THE STRUGGLE WITH ILL-HEALTH.
1861-1865.
I.
At Home again in New York. The Church of the Covenant. Increasing
Ill-health. The Summer of 1861. Death of Louisa Payson Hopkins. Extracts
from her Journal. Summer of 1862. Letters. Despondency.
We come now to a new phase of Mrs. Prentiss' experience as a pastor's
wife. Before her husband resigned his New York charge, during the winter
of 1857-8, the question of holding a service in the upper part of the
city, with the view to another congregation, was earnestly discussed in
the session and among the leading members of the church, but nothing
then came of it. Soon after his return from Europe, however, the project
was revived, and resulted at length in the formation of the Church of
the Covenant. In consequence of the great civil war, which was then
raging, the undertaking encountered difficulties so formidable, that
nothing but extraordinary zeal, liberality, and wise counsel on the part
of his friends and the friends of the movement could overcome them. For
two or three years the new congregation held service in what was then
called Dodworth's Studio Building at the corner of Fifth avenue and
Twenty-sixth street, but in 1864 it entered the chapel on Thirty-fifth
street, and in 1865 occupied the stately edifice on Park avenue. In the
manifold labors, trials, and discouragements connected with this work,
Mrs. Prentiss shared with her husband; and, when finally crowned with
the happiest success, it owed perhaps as much to her as to him. This
brief statement seems needful in order to define and render clear her
position, as a pastor's wife, during the next twelve years.
After spending some weeks in Newark and Portland, she found herself once
more in New York in a home of her own and surrounded by friends, both
old and new. The records of the following four or five years are
somewhat meagre and furnish few incidents of special significance. The
war, with its terrible excitement and anxieties, absorbed all minds
and left little spare time for thought or feeling about anything else.
Domestic and personal interests were entirely overshadowed by the one
supreme interest of the hour--that of the imperiled National life. It
was for Mrs. Prentiss a period also of almost continuous ill-health. The
sleeplessness from which she had already suffered so much assumed more
and more a chronic character, and, aggravated by other ailments and
by the frequent illness of her younger children, so undermined her
strength, that life became at times a heavy burden. She felt often that
her days of usefulness were past. But the Master had yet a great work
for her to do, and--
In ways various,
Or, might I say, contrarious--
He was training her for it during these years of bodily infirmity and
suffering.
The summer of 1861 was passed at Newport. In a letter to Mrs. Smith,
dated July 28th, she writes:
We find the Cliff House delightful, within a few minutes' walk of the
sea, which we have in full view from one of our windows. And we have no
lack of society, for the Bancrofts, Miss Aspinwall and her sister, as
well as the Skinners, are very friendly. But I am so careworn and out of
sorts, that this beautiful ocean gives me little comfort. I seem to
be all the time toting one child or another about, or giving somebody
paregoric or rhubarb, or putting somebody to sleep, or scolding somebody
for waking up papa, who is miserable, and his oration untouched. There,
don't mind me; it's at the end of a churchless Sunday, and I dare say I
am "only peevis'," as the little boy said.
But in a few weeks the children were well again and her own health so
much improved, that she was able to indulge in surf-bathing, which she
"enjoyed tremendously," and early in the fall the whole family returned
to town greatly refreshed by the summer's rest.
On the 24th of January, 1862, her sister, Mrs. Hopkins, died. This event
touched her deeply. She hurried off to Williamstown, whence she wrote to
her husband, who was unable to accompany her:
If you had known that I should not get here till half-past nine last
night, and that in an open sleigh from North Adams, you would not have
let me come. But so far I am none the worse for it; and, when I came in
and found the Professor and T. and Eddy sitting here all alone and so
forlorn in their unaccustomed leisure, I could not be thankful enough
that a kind Providence had allowed me to come. It is a very great
gratification to them all, especially to the Professor, and even more
so than I had anticipated. In view of the danger of being blocked up by
another snow-storm, I shall probably think it best to return by another
route, which they all say is the best. I hope you and my precious
children keep well.
No picture of Mrs. Prentiss' life would be complete, in which her
sister's influence was not distinctly visible. To this influence she
owed the best part of her earlier intellectual training; and it did much
to mould her whole character. Mrs. Hopkins was one of the most learned,
as well as most gifted, women of her day; and had not ill-health early
disabled her for literary labors, she might, perhaps, have won for
herself an enduring name in the literature of the country. There were
striking points of resemblance between her and Sara Coleridge; the same
early intellectual bloom; the same rare union of feminine delicacy and
sensibility with masculine strength and breadth of understanding; the
same taste for the beautiful in poetry, in art, and in nature, joined to
similar fondness for metaphysical studies; the same delight in books of
devotion and in books of theology; and the same varied erudition. Only
one of them seems to have been an accomplished Hebraist, but both were
good Latin and Greek scholars; and both were familiar with Italian,
Spanish, French, and German. Even in Sara Coleridge's admiration and
reverence for her father, Mrs. Hopkins was in full sympathy with her.
She lacked, indeed, that poetic fancy which belonged to the author of
"Phantasmion;" nor did she possess her mental self-poise and firmness of
will; but in other respects, even in physical organization and certain
features of countenance, they were singularly alike. And they both died
in the fiftieth year of their age.
Louisa Payson was born at Portland, February 24, 1812. Even as a child
she was the object of tender interest to her father on account of her
remarkable intellectual promise. He took the utmost pains to aid and
encourage her in learning to study and to think. The impression he made
upon her may be seen in the popular little volume entitled "The Pastor's
Daughter," which consists largely of conversations with him, written out
from memory after his death. She was then in her sixteenth year. The
records of the next eight years, which were mostly spent in teaching,
are very meagre; but a sort of literary journal, kept by her between
1835 and 1840, shows something of her mental quality and character, as
also of her course of reading. She was twenty-three years old when the
journal opens. Here are a few extracts from it:
BOSTON, Nov. 18, 1835.
Last evening I passed in company with Mr. Dana. [1] I conversed with him
only for a few moments about Mr. Alcott's school, and had not time to
ask one of the ten thousand questions I wished to ask. I have been
trying to analyse the feeling I have for men of genius, Coleridge,
Wordsworth and Dana, for example. I can understand why I feel for them
unbounded admiration, reverence and affection, but I hardly know why
there should be so much excitement--painful excitement--mingled with
these emotions. Next to possessing genius myself would be the pleasure
of living with one who possessed it.
_Nov. 19th._--I have read to-day one canto of Dante's Inferno and eight
or ten pages of Cicero de Amicitia. In this, as well as in de Senectute
which I have just finished, I am much interested. I confess I am not a
little surprised to find how largely the moderns are indebted to the
ancients; how many wise observations on life, and death, the soul, time,
eternity, etc, have been repeated by the sages of every generation since
the days of Cicero.
_Jan. 14th, 1836._--I spent last evening with Mr. Dana, and the
conversation was, of course, of great interest. We talked of some of the
leading Reviews of the day, and then of the character of our literature
as connected with our political institutions. This led to a long
discussion of the latter subject, but as the same views are expressed in
Mr. D.'s article on Law, I shall pass it over. [2] I differed from him
in regard to the French comedies, especially those of Moliere; however,
he allowed that they contain genuine humor, but they are confined to the
exhibition of _one_ ridiculous point in the character, instead of giving
us the whole man as Shakespeare does.
_Sept, 22d._--This morning I have had one of the periods of _insight,_
when the highest spiritual truths pertaining to the divine and human
natures, become their own light and evidence, as well as the evidence of
other truths. No speculations, no ridicule can shake my faith in that
which I thus see and feel. I was particularly interested in thinking of
the regeneration of the spirit and the part which Faith, Hope, and Love,
have in effecting it.
_Sab. 23d._--It seems to me that this truth alone, there is a God, is
sufficient, rightly believed, to make every human being absolutely and
perfectly happy.
_Jan. 14th, 1839._--Wednesday evening attended Mr. Emerson's lecture on
Genius, of which I shall _attempt_ to say nothing except that it was
most delightful. Thursday morning Mr. Emerson [3] called to see me and
gave me a ticket for his course. Afterwards Mr. Dana called. It seems to
me that I have lived _backwards;_ in other words, the faculties of my
mind which were earliest developed, were those which in other minds come
last--reflection and solidity of judgment; while fancy and imagination,
in so far as I have any at all, have followed.
_Sat. Jan. 26th._--My occupations in the way of books at present,
consist in reading "Antigone," Guizot's "History," Lockhart's "Scott,"
and _sundries._ I am also translating large extracts from Claudius, with
a view to writing an article about him, if the fates shall so will it.
[4]
_Thurs. Jan. 1st._--Mr. Emerson's lecture last night was on Comedy. He
professed to enter on the subject with reluctance, as conscious of a
deficiency in the organ of the ludicrous--a profession, however, that
was not substantiated very well by the lecture itself, which convulsed
the audience with laughter. He spoke in the commencement of the silent
history written in the faces of an assembly, making them as interesting
to a spectator as if their lives were written in their features.
_25th._--I began yesterday Schleiermacher's "Christliche Glaube"--a
profound, learned, and difficult work, I am told--Jouffroy's
"Philosophical Writings," Landor's "Pericles and Aspasia," and "The
Gurney Papers." Considering that I was already in the midst of several
books, this is rather too much, but I could not help it; the books were
lent me and must be read and returned speedily. I have been all the
morning employed in writing an abstract of the Report of the Prison
Discipline Society, and am wearied and stupefied.
_Jan. 7th, 1840._--Went to Mr. Ripley's where I met Dr. Channing, and
listened to a discussion of Spinoza's religious opinions. This afternoon
Mr. D. came again; talked about the Trinity and other theological
points. This evening, heard Prof. Silliman. I have nearly finished
Fichte, and like him on the whole exceedingly, though I think he errs in
placing the roots of the speculative in the practical reason. It seems
to me that neither grows out of the other, but that they are coincident
spheres. Still, there is a truth, a great truth, in what he says. It is
true that action is often the most effectual remedy against speculative
doubts and perplexities. When you are in the dark about this or
that point, ask what command does conscience impose upon me at this
moment--obey it and you will find light.
These extracts will suffice to show the quality and extent of her
reading. What sort of fruit her reading and study bore may be seen by
her articles on Claudius and Goethe, in the New York Review. No abler
discussion of the genius and writings of Goethe had at that time
appeared in this country; while the article on Claudius was probably the
first to make him known to American readers.
During many of the later years of her life Mrs. Hopkins was a martyr to
ill-health. The story of her sufferings, both physical and mental, as
artlessly told in little diaries which she kept, is "wondrous pitiful;"
no pen of fiction could equal its simple pathos. Again and again, as she
herself knew, she was on the very verge of insanity; nothing, probably,
saving her from it but the devotion of her husband, who with untiring
patience and a mother's tenderness ministered, in season and out of
season, to her relief. Often would he steal home from his beloved
Observatory, where he had been teaching his students how to watch the
stars, and pass a sleepless night at her bedside, reading to her and by
all sorts of gentle appliances trying to soothe her irritated nerves.
And this devotion ran on, without variableness or shadow of turning,
year after year, giving itself no rest until her eyes were closed in
death. [5]
Let us now resume our narrative. A portion of the summer of 1862 was
passed by Mrs. Prentiss at Newport. Her season of rest was again invaded
by severe illness among her children. Under date of August 3d, she
writes to Mrs. Smith:
I can see that our landlady, who has good sense and experience, thinks
G. will not get well. Sometimes, in awful moments, I think so too; but
then I cheer up and get quite elated. Last night as I lay awake, too
weary to sleep, I heard a harsh, rasping sound like a large saw. I
thought some animal unknown to me must be making it, it was so regular
and frequent. But after a time I found it was a dying young soldier who
lives farther from this house than Miss H. does from our house in New
York. His fearful cough! Oh, this war! this war! I never hated and
revolted against it as I did then. I had heard some one say such a young
man lay dying of consumption in this street, but till then was too
absorbed with my own incessant cares to hear the cough, as the rest had
done. I never realised how I felt about our country till I found the
terror of losing, a link out of that little golden chain that encircles
my sweetest joys, was a _kindred_ suffering. Have the times ever looked
so black as they do now? We seem to be drifting round without chart or
pilot.
Two weeks later, August 17th, she writes to her cousin, Miss Shipman:
G. is really up and about, looking thin and white, and feeling hungry
and weak; but little H. has been sick with the same disease these ten
days past. I got your letter and the little cat, for which G. and I
thank you very much. I should think it would about kill you to cook all
day even for our soldiers, but on the whole can not blame any one who
wants to get killed in their service. I am impressed more and more
with their claims upon us, who confront every danger and undergo every
suffering, while we sit at home at our ease. However, the ease I have
enjoyed during the last five weeks has not been of a very luxurious
kind, and I have felt almost discouraged, as day after day of
confinement and night after night of sleeplessness has pulled down my
strength. But, what am I doing? Complaining, instead of rejoicing that I
am not left unchastised.
After a careworn summer at Newport, she went with the children to
Williamstown, where a month was passed with her brother-in-law,
Professor Hopkins. The following letters relate to this visit:
_To her Husband, Williamstown, Sept. 19, 1862._
I am glad to find that you place reliance on the reports of our late
victory, for I have been in great suspense, seeing only The World, which
was throwing up its hat and declaring the war virtually ended. I have no
faith in such premature assertions, of which we have had so many, but
was most anxious to know your opinion. Do not fail to keep me informed
of what is going on. The children are all out of doors and enjoying
themselves. The Professor has gone on horseback to see about his
buckwheat. He took me up there yesterday afternoon, and I crawled
through forty fences (more or less) and got a vast amount of exercise,
which did not result in any better sleep, however, than no exercise
does. Caro. H. read me yesterday a most interesting letter from her
brother Henry, describing the scene at Bull Run when he went there five
days after the battle. It is very painful to find such mismanagement as
he deplores. He gave a most touching account of a young fellow who lay
mortally wounded, where he had lain uncared-for with his companions the
five days, and whom they were obliged to decline removing, as they had
only room for a portion of the hopeful cases. After beseeching Mr. H. to
see that he was removed, and entreating to know when and how he was ever
to get home if they left him, he was told that it was not possible to
make room for him in this train of ambulances. As Mr. H. tore himself
away, he heard him say,
"Here, Lord, I give myself away;
'Tis all that I can do."
The torture of the wounded men in the ambulances was so frightful, that
Mr. H. gave each of them morphine enough to kill three well men. They
"cried for it like dogs and licked my hands lest they should lose a
drop," he adds. As a contrast to this letter, some of the new recruits
came into the Professor's grounds yesterday to get bouquets, and thought
if _their_ folks had a "yard" so gayly decked with flowers they would
feel set up.
_To Mrs. Smith, Williamstown, Sept. 25, 1862._
I have been feeling languid, or lazy, ever since I came here, and for a
few days past have been miserable; but I am better to-day. This place
is perfectly lovely and grows upon me every day. But the Professor is
entirely absorbed in his loss. He does not know it, or else thinks he
does not show it, for he makes no complaint, but it is in every tone and
word and look. It is plain that Louisa's ill-health, which might have
weaned a selfish man from her, only endeared her to him; she was so
entirely his object day and night, that he misses her and the _care_ of
her, as a mother does her sick child. If we ride out he says, "Here I
often came with _her_;" if a bird sings, "That is a note she used to
love;" if we see a flower, "That is one of the flowers she loved." He
has an astonishing amount of journal manuscripts, and I think may in
time prepare something from them.... Isn't it frightful how cotton goods
have run up! I gave twenty cents for a yard of silicia (is that the way
to spell it?) and suppose everything else has rushed up too. I hope you
are prepared to tell me exactly what to buy and instruct me in the way I
should go.
_To her Husband, Williamstown, Sept. 26._
I spent yesterday forenoon looking over Louisa's papers and found an
enormous mass of manuscript; journals, extract books, translations,
and work enough planned and begun for many lifetimes. It was very
depressing. One's only refuge is faith in God, and in the certainty that
her lingering illness was more acceptable to Him than years of active
usefulness, and such extraordinary usefulness even as she was so fitted
for. I read over some of my own letters written many, many years ago;
and the sense this gave me of lost youth and vivacity and energy, was,
for a time, most painful.... I have felt for a long while greatly
discouraged and depressed, yes, weary of my life, because it seems to me
that broken down and worn out as I am, and full of faults under which I
groan, being burdened, I could not make you happy. But your last letter
comforted me a good deal. I see little for us to do but what you
suggest: to cheer each other up and wear out rather than rust out. It is
more and more clear to me, that patience is our chief duty on earth, and
that we can not rest here.
I am anxious to know what you think of the President's Proclamation. [6]
The Professor likes it. He seems able to think of little but his loss.
Even when speaking in the most cheerful way, tears fill his eyes, and
the other day putting a letter into my hands to read, he had to run
out of the room. The letter stated that fifty young persons owed their
conversion to Louisa's books; it was written some years ago. His mother
spent Saturday here. She is very bright and cheerful and full of
sly humor; he did everything to amuse her and she enjoyed her visit
amazingly. I long to see you. Letters are more and more unsatisfactory,
delusive things. M. is going to have a "party" this afternoon, and is
going to one this forenoon. The others are bright and busy as bees.
Good-bye.
A tinge of sadness is perceptible in most of her letters during this
year. Her sister's death, the fearful state of the country, protracted
sickness among her children, and her own frequent ill-turns and
increasing sense of feebleness, all conspired to produce this effect.
But in truth her heart was still as young as ever and a touch of
sympathy, or an appeal to her love of nature, instantly made it
manifest. An extract from a letter to Miss Anna Warner, dated New York,
December 16th, may serve as an instance: I wanted to write a book when
the trunk came this afternoon; that is, a book full of thanks and
exclamation marks. You could not have bought with money anything for my
Christmas present, that could give half the pleasure. I shut myself up
in my little room up-stairs (I declare I don't believe you saw that
room! did you?), and there I spread out my mosses and my twigs and my
cones and my leaves and admired them till I had to go out and walk to
compose myself. Then the children came home and they all admired too,
and among us we upset my big work-basket and my little work-basket, and
didn't any of us care. My only fear is that with all you had to do you
did too much for me. Those little red moss cups are _too_ lovely! and as
to all those leaves how I shall leaf out! G. asked me who sent me all
those beautiful things. "Miss Warner," quoth I absently. "Didn't Miss
Anna send any of them?" he exclaimed. So you see you twain do not pass
as one flesh here. I have read all the "Books of Blessing" [7] save
Gertrude and her Cat--but though I like them all very much, my favorite
is still "The Prince in Disguise." If you come across a little book
called "Earnest," [8] published by Randolph, do read it. It is one of
the few _real_ books and ought to do good. I have outdone myself in
picture-frames since you left. I got a pair of nippers and some wire,
which were of great use in the operation. I am now busy on Mr. Bull, for
Mr. Prentiss' study.
To one of her sisters-in-law she wrote, under the same date:
I do not know as I ever was so discouraged about my health as I have
been this fall. Sometimes I think my constitution is quite broken down,
and that I never shall be good for anything again. However, I do not
worry one way or the other but try to be as patient as I can. I have
been a good deal better for some days, and if you could see our house
you would not believe a word about my not being well, and would know my
saying so was all a sham. To tell the truth, it does look like a garden,
and when I am sick I like to lie and look at what I did when I wasn't;
my wreaths, and my crosses, and my vines, and my toadstools, and other
fixins. Yesterday I made a bonnet of which I am justly proud; to-morrow
I expect to go into mosses and twigs, of which Miss Anna Warner has just
sent me a lot. She and her sister were here about a fortnight. They grow
good so fast that there is no keeping track of them. Does any body in
Portland take their paper? [9] The children are all looking forward to
Christmas with great glee. It is a mercy there are any children to keep
up one's spirits in these times. Was there ever anything so dreadful as
the way in which our army has just been driven back! [10] But if we had
had a brilliant victory perhaps the people would have clamored against
the emancipation project, and anything is better than the perpetuation
of slavery.
Our congregation is fuller than ever, but there is no chance of building
even a chapel. Shopping is pleasant business now-a-days, isn't it? We
shall have to stop sewing and use pins.
* * * * *
II.
Another care-worn Summer. Letters from Williamstown and Rockaway. Hymn
on Laying the Corner-stone of the Church of the Covenant.
The records of 1863 are confined mostly to her letters written during
the summer. In June she went again with the younger children to
Williamstown, where she remained a month. The family then proceeded
to Rockaway, Long Island, and spent the rest of the season there in a
cottage, kindly placed at their disposal by Mrs. William G. Bull. They
passed through New York barely in time to escape the terrible riots,
which raged there with such fury in the early part of July. A few
extracts from her letters belonging to this period follow:
_To her Husband, Troy, June 10._
I hope you'll not be frightened to get a letter mailed here; anyhow I
can't resist the temptation to write, though standing up in a little
newspaper office. We were routed up at half past five this morning by
pounds and yells about taking the "Northern Railroad." On reaching Troy
the captain bid us hurry or we should lose the train, and we did hurry,
though I pretty well foresaw our fate, and after a running walk of a
quarter of a mile, we had the felicity of finding the train had left and
that the next one would not start till twelve. The little darlings are
bearing the disappointment sweetly.
4 P.M.--After depositing my note in the Post-office, we strolled about
awhile and then came across to a hotel, where I ordered a lunch-dinner.
We got through at twelve and marched to the station, expecting to start
at once, when M. came running up to me declaring there was no train to
Williamstown till five o'clock. My heart fairly turned over; however,
I did not believe it, but on making inquiries it proved to be only too
true. For a minute I sat in silent despair. Just then the landlord of
the hotel drew nigh and said to me, "You don't look very healthy, Mrs.;
if you'll walk over to my house, I will give you a bedroom free of
charge and you can lie down and rest awhile." Over to his house we went,
weary enough. After awhile, finding them all forlorn, I got a carriage
and we drove out; on coming back I ordered some ice-cream, which built
us all up amazingly. The children are now counting the minutes till
five. One of the boys is perched on a wash-stand with his feet dangling
down through the hole where the bowl should be; the other is eating
crackers; the landlord is anxious I should take a glass of wine; and M.
is everywhere at once, having nearly worn out my watch-pocket to see
what time it was.
_Monday, June 21st._--It is now going on a fortnight since we left home.
Oh, if it were God's will, how I should love to get well, pay you back
some of the debts I owe you, be a better mother to my children, write
some more books, and make you love me so you wouldn't know what to do
with yourself! Just to see how it would seem to be well, and to show
you what a splendid creature I could be, if once out of the harness! A
modest little list you will say!... I said to myself, Is it after all
such a curse to suffer and to be a source of suffering to others? Isn't
it worth while to pay something for warm human sympathies and something
for rich experience of God's love and wisdom? And I felt, that for you
to have a radiant, cheerful, health-happy wife was not, perhaps, so good
for you, as a minister of Christ's gospel, as to have the poor feeble
creature whose infirmities keep you anxious and off the top of the wave.
Saturday afternoon the Professor took me off strawberrying again. Can
you believe that till this June I never went strawberrying in my life?
I don't eat them, so the fun is in the picking. Do you realise how kind
the Professor is to me? I am afraid I don't. He works very hard, too
hard, I think; but perhaps he does it as a refuge from his loneliness.
His heart seems still full of tenderness toward Louisa. Yesterday he
took me aside and told me, with much emotion, that he dreamed the night
before that she floated towards him with a leaf in her hand, on which
she wrote the words "Sabbath peacefulness." I love him much, but am
afraid of him, as I am of all men--even of you; you need not laugh, I
am.
To Mrs. Smith she writes from Rockaway, July 24th:
We were glad to hear that you were safely settled at Prout's Neck, far
from riots, if not from rumors thereof. We have as convenient and roomy
and closetty a cottage as possible. We are within three minutes or so
of the beach, and go back and forth, bathe, dig sand, and stare at the
ocean according to our various ages and tastes. I really do not know how
else we spend our time. I sew a little, and am going to sew more when my
machine comes; read a little, doze a little, and eat a good deal. The
butcher calls every morning, and so does the baker with excellent bread;
twice a week clams call at thirty cents the hundred; we get milk,
butter, and eggs without much trouble; and ice and various vegetables
without any, as Mrs. Bull sends them to us every day, with sprinklings
of fruit, pitchers of cream, herring and whatever is going. We either
sit on the beach looking and listening to the waves, every evening, or
we run in to Mrs. Bull's; or gather about our parlor-table reading. By
ten we are all off to bed. George does nothing but race back and forth
to New York on Seminary business; he has gone now. I went with him the
other day. The city looks pinched and wo-begone. We were caught in that
tornado and nearly pulled to pieces.
_27th._--You will be sorry to hear that our last summer's siege with
dysentery bids fair to be repeated. Yesterday, when the disease declared
itself, I must own that for a few hours I felt about heart-broken. My
own strength is next to nothing, and how to face such a calamity I knew
not. Ah, how much easier it is to pray daily, "Oh, Jesus Christus, wachs
in mir!" than to consent to, yea rejoice in, the terms of the grant!
Well, George went for the doctor. His quarters at this season are right
opposite; he is a German and brother of the author Auerbach. We brought
G.'s cot into our room and George and I took care of him till three
o'clock, when for the first time since we had children, I gave out and
left the poor man to get along as nurse as he best could. I can tell
you it comes hard on one's pride to resign one's office to a half-sick
husband. I think I have let the boys play too hard in the sun. I long to
have you see this pretty cottage and this beach.
_Aug. 3d._--The children are out of the doctor's hands and I do about
nothing at all. I hope you are as lazy as I am. Today I bathed, read the
paper and finished John Halifax. I wish I could write such a book!
To Miss Gilman she writes, August 10th:
We have the nicest of cottages, near the sea. I often think of you as I
sit watching the waves rush in and the bathers rushing out. I have not
yet thanked you for the hymns you sent me. The traveller's hymn sounds
like George Withers. Mr. P. borrowed a volume of his poems which
delights us both. I am glad you are asking your mother questions about
your father. I am amazed at myself for not asking my dear mother many
a score about my father, which no human being can answer now. I do not
like to think of you all leaving New York. Few families would be so
missed and mourned.
I can sympathise with you in regard to your present Sunday "privileges."
We have a long walk in glaring sunshine, sit on bare boards, live
through the whole (or nearly the whole) Prayer-book, and then listen, if
we can, to a sermon three-quarters of an hour long, its length not being
its chief fault. I am utterly unable to bear such fatigue, and spend my
time chiefly at home, with some hope of more profit, at any rate. How
true it is that our Master's best treasures are kept in earthen vessels!
Humanly speaking, we should declare it to be for His glory to commit the
preaching of His gospel to the best and wisest hands. But His ways are
not as our ways.... I feel such a longing, when Sunday conies, to spend
it with good people, under the guidance of a heaven-taught man. A
minister has such wonderful opportunity for doing good! It seems
dreadful to see the opportunity more than wasted. The truth is, we all
need, ministers and all, a closer walk with God. If a man comes down
straight from the mount to speak to those who have just come from the
same place, he must be in a state to edify and they to be edified.
From New York she writes to Miss Shipman, October 24th:
Your letter came just as we started for Poughkeepsie. The Synod met
there and I was invited to accompany George, and, quite contrary to my
usual habits, I went. We had a nice time. I feel that you are in the
best place in the world. Next to dying and going home one's self, it
must be sweet to accompany a Christian friend down to the very banks
of the river. Isn't it strange that after such experiences we can ever
again have a worldly thought, or ever lose the sense of the reality of
divine things! But we are like little children--ever learning and ever
forgetting. Still, it is well to be learning, and I envy you your
frequent visits to the house of mourning. You will miss your dear friend
very much. I know how you love her. How many beloved ones you have
already lost for a season!... Don't set me to making brackets. I am
as worldly now as I can be, and my head full of work on all sorts of
things. I made two cornucopias of your pattern and filled them with
grasses and autumn leaves, and they were magnificent. I got very large
grasses in the Rockaway marshes. The children are all well and as gay as
larks.
Early in November the corner-stone of the Church of the Covenant was
laid. She wrote the following hymn for the occasion:
A temple, Lord, we raise;
Let all its walls be praise
To Thee alone.
Draw nigh, O Christ, we pray,
To lead us on our way,
And be Thou, now and aye,
Our corner-stone.
In humble faith arrayed,
We these foundations laid
In war's dark day.
Oppression's reign o'erthrown,
Sweet peace once more our own,
Do Thou the topmost stone
Securely lay.
And when each earth-built wall
Crumbling to dust shall fall,
Our work still own.
Be to each faithful heart
That here hath wrought its part,
What in Thy Church Thou art--
The Corner-stone.
* * * * *
III.
Happiness in her Children. The Summer of 1864. Letters from Hunter.
Affliction among Friends.
In the early part of 1864 she was more than usually afflicted with
neuralgic troubles and that "horrid calamity," as she calls it,
sleeplessness. "I know just how one feels when one can't eat or sleep or
talk. I declare, a good deal of the time pulling words out of me is like
pulling out teeth."
Still (she writes to a sister-in-law, Jan. 15th), we are a happy family
in spite of our ailments. I suffer a great deal and cause anxiety to my
husband by it, but then I enjoy a great deal and so does he, and
our younger children--to say nothing of A.--are sources of constant
felicity. Do not you miss the hearing little feet pattering round the
house? It seems to me that the sound of my six little feet is the very
pleasantest sound in the world. Often when I lie in bed racked with pain
and exhausted from want of food--for my digestive organs seem paralysed
when I have neuralgia--hearing these little darlings about the house
compensates for everything, and I am inexpressibly happy in the mere
sense of possession. I hate to have them grow up and to lose my pets, or
exchange them for big boys and girls. I suppose your boys are a great
help to you and company too, but I feel for you that you have not also
a couple of girls.... Poor Louisa! It is very painful to think what she
suffered. Her death was such a shock to me, I can hardly say why, that I
have never been since what I was before. I suppose my nervous system was
so shattered, that so unexpected a blow would naturally work unkindly.
Early in the following summer she was distressed by the sudden
bereavement of dear friends and by the death of her nephew, who fell in
one of the battles of the Wilderness. In a letter to Miss Gilman, dated
June 18th, she refers to this:
Your dear little flowers came in excellent condition, but at a moment
when I could not possibly write to tell you so. The death of Mrs. R. H.
broke my heart. I only knew her by a sort of instinct, but I sorrowed in
her mother's sorrow and in that of her sisters. Death is a blessed thing
to the one whom it leads to Christ's kingdom and presence, but oh, how
terrible for those it leaves fainting and weeping behind! We expect to
go off for the summer on next Thursday. We go to Hunter, N. Y., in the
region of the Catskills. My husband's mother has been with me during the
last six weeks and has just gone home, and I have now to do up the last
things in a great hurry. You may not know that my A. and M. S., and a
number of other young people of their age, joined our church on last
Sunday. I can hardly realise my felicity. I seem to myself to have a new
child. Your sister may have told you of the loss of Professor Hopkins'
son. He was the first grandchild in our family and his father's _all_.
We may never hear what his fate was, but the suspense has been dreadful.
Her interest in the national struggle was intense and her conviction of
its Providential character unwavering. To a friend, who seemed to her a
little lukewarm on the subject, she wrote at this time:
For my part, I am sometimes afraid I shall die of joy if we ever gain a
complete and final victory. You can call this spunk if you choose.
But my spunk has got a backbone of its own and that is deep-seated
conviction, that this is a holy war, and that God himself sanctions it.
He spares nothing precious when He has a work to do. No life is too
valuable for Him to cut short, when any of His designs can be furthered
by doing so. But I could talk a month and not have done, you wicked
unbeliever.
_To her Husband, Hunter, June 27, 1864._
This morning, after breakfast, I sallied out with six children to take a
most charming walk, scramble, climb, etc. We put on our worst old duds,
tuck up our skirts June 27, knee-high, and have a regular good time of
it. If you were awake so early as eight o'clock--I don't believe you
were! you might have seen us with a good spy-glass, and it would have
made your righteous soul leap for joy to see how we capered and laughed,
and what strawberries we picked, and how much of a child A. turned into.
They all six "played run" till they had counted twelve and then they
tumbled down and rolled in the grass, till I wondered what their bones
were made of. I do not see that we could have found a better place for
the children. What with the seven calves, the cows, the sheep, the two
pet lambs, the dogs, hens, chickens, horses, etc., they are perfectly
happy. Just now they have been to see the butter made and to get a drink
of buttermilk. We have lots of strawberries and cream, pot-cheese,
Johnny-cakes, and there are always eggs and milk at our service. From
diplomatic motives I advise you not to say too much about Hunter to
people asking questions. It would entirely spoil its only great charm if
a rush of silly city folks should scent it out. It is really a primitive
place and that you can say. Mr. Coe preached an excellent sermon on
Sunday morning.
_To Mrs. Smith, Hunter, July 4, 1864._
I have just been off, all alone, foraging, and have come home bringing
my sheaves with me: ground pine and red berries, with which I have made
a beautiful wreath. I have also adorned the picture of Gen. Grant with
festoons of evergreens, conjuring him the while not to disappoint our
hopes, but to take Richmond. Alas! you may know, by this time, that he
can't; but in lack of news since a week ago, I can but hope for the
best. I've taken a pew and we contrive to squeeze into it in this wise:
first a child, then a mother, then a child, then an Annie, then a child,
the little ones being stowed in the cracks left between us big ones. Mr.
R., the parson, looking fit to go straight into his grave, was up here
to get a wagon as he was going for a load of chips. His wife was at
home sick, without any servant, had churned three hours and the butter
wouldn't come, and has a pew full of little ones. Oh, my poor sisters in
the ministry! my heart aches for them. Mr. R. gave us a superior sermon
last Sunday.... I know next to nothing about what is going on in the
world. But George writes that he feels decidedly pleased with the look
of things. He has been carrying on like all possessed since I left,
having company to breakfast, lunch, dinner, and finally went and had Chi
Alpha all himself.
_July 25th._--We went one day last week on a most delightful excursion,
twenty-one of us in all. Our drive was splendid and the scenery sublime;
even we distinguished Swiss travellers thought so! We came to one spot
where ice always is found, cut out big pieces, ate it, drank it, threw
it at each other and carried on with it generally. We had our dinner
on the grass in the woods. We brought home a small cartload of natural
brackets; some of them beautiful.
_August 1st._--You have indeed had a "rich experience." [11] We all read
your letter with the deepest interest and feel that it would have been
good to be there. Your account of Caro shows what force of character she
possessed, as well as what God's grace can do and do quickly. This is
not the first time He has ripened a soul into full Christian maturity
with almost miraculous rapidity. A veteran saint could not have laid
down his armor and adjusted himself to meet death with more calmness
than did this young disciple. I do not wonder her family were borne, for
the time, above their sorrow, but alas! their bitter pangs of anguish
are yet to meet them. Her poor mother! How much she has suffered and has
yet to suffer! all the more because she bears it so heroically.
_To Miss Emily S. Gilman, Hunter, Aug 1, 1864._
You must have wondered why I did not answer your letter and your book,
for both of which I thank you. Well, it has been such dry, warm weather,
that I have not felt like writing; besides, for nurse I have only a
little German girl fourteen years old, who never was out of New York
before, and whom I have been so determined on spoiling that I couldn't
bear to take her off from her play to mend, patch, darn, wash faces,
necks, feet, etc., and unconsciously did every thing there was to do
for the children and a little more besides. I like the little book very
much. You have the greatest knack, you girls, of lighting on nice books
and nice hymns. We are right in the midst of most charming walks. Here
is a grove and there is a brook; here is a creek, almost a river (big
enough at any rate to get on to the map) and there a mountain. As to
ferns and mosses for your poetical side, and as for raspberries and
blackberries for your t'other side, time would fail me if I should begin
to speak of them. I think a great deal of you and your sisters when off
on foraging expeditions, and wish you were here notwithstanding you are
mossy and ferny there. We have as yet made only one excursion. That was
delightful and gave us our first true idea of the Catskills. Before
Mr. P. came I usually went off on my forenoon walk alone, unless the
children trooped after, and came home a miniature Birnam wood, with all
sorts of things except creeping things and flying fowl.
I have just finished reading to M. and a little girl near her age, a
little French book you would like, called "Augustin." I never met with
a sweeter picture of a loving child anywhere. Well, I may as well stop
writing. Remember me lovingly to all your dear household.
To Mrs. Stearns she writes, Sept. 16:
How much faith and patience we poor invalids do need! The burden of life
sits hard on our weary shoulders. I think the mountain air has agreed
with our children better than the seaside has done, but George craves
the ocean and the bathing. He spent this forenoon, as he has a good many
others, in climbing the side of the mountain for exercise, views, and
blackberries. I go with him sometimes. We had a few days' visit from
Prof. Hopkins. He has heard confirmation of the rumors of poor Eddy's
death and burial. He means to go to Ashland as soon as the state of the
country makes it practicable, but has little hope of identifying E.'s
remains. It is a great sorrow to him to _lose all he had_ in this
horrible way, but he bears it with wonderful faith and patience, and
says he never prayed for his son's life after he went into action. Some
letters received by him, give a pleasant idea of the Christian stand E.
took after entering the army. I believe this is Lizzie P----'s wedding
day. There is a beautiful rainbow smiling on it from our mountain home,
and I hope a real one is glorifying hers.
_To Miss Gilman, Hunter, Sept. 17._
Oh, I wish you were here on this glorious day! The foliage has begun to
turn a little, and the mountains are in a state bordering on perfection.
It is wicked for me stay in-doors even to write this, but it seems as if
a letter from here would carry with it a savor of mountain air, and must
do you more good than one from the city could. I wish I had thought
sooner to ask you if you would like some of our mosses. I _thought_ I
had seen mosses before, but found I had not. I will enclose some dried
specimens. I thought, while I was in the woods this morning, that I
never had thanked God half enough for making these lovely things and
giving us tastes wherewith to enjoy them.
You ask if I have spilled ink all down the side of this white house.
Yes, I have, wo be unto me. I was sick abed and got up to write to Mr.
P., not wanting him to know I was sick, and one of the children came in
and I snatched him up in my lap to hug and kiss a little, and he, of
course, hit the pen and upset the inkstand and burst out crying at my
dismay. Then might have been seen a headachy woman catching the apoplexy
by leaning out of the window and scrubbing paint, sacrificing all her
nice rags in the process, and dreadfully mortified into the bargain....
Yesterday we were all caught in a pouring rain when several miles from
home on the side of the mountain, blackberrying. We each took a child
and came rolling and tearing down through the bushes and over stones,
H.'s little legs flying as little legs rarely fly. We nearly died with
laughing, and if I only knew how to draw, I could make you laugh by
giving you a picture of the scene. You will judge from this that we are
all great walkers; so we are. I take the children almost everywhere, and
they walk miles every day. Well, I will go now and get you some scraps
of pressed mosses.
* * * * *
IV.
The Death of President Lincoln. Dedication of the Church of the
Covenant. Growing Insomnia. Resolves to try the Water-cure. Its
beneficial Effects. Summer at Newburgh. Reminiscence of an Excursion
to Paltz Point. Death of her Husband's Mother. Funeral of her Nephew,
Edward Payson Hopkins.
Two events rendered the month of April, 1865, especially memorable to
Mrs. Prentiss. One was the assassination of President Lincoln on the
evening of Good Friday. She had been very ill, and her husband, on
learning the dreadful news from the morning paper, thought it advisable
to keep it from her for a while; but one of the children, going into her
chamber, burst into tears and thus betrayed the secret. Her state of
nervous prostration and her profound, affectionate admiration for Mr.
Lincoln, made the blow the most stunning by far she ever received from
any public calamity. It was such, no doubt, to tens of thousands;
indeed, to the American people. No Easter morning ever before dawned
upon them amid such a cloud of horror, or found them so bowed down with
grief. The younger generation can hardly conceive of the depth and
intensity, or the strange, unnatural character, of the impression made
upon the minds of old and young alike, by this most foul murder. [12]
The other event was of a very different character and filled her with
great joy. It was the dedication, on the last Sunday in April, of the
new church edifice, whose growth she had watched with so much interest.
In the spring of 1865 she was induced, by the entreaty of friends who
had themselves tested his skill, to consult Dr. Schieferdecker, a noted
hydropathist, and later to place herself under his care. In a letter to
her cousin, Miss Shipman, she writes: "I want to tell you, but do
not want you to mention it to anyone, that I have been to see Dr.
Schieferdecker to know what he thought of my case. He says that I might
go on dieting to the end of my days and not get well, but that his
system could and would cure me, only it would take a _long_ time. I have
not decided whether to try his process, but have no doubt he understands
my disease." Dr. Schieferdecker had been a pupil and was an enthusiastic
disciple of Priesnitz. He had unbounded faith in the healing properties
of water. He was very impulsive, opinionated, self-confident, and
accustomed to speak contemptuously of the old medical science and those
who practised it. But for all that, he possessed a remarkable sagacity
in the diagnosis and treatment of chronic disease. Mrs. Prentiss went
through the "cure" with indomitable patience and pluck, and was rewarded
by the most beneficial results. Her sleeplessness had become too
deep-rooted to be overcome, but it was greatly mitigated and her general
condition vastly improved. She never ceased to feel very grateful to Dr.
Schieferdecker for the relief he had afforded her, and for teaching her
how to manage herself; for after passing from under his care, she still
continued to follow his directions. "No tongue can tell how much I am
indebted to him," she wrote in 1869. "I am like a ship that after poking
along twenty years with a heavy load on board, at last gets into port,
unloads, and springs to the surface."
_To Miss E. S. Gilman, New York, Feb. 23, 1865._
It is said to be an ill wind that blows nobody good, and as I am
still idling about, doing absolutely nothing but receive visits from
neuralgia, I have leisure to think of poor Miss ----. I wrote to ask
her if there was anything she wanted and could not get in her region;
yesterday I received her letter, in which she mentions a book, but says
"anything that is useful for body or mind" would be gratefully received.
Now I got the impression from that article in the Independent, that she
could take next to no nourishment. Do you know what she _does_ take, and
can you suggest, from what you know, anything she would like? What's the
use of my being sick, if it isn't for her sake or that of some other
suffering soul? I want, very much, to get some things together and send
her; nobody knows who hasn't experienced it, how delightfully such
things break in on the monotony of a sick-room. Just yet I am not strong
enough to do anything; my hands tremble so that I can hardly use even a
pen; yet you need not think I am much amiss, for I go out every pleasant
day, to ride, and some days can take quite a walk. The trouble is that
when the pain returns, as it does several times a day, it knocks my
strength out of me. I hope when all parts of my frame have been visited
by this erratic sprite, it may find it worth while to beat a retreat.
Only to think, we are going to move to No. 70 East Twenty-seventh
street, and you have all been and gone away! The rent is _enormous_,
$1,000 having been just added to an already high price. Our people
have taken that matter in hand and no burden of it will come on us. I
received your letter and am much obliged to you for writing to Miss
----, for me; the reason I did not do it was, that it seemed like
hurrying her up to thank me for the little drop of comfort I sent her.
Dear me! it's hard to be sick when people send you quails and jellies,
and fresh eggs, and all such things--but to be sick and suffer for
necessaries must be terrible.
_To the Same, New York, March 9, 1865._
I thank you for the details of Miss ----'s case, as I wished to describe
them to some friends. I sent her ten dollars yesterday for two of my
friends. I also sent off a box by express, for the contents of which I
had help. The things were such as I had persuaded her to mention; a new
kind of farina, figs, two portfolios (of course she didn't ask for two,
but I had one I thought she would, perhaps, like better than the one I
bought), a few crackers, and several books. Mr. P. added one of those
beautiful large-print editions of the Psalms which will, I think, be a
comfort to her. I shall also send Adelaide Newton by-and-by; I thought
she had her hands full of reading for the present, and the great thing
is not to heap comforts on her all at once and then leave her to her
fate, but keep up a stream of such little alleviations as can be
provided. She said, she had poor accommodations for writing, so I
greatly enjoyed fitting up the portfolio which was none the worse for
wear, with paper and envelopes, a pencil with rubber at the end, a
cunning little knife, some stamps, for which there was a small box, a
few pens, etc. I know it will please you to hear of this, and as the
money was furnished me for the purpose, you need not set it down to my
credit.
I meant to go to see your sister, but my head is still in such a weak
state that though I go to walk nearly every day, I can not make calls.
It is five weeks since I went to church, for the same reason. It is a
part of God's discipline with me to keep me shut up a good deal more
than the old Adam in me fancies; but His way is _absolutely perfect_,
and I hope I wouldn't change it in any particular, if I could. Have you
Pusey's tract, "Do all to the Lord Jesus"? If not, I must send it to
you. It seems as if I had a lot of things I wanted to say, but after
writing a little my hands and arms begin to tremble so that I can hardly
write plainly. You never saw such a lazy life as I lead now-a-days; I
can't do _any_ thing. I advise you to do what you have to do for Christ
_now_; by the time you are as old as I am perhaps you will have the will
and not the power. Well, good-bye till next time.
The summer of this year was passed at Newburgh in company with the
Misses Butler--now Mrs. Kirkbride, of Philadelphia, and Mrs. Booth,
of Liverpool--and the families of Mr. William Allen Butler, Mr. B.
F. Butler, and Mr. John P. Crosby, to all of whom Mrs. Prentiss was
strongly attached. The late Mr. Daniel Lord, the eminent lawyer, with
a portion of his family, had also a cottage near by and was full of
hospitable kindness. In spite of the exacting hydropathic treatment, she
found constant refreshment and delight in the society of so many dear
friends. "The only thing I have to complain of" she wrote, "is everybody
being too good to me. How different it is being among friends to being
among strangers!"
In a letter to her husband, dated New York, Sept. 15, 1879, Mr. William
Allen Butler gives the following reminiscence of an excursion to Paltz
Point and an evening at Newburgh:
From the date you, give in your note (to which I have just recurred)
of our trip to Paltz Point, it seems that in writing you to-day I have
unwittingly fallen on the anniversary of that pleasant excursion.
Without this reminder I could not have told the day or the year, but
of the excursion itself I have always had a vivid and delightful
recollection; and, if I am not mistaken, Mrs. Prentiss enjoyed it as
fully as any one of the merry party. It was only on that jaunt and in
our summer home at Newburgh that I had the opportunity of knowing her
readiness to enter into that kind of enjoyment, which depends upon the
co-operation of every member of a circle for the entertainment of all.
The elements of our group were well commingled, and the bright things
evoked by their contact and friction were neither few nor far between.
The game to which you allude of "Inspiration" or "Rhapsody" was a
favorite. The evening at Paltz Point called out some clever sallies, of
which I have no record or special recollection; but I know that then, as
always, Mrs. Prentiss seemed to have at her pencil's point for instant
use the wit and fancy so charmingly exhibited in her writings. She
published somewhere an account of one of our inspired or rhapsodical
evenings, but greatly to my regret failed to include in it her own
contribution which was the best of all. I distinctly remember the time
and scene--the September evening--the big, square sitting-room of the
old Seminary building in which you boarded--the bright faces whose
radiance made up in part for the limitations of artificial light--the
puzzled air which every one took on when presented with the list of
unmanageable words, to be reproduced in their consecutive order in prose
or verse composition within the next quarter or half hour--the stillness
which supervened while the enforced "pleasures" of "poetic pains" or
prose agony were being undergone--the sense of relief which supplemented
the completion of the batch of extempore effusions--and the fun which
their reading provoked. Mrs. Prentiss had contrived out of the odd and
incoherent jumble of words a choice bit of poetic humor and pathos,
which I never quite forgave her for omitting in the publication of the
nonsense written by other hands. These trifles as they seemed at the
time, and as in fact they were, become less insignificant in the
retrospect, as we associate them with the whole character and being
we instinctively love to place at the farthest remove from gloom or
sadness, and as they rediscover to us in the distance the native
vivacity and grace of which they were the chance expression. Since that
summer of 1865, having lived away from New York, I saw little of Mrs.
Prentiss, but I have a special remembrance of one little visit you made
at our home in Yonkers which she seemed very much to enjoy--saying of
the reunion which made it so pleasant to the members of our family and
all who happened to be together at the time, that it was "like heaven."
[13]
During the summer of 1865 the sympathies of Mrs. Prentiss were much
wrought upon by the sickness and death of her husband's mother, who
entered into rest on the 9th of August, in the eighty-fourth year of her
age. On the 12th of the previous January, she with the whole family
had gone to Newark to celebrate the eighty-third birthday of this aged
saint. Had they known it was to be the last, they could have wished
nothing changed. It was a perfect winter's day, and the scene in the old
parsonage was perfect too. There, surrounded by children and children's
children, sat the venerable grandmother with a benignant smile upon her
face and the peace of God in her heart. As she received in birthday
gifts and kisses and congratulations their loving homage, the measure of
her joy was full, and she seemed ready to say her _Nunc dimittis_. She
belonged to the number of those holy women of the old time who trusted
in God and adorned themselves with the ornament of a meek and quiet
spirit, and whose children to the latest generation rise up and call
them blessed.
In the course of this year her sympathies were also deeply touched by
repeated visits from her brother-in-law, Professor Hopkins, on his way
to and from Virginia. Allusion has been made already to the death of her
nephew, Lieutenant Edward Payson Hopkins. He was killed in battle while
gallantly leading a cavalry charge at Ashland, in Virginia, on the 11th
of May, 1864. In June of the following year his father went to Ashland
with the hope of recovering the body. Five comrades had fallen with
Edward, and the negroes had buried them without coffins, side by side,
in two trenches in a desolate swampy field and under a very shallow
covering of earth. The place was readily discovered, but it was found
impossible to identify the body. The disappointed father, almost
broken-hearted, turned his weary steps homeward. When he reached
Williamstown his friends said, "He has grown ten years older since he
went away."
Several months later he learned that there were means of identification
which could not fail, even if the body had already turned to dust.
Accordingly he again visited Ashland, attended this time by soldiers, a
surgeon, and Government officials. His search proved successful, and,
to his joy, not only was the body identified, but, owing to the swampy
nature of the ground, it was found to be in an almost complete state of
preservation. There was something wonderfully impressive in the grave
aspect and calm, gentle tone of the venerable man, as with his precious
charge he passed through New York on his way home. In a letter to Mrs.
Prentiss, dated January 2d, 1866, he himself tells the story of the
re-interment at Williamstown:
... After stopping a minute at my door the wagon passed at once to
the cemetery, and the remains were deposited in the tomb. This was on
Thursday. After consulting with my brother and his son (the chaplain) I
determined to wait till the Sabbath before the interment. Accordingly,
at 3 o'clock--after the afternoon service--the remains of my dear boy
were placed beside those of his mother. The services were simple, but
solemn in a high degree. They were opened by an address from Harry.
Prayer followed by Rev. Mr. Noble, now supplying the desk here. He
prefaced his prayer by saying that he never saw Edward but once, when he
preached at Williamstown at a communion and saw him sitting beside me
and partaking with me. Singing then followed by the choir of which Eddy
was for a long time a member. The words were those striking lines of
Montgomery:
Go to the grave in all thy glorious prime, etc.
After which the coffin was lowered to its place by young men who were
friends of Edward in his earlier years.
The state of the elements was exceedingly favorable to the holding of
such an exercise in the open air at a season generally so inclement.
The night before there was every appearance of a heavy N. E. storm. But
Sabbath morning it was calm. As I went to church I noticed that the sun
rested on the Vermont mountains just north of us, though with a mellowed
light as if a veil had been thrown over them. In the after part of the
day the open sky had spread southward--so that the interment took place
when the air was as mild and serene as spring, just as the last sun
of the year was sinking towards the mountains. Almost the entire
congregation were present.... Thus, dear sister, I have given you a
brief account of the solemn but peaceful winding up of what has been to
me a sharp and long trial, and I know to yourself and family also. In
eternity we shall more clearly read the lesson which even now, in the
light of opening scenes, we are beginning to interpret.
[1] Richard H. Dana, the poet.
[2] The article referred to appeared in The Biblical Repository and
Quarterly Observer for January, 1835. Vol V., pp. 1-32. It is entitled,
"What form of Law is best suited to the individual and social nature of
man?"
[3] Mr. Ralph Waldo Emerson.
[4] The article appeared in the New York Review for July, 1839.
[5] Some passages from the little diaries referred to, together with
further extracts from her literary journal, will be found in appendix D,
p. 541.
[6] The Proclamation of Emancipation.
[7] By Anna Warner.
[8] By her friend, Mrs. Frederick G. Burnham.
[9] "The Little Corporal."
[10] At Fredericksburg.
[11] Referring to the sudden death of a young niece of Mrs. S.
[12] This was written before the assassination of President Garfield.
[13] The "Rhapsody," referred to by Mr. Butler was preserved by a young
lady of the party, and will be found in appendix E, p. 555.