and both were familiar with Italian,
Spanish, French, and German. Even in Sara Coleridge's admiration and
reverence for her father, Mrs. Hopkins was in full sympathy with her.
She lacked, indeed, that poetic fancy which belonged to the author of
"Phantasmion;" nor did she possess her mental self-poise and firmness of
will; but in other respects, even in physical organization and certain
features of countenance, they were singularly alike. And they both died
in the fiftieth year of their age.

Louisa Payson was born at Portland, February 24, 1812. Even as a child
she was the object of tender interest to her father on account of her
remarkable intellectual promise. He took the utmost pains to aid and
encourage her in learning to study and to think. The impression he made
upon her may be seen in the popular little volume entitled "The Pastor's
Daughter," which consists largely of conversations with him, written out
from memory after his death. She was then in her sixteenth year. The
records of the next eight years, which were mostly spent in teaching,
are very meagre; but a sort of literary journal, kept by her between
1835 and 1840, shows something of her mental quality and character, as
also of her course of reading. She was twenty-three years old when the
journal opens. Here are a few extracts from it:

BOSTON, Nov. 18, 1835.

Last evening I passed in company with Mr. Dana. [1] I conversed with him
only for a few moments about Mr. Alcott's school, and had not time to
ask one of the ten thousand questions I wished to ask. I have been
trying to analyse the feeling I have for men of genius, Coleridge,
Wordsworth and Dana, for example. I can understand why I feel for them
unbounded admiration, reverence and affection, but I hardly know why
there should be so much excitement--painful excitement--mingled with
these emotions. Next to possessing genius myself would be the pleasure
of living with one who possessed it.

_Nov. 19th._--I have read to-day one canto of Dante's Inferno and eight
or ten pages of Cicero de Amicitia. In this, as well as in de Senectute
which I have just finished, I am much interested. I confess I am not a
little surprised to find how largely the moderns are indebted to the
ancients; how many wise observations on life, and death, the soul, time,
eternity, etc, have been repeated by the sages of every generation since
the days of Cicero.

_Jan. 14th, 1836._--I spent last evening with Mr. Dana, and the
conversation was, of course, of great interest. We talked of some of the
leading Reviews of the day, and then of the character of our literature
as connected with our political institutions. This led to a long
discussion of the latter subject, but as the same views are expressed in
Mr. D.'s article on Law, I shall pass it over. [2] I differed from him
in regard to the French comedies, especially those of Moliere; however,
he allowed that they contain genuine humor, but they are confined to the
exhibition of _one_ ridiculous point in the character, instead of giving
us the whole man as Shakespeare does.

_Sept, 22d._--This morning I have had one of the periods of _insight,_
when the highest spiritual truths pertaining to the divine and human
natures, become their own light and evidence, as well as the evidence of
other truths. No speculations, no ridicule can shake my faith in that
which I thus see and feel. I was particularly interested in thinking of
the regeneration of the spirit and the part which Faith, Hope, and Love,
have in effecting it.

_Sab. 23d._--It seems to me that this truth alone, there is a God, is
sufficient, rightly believed, to make every human being absolutely and
perfectly happy.

_Jan. 14th, 1839._--Wednesday evening attended Mr. Emerson's lecture on
Genius, of which I shall _attempt_ to say nothing except that it was
most delightful. Thursday morning Mr. Emerson [3] called to see me and
gave me a ticket for his course. Afterwards Mr. Dana called. It seems to
me that I have lived _backwards;_ in other words, the faculties of my
mind which were earliest developed, were those which in other minds come
last--reflection and solidity of judgment; while fancy and imagination,
in so far as I have any at all, have followed.

_Sat. Jan. 26th._--My occupations in the way of books at present,
consist in reading "Antigone," Guizot's "History," Lockhart's "Scott,"
and _sundries._ I am also translating large extracts from Claudius, with
a view to writing an article about him, if the fates shall so will it.
[4]

_Thurs. Jan. 1st._--Mr. Emerson's lecture last night was on Comedy. He
professed to enter on the subject with reluctance, as conscious of a
deficiency in the organ of the ludicrous--a profession, however, that
was not substantiated very well by the lecture itself, which convulsed
the audience with laughter. He spoke in the commencement of the silent
history written in the faces of an assembly, making them as interesting
to a spectator as if their lives were written in their features.

_25th._--I began yesterday Schleiermacher's "Christliche Glaube"--a
profound, learned, and difficult work, I am told--Jouffroy's
"Philosophical Writings," Landor's "Pericles and Aspasia," and "The
Gurney Papers." Considering that I was already in the midst of several
books, this is rather too much, but I could not help it; the books were
lent me and must be read and returned speedily. I have been all the
morning employed in writing an abstract of the Report of the Prison
Discipline Society, and am wearied and stupefied.

_Jan. 7th, 1840._--Went to Mr. Ripley's where I met Dr. Channing, and
listened to a discussion of Spinoza's religious opinions. This afternoon
Mr. D. came again; talked about the Trinity and other theological
points. This evening, heard Prof. Silliman. I have nearly finished
Fichte, and like him on the whole exceedingly, though I think he errs in
placing the roots of the speculative in the practical reason. It seems
to me that neither grows out of the other, but that they are coincident
spheres. Still, there is a truth, a great truth, in what he says. It is
true that action is often the most effectual remedy against speculative
doubts and perplexities. When you are in the dark about this or
that point, ask what command does conscience impose upon me at this
moment--obey it and you will find light.

These extracts will suffice to show the quality and extent of her
reading. What sort of fruit her reading and study bore may be seen by
her articles on Claudius and Goethe, in the New York Review. No abler
discussion of the genius and writings of Goethe had at that time
appeared in this country; while the article on Claudius was probably the
first to make him known to American readers.

During many of the later years of her life Mrs. Hopkins was a martyr to
ill-health. The story of her sufferings, both physical and mental, as
artlessly told in little diaries which she kept, is "wondrous pitiful;"
no pen of fiction could equal its simple pathos. Again and again, as she
herself knew, she was on the very verge of insanity; nothing, probably,
saving her from it but the devotion of her husband, who with untiring
patience and a mother's tenderness ministered, in season and out of
season, to her relief. Often would he steal home from his beloved
Observatory, where he had been teaching his students how to watch the
stars, and pass a sleepless night at her bedside, reading to her and by
all sorts of gentle appliances trying to soothe her irritated nerves.
And this devotion ran on, without variableness or shadow of turning,
year after year, giving itself no rest until her eyes were closed in
death. [5]

Let us now resume our narrative. A portion of the summer of 1862 was
passed by Mrs. Prentiss at Newport. Her season of rest was again invaded
by severe illness among her children. Under date of August 3d, she
writes to Mrs. Smith:

I can see that our landlady, who has good sense and experience, thinks
G. will not get well. Sometimes, in awful moments, I think so too; but
then I cheer up and get quite elated. Last night as I lay awake, too
weary to sleep, I heard a harsh, rasping sound like a large saw. I
thought some animal unknown to me must be making it, it was so regular
and frequent. But after a time I found it was a dying young soldier who
lives farther from this house than Miss H. does from our house in New
York. His fearful cough! Oh, this war! this war! I never hated and
revolted against it as I did then. I had heard some one say such a young
man lay dying of consumption in this street, but till then was too
absorbed with my own incessant cares to hear the cough, as the rest had
done. I never realised how I felt about our country till I found the
terror of losing, a link out of that little golden chain that encircles
my sweetest joys, was a _kindred_ suffering. Have the times ever looked
so black as they do now? We seem to be drifting round without chart or
pilot.

Two weeks later, August 17th, she writes to her cousin, Miss Shipman:

G. is really up and about, looking thin and white, and feeling hungry
and weak; but little H. has been sick with the same disease these ten
days past. I got your letter and the little cat, for which G. and I
thank you very much. I should think it would about kill you to cook all
day even for our soldiers, but on the whole can not blame any one who
wants to get killed in their service. I am impressed more and more
with their claims upon us, who confront every danger and undergo every
suffering, while we sit at home at our ease. However, the ease I have
enjoyed during the last five weeks has not been of a very luxurious
kind, and I have felt almost discouraged, as day after day of
confinement and night after night of sleeplessness has pulled down my
strength. But, what am I doing? Complaining, instead of rejoicing that I
am not left unchastised.

After a careworn summer at Newport, she went with the children to
Williamstown, where a month was passed with her brother-in-law,
Professor Hopkins. The following letters relate to this visit:

_To her Husband, Williamstown, Sept. 19, 1862._

I am glad to find that you place reliance on the reports of our late
victory, for I have been in great suspense, seeing only The World, which
was throwing up its hat and declaring the war virtually ended. I have no
faith in such premature assertions, of which we have had so many, but
was most anxious to know your opinion. Do not fail to keep me informed
of what is going on. The children are all out of doors and enjoying
themselves. The Professor has gone on horseback to see about his
buckwheat. He took me up there yesterday afternoon, and I crawled
through forty fences (more or less) and got a vast amount of exercise,
which did not result in any better sleep, however, than no exercise
does. Caro. H. read me yesterday a most interesting letter from her
brother Henry, describing the scene at Bull Run when he went there five
days after the battle. It is very painful to find such mismanagement as
he deplores. He gave a most touching account of a young fellow who lay
mortally wounded, where he had lain uncared-for with his companions the
five days, and whom they were obliged to decline removing, as they had
only room for a portion of the hopeful cases. After beseeching Mr. H. to
see that he was removed, and entreating to know when and how he was ever
to get home if they left him, he was told that it was not possible to
make room for him in this train of ambulances. As Mr. H. tore himself
away, he heard him say,

  "Here, Lord, I give myself away;
  'Tis all that I can do."

The torture of the wounded men in the ambulances was so frightful, that
Mr. H. gave each of them morphine enough to kill three well men. They
"cried for it like dogs and licked my hands lest they should lose a
drop," he adds. As a contrast to this letter, some of the new recruits
came into the Professor's grounds yesterday to get bouquets, and thought
if _their_ folks had a "yard" so gayly decked with flowers they would
feel set up.

_To Mrs. Smith, Williamstown, Sept. 25, 1862._

I have been feeling languid, or lazy, ever since I came here, and for a
few days past have been miserable; but I am better to-day. This place
is perfectly lovely and grows upon me every day. But the Professor is
entirely absorbed in his loss. He does not know it, or else thinks he
does not show it, for he makes no complaint, but it is in every tone and
word and look. It is plain that Louisa's ill-health, which might have
weaned a selfish man from her, only endeared her to him; she was so
entirely his object day and night, that he misses her and the _care_ of
her, as a mother does her sick child. If we ride out he says, "Here I
often came with _her_;" if a bird sings, "That is a note she used to
love;" if we see a flower, "That is one of the flowers she loved." He
has an astonishing amount of journal manuscripts, and I think may in
time prepare something from them.... Isn't it frightful how cotton goods
have run up! I gave twenty cents for a yard of silicia (is that the way
to spell it?) and suppose everything else has rushed up too. I hope you
are prepared to tell me exactly what to buy and instruct me in the way I
should go.

_To her Husband, Williamstown, Sept. 26._

I spent yesterday forenoon looking over Louisa's papers and found an
enormous mass of manuscript; journals, extract books, translations,
and work enough planned and begun for many lifetimes. It was very
depressing. One's only refuge is faith in God, and in the certainty that
her lingering illness was more acceptable to Him than years of active
usefulness, and such extraordinary usefulness even as she was so fitted
for. I read over some of my own letters written many, many years ago;
and the sense this gave me of lost youth and vivacity and energy, was,
for a time, most painful.... I have felt for a long while greatly
discouraged and depressed, yes, weary of my life, because it seems to me
that broken down and worn out as I am, and full of faults under which I
groan, being burdened, I could not make you happy. But your last letter
comforted me a good deal. I see little for us to do but what you
suggest: to cheer each other up and wear out rather than rust out. It is
more and more clear to me, that patience is our chief duty on earth, and
that we can not rest here.

I am anxious to know what you think of the President's Proclamation. [6]
The Professor likes it. He seems able to think of little but his loss.
Even when speaking in the most cheerful way, tears fill his eyes, and
the other day putting a letter into my hands to read, he had to run
out of the room. The letter stated that fifty young persons owed their
conversion to Louisa's books; it was written some years ago. His mother
spent Saturday here. She is very bright and cheerful and full of
sly humor; he did everything to amuse her and she enjoyed her visit
amazingly. I long to see you. Letters are more and more unsatisfactory,
delusive things. M. is going to have a "party" this afternoon, and is
going to one this forenoon. The others are bright and busy as bees.
Good-bye.

A tinge of sadness is perceptible in most of her letters during this
year. Her sister's death, the fearful state of the country, protracted
sickness among her children, and her own frequent ill-turns and
increasing sense of feebleness, all conspired to produce this effect.
But in truth her heart was still as young as ever and a touch of
sympathy, or an appeal to her love of nature, instantly made it
manifest. An extract from a letter to Miss Anna Warner, dated New York,
December 16th, may serve as an instance: I wanted to write a book when
the trunk came this afternoon; that is, a book full of thanks and
exclamation marks. You could not have bought with money anything for my
Christmas present, that could give half the pleasure. I shut myself up
in my little room up-stairs (I declare I don't believe you saw that
room! did you?), and there I spread out my mosses and my twigs and my
cones and my leaves and admired them till I had to go out and walk to
compose myself. Then the children came home and they all admired too,
and among us we upset my big work-basket and my little work-basket, and
didn't any of us care. My only fear is that with all you had to do you
did too much for me. Those little red moss cups are _too_ lovely! and as
to all those leaves how I shall leaf out! G. asked me who sent me all
those beautiful things. "Miss Warner," quoth I absently. "Didn't Miss
Anna send any of them?" he exclaimed. So you see you twain do not pass
as one flesh here. I have read all the "Books of Blessing" [7] save
Gertrude and her Cat--but though I like them all very much, my favorite
is still "The Prince in Disguise." If you come across a little book
called "Earnest," [8] published by Randolph, do read it. It is one of
the few _real_ books and ought to do good. I have outdone myself in
picture-frames since you left. I got a pair of nippers and some wire,
which were of great use in the operation. I am now busy on Mr. Bull, for
Mr. Prentiss' study.

To one of her sisters-in-law she wrote, under the same date:

I do not know as I ever was so discouraged about my health as I have
been this fall. Sometimes I think my constitution is quite broken down,
and that I never shall be good for anything again. However, I do not
worry one way or the other but try to be as patient as I can. I have
been a good deal better for some days, and if you could see our house
you would not believe a word about my not being well, and would know my
saying so was all a sham. To tell the truth, it does look like a garden,
and when I am sick I like to lie and look at what I did when I wasn't;
my wreaths, and my crosses, and my vines, and my toadstools, and other
fixins. Yesterday I made a bonnet of which I am justly proud; to-morrow
I expect to go into mosses and twigs, of which Miss Anna Warner has just
sent me a lot. She and her sister were here about a fortnight. They grow
good so fast that there is no keeping track of them. Does any body in
Portland take their paper? [9] The children are all looking forward to
Christmas with great glee. It is a mercy there are any children to keep
up one's spirits in these times. Was there ever anything so dreadful as
the way in which our army has just been driven back! [10] But if we had
had a brilliant victory perhaps the people would have clamored against
the emancipation project, and anything is better than the perpetuation
of slavery.

Our congregation is fuller than ever, but there is no chance of building
even a chapel. Shopping is pleasant business now-a-days, isn't it? We
shall have to stop sewing and use pins.

       *       *       *       *       *

II.

Another care-worn Summer. Letters from Williamstown and Rockaway. Hymn
on Laying the Corner-stone of the Church of the Covenant.


The records of 1863 are confined mostly to her letters written during
the summer. In June she went again with the younger children to
Williamstown, where she remained a month. The family then proceeded
to Rockaway, Long Island, and spent the rest of the season there in a
cottage, kindly placed at their disposal by Mrs. William G. Bull. They
passed through New York barely in time to escape the terrible riots,
which raged there with such fury in the early part of July. A few
extracts from her letters belonging to this period follow:

_To her Husband, Troy, June 10._

I hope you'll not be frightened to get a letter mailed here; anyhow I
can't resist the temptation to write, though standing up in a little
newspaper office. We were routed up at half past five this morning by
pounds and yells about taking the "Northern Railroad." On reaching Troy
the captain bid us hurry or we should lose the train, and we did hurry,
though I pretty well foresaw our fate, and after a running walk of a
quarter of a mile, we had the felicity of finding the train had left and
that the next one would not start till twelve. The little darlings are
bearing the disappointment sweetly.

4 P.M.--After depositing my note in the Post-office, we strolled about
awhile and then came across to a hotel, where I ordered a lunch-dinner.
We got through at twelve and marched to the station, expecting to start
at once, when M. came running up to me declaring there was no train to
Williamstown till five o'clock. My heart fairly turned over; however,
I did not believe it, but on making inquiries it proved to be only too
true. For a minute I sat in silent despair. Just then the landlord of
the hotel drew nigh and said to me, "You don't look very healthy, Mrs.;
if you'll walk over to my house, I will give you a bedroom free of
charge and you can lie down and rest awhile." Over to his house we went,
weary enough. After awhile, finding them all forlorn, I got a carriage
and we drove out; on coming back I ordered some ice-cream, which built
us all up amazingly. The children are now counting the minutes till
five. One of the boys is perched on a wash-stand with his feet dangling
down through the hole where the bowl should be; the other is eating
crackers; the landlord is anxious I should take a glass of wine; and M.
is everywhere at once, having nearly worn out my watch-pocket to see
what time it was.

_Monday, June 21st._--It is now going on a fortnight since we left home.
Oh, if it were God's will, how I should love to get well, pay you back
some of the debts I owe you, be a better mother to my children, write
some more books, and make you love me so you wouldn't know what to do
with yourself! Just to see how it would seem to be well, and to show
you what a splendid creature I could be, if once out of the harness! A
modest little list you will say!... I said to myself, Is it after all
such a curse to suffer and to be a source of suffering to others? Isn't
it worth while to pay something for warm human sympathies and something
for rich experience of God's love and wisdom? And I felt, that for you
to have a radiant, cheerful, health-happy wife was not, perhaps, so good
for you, as a minister of Christ's gospel, as to have the poor feeble
creature whose infirmities keep you anxious and off the top of the wave.

Saturday afternoon the Professor took me off strawberrying again. Can
you believe that till this June I never went strawberrying in my life?
I don't eat them, so the fun is in the picking. Do you realise how kind
the Professor is to me? I am afraid I don't. He works very hard, too
hard, I think; but perhaps he does it as a refuge from his loneliness.
His heart seems still full of tenderness toward Louisa. Yesterday he
took me aside and told me, with much emotion, that he dreamed the night
before that she floated towards him with a leaf in her hand, on which
she wrote the words "Sabbath peacefulness." I love him much, but am
afraid of him, as I am of all men--even of you; you need not laugh, I
am.

To Mrs. Smith she writes from Rockaway, July 24th:

We were glad to hear that you were safely settled at Prout's Neck, far
from riots, if not from rumors thereof. We have as convenient and roomy
and closetty a cottage as possible. We are within three minutes or so
of the beach, and go back and forth, bathe, dig sand, and stare at the
ocean according to our various ages and tastes. I really do not know how
else we spend our time. I sew a little, and am going to sew more when my
machine comes; read a little, doze a little, and eat a good deal. The
butcher calls every morning, and so does the baker with excellent bread;
twice a week clams call at thirty cents the hundred; we get milk,
butter, and eggs without much trouble; and ice and various vegetables
without any, as Mrs. Bull sends them to us every day, with sprinklings
of fruit, pitchers of cream, herring and whatever is going. We either
sit on the beach looking and listening to the waves, every evening, or
we run in to Mrs. Bull's; or gather about our parlor-table reading. By
ten we are all off to bed. George does nothing but race back and forth
to New York on Seminary business; he has gone now. I went with him the
other day. The city looks pinched and wo-begone. We were caught in that
tornado and nearly pulled to pieces.

_27th._--You will be sorry to hear that our last summer's siege with
dysentery bids fair to be repeated. Yesterday, when the disease declared
itself, I must own that for a few hours I felt about heart-broken. My
own strength is next to nothing, and how to face such a calamity I knew
not. Ah, how much easier it is to pray daily, "Oh, Jesus Christus, wachs
in mir!" than to consent to, yea rejoice in, the terms of the grant!
Well, George went for the doctor. His quarters at this season are right
opposite; he is a German and brother of the author Auerbach. We brought
G.'s cot into our room and George and I took care of him till three
o'clock, when for the first time since we had children, I gave out and
left the poor man to get along as nurse as he best could. I can tell
you it comes hard on one's pride to resign one's office to a half-sick
husband. I think I have let the boys play too hard in the sun. I long to
have you see this pretty cottage and this beach.

_Aug. 3d._--The children are out of the doctor's hands and I do about
nothing at all. I hope you are as lazy as I am. Today I bathed, read the
paper and finished John Halifax. I wish I could write such a book!

To Miss Gilman she writes, August 10th:

We have the nicest of cottages, near the sea. I often think of you as I
sit watching the waves rush in and the bathers rushing out. I have not
yet thanked you for the hymns you sent me. The traveller's hymn sounds
like George Withers. Mr. P. borrowed a volume of his poems which
delights us both. I am glad you are asking your mother questions about
your father. I am amazed at myself for not asking my dear mother many
a score about my father, which no human being can answer now. I do not
like to think of you all leaving New York. Few families would be so
missed and mourned.

I can sympathise with you in regard to your present Sunday "privileges."
We have a long walk in glaring sunshine, sit on bare boards, live
through the whole (or nearly the whole) Prayer-book, and then listen, if
we can, to a sermon three-quarters of an hour long, its length not being
its chief fault. I am utterly unable to bear such fatigue, and spend my
time chiefly at home, with some hope of more profit, at any rate. How
true it is that our Master's best treasures are kept in earthen vessels!
Humanly speaking, we should declare it to be for His glory to commit the
preaching of His gospel to the best and wisest hands. But His ways are
not as our ways.... I feel such a longing, when Sunday conies, to spend
it with good people, under the guidance of a heaven-taught man. A
minister has such wonderful opportunity for doing good! It seems
dreadful to see the opportunity more than wasted. The truth is, we all
need, ministers and all, a closer walk with God. If a man comes down
straight from the mount to speak to those who have just come from the
same place, he must be in a state to edify and they to be edified.

From New York she writes to Miss Shipman, October 24th:

Your letter came just as we started for Poughkeepsie. The Synod met
there and I was invited to accompany George, and, quite contrary to my
usual habits, I went. We had a nice time. I feel that you are in the
best place in the world. Next to dying and going home one's self, it
must be sweet to accompany a Christian friend down to the very banks
of the river. Isn't it strange that after such experiences we can ever
again have a worldly thought, or ever lose the sense of the reality of
divine things! But we are like little children--ever learning and ever
forgetting. Still, it is well to be learning, and I envy you your
frequent visits to the house of mourning. You will miss your dear friend
very much. I know how you love her. How many beloved ones you have
already lost for a season!... Don't set me to making brackets. I am
as worldly now as I can be, and my head full of work on all sorts of
things. I made two cornucopias of your pattern and filled them with
grasses and autumn leaves, and they were magnificent. I got very large
grasses in the Rockaway marshes. The children are all well and as gay as
larks.

Early in November the corner-stone of the Church of the Covenant was
laid. She wrote the following hymn for the occasion:

  A temple, Lord, we raise;
  Let all its walls be praise
      To Thee alone.
  Draw nigh, O Christ, we pray,
  To lead us on our way,
  And be Thou, now and aye,
      Our corner-stone.

  In humble faith arrayed,
  We these foundations laid
      In war's dark day.
  Oppression's reign o'erthrown,
  Sweet peace once more our own,
  Do Thou the topmost stone
      Securely lay.

  And when each earth-built wall
  Crumbling to dust shall fall,
      Our work still own.
  Be to each faithful heart
  That here hath wrought its part,
  What in Thy Church Thou art--
      The Corner-stone.

       *       *       *       *       *

III.

Happiness in her Children. The Summer of 1864. Letters from Hunter.
Affliction among Friends.


In the early part of 1864 she was more than usually afflicted with
neuralgic troubles and that "horrid calamity," as she calls it,
sleeplessness. "I know just how one feels when one can't eat or sleep or
talk. I declare, a good deal of the time pulling words out of me is like
pulling out teeth."

Still (she writes to a sister-in-law, Jan. 15th), we are a happy family
in spite of our ailments. I suffer a great deal and cause anxiety to my
husband by it, but then I enjoy a great deal and so does he, and
our younger children--to say nothing of A.--are sources of constant
felicity. Do not you miss the hearing little feet pattering round the
house? It seems to me that the sound of my six little feet is the very
pleasantest sound in the world. Often when I lie in bed racked with pain
and exhau