ON THE MOUNT.
1870.
I.
A happy Year. Madame Guyon. What sweetens the Cup of earthly Trials and
the Cup of earthly Joy. Death of Mrs. Julia B. Cady. Her Usefulness.
Sickness and Death of other Friends. "My Cup runneth over." Letters.
"More Love to Thee, O Christ."
In every earnest life there usually comes a time when it reaches its
highest point, whether of power or of enjoyment; a time when it is in
--the bright, consumate flower.
The year 1870 formed such a period in the life of Mrs. Prentiss. None
that went before, or that followed after, equalled it, as a whole, in
rich, varied and happy experiences. It was full of the genial, loving
spirit which inspired the Little Susy books and Stepping Heavenward;
full, too, of the playful humor which runs through Fred and Maria and
Me; and full, also, of the intense, overflowing delight in her God and
Saviour that breathes in the Golden Hours. From its opening to its close
she was--to borrow an expression from her Richmond journal--"one great
long sunbeam." Everywhere, in her home, with her friends, by sick and
dying beds, in the house of mourning, in the crowded street or among her
flowers at Dorset, she seemed to be attired with constant brightness. Of
course, there were not wanting hours of sadness and heart-sinking;
nor was her consciousness of sin or her longing to be freed from it,
perhaps, ever keener and more profound; but still the main current of
her existence flowed on, untroubled, to the music of its own loving,
grateful and adoring thoughts. Often she would say that God was too good
to her; that she was _satisfied_ and had nothing more to ask of life;
her cup of domestic bliss ran over; and as to her religious joy, it was
at times too much for her frail body, and she begged that it might be
transferred to other souls. Her letters give a vivid picture of her
state of mind during this memorable year; and yet only a picture. The
sweet reality was beyond the power of words.
In the early part of this year the correspondence of Madame Guyon and
Fenelon fell into her hands, and was eagerly read by her. The perusal
of this correspondence led, somewhat later, to a careful study of the
Select Works, Autobiography, and Spiritual Letters of Madame Guyon, thus
forming an important incident in her religious history. Heretofore she
had known Madame Guyon chiefly through the Life by Prof. Upham and the
little treatise entitled A Short and very Easy Method of Prayer; and
both seem rather to have repelled her. In 1867 she wrote to a friend:
There is a book I would be glad to have you read, and which I think you
would wish to own; 'Thoughts on Personal Religion,' by Goulburn. I never
read a modern religious book that had in it so much, that really edified
me. I take for granted you have Thomas à Kempis; on that and on Fenelon
I have feasted for years every day; I like strengthening food and
whatever deals a blow at this monster Self. Madame Guyon I do not
understand.
But now she began to feel, as so many earnest seekers after holiness had
felt before her, the strong attraction of this remarkable woman. While
never becoming to her what Fenelon was, Madame Guyon for several years
exerted a decided influence upon her views of the Christian life; nor
is there reason to think that this influence was not, on the whole,
salutary. Notwithstanding her grave errors and the extravagances which
marred her career, Madame Guyon was no doubt one of the holiest, as she
was certainly one of the most gifted, women of her own or any other age.
[1]
_To Mrs. J Elliot Condict, New York, Jan. 2, 1870._
It has been a real disappointment not to see you. How quickly we learn
to lean on earthly things! I am afraid I prize Christian fellowship too
much, and that I am behaving in a miserly way about all divine gifts,
shutting myself up here in this room, which often seems like the gate of
heaven, and luxuriating in it, instead of going about preaching the glad
tidings to other souls. Yet work for Christ, when He gives it, is sweet,
too, and if answering your note is the little tiny bit He offers me at
this moment, how glad I am. Though I am not, just now, in the furnace as
you are, there is no knowing how soon I shall be, and I remember well
enough how the furnace feels, to have deep sympathy with you in your
trials. Sympathy, but not regret; I can't make myself be very sorry for
Christ's disciples when He takes them in hand--He does it so tenderly,
so wisely, so lovingly; and it can hardly be true, can it? that He is
just as near and dear to me when my cup is as full of earthly blessings
as it can hold, as He is to you whose cup He is emptying?
I have always thought they knew and loved Him best who knew Him in His
character of Chastiser; but perhaps one never loses the memory of His
revelations of Himself in that form, and perhaps that tender memory
saddens and hallows the day of prosperity. At any rate, you and I seem
to be in full sympathy with each other; your empty cup isn't empty, and
my full one would be bitter if love to Christ did not sweeten it. It
matters very little on what paths we are walking, since we find Him in
every one. How ashamed we shall be when we get to heaven, of our talk
about our trials here! Why don't we sing songs instead? We know how, for
He has put the songs into our mouths. I think I know something about the
land of Beulah, but I don't quite _live_ in it yet; and yet what is this
joy if it isn't beatitude, if it is not a foretaste of that which is to
come? It isn't joy in what He has done for me, a sinner, but adoring joy
for what He is, though I do not _begin to know_ what He is. It will take
an eternity to learn that lesson.
Do you really mean to say that Miss K. is going to pray for _me_? How
delightful! I am _greedy_ for prayer; nobody is rich enough to give me
anything I so long for; indeed when my husband begged me to tell him
what I wanted at Christmas, I couldn't think of a thing; but oh, what
unutterable longing I have for more of Christ. Why should we not speak
freely to each other of Him? Don't apologise for it again. The wonder is
that we have the heart to speak of anything else. Sometimes I am almost
frightened at the expressions of love I pour out upon Him, and wonder if
I am really in earnest; if I really mean all I say. Is it even so
with you? It is not foolish, is it? Perhaps He likes to hear our poor
stammerings, when we can not get our emotions and our thoughts into
words.
_To Miss E. A. Warner, New York, Jan. 7, 1870._
I find letters more and more unsatisfactory. How little I know of your
real life, how little you know of mine! So much is going on all the time
that I should run and tell you about if you lived here, but which it
would take too long to write. I have very precious Christian friends
within six months, who take, or rather to whom I give, more time than I
could or would spare for any ordinary friendship; one of them has spent
four hours in my room with me at a time, and we had wonderful communings
together. Then two dear friends have died. One of the two, of whom you
have heard me speak, was the most useful woman in our church; my husband
and I both wept over her death. The other directed in dying that a copy
of Stepping Heavenward should be given to each of her Sunday scholars;
a lifelong fear of death was taken away, and she declared it pleasanter
and easier to die than to live; her last words, five minutes before
she drew her last gentle breath, came with the upward, dying look,
"Wonderful love!"
You can't think how sweet it is to be a pastor's wife; to feel the
_right_ to sympathise with those who mourn, to fly to them at once, and
join them in their prayers and tears. It would be pleasant to spend
one's whole time among sufferers, and to keep testifying to them what
Christ can and will become to them, if they will only let Him.... No, I
never "Dialed" or was transcendental. I don't think knowledge will come
to us by intuition in heaven, though knowledge enough to get started
there, will. But I don't much care how it will be. I know we shall learn
Christ there. I have read lately Prof. Phelps on the Solitude of Christ;
it is a suggestive little book which I like much. Have you ever read the
Life of Mrs. Hawkes? It is interesting because she records so many
of Cecil's wonderful remarks--such, e.g., as these: "a humble, kind
silence often utters much." "To-morrow you and I shall walk together in
a garden, when I hope to talk with you about everything but sadness." I
am going to ask a favor of you, though I hate to put you to the trouble.
In writing a telegram in great haste and sorrow, I accidentally used and
cut into the lines you copied for me--Sabbath hymn in sickness. It was a
real loss, and if you ever feel a little stronger than usual, will you
make me another copy? I so often want to comfort sick persons with it.
I have half promised to write a serial for a magazine, the organ of the
Young Men's Christian Association, though I know nothing of young men
and hate to write serials. I wish I could hide in some hole. I get
bright letters from A., who is having a very nice time. I write her
every day; wretched letters, which she thinks delightful, fortunately.
We have a quiet time this winter, but such nice things can't last, and I
am afraid of this world anyhow. I know you pray for me, as I do for you
and Miss L. every day. I have a thousand things to say that I shall have
to put off till I see you. Good-bye, dearie.
_To Mrs. Condict, Sunday, March 6, 1870._
I have had some really sweet days, shut up with my dear little boy. He
is better, and I am comparatively at leisure again, and so happy in
meditating on the character of my Saviour, and in the sense of His
nearness, that I _ache_, and have had to beg Him to give me no more,
but to carry this joy to you and to Miss K. and to two friends, who,
languishing on dying beds, need it so much. [2] If I could shed tears I
should not have to tell you this, and indeed it is nothing new; but one
must have vent in some way. And this reminds me to explain to you why
to three dear Christian friends I now and then send verses; they are my
tears of joy or sorrow, and when I feel most deeply it is a relief to
versify, and a pleasure to open my heart to those who feel as I do. I
have been in print ever since I was sixteen years old, and admiration
is an old story; I care very little for it; but I do crave and value
sympathy with those who love Christ. And it is such a new thing to open
my heart thus! I have written any number of verses that no human being
has ever seen, because they came from the very bottom of my heart.
I wish I could put into words all the blessed thoughts I had last week
about God's dear will: it was a week of such sweet content with the work
He gave me to do; naturally I hate nursing, and losing the air makes me
feel unwell; but what can't God do with us? I love, dearly, to have a
_Master_. I fancy that those who have strong wills, are the ones to
enjoy God's sovereignty most. I wonder if you realise what a very happy
creature I am? and how much _too good_ God is to me? I don't see how He
can heap such mercies on a poor sinner; but that only shows how little I
know Him. But then, I am learning to know Him, and shall go on doing it
forever and ever; and so will you. I am not sure that it is best for us,
once safe and secure on the Rock of Ages, to ask ourselves too closely
what this and that experience may signify. Is it not better to be
thinking of the Rock, not of the feet that stand upon it? It seems to me
that we ought to be unconscious of ourselves, and that the nearer we get
to Christ, the more we shall be taken up with Him. We shall be like a
sick man who, after he gets well, forgets all the old symptoms he used
to think so much of, and stops feeling his pulse, and just enjoys his
health, only pointing out his _physician_ to all who are diseased. You
will see that this is in answer to a portion of your letter, in which
you say Miss K. interprets to you certain experiences. If I am wrong I
am willing to be set right; perhaps I have not said clearly what I meant
to say. I certainly mean no _criticism_ on you or her, but am only
thinking aloud and querying.
_To Miss E. A. Warner, New York, March 27, 1870._
You ask if I revel in the Pilgrim's Progress. Yes, I do. I think it an
amazing book. It seems to me almost as much an inspiration as the Bible
itself. [3] I am glad you liked that hymn. I write in verse whenever I
am deeply stirred, because, though as full of tears as other people, I
can not shed them. But I never showed any of these verses to any one,
not even my husband, till this winter. But if I were more with you no
doubt I should venture to let you run over some of them, at least those
my dear husband has seen and likes. I have felt about hymns just as you
say you do, as if I loved them more than the Bible. But I have got over
that; I prayed myself out of it, not loving hymns the less, but the
Bible more. I wonder if you sing; I can't remember; if you do, I will
send you, sometime, a hymn to sing for my sake, called "More love to
Thee, O Christ." Only to think, our silver wedding comes next month, and
A. and the Smiths away!
I have been interrupted by callers, and must have been in the parlor
several hours. You can't think what a sweet, peaceful winter this has
been, nor how good the children are. My cup has just run over, and at
times I am too happy to be comfortable, if you know what that means;
not having a strong body, I suppose you do. Mrs. B. has been in a very
critical state of late, but she is rallying, and I may, perhaps, have
the privilege of seeing her again. I have had some precious times with
her in her sick-room; last Friday, a week ago, she prayed with me in the
sweetest temper of mind, and came with me when I took leave, to the head
of the stairs, full of love and smiles.
_To a Young Friend, April 5, 1870._
I wish that hymn for the sick-room were mine, but it is not. I will
enclose one that is, which my dear husband has kindly had printed;
perhaps you will like to sing it to the tune of "Nearer, my God, to
Thee." There is not much in it, but you can put everything into it as
you make it your prayer. I can't help feeling that every soul I meet, of
whom I can ask, What think you of Christ? and get the glad answer, "He
is the chiefest among ten thousand, _the One_ altogether lovely"--is a
blessing as well as a comfort to mine; and whenever you can and do say
it, you will become more dear to me. Your God and Saviour won you as an
easy victory, but He had to fight for me. It seems to me now that He
ought to have all there is of me--which, to be sure, isn't much--and I
hope He is taking it. His ways with me have been perfectly beautiful and
infinite in long-suffering and patience.
_April 11th._--Your note has reawakened a question I have often had
occasion to ask myself before. Why do my friends speak of my letters as
giving more pleasure or profit than anything that goes to them from me
in print? Is human nature so selfish? Must everybody have everything
to himself? It might seem so at first blush, but I think there are two
sides to this question. May it not be possible that God sends a message
directly from _one_ heart to _another_ as He does not to the _many?_
Does He not speak through the living voice and the pen that is that
voice, as He does not do in the less unconstrained form of print? At any
rate, I love to believe that He directs each word and look and tone;
_inspires_ rather, I should say.
I should like you to offer a special prayer for us on Saturday. That day
completes twenty-five years of married life to us, and, though it has
its shades as well as its lights, I do not think I can do better for you
than ask that you may have such years,
"For who the backward scene hath scanned
But blessed the Father's guiding hand?"
I can more truly thank Him for His chastisements than for His worldly
indulgences; the latter urge from, the former drive to Him. I am saying
a great thing in a feeble way, and you may multiply it by ten thousand,
and it will still be weak.
The hymn, "More Love to Thee, O Christ," belongs, probably, as far back
as the year 1856. Like most of her hymns, it is simply a prayer put into
the form of verse. She wrote it so hastily that the last stanza was left
incomplete, one line having been added in pencil when it was printed.
She did not show it, not even to her husband, until many years after it
was written; and she wondered not a little that, when published, it met
with so much favor.
* * * * *
II.
Her Silver Wedding. "_I have Lived, I have Loved_." No Joy can put her
out of Sympathy with the Trials of Friends. A Glance backward. Last
Interview with a dying Friend. More Love and more Likeness to Christ.
Funeral of a little Baby. Letters to Christian Friends.
If 1870 was the crowning year in Mrs. Prentiss' life, the 16th of April
was that year's most precious jewel. As the time drew nigh, a glow of
tender, grateful recollection suffused her countenance.
Her eyes are homes of silent prayer.
She talked of the past, like one lost in wonder, while the light and
beauty of the vanished years appeared still to rest upon her spirit.
The day itself, which had been kept from the knowledge of most of her
friends, was full of sweet content, rehearsing, as it were, all the days
of her married life; and, at its close, the measure of her earthly joy
seemed to be perfect and entire, wanting nothing.
_To Mrs. Leonard, New York, April 16, 1845-1870._
Do you know that it is just twenty-five years since we first met? How
gladly would I spend the day of our silver wedding with you! You will
see that I am near in spirit, at all events. My thoughts have been busy
the past week with reviewing the years through which I have travelled,
hand in hand, with my dear husband; years full of sin, full of
suffering, full of joy; brimful of the loving-kindness and tender mercy
that smote often and smote surely. Your last letter only confirms what I
already knew, but am never tired of hearing repeated, the faithfulness
of God to those whom He afflicts. When we once find out what He is to
an aching, empty heart, we want to make everybody see just what we see,
and, until we try in vain, think we can. I had very peculiar feelings in
relation to you when your dear husband was, for a time, parted from you.
I knew God would never afflict you so, if He had not something beautiful
and blissful to give in place of what He took. And what can we ask for
that compares for one instant with "the almost constant felt presence of
our Saviour's sympathy and support"? Our human nature would like to have
the earthly and the divine friendship at once; but, if we must choose
between the twain, surely you and I would choose Christ without one
moment's hesitation. I hope you mention my name every day to Him as I do
yours, as I _love_ to do.
I enclose, and want you, when by yourself, to sing for my sake a little
hymn that I am sure is the language of your heart. My dear husband had
a few copies struck off to give friends. Write soon and often. Oh,
that you lived here or at Dorset. Good-bye, with warmest love, now
_twenty-five_ years old!
_To Mrs. Condict, New York, April 20, 1870._
Last Saturday was the twenty-fifth anniversary of our marriage, and a
very happy day to us both. My dear husband wrote me a letter that made
me tremble, lest he should get such hold of me as no human being must
have. I have a very curious feeling about life; a _satisfied_ one, and
as if it could not possibly give me much more than I now have. _"I have
lived, I have loved."_ [4] People often say they have so much to live
for; I can't feel so, though I am not only willing, but glad to live
while my husband and children need me; and yet--and yet--to have this
problem solved, and to be forever with the Lord! I want to see you. I
can no longer see my dear Mrs. B.; she is too ill, and that makes me
miss you the more. I hope that little MS. of mine did not task your
sympathies; I don't want you to pity me, but to magnify Him who took
such pains with me, and is carrying on just such work in thousands of
hearts and lives. What goodness! What condescension! The least we can
do who have suffered much is to love much.... I have been studying the
Bible on the subject of giving personal testimony, and think it makes
this a plain duty. There is nothing like the influence of one living
soul on another. Then why should we not naturally speak to everybody who
will listen, of what fills our thoughts; our Saviour, His beauty, His
goodness, His faithfulness, His wisdom! I don't believe a full heart
_can help_ running over.
_To a young Friend, April 21, 1870._
I was right sorry to lose your Saturday's call. It was a happy day to
me, but I can conceive of no enjoyment of any sort that would put me out
of sympathy with the trials of friends:
"Old and young are bringing troubles,
Great and small, for me to hear;
_I have often blessed by sorrows
That drew other's grief so near."_
I thought I was saying a very ordinary thing when I spoke of thanking
God for His long years of discipline, but very likely life did not look
to me at your age as it does now. I was rather startled the other day,
to find it written in German, in my own hand, "I can not say the will is
there," referring to a hymn which says, "Der Will ist da, die Kraft ist
klein, Doch wird dir nicht zuwider seyn." I suppose there was some great
struggle going on when this foolish heart said that, just as if God did
not _invariably_ do for us the very best that can be done. [5] You speak
of having your love to Jesus intensified by interviews with me. It can
hardly be otherwise, when those meet together who love Him, and it is a
rule that works both ways; acts and reacts. I should be thankful if no
human being could ever meet me, even in a chance way, and not go away
clasping Him the closer, and if I could meet no one who did not so stir
and move me. It is my constant prayer. I have such insatiable longings
to know and love Him better that I go about hungering and thirsting for
the fellowship of those who feel so too; when I meet them I call them
my "benedictions." Next best to being with Christ Himself, I love to
be with those who have His spirit and are yearning for more of His
likeness. You speak of putting "deep and dark chasms between" yourself
and Christ. He lets us do this that we may learn our nothingness, our
weakness, and turn, disgusted, from ourselves to Him. May I venture
to assure you that the "chasms" occur less and less frequently as one
presses on, till finally they turn into "mountains of light." Get and
keep a will for God, and everything that will is ready for will come.
This is about a tenth part of what I might say.
_To Miss E. A. Warner, New York, April 25, 1870._
I wish I could describe to you my last interview with Mrs. B. She had
altered so in two weeks in which I had not seen her, that I should not
have known her. She spoke with difficulty, but by getting close to her
mouth I could hear all she said. She went back to the first time she met
me, told me her heart then knitted itself to mine, and how she had
loved me ever since, etc., etc. I then asked her if she had any parting
counsel to give me: "No, not a word.".... Some one came in and wet her
lips, gave her a sprig of citronatis, and passed out. I crushed it and
let her smell the bruised leaves, saying, "You are just like these
crushed leaves." She smiled, and replied, "Well, I haven't had one pain
too many, not one. But the agony has been dreadful. I won't talk about
that; I just want to see your sunny face." I asked if she was rejoicing
in the hope of meeting lost friends and the saints in heaven. She said,
with an expressive look, "Oh, no, I haven't got so far as _that_. I
have only got as far as Christ." "For all that," I said, "you'll see my
father and mother there." "Why, so I shall," with another bright smile.
But her lips were growing white with pain, and I came away.
Did I tell you it was our silver wedding-day on the 16th? We had a very
happy day, and if I could see you I should like to tell you all about
it. But it is too long a story to tell in writing. I don't see but I've
had everything this life can give, and have a curious feeling as if I
had got to a stopping-place. I heard yesterday that two of M.'s teachers
had said they looked at her with perfect awe on account of her goodness.
I really never knew her to do anything wrong.
_To a young Friend New York, May 1, 1870._
I could write forever on the subject of Christian charity, but I must
say that in the case you refer to, I think you accuse yourself unduly.
We are not to part company with our common sense because we want to
clasp hands with the Love that thinketh no evil, and we can not help
seeing that there are few, if any, on earth without beams in their eyes
and foibles and sins in their lives. The fact that your friend repented
and confessed his sin, entitled him to your forgiving love, but not
to the ignoring of the fact that he was guilty.... Temptations come
sometimes in swarms, like bees, and running away does no good, and
fighting only exasperates them. The only help must come from Him who
understands and can control the whole swarm.
You ask for my prayers, and I ask for yours. I long ago formed the habit
of praying at night individually, if possible, for all who had come to
me through the day, or whom I had visited; but you contrive to get a
much larger share than that. I love to think of your future holiness and
usefulness as even in the very least linked to my prayers. Oh, I ought
to know how to pray a great deal better than I do, for forty years ago,
save one, I this day publicly dedicated myself to Christ. I write to you
because I like to do so, recognising no difference between writing and
talking. When no better work comes to me, I am glad to give the little
pleasure I can, in notes and letters. He who knows how poor we are, how
little we have to give, does not disdain even a note like this, since it
is written in love to Him and to one of His own dear ones.
_May 23d._--Your last letter was like a fragrant breath of country air,
redolent of flowers, and all that makes rural scenes so sweet. But
better still, it was fragrant with love to Him who is the bond between
us, in whose name and for whose sake we are friends. I wish I loved Him
better and were more like Him; perhaps that is about as far as we get in
this world, for no matter how far we advance, we are never satisfied;
there is always something ahead; I doubt if any one ever said, even in a
whisper and to himself, "Now I love my Saviour as much as a human soul
can."
You speak of my having given you "counsels." Have I had the presumption
to do that? Two-thirds of the time I feel as if I wanted somebody to
counsel me; the only thing I really know that you do not, is what it is
to be beaten with persistent, ceaseless stripes, year after year, year
after year, with scarcely breathing time between. I don't know whether
this is most an argument against me, or for God; on the whole it is most
for Him, who was so good and kind as never to spare me for my writhing
and groaning. Truly as I value this discipline, I want you to give
yourself to Him so unreservedly that you will not need such sharp
treatment. I am not going to keep writing and getting you in debt. All I
ask is if you ever feel a little under the weather and want a specially
loving or cheering word, to give me the chance to speak or write it.
A chapter might be written about Mrs. Prentiss' love for little
children, the enthusiasm with which she studied all their artless ways,
her delight in their beauty, and the reverence with which she regarded
the mystery of their infant being. Her faith in their real, complete
humanity, their susceptibility to spiritual influences, and, when called
from earth, their blessed immortality in and through Christ, was very
vivid; and it was untroubled by any of those distressing doubts, or
misgivings, that are engendered by the materialistic spirit and science
of the age. Contempt for them shocked her as an offence against the Holy
Child Jesus, their King and Saviour. Her very look and manner as she
took a young infant, especially a sick or dying infant, in her arms and
gave it a loving kiss, seemed to say:
Sweet baby, little as thou art,
Thou art a human whole;
Thou hast a little human heart,
Thou hast a deathless soul. [6]
The following letter to a Christian mother, dated May 13th, will show
her feeling on this subject:
This morning we attended the funeral of a little baby, eight months old.
My husband, in his remarks, said that though born and ever continuing to
be a sufferer, it was never saddened by this fellowship with Christ; and
that he believed it was a partaker of His holiness, and glad through His
indwelling, even though unconscious of it. During the last days of
its life, after each paroxysm of coughing, it would look first at its
mother, then at its father, for sympathy, and then look upward with a
face radiant beyond description. I can't tell you how it touched me to
think that I had in that baby a little Christian _sister_--not merely
redeemed, but sanctified from its birth--and I know it will touch and
strengthen you to hear of it. I felt a reverence for that tiny, lifeless
form, that I can not put into words. And, indeed, why should it be
harder for God to enter into the soul of an infant than into our
"unlikeliest" ones? ... I see more and more that if we have within us
the mind of Christ, we must bear the burden of other griefs than our
own; He did not merely _pity_ suffering humanity; He _bore_ our griefs,
and in all our afflictions He was afflicted.
_To Mrs. Condict, June 6, 1870._
If you can get hold of the April number of the Bibliotheca Sacra, read
an article in it called "Psychology in the Life, Work and Teachings of
Jesus." I think it very striking and very true. Praying for Dr. ----
this morning, I had such a peaceful feeling that he was safe. Do you
feel so about him? I had a very different experience about another man
who has been to see me since I began this letter, and who said I was
the first _happy_ person he ever met. May God lay that to his heart!...
Rummaging among dusty things in the attic this forenoon with great
repugnance, I found such a beautiful letter from my husband, written for
my solace in Switzerland when he was in Paris (he wrote me every day,
sometimes twice a day, during the two months of our enforced separation)
that even the drudgery of getting my hands soiled and my back broken was
sweetened. That's the way God keeps on spoiling us; one good thing after
another till we are ashamed. Well, let us step onward, hand in hand. I
wonder which of us will outrun the other and step in first? I am so glad
I'm willing to live.
In the course of this spring _The Percys_ was published. The story first
came out as a serial in the New York Observer. It was translated into
French under the title _La Famille Percy_. In 1876 a German version
appeared under the title _Die Familie Percy_. It was also republished in
London. [7]
* * * * *
III.
Lines on going to Dorset. A Cloud over her. Faber's Life. Loving Friends
for one's own sake and loving them for Christ's sake. The Bible and the
Christian Life. Dorset Society and Occupations. Counsels to a young
Friend in Trouble. "Don't stop praying for your Life!" Cure for the
Heart-sickness caused by a Sight of human Imperfections. Fenelon's
Teaching about Humiliation and being patient with Ourselves.
The following lines, found among her papers after her death, show in
what spirit she went to Dorset:
Once more I change my home, once more begin
Life in this rural stillness and repose;
But I have brought with me my heart of sin,
And sin nor quiet nor cessation knows.
Ah, when I make the final, blessed change,
I shall leave that behind, shall throw aside
Earth's soiled and soiling garments, and shall range
Through purer regions like a youthful bride.
Thrice welcome be that day! Do thou, meanwhile,
My soul, sit ready, unencumbered wait;
The Master bides thy coming, and His smile
Shall bid thee welcome at the golden gate.
DORSET, June 15, 1870.
_To Mrs. Condict, Dorset, June 18, 1870._
I would love to have you here with me in this dear little den of mine
and see the mountains from my window. My husband has gone back to town,
and my only society is that of the children, so you would be most
welcome if you should come in either smiling or sighing. I have had a
cloud over me of late. Do you know about Mr. Prentiss' appointment by
General Assembly to a professorship at Chicago? His going would involve
not only our tearing ourselves out of the heart of our beloved church,
but of my losing you and Miss K., and of our all losing this dear little
home. Of course, he does not want to go, and I am shocked at the thought
of his leaving the ministry; but, on the other hand, there is a right
and a wrong to the question, and we ought to want to do whatever God
chooses. The thought of giving up this home makes me know better how to
sympathise with you if you have to part with yours. I do think it is
good for us to be emptied from vessel to vessel, and there is something
awful in the thought of having our own way with leanness in the soul. I
am greatly pained in reading Faber's Life and Letters, at the shocking
way in which he speaks of Mary, calling her his mamma, and praying to
her and to Joseph, and nobody knows who not. It seems almost incredible
that this is the man who wrote those beautiful strengthening hymns. It
sets one to praying "Hold Thou me up and I shall be safe." ... I should
have forgotten the lines of mine you quote if you had not copied them.
God give to you and to me a thousandfold more of the spirit they
breathe, and make us wholly, wholly His own! My repugnance to go to
Chicago makes me feel that perhaps that is just the wrench I need. Well,
good-bye; at the longest we have not long to stay in this sphere of
discipline and correction.
_To Mr. G. S. P., Dorset, July 13, 1870._
I had just come home from a delicious little tramp through our own woods
when your letter came, and now, if you knew what was good for you, you
would drop in and take tea and spend the evening with us. I should like
you to see our house and our mountains, and our cup that runs over till
we are ashamed. Had I not known you wouldn't come I should have given
you a chance, especially as my husband was gone and I was rather lonely;
though to be sure he always writes me every day. On the way up here I
was glad of time to think out certain things I had been waiting for
leisure to attend to. One had some connection with you, as well as one
or two other friends. I had long felt that there was a real, though
subtle, difference between human--and, shall I say divine?--affection,
but did not see just what it was. Turning it over in my mind that
day, it suddenly came to me as this. Human friendship may be entirely
selfish, giving only to receive in return, or may be partially so--yet
still selfish. But the love that grows out of the love of Christ, and
that delights in His image wherever it is seen, claims no response;
loves because it is its very nature to do so, because it can not help
it, and this without regard to what its object gives. I dare not pretend
that I have fully reached this state, but I have entered this land, and
know that it is one to be desired as a home, an abiding place. I have
thought painfully of the narrow quarters and the hot nights endured by
so many in New York, during this unusually warm weather--especially of
Mrs. G. with three restless children in bed with her and her poor lonely
heart. I can not but believe that Christ has real purposes of mercy to
her soul. I feel interested in Mr. H.'s summer work in a hard field. In
place of aversion to young men, I am beginning to realise how true work
for Christ one may do by praying persistently for them, especially those
consecrated to the ministry of His gospel. I do hope Christ will have
the whole of you, and that you will have the whole of Him. When you
write, let me know how you like my beloved Fenelon. Still, you may
not like him. Some Christians never get to feeding on these mystical
writers, and get on without them.
_To Mrs. Condict, Dorset, July 18, 1870._
I was greatly struck with these words yesterday: "As for God His way is
perfect"; think of reading the Bible through four times in one year, and
nobody knows how many times since, and never resting on these words.
Somehow they charmed me. And these words have been ringing in my ears,
"Earth looks so little and so low,"
while conscious that when I can get ferns and flowers, it does not look
so "little" or so "low," as it does when I can't. My cook, who is a
Romanist, has been prevented from going to her own church seven miles
off, by the weather, ever since we came here, and last Sunday said
she meant to go to ours. Mr. P. preached on God's character as our
Physician, and she was delighted. I think it was hearing one of his
little letters to the children that made her realise, that he was a
Christian man whom she might safely hear; at any rate, I feel greatly
pleased and comforted that she could appreciate such a subject. I fear
you are suffering from the weather; we never knew anything like it here.
We do not suffer, but wake up every morning _bathed_ in a breeze that
refreshes for the day; I mean we do not suffer while we keep still. I am
astonished at God's goodness in giving us this place; not His goodness
itself, but towards _us_. If Mrs. Brinsmade [8] left much of such
material as the extract you sent me, I wonder Dr. B. did not write
her memoir. The more I read of what Christ said about faith, the more
impressed I am. Just now I am on the last chapters in the gospel of
John, and feel as if I had never read them before. They are just
wonderful. We have to read the Bible to understand the Christian life,
and we must penetrate far into that life in order to understand the
Bible. How beautifully the one interprets the other! I want you to let
me know, without telling her that I asked you, if Miss K. could make me
a visit if it were not for the expense?
_To Miss E. A. Warner, Dorset, July 20, 1870._
Did you ever use a fountain pen? I have had one given me, and like it so
much that I sent for one for my husband, and one for Mr. Pratt. When one
wants to write in one's lap, or out of doors, it is delightful. Mrs.
Field came over from East Dorset on Sunday to have her baby baptized.
They had him there in the church through the whole morning service, and
he was as quiet as any of us. The next day Mrs. F. came down and spent
the morning with me, sweeter, more thoughtful than ever, if changed at
all. Dr. and Mrs. Humphrey, of Philadelphia, are passing the summer here
at the tavern, and we spend most of our evenings there, or they come
here. Mrs. H. is a very superior woman, and though I was determined not
to like her, because I have so many people on hand already, I found I
could not help it. She is as furious about mosses and lichens and all
such things as I am, and the other day took home a _bushel-basket_ of
them. She is an earnest Christian, and has passed through deep waters;
I ought to have reversed the order of those clauses. Excuse this rather
hasty letter; I feared you might fancy your book lost. If you are alive,
let me know it, also if you are dead.
_To a young Friend, Dorset, Aug. 8, 1870._
I dare not answer your letter, just received, in my own strength, but
must pray over it long. It is a great thing to learn how far our doubts
and despondencies are the direct result of physical causes, and another
great thing is, when we can not trace any such connexion, to bear
patiently and quietly what God _permits_, if He does not authorise. I
have no more doubt that you love Him, and that He loves you, than that
I love Him and that He loves me. You have been daily in my prayers.
Temptations and conflict are inseparable from the Christian life; no
strange thing has happened to you. Let me comfort you with the assurance
that you will be taught more and more by God's Spirit how to resist; and
that true strength and holy manhood will spring up from this painful
soil. Try to take heart; there is more than one foot-print on the
sands of time to prove that "some forlorn and shipwrecked brother" has
traversed them before you, and come off conqueror through the Beloved.
_Don't stop praying for your life._ Be as cold and emotionless as you
please; God will accept your naked faith, when it has no glow or warmth
in it; and in His own time the loving, glad heart will come back to you.
I deeply feel for and with you, and have no doubt that a week among
these mountains would do more towards uniting you to Christ than a mile
of letters would. You can't complain of any folly to which I could not
plead guilty. I have put my Saviour's patience to every possible test,
and how I love Him when I think what He will put up with.
You ask if I "ever feel that religion is a sham"? No, never. I _know_ it
is a reality. If you ask if I am ever staggered by the inconsistencies
of professing Christians, I say yes, I am often made heartsick by them;
but heartsickness always makes me run to Christ, and one good look at
Him pacifies me. This is in fact my panacea for every ill; and as to my
own sinfulness, that would certainly overwhelm me if I spent much time
in looking at it. But it is a monster whose face I do not love to see;
I turn from its hideousness to the beauty of His face who sins not, and
the sight of "yon lovely Man" ravishes me. But at your age I did this
only by fits and starts, and suffered as you do. So I know how to feel
for you, and what to ask for you. God purposely sickens us of man and of
self, that we may learn to "look long at Jesus."
And this brings me to what you say about Fenelon's going too far, when
he says we may judge of the depth of our humility by our delight in
humiliation, etc. No, he does not go a bit too far. Paul says, "I will
_glory_ in my infirmities"--"I take _pleasure_ in infirmities, in
reproaches, in necessities, in persecution, in distresses for Christ's
sake; for when I am weak, then am I strong." I think this a great
attainment; but that His disciples may reach it, though only through a
humbling, painful process. Then as to God's glory. We say, "Man's chief
end is to glorify God and enjoy Him forever." Now, can we enjoy Him till
we do glorify Him? Can we enjoy Him while living for ourselves, while
indulging in sin, while prayerless and cold and dead? Does not God
directly seek our highest happiness when He strips us of vainglory and
self-love, embitters the poisonous draught of mere human felicity,
and makes us fall down before Him lost in the sense of His beauty and
desirableness? The connexion between glorifying and enjoying Him is,
to my mind, perfect--one following as the _necessary sequence_ of the
other; and facts bear me out in this. He who has let self go and lives
only for the honor of God, is the free, the happy man. He is no longer a
slave, but has the liberty of the sons of God; for "him who honors me, I
will honor." Satan has befogged you on this point. He dreads to see you
ripen into a saintly, devoted, useful man. He hopes to overwhelm and
ruin you. But he will not prevail. You have solemnly given yourself to
the Lord; you have chosen the work of winning and feeding souls as your
life-work, and you can not, must not go back. These conflicts are the
lot of those who are training to be the Lord's true yoke-fellows.
Christ's sweetest consolations lie behind crosses, and He reserves His
best things for those who have the courage to press forward, fighting
for them. I entreat you to turn your eyes away from self, from man, and
look to Christ. Let me assure you, as a fellow-traveller, that I have
been on the road and know it well, and that by and by there won't be
such a dust on it. You will meet with hindrances and trials, but will
fight quietly through, and no human ear hear the din of battle, no human
eye perceive fainting or halting or fall. May God bless you, and become
to you an ever-present, joyful reality! Indeed He will; only wait
patiently.
In glancing over this, I see that I have here and there repeated myself.
Do excuse it. I believe it is owing to the way the flies harass and
distract me.
_August 17th._--I feel truly grateful to God if I have been of any
comfort to you. I know only too well the shock of seeing professors of
even sinless perfection guilty of what I consider sinful sin, and my
whole soul was so staggered that for some days I could not pray, but
could only say, "O God, if there be any God, come to my rescue." ... But
God loves better than He knows us, and foresaw every infidelity before
He called us to Himself. Nothing in us takes Him, therefore, by
surprise. Fenelon teaches what no other writer does--to be "patient with
ourselves," and I think as you penetrate into the Christian life, you
will agree with him on every point as I do.
_August 19th._--I have had a couple of rather sickish days since writing
the above, but am all right again now. Hot weather does not agree with
me. I used to reproach myself for religious stupidity when not well, but
see now that God Is my kind Father--not my hard taskmaster, expecting me
to be full of life and zeal when physically exhausted. It takes long to
learn such lessons. One has to penetrate deeply into the heart of Christ
to begin to know its tenderness and sympathy and forbearance.
You can't imagine how Miss K. has luxuriated in her visit, nor how good
she thinks we all are. She holds views to which I can not quite respond,
but I do not condemn or reject them. She is a modest, praying, devoted
woman; not disposed to obtrude, much less to urge her opinions; full
of Christian charity and forbearance; and I am truly thankful that she
prays for me and mine; in fact, she loves to pray so, that when she gets
hold of a new case, she acts as one does who has found a treasure.
I wish you were looking out with me on the beautiful array of mountains
to be seen from every window of our house and breathing this delicious
air.
_September 25th._--We expect now to go home on Friday next, though if I
had known how early the foliage was going to turn this year, I should
have planned to stay a week longer to see it in all its glory. It is
looking very beautiful even now, and our eyes have a perpetual feast. We
have had a charming summer, but one does not want to play all the time,
and I hope God has work of some sort for me to do at home during the
winter. Meanwhile, I wish I could send you a photograph of the little
den where I am now writing, and the rustic adornings which make it _sui
generis_, and the bit of woods to be seen from its windows, that, taking
the lead of all other Dorset woods, have put on floral colors, just
because they are ours and know we want them looking their best before we
go away. But this wish must yield to fate, like many another; and, as I
have come to the end of my paper, I will love and leave you.
* * * * *
IV.
_The Story Lizzie Told._ Country and City. The Law of Christian
Progress. Letters to a Friend bereft of three Children. Sudden Death of
another Friend. "Go on; step faster." Fenelon and his Influence upon her
religious Life. Lines on her Indebtedness to him.
_The Story Lizzie Told_ was published about this time. It had already
appeared in the Riverside Magazine. The occasion of the story was a
passage in a letter from London written by a friend, which described in
a very graphic and touching way the yearly exhibition of the Society for
the Promotion of Window Gardening among the Poor. The exhibition was
held at the "Dean's close" at Westminster and the Earl of Shaftesbury
gave the prizes. [9]
No one of Mrs. Prentiss's smaller works, perhaps, has been so much
admired as _The Story Lizzie Told_. It was written at Dorset in the
course of a single day, if not at a single sitting; and so real was
the scene to her imagination that, on reading it in the evening to
her husband, she had to stop again and again from the violence of her
emotion. "What a little fool I am!" she would say, after a fresh burst
of tears. [10]
_To Mrs. Leonard, New York, Oct. 16, 1870._
Your letter came in the midst of the wear and tear of A.'s return to us.
We were kept in suspense about her from Monday, when she was due, till,
Friday when she came, and it is years since I have got so excited and
wrought up. They had a dreadful passage, but she was not sick at all.
Prof. Smith is looking better than I ever saw him, and we are all most
happy in being together once more. I can truly re-echo your wish that
you lived half way between us and Dorset, for then we should see you
once a year at least. I miss you and long to see you. How true it is
that each friend has a place of his own that no one else can fill! I do
not doubt that the 13th of October was a silvery wedding-day to your
dear husband. His loss has made Christ dearer to you, and so has made
your union more perfect. I suppose you were never so much one as you are
now.
We have had a delightful summer, not really suffering from the heat;
though, of course, we felt it more or less. All our nights were cool....
I can not tell you how Mr. P. and myself enjoy our country home. It
seems as if we had slipped into our proper nook. But if we are going to
do any more brainwork, we must be where there is stimulus, such as we
find here. What a mixed-up letter! I have almost forgotten how to write,
in adorning my house and sowing my seeds and the like.
_To Mrs. Frederick Field, New York, Oct. 19th, 1870._
I deeply appreciate the Christian kindness that prompted you to write me
in the midst of your sorrow. I was prepared for the sad news by a dream
only last night. I fancied myself seeing your dear little boy lying very
restlessly on his bed, and proposing to carry him about in my arms to
relieve him. He made no objection, and I walked up and down with him a
long, long time, when some one of the family took him from me. Instantly
his face was illumined by a wondrous smile of delight that he was to
leave the arms of a stranger to go to those familiar to him--such a
smile, that when I awoke this morning I said to myself, "Eddy Field has
gone to the arms of his Saviour, and gone gladly." You can imagine how
your letter, an hour or two later, touched me. But you have better
consolation than dreams can give; in the belief that your child will
develop, without spot or wrinkle or any such thing, into the perfect
likeness of Christ, and in your own submission to the unerring will of
God. I sometimes think that patient sufferers suffer most; they make
less outcry than others, but the grief that has little vent wears
sorely.
"Grace does not steel the faithful heart
That it should feel no ill,"
and you have many a pang yet before you. It must be so very hard to see
twin children part company, to have their paths diverge so soon. But the
shadow of death will not always rest on your home; you will emerge from
its obscurity into such a light as they who have never sorrowed can not
know. We never know, or begin to know, the great Heart that loves us
best, till we throw ourselves upon it in the hour of our despair.
Friends say and do all they can for us, but they do not know what we
suffer or what we need; but Christ, who formed, has penetrated the
depths of the mother's heart. He pours in the wine and the oil that no
human hand possesses, and "as one whom his mother comforteth, so will He
comfort you." I have lived to see that God never was so good to me as
when He seemed most severe. Thus I trust and believe it will be with you
and your husband. Meanwhile, while the peaceable fruits are growing and
ripening, may God help you through the grievous time that must pass--a
grievous time in which you have my warm sympathy. I know only too well
all about it.
"I know my griefs; but then my consolations,
My joys, and my immortal hopes I know"--
joys unknown to the prosperous, hopes that spring from seed long buried
in the dust.
I shall read your books with great interest, I am sure, and who knows
how God means to prepare you for future usefulness along the path of
pain? "Every branch that beareth fruit He purgeth it, that it may bring
forth more fruit."
What an epitaph your boy's own words would be--"It is beautiful to be
dead"!
_To the Same, New York, Nov 30th, 1870._
I thank you so much for your letter about your precious children. I
remember them well, all three, and do not wonder that the death of your
first-born, coming upon the very footsteps of sorrow, has so nearly
crushed you. But what beautiful consolations God gave you by his dying
bed! "All safe at God's right hand!" What more can the fondest mother's
heart ask than such safety as this? I am sure that there will come to
you, sooner or later, the sense of Christ's love in these repeated
sorrows, that in your present bewildered, amazed state you can hardly
realise. Let me tell you that I have tried His heart in a long
storm--not so very different from yours--and that I know something of
its depths. I will enclose you some lines that may give you a moment's
light. Please not to let them go out of your hands, for no one--not even
my husband--has ever seen them. I am going to send my last book to your
lonely little boy. You will not feel like reading it now, but perhaps
the 33d chapter, and some that follow, may not jar upon you as the
earlier part would.
To go back again to the subject of Christ's love for us, of which I
never tire, I want to make you feel that His sufferers are His happiest,
most favored disciples. What they learn about Him---His pitifulness, His
unwillingness to hurt us, His haste to bind up the very wounds He has
inflicted---endear Him so, that at last they burst out into songs of
thanksgiving, that His "donation of bliss" included in it such donation
of pain. Perhaps I have already said to you, for I am fond of saying it,
"The love of Jesus---what it is,
Only His sufferers know."
You ask if your heart will ever be lightsome again. Never again with the
lightsomeness that had never known sorrow, but light even to gayety with
the new and higher love born of tribulation. Just as far as a heavenly
is superior even to maternal love, will be the elevation and beauty of
your new joy; a joy worth all it costs. I know what sorrow means; I know
it well. But I know, too, what it is to pass out of that prison-house
into a peace that passes all understanding; and thousands can say the
same. So, my dear suffering sister, look on and look up; lay hold on
Christ with _both your poor, empty hands_; let Him do with you what
seemeth Him good; though He slay you, still trust in Him; and I dare in
His name to promise you a sweeter, better life than you could have
known had He left you to drink of the full, dangerous cups of unmingled
prosperity. I feel such real and living sympathy with you, that I would
love to spend weeks by your side, trying to bind up your broken heart.
But for the gospel of Christ, to hear of such bereavements as yours
would appall, would madden one. Yet, what a halo surrounds that word
"but"!
_To Miss E. A. Warner, New York, Dec 14, 1870._
I have not behaved according to my wont, and visited the sick even by
way of a letter. And by this time I hope you are quite well again, and
do not need ghostly counsels.... I have felt very badly about Miss
Lyman's dying at Vassar, but since Mrs. S.'s visit and learning how
beloved she is there, have changed my mind. What does it matter, after
all, from what point of time or space we go home; how we shall smile,
after we get there, that we ever gave it one moment's thought! You ask
what I am doing; well, I am taking a vacation and not writing anything
to speak of, yet just as busy as ever; not one moment in which to
dawdle, though I dare say I seem to the folks here at home to be sitting
round doing nothing. I must give you a picture of one day and you must
photograph one of yours, as we have done before. Got up at seven and
went through the usual forms; had prayers and breakfast, and started off
to school with M. Came home and had a nice quiet time reading, etc.;
at eleven went to my meeting, which was a tearful one, as one of our
members who knelt with us only a week before, was this day to be buried
out of our sight. She was at church on Sunday afternoon at four P.M., to
present her baby in baptism, and at half-past two the following morning
was in heaven. We all went together to the funeral after the meeting,
and gathered round the coffin with the feeling that she belonged to us.
When I got home I found a despatch from Miss W., saying they should be
here right away. I had let one of my women go out of town to a sick
sister, so I must turn chamber-maid and make the bed, dust, clear out
closet, cupboard, and bureau forthwith. This done, they arrived, which
took the time till half-past seven, when I excused myself and went to an
evening meeting, knowing it would be devoted to special prayer for the
husband and children of her who had gone. Got home half an hour behind
time and found a young man awaiting me who was converted last June, as
he hopes, while reading Stepping Heavenward. I had just got seated by
him when our doctor was announced; he had lost his only grandchild and
had come to talk about it. He stayed till half-past nine, when I went
back to my young friend, who stayed till half-past ten and gave a very
interesting history which I have not time to put on paper. He writes
me since, however, about his Christian life that "it gets sweeter and
sweeter," and I know you will be glad for me that I have this joy.
_Saturday Morning._--I was interrupted there, had visitors, had to go to
a fair, company again, so that I had not time to eat the food I needed,
went to see a poor sick girl, had more visitors, and at last, at eleven
P.M., scrambled into bed. Now I am finishing this, and if nobody
hinders, am going to mail it, and then go after a block of ice-cream
for that sick girl (isn't it nice, we can get it now done up in little
boxes, just about as much as an invalid can eat at one time). Then I
am going to see a poor afflicted soul that can't get any light on her
sorrow. Here comes my dear old man to read his sermon, so good-bye.
_To a young Friend, Dec. 20, 1870._
I have been led, during the last month or two, to a new love of the Holy
Spirit, or perhaps to more consciousness of the silent, blessed work He
is doing in and for us? and for those whose souls lie as a heavy and
yet a sweet burden upon our own. And joining with you in your prayers,
seeking also for myself what I sought for you, I found myself almost
startled by such a response as I can not describe. It was not joy, but a
deep solemnity which enfolded me as with a garment, and if I ever pass
out of it, which I never want to do, I hope it will be with a heart more
than ever consecrated and set apart for Christ's service. The more
I reflect and the more I pray, the more life narrows down to one
point--What am I being for Christ, what am I doing for Him? Why do I
tell you this? Because the voice of a fellow-traveller always stimulates
his brother-pilgrim; what one finds and speaks of and rejoices over,
sets the other upon determining to find too. God has been very good to
you, as well as to me, but we ought to whisper to each other now and
then, "Go on, step faster, step surer, lay hold on the Rock of Ages with
both hands." You never need be afraid to speak such words to me. I want
to be pushed on, and pulled on, and coaxed on.
The allusion to her "beloved Fenelon," in several of the preceding
letters, renders this a suitable place to say a word about him and his
influence upon her religious character. "Fenelon I _lean_ on," she
wrote. Her delight in his writings dated back more than a quarter of a
century, and continued, unabated, to the end of her days. She regarded
him with a sort of personal affection and reverence. Her copy of
"Spiritual Progress," composed largely of selections from his works, is
crowded with pencil-marks expressive of her sympathy and approval; not
even her Imitation of Christ, Sacra Privata, Pilgrim's Progress, Saints'
Everlasting Rest, or Leighton on the First Epistle of Peter, contain so
many. These pencil-marks are sometimes very emphatic, underscoring or
inclosing now a single word, now a phrase, anon a whole sentence or
paragraph; and it requires but little skill to decipher, in these rude
hieroglyphics, the secret history of her soul for a third of a century--
one side, at least, of this history. What she sought with the greatest
eagerness, what she most loved and most hated, her spiritual aims,
struggles, trials, joys and hopes, may here be read between the lines.
And a beautiful testimony they give to the moral depth, purity and
nobleness of her piety!
The story is not, indeed, complete; her religious life had other
elements, not found, or only partially found, in Fenelon; elements
centering directly in Christ and His gospel, and which had their
inspiration in her Daily Food and her New Testament. What attracted her
to Fenelon was not the doctrine of salvation as taught by him--she found
it better taught in Bunyan and Leighton--it was his marvellous knowledge
of the human heart, his keen insight into the proper workings of nature
and grace, his deep spiritual wisdom, and the sweet mystic tone of his
piety. And then the two great principles pervading his writings--that
of pure love to God and that of self-crucifixion as the way to perfect
love--fell in with some of her own favorite views of the Christian
life. In the study of Fenelon, as of Madame Guyon, her aim was a purely
practical one; it was not to establish, or verify, a theory, but to get
aid and comfort in her daily course heavenward. What Fenelon was to her
in this respect she has herself recorded in the following lines, found,
after her death, written on a blank page of her "Spiritual Progress":
Oh wise and thoughtful words! oh counsel sweet,
Guide in my wanderings, spurs unto my feet,
How often you have met me on the way,
And turned me from the path that led astray;
Teaching that fault and folly, sin and fall,
Need not the weary pilgrim's heart appall;
Yea more, instructing how to snatch the sting
From timid conscience, how to stretch the wing
From the low plane, the level dead of sin,
And mount immortal, mystic joys to win.
One hour with Jesus! How its peace outweighs
The ravishment of earthly love and praise;
How dearer far, emptied of self to lie
Low at His feet, and catch, perchance, His eye,
Alike content when He may give or take,
The sweet, the bitter, welcome for His sake!
[1] John Wesley, after having pointed out what he considered the
grand source of all her mistakes; namely, the being guided by inward
impressions and the light of her own spirit rather than by the written
Word, and also her error in teaching that God never purifies a soul but
by inward and outward suffering--then adds: "And yet with all this dross
how much pure gold is mixed! So did God wink at involuntary ignorance.
What a depth of religion did she enjoy! How much of the mind that was in
Christ Jesus! What heights of righteousness, and peace, and joy in the
Holy Ghost! How few such instances do we find of exalted love to God,
and our neighbor; of genuine humility; of invincible meekness and
unbounded resignation! So that, upon the whole, I know not whether we
may not search many centuries to find another woman who was such a
pattern of true holiness."
[2] See the lines MY CUP RUNNETH OVER, _Golden Hours_, p. 43.
[3] "I know of no book, the Bible excepted as above all comparison,
which I, according to my judgment and experience, could so safely
recommend as teaching and enforcing the whole saving truth according to
the mind that was in Christ Jesus, as the Pilgrim's Progress. It is, in
my conviction, incomparably the best _summa theologiæ evangelicæ_ ever
produced by a writer not miraculously inspired. I read it once as a
theologian--and let me assure you, there is great theological acumen in
the work--once with devotional feelings, and once as a poet. I could
not have believed beforehand that Calvinism could be painted in such
exquisitely delightful colors."--COLERIDGE.
[4] The allusion is to Thekla's song in Part I., Act iii., sc. 7 of
Schiller's Wallenstein.
Du Heilige, rufe dein Kind zurück!
Ich habe genossen das irdische Glück,
_Ich habe gelebt und gelibet._
[5] The hymn referred to is Paul Gerhardt's, beginning:
Wir singen dir, Immanuel, Du Lebensfürst und Gnadenquell.
It was one of her favorite German hymns. The lines she quotes belong to
the tenth stanza; "Ich kann nicht sagen Der Will ist da," are the words
pencilled in the margin.
[6] Hartley Coleridge's Poems. Vol. II., p. 139.
[7] But greatly to Mrs. Prentiss' annoyance, with the title changed to
_Ever Heavenward_--as if to make it appear to be a sequel to Stepping
Heavenward.
[8] Wife of the late Rev. Horatio Brinsmade, D.D., of Newark, N. J.
[9] "Polly" was particularly happy; six years old, I should say, shabby,
though evidently washed up for the occasion, and very pretty and all
pink with excitement. "Polly, I _knowed_ you'd get a prize," I heard a
young woman, tired out with carrying her own big baby, say. And then she
came upon her own geranium with three blossoms on it and marked "Second
Prize," and said, "I _can't_ believe it," when they told her that that
meant six shillings. But the plant which my companion and myself both
cried over, was a little bit of a weedy marigold, the one poor little
flower on it carefully fastened about with a paper ring, such as high
and mighty greenhouse men sometimes put round a choice rose in bud. That
was all; just this one common, very single little flower, with "Lizzie"
Something's name attached and the name of her street. All the streets
were put upon the tickets and added greatly to the pathetic effect;
just the poorest lanes and alleys in London. Nobody seemed to claim
the marigold. Perhaps it was the great treasure of some sick child who
couldn't come to look at it. It was certain not to get a prize, but
the child has found something by this time tucked down in the pot and
carefully covered over by F., when no one was looking, with a pinch of
earth taken from a more prosperous plant alongside.
[10] Miss W. showed me a very pleasant letter of Lady Augusta Stanley,
the wife of Dean Stanley, to a Miss C., through whom she received from
Miss W.'s little niece a copy of _The Story Lizzie Told_. Lady Stanley
is herself, I believe, at the head of the Society which holds the annual
Flower Show. She says in her letter that she had just returned from
Scotland, reaching home quite late in the evening. Before retiring,
however, she had read your story through. She praises it very warmly,
and wonders how anybody but a "Londoner" could have written it.--_Letter
to Mrs. P., dated New York, September, 1872._