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."