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 46º, 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.