CHAPTER XI.

IN HER HOME.

The letters in the preceding chapters give a glimpse, here and there,

of Mrs. Prentiss' home, but relate chiefly to the religious side of her

character. What was her manner of life among her children? How were her

temper and habits as a mother affected by the ardor and intensity of her

Christian feeling? A partial answer to these questions is contained in

letters written to her eldest daughter, while the latter was absent

in Europe. These letters show the natural side of her character; and

although far from reflecting all its light and beauty--no words could

do that!--they depict some of its most interesting traits. They are

frankness itself and betray not the least respect of persons; but if she

speaks her mind in them without much let or hindrance, it is always done

in the pleasantest way. In the portions selected for publication the aim

has been to let her be seen, so far as possible, just as she appeared in

her daily home-life, both in town and country.

I.

Home-life in New York.

New York, _October_ 22, 1869.

I have promised to walk to school with M. this morning, and while I am

waiting for her to get ready, will begin my letter to you. We got home

from seeing you off all tired out, and I lay on the sofa all the time

till I went to bed, except while eating my dinner, and I think papa

did pretty much the same. The moment we had done dinner, H. and Jane

appeared, carrying your bureau drawer between them, and we had a great

time over the presents you were thoughtful enough to leave behind you.

My little sacque makes me look like 500 angels instead of one, and I

am ever so glad of it, and the children were all delighted with their

things.

Well, I have escorted M. to school, come home and read the Advance, and

Hearth and Home, and it is now eleven o'clock and the door-bell has only

rung twice! Papa says you are out of sight of land, and as it is a warm

day and we are comfortable, we hope you are. But it is dreadful to have

to wait so long before hearing.

_23d._--Papa says this must be mailed by nine o'clock; so I have hurried

up from breakfast to finish it. Mr. and Mrs. S. spent most of last

evening with us. They shouted over my ferrotypes. Mr.---- also called

and expressed as much surprise at your having gone to Europe as if the

sky had fallen. I read my sea-journal to the children last evening, and

though it is very flat and meagre in itself, H., to whom it was all

brand new, thought it ought to be published forthwith. No time for

another word but love to all the S.'s, big and little, high and low,

great and small. Your affectionate Mammy.

_Oct. 28th._--I can hardly believe that it is only a week today that we

saw you and your big steamer disappear from view. H. said last night

that it seemed to him one hundred years ago, and we all said amen. So

how do you suppose it will seem ten months hence? I hope you do not find

the time so long. I take turns waiting upon the children to school,

which they are very strict about, and they enjoy their teachers

amazingly.

I received this morning a very beautiful and touching letter from a

young lady in England about the Susy books. They are associated in her

mind and those of her family with a "Little Pearlie" whose cunning

little photograph she enclosed, who taught herself to read in a

fortnight from one of them, and was read to from it on her dying bed,

and after she became speechless she made signs to have her head wet

as Susy's was. I never received such a letter among all I have had.

Randolph sent me twelve copies of Stepping Heavenward, and I have had

my hands full packing and sending them. M. is reading aloud to H. a

charming story called "Alone in London." I am sure I could not read it

aloud without crying.

The following is the letter from England:

To THE AUTHOR OF "LITTLE SUSY":

I feel as if I had a perfect right to call you "My dear friend," so much

have I thought of you this last year and a half. Bear with me while I

tell you why. A year ago last Christmas we were a large family--father,

mother, and eight children, of whom I, who address you, am the eldest.

The youngest was of course the pet, our bright little darling, rather

more than five. That Christmas morning, of course, there were gifts for

all; and among the treasures in the smallest stocking was a copy of

"Little Susy's Six Teachers," for which I desire to thank you now. Many

times I have tried to do so, but I could not; the trouble which came

upon us was too great and awful in its suddenness. Little Pearl, so

first called in the days of a fragile babyhood--Dora Margaret was her

real name--taught herself to read from her "Little Susy," during the

first fortnight she had it. And she would sit for hours, literally,

amusing and interesting herself by it. She talked constantly of the

Six Teachers, and a word about them was enough to quell any rising

naughtiness. "Pearlie, what would Mr. Ought say?" or "Don't grieve Mrs.

Love," was always sufficient. Do you know what it is to have one the

youngest in a large family? My darling was seventeen years younger than

I. I left school when she was born to take the oversight of the nursery,

which dear mamma's illness and always delicate health prevented her from

doing. I had nursed her in her illnesses, dressed her, made the little

frocks--now laid so sadly by--and to all the rest of us she had been

more like a child than a sister. Friends used to say, "It is a wonder

that child is not spoiled"; but they could never say she _was_. Merry,

full of life and fun she always was, quick and intelligent, full of

droll sayings which recur to us now with _such_ a pain. From Christmas

to the end of February we often remarked to one another how good that

child was! laughing and playing from morning to night, yet never unruly

or wild. That February we had illness in the house. Jessie, the next

youngest, had diphtheria, but she recovered, and we trusted all danger

was passed, when one Monday evening--the last in the month--our darling

seemed ill. The next day we recognised the symptoms we had seen in

Jessie, and the doctor was called in. Tuesday and Wednesday he came and

gave no hint of danger, but on Wednesday night we perceived a change and

on Thursday came the sentence: No hope. Oh friend, dear friend! how can

I tell you of the long hours when we could not help our darling--of the

dark night when, forbidden the room from the malignity of the case, we

went to bed to coax mamma to do so--of the grey February dawn when there

came the words, "Our darling is _quite well_ now"--quite well, forever

taken from the evil to come.

The Sunday night before, she came into the parlor with "Susy" under her

arm and petitioned for some one to read the "Teachers' meeting." "Why,

you read it twice this afternoon," said one. "Yes, I know--but it's

so nice," was the reply. "Pearlie will be six in September," said the

gentle mother; "we must have a Teachers' meeting for her, I think." "But

perhaps I sha'n't ever be six," said the little one. "Oh Pearlie, why

do you say so?" "Well, people don't all be six, you know," affirmed our

darling with solemn eyes and two dimples in the rosy cheeks, that were

hid forever from us before the next Sabbath day.

On the Wednesday we borrowed from a little friend the other books of the

series, thinking they might afford some amusement for the weary hours of

illness, and Annie, my next sister, read four of the birthdays to her

and then wished to stop, fearing she might be too fatigued. "No, read

one more," was the request, and "That will do--I'm five, read the last

to-morrow," she said, when it was complied with. Ah me! with how many

tears we took up that book again. That Wednesday she sat up in bed, a

glass of medicine in her hand. "Mamma," she said, "Miss Joy has gone

quite away and only left Mr. Pain. She can't come back till my throat

is well." "But Mrs. Love is here, is she not?" "Oh, yes," and the dear

heavy eyes turned from one to another. In the night, when she lay

dying, came intervals of consciousness; in one of these she took her

handkerchief and gave it to papa, who watched by her, asking him to wet

it and put it on her head. When he told us, we recollected the incident

when Susy in the favorite book was ill. And can you understand how our

hearts felt very tender toward you and we said you must be thanked.

I should weary you if I told you all the incidents that presented

themselves of how sweet and good she was in her illness; how in the

agony of those last hours, when no fear of infection could restrain the

passionate kisses papa was showering on her, the dear voice said with a

stop and an effort between each word, "Don't kiss me on my mouth,

papa; you may catch it"; how everything she asked for was prefaced by

"please," how self was always last in her thoughts. "I'm keeping you

awake, you darling." "Don't stand there--you'll be so tired--sit down or

go down-stairs, if you like."

I will send you a photograph of little Pearlie; it is the best we have,

but was taken when she was only two years old. She was very small for

her age and had been very delicate until the last year of her life.

In writing thus to thank you I am not only doing an act of justice to

yourself, but fulfilling wishes now rendered binding. Often and often my

dear mamma said, "How I wish we knew the lady who wrote Little Susy!"

Her health, always delicate, never recovered from the shock of Pearlie's

death, and suddenly, on the morning of the first of May, the Angel of

Death darkened our dwelling with the shadow of his wings. Not long did

he linger--only two hours--and our mother had left us. She was with her

treasure and the Saviour, who said so lovingly on earth, "Come unto Me."

But words can not express such trouble as that. We have not realised it

yet. Forgive me if my letter is abrupt and confused. I have only desired

to tell you simply the simple tale--if by any chance it should make you

thank God more earnestly for the great gift He has given you--a holy

gift indeed; for can you think the lessons from "Susy," so useful and

so loved on earth, could be suddenly forgotten when the glories of heavens

opened on our darling's view? I can not myself. I think, perhaps, our

Father's home may be more like our human ones, where His love reigns,

than our wild hearts allow themselves to imagine; and I think the two,

on whose behalf I thank you now, may one day know you and thank you

themselves.

Dear "Aunt Susan," believe me to be, your unknown yet grateful friend,

LIZZIE WRAITH L----.

Mrs. Prentiss at once answered this letter, and not long after received

another from Miss L----, dated January 9, 1870, breathing the same

grateful feeling and full of interesting details. The following is an

extract from it:

I was so surprised, dear unknown friend, to receive your kind letter so

soon. Indeed, I hardly expected a reply at all. When I wrote to you, I

did not know that I was addressing a daughter of the "Edward Payson"

whose name is fragrant even on this side of the Atlantic. Had I known it

I think I should not have ventured to write--so I am glad I did not. If

you should be able to write again, and have a carte-de-visite to spare,

may I beg it, that I may form some idea of the friend, "old enough to be

my mother"? Are you little and slight, like my real mother, I wonder, or

stately and tall? I will send you a photograph of the monument which the

ladies of papa's church and congregation have erected to dear mamma, in

our beautiful cemetery, where the snowdrops will be already peeping, and

where roses bloom for ten months out of the twelve.

_Nov. 3d._--Here beginneth letter No. 3. We heard of your arrival at

Southampton by a telegram last evening. We long to get a letter. Before

I forget it let me tell you that Alice H. and Julia W. have both got

babbies. We are getting nicely settled for the winter; the children are

all behaving beautifully.

_Saturday, 6th._--Well, I have just been to see Mrs. F., and found her

a bright, frank young thing, fresh and simple and very pleasing. Her

complexion is like M----'s, and the lower part of her face is shaped

like hers, dark eyebrows, light hair, _splendid_ teeth, and I suppose

would be called very pretty by you girls. Take her altogether I liked

her very much. We hear next to nothing from Stepping Heavenward, and

begin to think it is going to fall dead.

_Monday, 14th._--Your Southampton letter has just come and we are

delighted to hear that you had such a pleasant voyage, and found so many

agreeable people on board.... Yesterday afternoon was devoted to hearing

a deeply interesting description from Dr. Hatfield, followed by Mr.

Dodge, of the re-union of the two Assemblies at Pittsburgh. Dr. H. made

us all laugh by saying that as the New School entered the church where

they were to be received and united to the Old School, the latter rose

and sang "Return, ye ransomed sinners, home!" Oh, I don't know but it

was just the other way; it makes no great difference, for as Dr. H.

remarked, "we're all ransomed sinners."

_Nov. 30th._--Mr. Abbot dined here on Sunday. He came in again in the

evening, and it would have done you good to hear what he said about the

children. They are all well and happy, and give me very little trouble.

I do not feel so well on the late dinner, and have awful dreams.----I

was passing the C----s, after writing the above, and she called me in to

see her new parlors. They are beautiful; a great deal of bright, rich

coloring, and various articles of furniture of his own designing.

_Thursday._----You and M. will be shocked to hear that Julia W. died

last night. As Mr. W. was at church on Sunday, we supposed all danger

was over. We heard it through a telegram sent to your father.

_December 4, 1869._--I need not tell you that we all remember that this

is your birthday, dear child, and that the remembrance brings you very

near. I wish I could send you, for a birthday present, all that I have,

this morning, asked God to give you. You may depend upon it, that while

some people may get along through life at a certain distance from Him,

_you_ are not one of that sort. You may find a feverish joy, but never

abiding _peace_, out of Him. Remember this whenever you feel the

oppression of that vague sense of unrest, of which, I doubt not, you

have a great deal underneath a careless outside; this is the thirst of

the soul for the only fountain at which it is worth while to drink. You

never will be really happy till Christ becomes your dearest and most

intimate friend. _7th._--We have had a tremendous fall of snow, and

Culyer says M. ought to wait an hour before starting for school, but she

is not willing and I am going with her to see that she is not buried

alive. Good-bye again, dearie! Will begin a new letter right away.

_Dec. 9th_--We went to see Mrs. W. this afternoon. Julia had typhoid

fever, which ran twenty-one days, and was delirious a good deal of the

time. She got ready to die before her confinement, though she said she

expected to live. After she became so very ill Mrs. W. heard her

praying for something "for Christ's sake," "for the sake of Christ's

_sufferings_," and once asked her what it was she was asking for so

earnestly. "Oh, to get well for Edward's sake and the baby's," she

replied. A few days before her death she called Mrs. W. to "come close"

to her, and said, "I am going to die. I did not think so when baby was

born, dear little thing--but now it is impressed upon me that I am."

Mrs. W. said they hoped not, but added, "Yet suppose you _should_ die,

what then?" "Oh I have prayed, day and night, to be reconciled, and I

am, _perfectly_ so. God will take care of Edward and of my baby. Perhaps

it is better so than to run the risk--" She did not finish the sentence.

The baby looks like her. Mrs. W. told her you had gone to Europe with

M., and she expressed great pleasure; but if she had known where _she_

was going, and to what, all she would have done would have been to give

thanks "for Christ's sake." I do not blame her, however, for clinging to

life; it was natural she should.

_10th_--We went, last evening, to hear Father Hyacinthe lecture on

"Charite" at the Academy of Music. I did not expect to understand a

word, but was agreeably disappointed, as he spoke very distinctly. Still

I did not enjoy hearing as well as I did reading it this morning--for

I lost some of the best things in a really fine address. It was a

brilliant scene, the very elite of intellectual society gathered around

one modest, unpretentious little man. Dr. and Mrs. Crosby were in the

box with us, and she, fortunately, had an opera glass with her, so that

we had a chance to study his really good face. The only book I expect to

write this winter is to you; I am dreadfully lazy since you left, and

don't do anything but haze about. There is a good deal of lively talk at

the table; the children are waked up by going to school, and there is

some rivalry among them, each maintaining that his and hers is the best.

_Dec. 15th._--We have cards for a "Soiree musicale" at Mrs. ----'s,

which is to be a great smash-up. She called here to-day and wept and

wailed over and kissed me. I have been to see how Mrs. C. is. She is a

little worse to-day, and he and her father scarcely leave her. He wrung

my hand all to pieces, poor man. Her illness is exciting great sympathy

in our church, and nobody seems willing to let her go. Dr. Adams spent

last evening here. He is splendid company; I really wish he would come

once a week. Everybody is asking if I meant in Katy to describe myself.

I have no doubt that if I should catch an old toad, put on to her a

short gown and petticoat and one of my caps, everybody would walk up

to her and say, "Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Prentiss, you look more like

yourself than common; I recognise the picture you have drawn of yourself

in Stepping Heavenward and in the Percys," etc., etc., etc., _ad

nauseam_. The next book I write I'll make my heroine black and everybody

will say, "Oh, here you are again, black to the life!"

_Dec. 18th._--You and M. will not be surprised to hear that Mrs. C.'s

sufferings are over. She died this morning. Papa and I are greatly

shaken. With much hesitation I decided to go over there to see her

mother, and the welcome I got from her and from Mr. C. are things to

remember for a life-time. I will never hesitate again to fly to people

in trouble. If you were here I would tell you all about my visit, but I

can't write it down. It seems so sad, just as they had got into their

lovely new home--sad for _him_, I mean; as for her I can only wish her

joy that she is not weeping here below as he is. I stayed till it was

time for church, and when I entered it I was met by many a tearful face;

papa announced her death from the pulpit, and is going, this afternoon,

to throw aside the sermon he intended to preach, and extemporise on "the

first Sunday in heaven." The children are going in, this noon, to sing;

as to the Mission festival, that is to be virtually given up; the

children are merely to walk in, receive their presents, and go silently

out. It is a beautiful day to go to heaven in. Mrs. C. did not know

she was going to die, but that is of no consequence. Only one week ago

yesterday she was at the Industrial school, unusually bright and well,

they all say. Well, I see everything double and had better stop writing.

_Monday, 20th._--Your nice letter was in the letter-box as I started for

school with H.; I called to papa to let him know it was there and went

off, begrudging him the pleasure of reading it before I did. When I got

home there was no papa and no letter to be found; I looked in every

room, on his desk and on mine, posted down to the letter-box and into

the parlor, in vain. At last he came rushing home with it, having

carried it to market, lest I should get and read it alone! So we sat

down and enjoyed it together.... I take out your picture now and then,

when, lo, a big lump in my throat, notwithstanding which I am glad we

let you go; we enjoy your enjoyment, and think it will make the old nest

pleasanter to have been vacated for a while. Papa and I agreed before

we got up this morning that the only fault we had to find with God was,

that He was too good to us. I can't get over the welcome I got from Mr.

C. yesterday. He said I seemed like a mother to him, which made me feel

very old on the one hand, and very happy on the other. If I were you I

wouldn't marry anybody but a minister; it gives one such lots of people

to love and care for. Old Mrs. B. is failing, and lies there as peaceful

and contented as a little baby. I never got sweeter smiles from anybody.

I have got each of the servants a pretty dress for Christmas; I feel

that I owe them a good deal for giving me such a peaceful, untroubled

home.

_Dec. 23d._--It rained very hard all day yesterday till just about the

time of the funeral, half-past three, when the church was well filled,

the Mission-school occupying seats by themselves and the teachers by

themselves.... I thought as I listened to the address that it would

reconcile me to seeing you lying there in your coffin, if such a record

stood against your name. Papa read, at the close, a sort of prophetic

poem of Mrs. C.'s, which she wrote a year or more ago, of which I should

like to send you all a copy, it is so good in every sense. He wants me

to send you a few hasty lines I scribbled off on Sunday noon, with which

he closed his sermon that afternoon, and repeated again at the funeral,

but it is not worth the ink. After the service the mission children

went up to look at the remains, and passed out; then the rest of the

congregation. One of the mission children fainted and fell, and was

carried out in Mr. L.'s arms. After the rest dispersed papa took me in,

and there we saw a most touching sight; a dozen poor women and children

weeping about the coffin, offering a tribute to her memory, sweeter than

the opulent display of flowers did. _Evening._--The interment took place

to-day, at Woodlawn. Mr. C. wished me to go, and I did. On the way home

a gentlemanly-looking man stepped up to your father, and taking his hand

said, "I never saw you till to-day, but I _love_ you; yes, there is no

other word!" Wasn't it nice of him?

_Dec. 24th._--Papa went in last evening, for a half hour, to see ----

and his bride, at their great reception, drank two glasses of "coffee

sangaree," and brought me news that overcame me quite,--namely, that

---- was delighted with my book. Nesbit & Co. sent me a copy of their

reprint of it. They have got it up beautifully with six colored

illustrations, most of them very good; little Earnest is as cunning as

he can be, and the old grandpa is perfect. Katy, however, has her hair

in a waterfall in the year 1835 and even after, wears long dresses, and

always has on a _sontag_ or something like one. She goes to see Dr.

Cabot in a red sacque, and a red hat, and has a muff in her lap. Mrs.

---- was here the other day to say that I had drawn her husband's

portrait _exactly_ in Dr. Elliot. I have been out with M. all the

morning, doing up our last shopping. We came home half frozen, and had

lunch together, when lo, a magnificent basket of flowers from Mrs. D.

and some candy from the party; papa and G. came home and we all fell to

making ourselves sick.... I have bought lots of candy and little fancy

cakes to put in the children's stockings. I know it is very improper,

but one can't be good always. Dr. P. is sick with pneumonia. Mrs. P.

has just sent me a basket of fresh eggs, and an illustrated edition of

Longfellow's "Building of the Ship."

_25th._--I wish you a Merry Christmas, darling, and wonder what you

are all doing to celebrate this day. We have had great times over our

presents.... I got a note from Mr. Abbot saying that a friend of his in

Boston had given away fourteen Katies, all he could get, and that the

bookseller said he could have sold the last copy thirty times over.

Neither papa nor I feel quite up to the mark to-day; we probably got

a little cold at Mrs. C.'s grave, as the wind blew furiously, and the

hymn, and prayer, and benediction took quite a time.

_26th._--Dr. P. is worse. Papa has been to see him since church, and Dr.

B., who was there, said that Dr. Murray quoted from Katy in his sermon

to-day, and then pausing long enough to attract everybody's attention,

he said he wished each of them to procure and read it. I hope you and

Mrs. Smith won't get sick hearing about it; I assure you I don't tell

you half I might. _Evening_.--Mr. C. has been here this evening to

show us a poem by his wife, just come out in the January number of the

Sabbath at Home, in which she asks the New Year what it has in store

for her, and says if it is _death_, it is only going home the sooner.

Neither he, or anyone, had seen it or heard of it, and it came to them

with overwhelming power and consolation as the last utterance of her

Christian faith. [1]

_Dec. 30th, 1869._--Your letter came yesterday morning, after breakfast,

and was read to an admiring audience of Prentisses by papa, who

occasionally called for counsel as to this word and that. We like the

plan made for the winter, and hope it will suit all round. You had such

a grand birth-day that I don't see what there was left for Christmas,

and hope you got nothing but a leather button. My Percys end to-day, and

I am shocked at the wretched way in which I ended them. I wish you would

buy a copy of Griseldis for me. Why don't you tell what you are reading?

I got for M. "A Sister's Bye Hours," by Jean Ingelow, and find it a

delightful book; such lots of quiet humor and so much good sense and

good feeling; you girls would enjoy reading it aloud together.

_Jan. 3d, 1870._--You will want to hear all about New Year's day, and

where shall I begin unless at the end thereof, when your and Mrs.

Smith's letters came, and which caused papa ungraciously to leave me to

entertain, while he greedily devoured them and his dinner. In spite of

rain we had a steady flow of visitors. I will enclose a list for your

delectation, for as reading a cook-book sort of feeds one, reading

familiar names sort of comforts one. Mr. ---- was softer and more

languishing than ever, and appeared like a man who had been fed on honey

off the tips of a canary bird's feather.... Papa and I agreed, talking

it over last evening, that it is a bad plan for husbands and wives not

to live and die together, as the one who is left is apt to cut up. He

hinted that I was "so fond of admiration" that he was afraid I should,

if he died. On questioning him as to what he meant by this abominable

speech, he said he meant to pay me a compliment!!! that he thought

me very susceptible when people loved me and very fond of being

loved--which I am by him; all other men I hate. My cousin G. dined with

us on Friday and took me to the meeting held annually at Dr. Adams'

church. I like him ever so much, though he _is_ a man. G. has brought

me in some dandelions from the church-yard. We have not had one day

of severe cold yet, and there is a great deal of sickness about in

consequence.

_Friday._--I spent a part of last evening in writing an article about

Mrs. C.'s poem for the Sabbath at Home, and have a little fit of

indigestion as my reward. Have been to see my sick woman with jelly and

consolation, and from there to Mrs. D., who gave me a beautiful account

of Mrs. Coming's last days and of her readiness and gladness to go. I

was at the meeting at Dr. Rogers' yesterday afternoon and heard old Dr.

Tyng for the first time, and he spoke beautifully.... Well, Chi Alpha

[2] is over; we had a very large attendance and the oysters were burnt.

It is dreadfully trying when Maria never once failed before to have them

so extra nice. Dr. Hall came and told me he had been sending copies of

Fred and Maria and Me to friends in Ireland. Martha and Jane, and M. and

H. were all standing in a row together when the parsons come out to tea,

and one of them marched up to the row, saying to papa, Are these your

children? when Martha and Jane made a precipitate retreat into the

pantry. Good-night, darling; lots of love to Mrs. Smith and all of them.

Your affectionate "Marm-er."

_11th._--Yours came to-day, and papa and I had a brief duel with

hair-pins and pen-knives as to which should read it aloud to the other,

and I beat. I should have enjoyed Eigensinn, I am sure; you know I have

read it in German.... The children all three are lovely, and what with

them and papa and other things my cup is running over tremendously. I

have just heard that a poor woman I have been to see a few times, died

this morning. I always came away from her crestfallen, thinking I was

the biggest poke in a sick-room there ever was, but she sent me a dying

message that quite comforted me. She had once lived in plenty, but was

fearfully destitute, and I fear she and her family suffered for want of

common necessaries.

_Thursday._--I had an early and a long call from one of our church, who

wanted to tell me, among other things, that her husband scolded her for

bumping her head in the night; she wept and I condoled; she went away at

last smiling. Then I went to the sewing circle and idled about till one;

then I had several calls. Then papa and I went out to make a lot of

calls. Then came a note from a sick lady, whom I shall go to see in

spite of my horror of strangers. Papa got a letter from Prof. Smith

which gave us great pleasure. Z. was here yesterday; I asked her to stay

to lunch, bribing her with a cup of tea, and so she stayed and we had a

real nice time; when she went away I told her I was dead in love with

her.

_Friday Evening._--The children have all gone to bed; M. and G. have

been reading all the evening; M. busy on Miss Alcott's "Little Women,"

and G. shaking his sides over old numbers of the Riverside. Papa says

our house ought to have a sign put out, "Souls cured here"; because so

many people come to tell their troubles. People used to do just so to my

mother, and I suppose always do to parsons' wives if they'll let 'em.

_Monday._--Papa preached delightfully yesterday. Mr. B. took a pew and

Mr. I don't know who took another. Your letter came this morning and was

full of interesting things. I hope Mrs. S. will send me her own and Jean

Ingelow's verses. What fun to get into a correspondence with her! I have

had an interesting time to-day. Dr. Skinner lent me some months ago a

little book called "God's Furnace"; I didn't like it at first, but read

it through several times and liked it better and better each time. And

to-day Mrs. ---- brought the author to spend a few hours (she lives out

of town), and we three black-eyed women had a remarkable time together.

There is certainly such a thing as a heaven below, only it doesn't last

as the real heaven will. We had Mr. C. to tea last night; after tea he

read us three poems of his wife, and papa was weak enough to go and read

him some verses of mine, which he ought not to have done till I am dead

and gone. Then he played and sang with the children, and we had prayers,

and I read scraps to him and papa from Faber's "All for Jesus" and

Craig's Memoir. M. is lying on the sofa studying, papa is in his study,

the boys are hazing about; it snows a little and melts as it falls, and

so, with love to all, both great and small, I am your loving "ELDERLY

LADY WITH GREY PUFFS."

_February 8th, 1870._--We are having a tremendous snow-storm for a

wonder. I started out this morning with G., and when we got to the Fifth

avenue clock he found he should be late unless he ran, and I was glad

to let him go and turn back to meet M., who had heavy books besides her

umbrella. The wind blew furiously, my umbrella broke and flew off in a

tangent, and when I got it, it turned wrong side out and I came near

ascending as in a balloon; M. soon came in sight and I convoyed her

safely to school. Mrs. ---- told a friend of ours that Mr. and Mrs.

Prentiss really _enjoyed_ Mrs. C----'s death, and they seemed destitute

of natural affection; and that as for Mrs. P. it was plain she had never

suffered in any way. Considering the tears we both shed over Mrs. C.,

and some other little items in our past history, we must set Mrs. ----

down as wiser than the ancients.

_Sunday Evening._--Yesterday Lizzy B. came to say that her mother was

"in a gully" and wanted me to come and pull her out. I went and found

her greatly depressed, and felt sure it was all physical, and not a case

for special spiritual pulling. So I coaxed her, laughed at her, and

cheered her all I could. She said she had been "a solemn pig" for a

week, in allusion to some pictures Dr. P. had drawn for her and for me

illustrating the solemn pig and the jolly pig. Mr. Randolph has sent

up a letter from a man in Nice whose wife wants to translate Katy into

French. I sent word they might translate it into Hottentot for all me.

Good-night, my dear, I am sound asleep.

Your affectionate Mother PRENTISS.

_Tuesday._--On Sunday papa preached a sermon in behalf of the Mission,

asking for $35,000 to build a chapel, for which Mr. Cady had made a

plan. I got greatly stirred up, as I hope everybody did. Mr. Dodge will

give one-quarter of the sum needed. It is Washington's birthday, and the

children are all at home from school, and are at the dining-room table

drawing maps. Mr. and Mrs. G. called, but I was out seeing a poor woman,

whose romance of love and sorrow I should like to tell you about if it

would not fill a book. She says Bishop S. has supported her and her

three children for seven months out of his own pocket.

_Saturday, Feb. 26th._--Your two last letters, together with Mrs.

Smith's, were all in the box as I was starting with M. for her music. My

children pulled in opposite directions, but I pushed on, and papa saved

the letters to read to me when I got back. He reads them awfully, and

will puzzle over a word long enough for me to have leisure to go crazy

and recover my sanity. However, nobody shall make fun of him save

myself; so look out. The boys have gone skating to-day for the third

time this winter, there has been so little cold weather.

_Sunday Evening._--I did not mean to plague you with Stepping Heavenward

any more, but we have had a scene to-day which will amuse you and Mrs.

Smith. Just before service began, an aristocratic-looking lady seated in

front of Mrs. B. began to talk to her, whereupon Mrs. B. turned round

and announced to the congregation that I was the subject of it by

pointing me out, and then getting up and bringing her to our pew. Once

there, she seized me by the hand and said, "I am Mrs. ----. I have

just read your book and been carried away with it. I knew your husband

thirty-three years ago, and have come here to see you both," etc., etc.

Finding she could get nothing out of me, she fell upon M., and asked her

if I was her sister, which M. declared I was not. After church I invited

her to step into the parsonage, and she stepped in for an hour and told

this story: She had had the book lent her, and yesterday, lunching at

Mrs. A.'s, asked her if she had read it, and finding she had not, made

her promise to get it. She then asked who this E. Prentiss was, and a

lady present enlightened her. "What! my sister's beloved Miss Payson,

and married to George Prentiss, my old friend!! I'll go there to church

to-morrow and see for myself." So it turns out that she was a Miss ----,

of Mississippi; that your father gallanted her to Louisville, when she

was going there to be married at sixteen years of age; that she was

living in Richmond at the time I was teaching there, her sister boarding

in the house with me. Such talking, such life and enthusiasm you never

saw in a woman of forty-eight! "Well," she winds up at last, "I've found

two _treasures_, and you needn't think I'm going to let you go. I'll go

home and tell Mr. ---- all about it." Papa and I have called each other

"two treasures" ever since she went away. The whole scene worked him up

and did him good, for he always loves to have his Southern friends drum

him up and talk to him of your Uncle Seargent and Aunt Anna. Mr. ---- is

one of our millionaires, and she married him a year ago after thirteen

years of widowhood. She says she still has 200 "negroes," who won't

go away and won't work, and she has them to support. She talked very

rationally about the war, and says not a soul at the South would have

slavery back if they could.... I called at Mrs. B.'s yesterday--at

exactly the right moment, she said; for five surgeons had just decided

that the operation had been a failure, and that she must die. Her

husband looked as white as this paper, and the girls were in great

distress, but Mrs. B. looked perfectly radiant.

_Saturday, March 5th._--Yesterday I went to make a ghostly call on Mrs.

B., and kept her and the girls screaming with laughter for an hour,

which did me lots of good, and I hope did not hurt them. I have written

the 403d page of my serial to-day, and hope it is the last. It will soon

be time to think of the spring shopping. I don't know what any of us

need, and never notice what people are wearing unless I notice by going

forth on a tour of observation.

_Sunday Evening._--After church this afternoon Mrs. N. and Mrs. V. came

in to tell us about the death of that servant of theirs, whom they

nursed in their own house, who has been dying for seven months, of

cancer. She died a most fearless, happy death, and I wish I knew I

should be as patient in my last illness as they represent her as being.

Your letters to the children came yesterday afternoon to their great

delight. In an evil moment I told the boys that I had seen it stated, in

some paper, that _benzole_ would make paper transparent, and afterwards

evaporate and leave the paper uninjured. They drove me raving distracted

with questions about it, so that I had to be put in a strait-jacket. The

ingenuity and persistence of these questions, asked by each, in separate

interviews, was beyond description.

_Tuesday._--For once I have been caught napping, and have not mailed my

weekly letter. But you will be expecting some irregularity about the

time of your flight to Berlin. I called at Mrs. M.'s to-day, and ran on

at such a rate that Mrs. Woolsey, who was there, gave me ten dollars for

poor folks, and said she wished I'd stay all day. Afterwards I went down

town to get Stepping Heavenward for Mr. C., and as he wanted me to write

something in it, have just written this: "Mr. C. from Mrs. Prentiss,

in loving memory of one who 'did outrun' us, and stepped into heaven

first." Mr. Bates showed me a half-column notice of it in the Liberal

Christian, [3] of all places! by very far the warmest and best of all

that have appeared. Papa is at Dr. McClintock's funeral. I declare, if

it isn't snowing again, and the sun is shining! Now comes a letter from

Uncle Charles, saying that your Uncle H. has lost that splendid little

girl of his; the only girl he ever had, and the child of his heart of

hearts. Mrs. W. says she never saw papa and myself look so well, but

some gentleman told Mr. Brace, who told his wife, who told me, that I

was killing myself with long walks. I can not answer your questions

about Mr. ----'s call. So much is all the time going on that one event

speedily effaces the impression of another.

_March 12th._--Julia Willis spent the evening here not long ago, and

made me laugh well. She took me on Friday to see Fanny Fern, who hugged

and kissed me, and whom it was rather pleasant to see after nearly, if

not quite, thirty years' separation. She says nobody but a Payson could

have written Stepping Heavenward, which is absurd. _March 17th._--I went

to the sewing circle [4] and helped tuck a quilt, had a talk with Mrs.

W., got home at a quarter of one and ate two apples, and have been since

then reading the secret correspondence of Madame Guyon and Fenelon in

old French.

_Saturday, 19th._--Have just seen M. to the Conservatory; met Dr.

Skinner on the way home, who said he had been reading Stepping

Heavenward, and he hoped he should step all the faster for it. Z. has

often invited us to come to see her new home, and as the 16th comes on

a Saturday, we are talking a little of all going up to lunch with her.

_Evening_.--It has been such a nice warm day. I had a pleasant call from

Mrs. Dr. ----. She asked me if I did not get the theology of Stepping

Heavenward out of my father's "Thoughts," but as I have not read them

for thirty years, I doubt if I did, and as I am older than my father was

when he uttered those thoughts, I have a right to a theology of my own.

_Monday._--Yesterday, in the afternoon, we had the Sunday-school

anniversary, which went off very well. Mr. C. came to tea; after it and

prayers, we sat round the table and I read scraps from Madame Guyon

and Fenelon, and we talked them over. Papa was greatly pleased at the

latter's saying he often stopped in the midst of his devotions to play.

Quand je suis seul, je joue quelquefois comme un petit enfant, même en

faisant oraison. Il m'arrive quelquefois de sauter et de rire tout seul

comme un fou dans ma chambre. Avant-hier, étant dans la sacristie

et répondant à une personne qui me questionnait, pour ne la point

scandaliser sur la question, je m'embarrassai, et je fis une espèce de

mensonge; cela me donna quelque répugnance à dire la Messe, mais je ne

laissai pas de la dire.

I do not advise _you_ to stop to play in the midst of your prayers, or

to tell "une espèce de mensonge!" till you are as much of a saint as he

was. [5]

_Saturday, 26th._--Your letter and Mrs. Smith's came together this

afternoon. It is pleasant to hear from papa's old friends at Halle, and

he will be delighted, when he comes home from Chi Alpha, where he is

now. Lizzy B. called this afternoon; she wanted to open out her poor

sick heart to me. She quoted to me several things she says I wrote her a

few weeks ago, but I have not the faintest recollection of writing them.

That shows what a harum-scarum life I lead.

_March 31st._--We spent Tuesday evening at the Skinners. We had a

charming visit; no one there but Mrs. Sampson and her sister, and Dr. S.

wide awake and full of enthusiasm. We did not get to bed till midnight.

Mrs. ---- came this morning and begged me to lend her some money, as she

had got behindhand. I let her have five dollars, though I do not feel

sure that I shall see it again, and she wept a little weep, and went

away. A lady told cousin C. she had heard I was so shy that once having

promised to go to a lunch party, my courage failed at the last moment,

so that I could not go. I shall expect to learn next that my hair is

red.

_Monday, April 4th._--Your presents came Saturday while I was out. We

are all delighted with them, but I was most so, for two such darling

little vases were surely never before seen. M. had Maggie to spend

Saturday afternoon and take tea. She asked me if I did not make a

distinction between talent and genius, which papa thought very smart of

her. I read aloud to them all the evening one of the German stories by

Julius Horn. Mr. and Mrs. C. came in after church and I asked them to

stay to tea, which they did. After it was over, and we had had prayers,

we had a little sing, Mrs. C. playing, and among other things, sang a

little hymn of mine which I wrote I know not when, but which papa liked

well enough to have printed. If copies come to-day, as promised, I will

enclose one or two. After the singing papa and I took turns, as we could

snatch a chance from each other, in reading to them from favorite books,

which they enjoyed very much.

_April 9th._--We called on Mrs. H. M. Field yesterday, and I never saw

(or rather heard) her so brilliant. In the evening I read aloud to the

children a real live, wide-awake Sunday-school book, called "Old Stories

in a New Dress"; Bible stories, headed thus: "The Handsome Rebel," "The

Young Volunteer," "The Ingenious Mechanics."

_April 16th._--I can not go to bed, my dear chicken, till I have told

you what a charming day we have had. To go back to yesterday, my

headache entirely disappeared by the time the Skinners got here, and we

had a pleasant cosy evening with them, and at the end made Dr. Skinner

pray over us.... Everything went off nicely. The children enjoyed the

trip tremendously, and hated to come away. We picked a lot of "filles

avant la mère" and they came home in good condition. Mr. Woolsey and Z.

gave me a little silver figure holding a cup, on blue velvet, which

is ever so pretty. We got home at half-past six. Later in the evening

President Hopkins called to offer his congratulations. And now I am

tired, I can tell you. It is outrageous for you and the Smiths to be

away; I don't see how you can have the heart. You ought to come by

dispatch as telegrams.

_17th._--Dr. Hopkins preached a splendid sermon [6] for us this morning,

and came in after it for a call. He asked me last night if I felt

conceited about my book; so I said to him, "I like to give people as

good as they send--don't you feel a little conceited after that sermon?"

on which he gave me a good shaking.

_18th._--I have been writing notes of thanksgiving, each of which dear

papa reads through rose-colored spectacles and says, "You do beat all!"

I have enjoyed writing them, instead of finding it a bore. We shall be

curious to hear how you celebrated our wedding-day. Well, good-bye, old

child. I shall begin another letter to-day, as like as not.

_Monday, April 25th._--Friday morning, in the midst of my plans for

helping Aunt E. shop, came a message from Mrs. B. that she wanted to see

me. I had not expected to see her again, and of course was glad to go.

She had altered so that I should not have known her, and it was hard to

hear what she had to say, she is so feeble. She went back to the first

time she saw me, told me what I had on, and how her heart was knitted to

me. She then spoke of her approaching death; said she had no ecstasies,

no revelations, but had been in perfect peace, suffering agonies of

pain, yet not one pain too many. I asked her if she had any parting

counsel to give me. "No, not a word; I only wanted to see your sunny

face once more, and tell you what a comfort you have been to me in this

sickness." This all came at intervals, she was so weak. She afterward

said, "I feel as if I never was acquainted with Christ till now. I tell

my sons to become INTIMATELY ACQUAINTED with Him." I asked her if she

took pleasure in thinking of meeting friends in heaven. With a sweet,

somewhat comical smile, she said, "No, I haven't got so far as that. I

think only of meeting Christ." "For all that," I said, "you will soon

see my father and mother and other kindred souls." Her face lighted up

again. "Why, so I shall!" Her lips were growing white with pain while

this bright smile was on them, and I came away, though I should gladly

have listened to her by the hour, everything was so natural, sound,

and-heavenly. Shopping after it did not prove particularly congenial;

but we must shop, as well as die.

_April 29th._--Your first Dresden letter has just come; yes, it was long

enough, though you did not tell us how the cat did. You speak as if you

were going to Paris, but papa is positive you are not. Yesterday was a

lovely day, though very hot. Dr. Adams came and drove papa to the Park.

Late in the afternoon I went to see Mrs. G., the woman whose husband

is in jail. She is usually all in a muss, but this time was as nice as

could be, the floor clean and everything in order. The baby, a year old,

had learned to walk since I was last there, and came and planted herself

in front of me, and stared at me out of two great bright eyes most of

the time. I had a nice visit, as Mrs. G. seems to be making a good use

of her troubles. After I got home, Dr. and Mrs. C. arrived and we had

dinner and a tremendous thunder shower, after which he went out to make

forty-'leven calls. He was pleased to say that he wanted his wife to see

the lovely family picture we make! It is a glum, cold, lowering morning,

but the C.'s are going to see the Frenches at West Point, and Miss Lyman

at Vassar.

_Monday._--I went to Miss C.'s (the dressmaker) again to-day, and found

her much out of health, and about reducing her business and moving. One

of the old sisters had been reading Stepping Heavenward, and almost ate

me up. I got a pleasant word about it last night, from Mrs. General

Upton, who has just died at Nassau. I have seen Mrs. B. to-day; she did

not open her eyes, but besought me to pray for her release. She can't

last long. The boys are off rolling hoop again, and M. is out walking

with Ida. Papa informed me last night that I had got a very pretty

bonnet. The bonnets now consist of a little fuss and a good many

flowers. Papa has gone to Dorset, and has had a splendid day for his

journey.

_Thursday, May 12th._--Yesterday Miss ---- came to tell me about the

killing of her brother on the railroad, and to cry her very heart out on

my shoulder. In the midst of it came a note from Lizzy B., saying her

mother had just dropped away. I called there early this morning. We then

went to the Park with your uncle and aunt; after which they left and I

rushed out to get cap and collar to wear at Mrs. ----'s dinner. I got

back in time to go to the funeral at four P.M. Dr. Murray made an

excellent, appreciative address; papa then read extracts from a paper of

mine (things she had said), the prayer followed, and then her sons sang

a hymn. [7] I came home tired and laid me down to rest; at half-past six

it popped into my head that I was not dressed, and I did it speedily. We

supposed we were only to meet the Rev. Dr. and Mrs. ----, of Brooklyn,

but, lo! a lot of people in full dress. We had a regular state dinner,

course after course. Dr. ---- sat next me and made himself very

agreeable, except when he said I was the most subtle satirist he ever

met (I did run him a little). Mrs. ---- is a picture. She had a way of

looking at me through her eyeglass till she put me out of countenance,

and then smiling in a sweet, satisfied manner, and laying down her

glass. We came home as soon as the gentlemen left the table, and got

here just as the clock was striking twelve.

_Friday._--We began this day by going at ten A.M. to the funeral of Mrs.

W.'s poor little baby, and the first words papa read, "It is better

to go to the house of mourning than to the house of feasting," etc.,

explained his and my state of mind after last night's dissipation. He

made a very touching address. Later in the day we went out to see Miss

----, as we had promised to do. We went through the Park, lingered there

a while, and then went on and made a long call. When we rose to come

away, she said she never let people go away without lunch and made us

go down to the following: buns, three kinds of cake, pies, doughnuts,

cheese, lemonade, apples, oranges, pine-apples, a soup tureen of

strawberries, a quart of cream, two custard puddings, one hot and one

cold, home-made wine, cold corned beef, cold roast beef, and for aught I

know 40 other things. We came away awfully tired, and papa complained of

want of appetite at dinner!! Good-bye, dearie. I forgot to tell you the

boys have got a dog. He came of his own accord and has made them very

happy. We haven't let papa see him, you may depend.

_Wed., May 18th._--Papa is packing his trunk for Philadelphia, and I am

sitting at my new library table to write on my letter. I went yesterday

to see that lady who has fits. She had one in the morning that lasted

over an hour and a half. She is a very bright, animated creature and

does not look older than you.

_Thursday._--Papa got off yesterday at eleven for the General Assembly

and I went to Mrs. D.'s and stayed four hours. She sent for Mr. S.'s

baby, who does not creep, but walks in the quaintest little way. I shall

write a note to Mr. S., who feels anxious at its not creeping, fearing

its limbs will not be strong, to tell him that I hitched along exactly

so.

Now let me give you the history of this busy day. We got up early and

Miss F. called with M.'s two dresses. After prayers and breakfast I

wrote to papa, went to school with H., and marketed. Came home and found

a letter from Cincinnati, urging for two hymns right away for a new

hymn-book. They had several of mine already. I said, "Go to, let us make

a hymn" (Prof. Smith in his Review) and made and sent them. Then I wrote

to Mr. S. and to Mrs. Charles W----. [8] Then Mrs. C. came and stayed

till nearly four, when she left and I went down to Twenty-second street

to call on a lady at the Water Cure. Then I went to see Mrs. C. (the

wife of the Rev. Mr. C.). I think I told you she had lost her little

Florence. I do not remember ever seeing a person so broken down by

grief; she seemed absolutely heart-broken. I could not get away till

five, and then I took two stages and got home as soon as I could,

knowing the children would be famishing. So now count up my various

professions, chaplain, marketer, hymnist, consoler of Mr. S., Mrs. W.,

Mrs. C., and let me add, of Dr. B., who came and made a long call. I am

now going to lie down and read till I get rested, for my brain has been

on the steady stretch for thirteen hours, one thing stepping on the

heels of another. [9]

_May 23d._--If your eyes were bright enough you might have seen me and

my cousin George P---- tearing down Broadway this afternoon, as if mad

dogs were after us. He wanted me to have a fountain pen, and the only

way to accomplish it was to take me down to the place where they are

sold, below the Astor House. I wanted to walk, and so did he, but he had

got to be on a boat for Norwich at five P.M. and pack up between while;

however, he concluded to risk it, hence the way we raced was a caution.

I have just written him a long letter in rhyme with my new pen, and now

begin one in prose to you. I have just got a letter from an anonymous

admirer of Stepping Heavenward, enclosing ten dollars to give away; I

wish it was a thousand! The children are in tribulation about their

kitten, who committed suicide by knocking the ironing-board on to

herself. H. made a diagram of the position of the board that I might

fully comprehend the situation, and then showed me how the corpse lay.

They were not willing to part with the remains, and buried them in the

yard.

_Saturday._--I went to Yonkers with M. and H. to spend the day with Mrs.

B. Her children are sweet and interesting as ever; but little Maggie,

now three years old, is the "queen of the house." She is a perfect

specimen of what a child should be--gladsome, well, bright, and

engaging. Her cheeks are rosy and shining, and she keeps up an incessant

chatter. They are all wild about her, from papa and mamma down to the

youngest child.

* * * * *

II.

Home-Life in Dorset.

DORSET, June 10, 1870.

Here we are again in dear old Dorset. We got here about ten on Wednesday

evening, expecting to find the house dark and forlorn, but Mrs. F.

had been down and lighted it up, and put on the dining-table bread,

biscuits, butter, cakes, eggs, etc., enough to last for days. Thursday

was hotter than any day we had had in New York, and not very good,

therefore, for the hard work of unpacking, and the yet harder work of

sowing our flower-seeds in a huge bed shaped like a palm-leaf. But, with

M.'s help, it was done before one o'clock to-day--a herculean task, as

the ground had to be thoroughly dug up with a trowel; stones, sticks,

and roots got out, and the earth sifted in our hands. The back of my

neck and my ears are nearly blistered. M. is standing behind me now

anointing me with cocoa butter. Our place looks beautifully. Some of the

trees set out are twelve or fifteen feet high, and when fully leaved

will make quite a show. Papa is to be here about ten days, as he greatly

needs the rest; he will then go home till July 1st, when he will bring

Jane and Martha. I told Martha I thought it very good of Maria to be

willing to come with me, and she said she did not think it needed much

goodness, and that _anybody_ would go with me _any_where. The boys have

a little black and tan dog which Culyer gave them, and M.'s bird is a

fine singer. Our family circle now consists of

Pa Prentiss,

Ma "

Min."

Geo. "

Hen. "

Maria "

(horse) Coco "

(cow) Sukey "

(dog) Nep "

(bird) Cherry "

We never saw Dorset so early, and when the foliage was in such

perfection.

Last Tuesday I reached our door perfectly and disgracefully loaded with

parcels, and said to myself, "I wonder what Mr. M. would say if he saw

me with this load?" when instantly he opened the door to let me in!

Account for this if you can. Why should I have thought of him among all

the people I know? Did his mind touch mine through the closed door? It

makes me almost shudder to think such things can be. Well, I must love

and leave you. I am going to have a small basket on the table in the

hall with ferns, mosses, and shells in it. They all send love from Pa

Prentiss down to Sukey. What a pity you could not come home for the

summer and go back again! I believe I'll go to your bedroom door and

say, "I wonder whether Annie would shriek out if she saw me in this old

sacque, instead of her pretty one?" and perhaps you'll open and let me

in. Will you or won't you? Now I'm going to ride.

I've been and I've got back, and I'm frozen solid, and am glad I've

got back to my den. G. and H. are now in the kitchen making biscuits.

Good-bye, chicken. Mamma PRENTISS.

_June 12th._--Everybody is in bed save Darby and Joan. We slept last

night under four blankets and a silk comforter, which will give you a

faint idea of the weather. It has been beautiful to-day, and we have sat

out of doors a good deal. Papa and the boys went out to our hill after

tea last evening and picked two quarts of strawberries, so as to have

a short-cake to-day. M. took me yesterday to see a nest in the orchard

which was full of birds parted into fours--not a crack between, and one

of them so crowded that it filled about no space at all. The hymn says,

"Birds in their little nests agree," and I should think they would, for

they have no room to disagree in. They all four stared at us with awful,

almost embarrassing solemnity, and each had a little yellow moustache. I

had no idea they lived packed in so--no wonder they looked melancholy.

The sight of them, especially of the one who had no room at all, made me

quite low-spirited.

_Wednesday._--Your letter reached us on Monday, and we all went out and

sat in a row on the upper step, like birds on a telegraph wire, and papa

read it aloud. I am lying by to-day--writing, reading, lounging, and

enjoying the scenery. You ought to see papa eat strawberries!!! They are

very plentiful on our hill. The grass on the lawn is pricking up like

needles; easy to see if you kneel down and stare hard, but absolutely

invisible otherwise; yet papa keeps calling me to look out of the window

and admire it, and shouts to people driving by to do the same. He has

just come in, and I told him what I was saying about him, on which he

gave me a good beating, doubled up his fist at me, and then kissed me to

make up.... _Don't sew_ Isn't it enough that I have nearly killed myself

with doing it? We have just heard of the death of Dickens and the

sensation it is making in England.

_Thursday._--This bird of ours is splendid. I have just framed the two

best likenesses of you and hung them up in front of my table. You would

laugh at papa's ways about coffee. He complains that he drank too much

at Philadelphia, and says that with strawberries we don't need it, and

that I may tell Maria so. I tell her, and lo! the next morning there it

is. I ask the meaning, and she says he came down saying I did not feel

very well and needed it! The next day it appears again. Why? He had been

down and ordered it because it was _good_. The next day he orders it

because it is his last day here but one, and to-morrow it will be on the

table because it is the last! Dreadful man! and yet I hate to have him

go.

_Friday._--I drove papa to Manchester, and as usual, this exploit

brought on a thunder shower, with a much needed deluge of rain. I had

a hard time getting home, and got wet to the skin. I had not only to

drive, but keep a roll of matting from slipping out, hold up the boot

and the umbrella, and keep stopping to get my hat out of my eyes, which

kept knocking over them. Then Coco goes like the wind this summer.

Fortunately I had my waterproof with me and got home safely. The worst

of it is that, in my bewilderment, I refused to let a woman get in who

was walking to South Dorset. I shall die of remorse.. Well, well, how it

is raining, to be sure.

_Monday._--I hear that papa sent a dispatch to somebody to know how I

got here from Manchester. I do not wonder he is worried. I am such a

poor driver, and it rained so dreadfully. M. follows me round like a

little dog; if I go down cellar she goes down; if I pick a strawberry

she picks one; if I stop picking she stops. She is the sweetest lamb

that ever was, and I am the Mary that's got her. I don't believe anybody

else in the world loves me so well, unless it possibly is papa, and he

doesn't follow me down cellar, and goes off and picks strawberries all

by himself, and that on Sunday, too, when I had forbidden berrypicking!

We are rioting in strawberries, just as we did last summer. We live a

good deal at sixes and sevens, but nobody cares. This afternoon I have

been arranging a basket for the hall table, with mosses, ferns, shells

and white coral; ever so pretty.

_Wednesday._--It is a splendid day and I expect papa. The children have

not said a word about their food, though partly owing to no butcher and

partly to the heat, I have had for two days next to nothing; picked fish

one day and fish picked the next. We regarded to-day's dinner as a most

sumptuous one, and I am sure Victoria's won't taste so good to her.

Letters keep pouring in, urging papa to accept the Professorship at

Chicago, and declaring the vote of the Assembly to be the voice of God.

Of course, if he must accept, we should have to give up our dear little

home here. But to me his leaving the ministry would be the worst

thing about it. After dinner the boys carried me off bodily to see

strawberries and other plants; then they made me go to the mill, and by

that time I had no hair-pins on my head, to say nothing of hair. The

boys are working away like all possessed. A little bird, probably one

of those hatched here, has just come and perched himself on the

piazza, railing in front of me, and is making me an address which,

unfortunately, I do not understand.... You have inherited from me a want

of reverence for relics and the like. I wouldn't go as far as our barn

to see the fig-leaves Adam and Eve wore, or all the hair of all the

apostles; and when people are not born hero-worshippers, they can't

even worship themselves as heroes. Fancy Dr. Schaff sending me back the

MS. of a hymn I gave him, from a London printing-office! What could I do

with it? cover jelly with it? He sent me a beautiful copy of his book,

"Christ in Song."

_Thursday, June 30th._--Papa, with J. and M., came late last night, and

we all made as great a time as if the Great Mogul had come. They give

a most terrific account of the heat in the city. You ask how Stepping

Heavenward is selling. So far 14,000. Nidworth has been a complete

failure, though the publishers write me that it is a "gem." [10]

_Monday, July 4th._--M. is so absorbed in the study of Vick's floral

catalogue that she speaks of seeing such a thing in the Bible or

Dictionary, when she means that she saw it in Vick. I did the same thing

last night. She and I get down on our knees and look solemnly at the

bare ground and point out up-springing weeds as better than nothing. I

had a long call this morning from Mrs. F. Field, of East Dorset. They

had a dear little bright-eyed baby baptized yesterday, which sat through

all the morning service and behaved even better than I did, for it had

no wandering thoughts. Mrs. F. said some friends of hers in Brooklyn

received letters from France and from Japan simultaneously, urging them

to read Stepping Heavenward, which was the first they heard of it. We

have celebrated the glorious Fourth by making and eating ice-cream.

Papa brought a new-fashioned freezer, that professed to freeze in two

minutes. We screwed it to the wood-house floor--or rather H. did--put in

the cream, and the whole family stood and watched papa while he turned

the handle. At the end of two minutes we unscrewed the cover and gazed

inside, but there were no signs of freezing, and to make a long story

short, instead of writing a book as I said I should, there we all were

from half-past twelve to nearly two o'clock, when we decided to have

dinner and leave the servants to finish it. It came on to the table at

last, was very rich and rather good. The boys spent the afternoon in the

woods firing off crackers. M. went visiting and papa took me to drive,

it being a delightful afternoon. The boys have a few Roman candles which

they are going to send off as soon as it gets dark enough.

_July 13th._--This is a real Dorset day, after a most refreshing rain,

and M. and I have kept out of doors the whole morning, gardening and in

the woods. Dr. and Mrs. Humphrey came down and spent last evening. She

is bright and wide awake, and admired everything from the scenery out of

doors to the matting and chintzes within. I told her there was nothing

in the house to be compared with those who lived in it. Here comes a

woman with four quarts of black raspberries and a fuss to make change.

Papa and the boys are getting in the last hay with Albert. M. has just

brought in your letter. We are glad you have seen those remarkable

scenes [at Ober-Ammergau].One would fancy it would become an old story.

I should not like to see the crucifixion; it must be enough to turn

one's hair white in a single night.

_Saturday._--Yesterday I went with the children to walk round Rupert. We

turned off the road to please the boys, to a brook with a sandy beach,

where all three fell to digging wells, and I fell to collecting wild

grape-vine and roots for my rustic work, and fell into the brook

besides. We all enjoyed ourselves so much that we wished we had our

dinners and could stay all day. On the way home, just as we got near

Col. Sykes', we spied papa with the phaeton, and all got in. We must

have cut a pretty figure, driving through the village; M. in my lap, G.

in papa's, and H. everywhere in general.

_July 14th._--Miss Vance was in last evening after tea, and says our

lawn is getting on extremely well and that our seeds are coming up

beautifully. This greatly soothed M.'s and my own uneasy heart, as we

had rather supposed the lawn ought to be a thick velvet, and the seeds

we sowed two weeks ago up and blooming. If vegetable corresponded to

animal life, this would be the case. Fancy that what were eggs long

after we came here, and then naked birds, are now full-fledged creatures

on the wing, all off getting to housekeeping, each on his own hook!

_July 18th._--M. and I went on a tramp this forenoon and while we were

gone Mrs. M. O. R. and Mary and Mrs. Van W. called. They brought news of

the coming war. Papa showed them all over the house, not excepting your

room, which I think a perfect shame--for the room looks forlorn. I think

men ought to be suppressed, or something done to them. Maria told me

she thought papa's sermon Sunday was "ilegant." _21st._--I feel greatly

troubled lest this dreadful war should cut us off from each other. Mr.

Butler writes that he does not see how people are to get home, and we

do not see either. Papa says it will probably be impossible to have the

Evangelical Alliance. And how prices of finery will go up!

_July 27th._--M.'s and my own perseverance at our flower-bed is

beginning, at last, to be rewarded. We have portulaccas, mignonette,

white candy-tuft, nasturtiums, eutocas, etc.; and the morning-glories,

which are all behindhand, are just beginning to bloom. Never were

flowers so fought for. It is the lion and the unicorn over again. I have

nearly finished "Soll und Haben," and feel more like talking German than

English. The Riverside Magazine has just come and completed my downfall,

as it has a syllable left out of one of my verses, as has been the case

with a hymn in the hymn-book at Cincinnati and one in the Association

Monthly. I am now fairly entitled to the reputation of being a jolty

rhymster. It has been a trifle cooler to-day and we are all refreshed by

the change.

_Friday._--Papa read me last evening a nice thing about Stepping

Heavenward from Dr. Robinson in Paris and a lady in Zurich, and I went

to bed and slept the sleep of the just--till daylight, when five hundred

flies began to flap into my ears, up my nose, take nips off my face and

hands, and drove me distracted. They woke papa, too, but he goes to

sleep between the pecks.

_August 4th._--Tuesday I went on a tramp with M. and brought home a

gigantic bracket. We met papa as we neared the house, and he had had his

first bath in his new tank at the mill, and was wild with joy, as were

also the boys. After dinner I made a picture frame of mosses, lichens,

and red and yellow toadstools, ever so pretty; then proofs came, then we

had tea, and then went and made calls. Yesterday on a tramp with M.,

who wanted mosses, then home with about a bushel of ground-pine. Every

minute of the afternoon I spent in trimming the grey room with the pine

and getting up my bracket, and now the room looks like a bower of bliss.

I was to go with M. on another tramp to-day, but it rains, and rain is

greatly needed. The heat in New York is said to exceed anything in the

memory of man, something absolutely appalling.

_Friday._--Here I am on the piazza with Miss K. by my side, reading the

Life of Faber. She got here last night in a beautiful moonlight, and as

I had not told her about the scenery, she was so enchanted with it on

opening her blinds this morning, that she burst into tears. I drove her

round Rupert and took her into Cheney's woods, and the boys invited us

down to their workshop; so we went, and I was astonished to find that

the bath-house is really a perfect affair, with two dressing-rooms and

everything as neat as a pink. Miss K. is charmed with everything, the

cornucopias, natural brackets, crosses, etc., and her delusion as to all

of us, whom she fancies saints and angels, is quite charming, only it

won't last.

_13th._--There is a good deal of sickness about the village. I made

wine-jelly for four different people yesterday, and the rest of the

morning Miss K., Mrs. Humphrey, and myself sat on a shawl in our woods,

talking. We have had a tremendous rain, to our great delight, and the

air is cooler, but the grasshoppers, which are like the frogs of Egypt,

are not diminished, and are devouring everything. I got a letter from

cousin Mary yesterday, who says she has no doubt we shall get the ocean

up here, somehow, and raise our own oysters and clams.

_16th._--Papa and I went to Manchester to-day to make up a lot of calls,

and among other persons, we saw Mrs. C. of Troy, a bright-eyed old lady

who was a schoolmate of my mother's. She could not tell me anything

about her except that she was very bright and animated, and that I knew

before. Mrs. Wickham asked me to write some letters for a fair to be

held for their church to-morrow; so I wrote three in rhyme, not very

good.

_August 20th._--After dinner papa went to Manchester, taking both boys,

and I went off with M. to Cheney's woods, where we got baskets full

of moss, etc., and had a good time. The children are all wild on the

subject of flowers and spend the evening studying the catalogues, which

they ought to know by heart. I wonder if I have told you how our dog

hates to remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy? The moment the

church-bell begins to ring, no matter where he is, or how soundly

asleep, he runs out and gazes in the direction of the church, and as the

last stroke strikes, lifts his nose high in the air and sets up the most

awful wails, howls, groans, despairing remonstrances you can imagine. No

games with the boys to-day--no romps, no going to Manchester, everybody

telling me to get off their Sunday clothes--aow! aow! aow!

Dr. Adams' house has been broken into and robbed, and so has Dr.

Field's. Mrs. H. gave us the history of a conflict in Chicago between

her husband and a desperate burglar armed with a dirk, who wanted, but

did not get a large sum of money under his pillow; also, of his being

garroted and robbed, and having next day sent him a purse of $150, two

pistols, a slug, a loaded cane, and a watchman's rattle. Imagine him as

going about loaded with all these things! I never knew people who had

met with such bewitching adventures, and she has the brightest way of

telling them.

Papa has got a telegram from Dr. Schaff asking him to come on to his

little Johnny's funeral. This death must have been very sudden, as Dr.

Schaff wrote last Tuesday that his wife was sick, but said nothing of

Johnny. He is the youngest boy, about nine years old, I think, and you

will remember they lost Philip, a beautiful child, born the same day as

our G., the summer we were at Hunter. When the despatch came papa and M.

thought it was bad news about you, and I only thought of Mr. Stearns!

There is no accounting for the way in which the human mind works. And

now for bed, you sleepy head.

_Monday._--A splendid day, and we have all been as busy as bees, if

not as useful,--H. making a whip to chastise the cow with, M., Nep and

myself collecting mosses and toadstools; of the latter I brought home

185! We were out till dinner-time, and after dinner I changed the

mosses in my baskets and jardinet, no small job, and M. spread out her

treasures. She has at last found her enthusiasm, and I am so glad not

only to have found a mate in my tramps, but to see such a source of

pleasure opening before her as woods, fields and gardens have always

been to me. We lighted this morning on what I supposed to be a

horned-headed, ferocious snake, and therefore took great pleasure in

killing. It turned out to be a common striped snake that had got a frog

partly swallowed, and its legs sticking out so that I took them to be

horns. Nep relieved his mind by barking at it. I announced at dinner

that I was going to send for Vick's catalogue of bulbs, which news was

received with acclamation. The fact is, we all seem to be born farmers

or florists; and unless you bring us home something in the agricultural

line, I don't know that you can bring us anything we would condescend to

look at. It is awful to read of the carnage going on in Europe.

_Aug. 27th._--Papa got home Tuesday night. Johnny Schaff's death was

from a fall; he left the house full of life and health, and in a few

minutes was brought in insensible, and only lived half an hour.... I

take no pleasure in writing you, because we feel that you are not likely

to get my letters. Still, I can not make up my mind to stop writing.

Never was a busier set of people than we. In the evening I read to the

children from the German books you sent them; am now on Thelka Von

Grumpert's, which is a really nice book. I tell papa we are making an

idol out of this place, but he says we are not.

_Tuesday._--We all set out to climb the mountain near Deacon Kellogg's.

We snatched what we could for our dinner, and when we were ready to eat

it, it proved to be eggs, bread and meat, cake, guava jelly, cider and

water. We enjoyed the splendid view and the dinner, and then papa and

the boys went home, and M., Nep and myself proceeded to climb higher,

Nep so affectionate that he tired me out hugging me with his "arms,"

as H. calls them, and nearly eating me up, while M. was shaking with

laughter at his silly ways. We were gone from 10 A.M. to nearly 6 P.M.,

and brought home in baskets, bags, pockets and bosom, about thirty

natural brackets, some very large and fearfully heavy. One was so heavy

that I brought it home by kicking it down the mountain. I have just got

some flower seeds for fall planting, and the children are looking them

over as some would gems from the mine.

_Thursday, September 1st._--Your letter has come, and we judge that

you have quite given up Paris; what a pity to have to do it! We spent

yesterday at Hager brook with Mrs. Humphrey and her daughters; papa

drove us over in the straw wagon and came for us about 6 P.M. We had

lobster salad and marmalade, bread and butter and cake, and we roasted

potatoes and corn, and the H.'s had a pie and things of that sort. When

they saw the salad they set up such shouts of joy that papa came to see

what was the matter. We had a nice time. Today I have had proofs to

correct and letters to write, and berries to dry, but not a minute to

sit down and think, everybody needing me at once. All are busy as bees

and send lots of love. Give ever so much to the Smiths.

_September 8th._--Here we are all sitting round the parlor table. The

last three days have each brought a letter from you, and to-day one came

from Mrs. S. to me, and one from Prof. S. to papa. I have no doubt that

the decision for you to return is a wise one and hope you will fall in

with it cheerfully. Dr. Schaff is here, and yesterday papa took him

to Hager brook, and to-day to the quarries; splendid weather for both

excursions, and Dr. S. seems to have enjoyed them extremely. Last

evening he read to us some private letters of Bismarck, which were very

interesting and did him great credit in every way. I had a long call

from M. H. to-day; she looked as sweet as possible and I loaded her with

flowers. Papa is writing Mr. B. to thank him for a basket of splendid

peaches he sent us to-day. H. has just presented me with three pockets

full of toadstools. M. walked with me round Rupert square this

afternoon, and we met a crazy woman who said she wondered I did not go

into fits, and asked me why I didn't. In return I asked her where she

lived, to which she replied, "In the world." We are all on the _qui

vive_ about the war news, especially Louis Napoleon's downfall, and

you may depend we are glad he has used himself up. You can not bring

anything to the children that will please them as seeds would. It

delights me to see them so interested in garden work. Perhaps this will

be my last letter.

Your loving Mammie.

* * * * *

III.

Further Glimpses of her Dorset Life.

The following Recollections of Mrs. Prentiss by her friend, Mrs.

Frederick Field, now of San Jose, California, afford additional glimpses

of her home life in Dorset. The picture is drawn in fair colors; but it

is as truthful as it is fair:

It was the first Sunday in September, 1866. A quiet, perfect day among

the green hills of Vermont; a sacramental Sabbath, and we had come seven

miles over the mountain to go up to the house of the Lord. I had brought

my little two-months-old baby in my arms, intending to leave her during

the service at our brother's home, which was near the church. I knew

that Mrs. Prentiss was a "summer-boarder" in this home, that she was

the wife of a distinguished clergyman, and a literary woman of decided

ability; but it was before the "Stepping Heavenward" epoch of her life,

and I had no very deep interest in the prospect of meeting her. We went

in at the hospitably open door, and meeting no one, sat down in the

pleasant family living-room. It was about noon, and we could hear

cheerful voices talking over the lunch-table in the dining-room.

Presently the door opened, and a slight, delicate-featured woman, with

beautiful large dark eyes, came with rapid step into the room, going

across to the hall door; but her quick eye caught a glimpse of my little

"bundle of flannel," and not pausing for an introduction or word

of preparatory speech, she came towards me with a beaming face and

outstretched hands:--

"O, have you a baby there? How delightful! I haven't seen one for such

an age,--please, may I take it? the darling tiny creature!--a girl? How

lovely!"

She took the baby tenderly in her arms and went on in her eager, quick,

informal way, but with a bright little blush and smile,--"I'm not very

polite--pray, let me introduce myself! I'm Mrs. Prentiss, and you are

Mrs. F---, I know."

After a little more sweet, motherly comment and question over the

baby,--"a touch of nature" which at once made us "akin," she asked,

"Have you brought the baby to be christened?"

I said, No, I thought it would be better to wait till she was a little

older.

"O, no!" she pleaded, "do let us take her over to the church now. The

younger the better, I think; it is so uncertain about our keeping such

treasures."

I still objected that I had not dressed the little one for so public an

occasion.

"O, never mind about that," she said. "She is really lovelier in this

simple fashion than to be loaded with lace and embroidery." Then, her

sweet face growing more earnest,--"There will be more of us here to-day

than at the next communion--_more of us to pray for her._"

The little lamb was taken into the fold that day, and I was Mrs.

Prentiss' warm friend forevermore. Her whole beautiful character had

revealed itself to me in that little interview,--the quick perception,

the wholly frank, unconventional manner, the sweet motherliness, the

cordial interest in even a stranger, the fervent piety which could not

bear delay in duty, and even the quaint, original, forcible thought

and way of expressing it, "There'll be more of us here to pray for her

to-day."

For seven successive summers I saw more or less of her in this "Earthly

Paradise," as she used to call it, and once I visited her in her city

home. I have been favored with many of her sparkling, vivacious letters,

and have read and re-read all her published writings; but that first

meeting held in it for me the key-note of all her wonderfully beautiful

and symmetrical character.

She brought to that little hamlet among the hills a sweet and wholesome

and powerful influence. While her time was too valuable to be wasted

in a general sociability, she yet found leisure for an extensive

acquaintance, for a kindly interest in all her neighbors, and for

Christian work of many kinds. Probably the weekly meeting for

Bible-reading and prayer, which she conducted, was her closest link with

the women of Dorset; but these meetings were established after I had

bidden good-bye to the dear old town, and I leave others to tell how

their "hearts burned within them as she opened to them the Scriptures."

She had in a remarkable degree the lovely feminine gift of

_home-making_. She was a true decorative artist. Her room when she was

boarding, and her home after it was completed, were bowers of beauty.

Every walk over hill and dale, every ramble by brookside or through

wildwood, gave to her some fresh home-adornment. Some shy wildflower

or fern, or brilliant-tinted leaf, a bit of moss, a curious lichen, a

deserted bird's-nest, a strange fragment of rock, a shining pebble,

would catch her passing glance and reveal to her quick artistic sense

possibilities of use which were quaint, original, characteristic. One

saw from afar that hers was a poet's home; and, if permitted to enter

its gracious portals, the first impression deepened into certainty.

There was as strong an individuality about her home, and especially

about her own little study, as there was about herself and her writings.

A cheerful, sunny, hospitable Christian home! Far and wide its potent

influences reached, and it was a beautiful thing to see how many

another home, humble or stately, grew emulous and blossomed into a new

loveliness.

Mrs. Prentiss was naturally a shy and reserved woman, and necessarily a

pre-occupied one. Therefore she was sometimes misunderstood. But those

who--knew her best, and were blest with her rare intimacy, knew her as

"a perfect woman nobly planned." Her conversation was charming.

Her close study of nature taught her a thousand happy symbols and

illustrations, which made both what she said and wrote a mosaic of

exquisite comparisons. Her studies of character were equally constant

and penetrating. Nothing escaped her; no peculiarity of mind or manner

failed of her quick observation, but it was always a kindly interest.

She did not ridicule that which was simply ignorance or weakness, and

she saw with keen pleasure all that was quaint, original, or strong,

even when it was hidden beneath the homeliest garb. She had the true

artist's liking for that which was simple and _genre_. The common

things of common life appealed to her sympathies and called out all her

attention. It was a real, hearty interest, too--not feigned, even in a

sense generally thought praiseworthy. Indeed, no one ever had a more

intense scorn of every sort of _feigning_. She was honest, truthful,

_genuine_ to the highest degree. It may have sometimes led her into

seeming lack of courtesy, but even this was a failing which "leaned to

virtue's side." I chanced to know of her once calling with a friend on a

country neighbor, and finding the good housewife busy over a rag-carpet.

Mrs. Prentiss, who had never chanced to see one of these bits of rural

manufacture in its elementary processes, was full of questions and

interest, thereby quite evidently pleasing the unassuming artist in

assorted rags and home-made dyes. When the visitors were safely outside

the door, Mrs. Prentiss' friend turned to her with the exclamation,

"What tact you have! She really thought you were interested in her

work!" The quick blood sprang into Mrs. Prentiss' face, and she turned

upon her friend a look of amazement and rebuke. "Tact!" she said, "I

despise such tact!--do you think _I would look or act a lie?_"

She was an exceedingly practical woman, not a dreamer. A systematic,

thorough housekeeper, with as exalted ideals in all the affairs which

pertain to good housewifery as in those matters which are generally

thought to transcend these humble occupations. Like Solomon's virtuous

woman she "looked well after the ways of her household." Methodical,

careful of minutes, simple in her tastes, abstemious, and therefore

enjoying evenly good health in spite of her delicate constitution--this

is the secret of her accomplishing so much. Yet all this foundation of

exactness and diligence was so "rounded with leafy gracefulness" that

she never seemed angular or unyielding.

With her children she was a model disciplinarian, exceedingly strict, a

wise law-maker; yet withal a tender, devoted, self-sacrificing mother.

I have never seen such exact obedience required and given--or a more

idolized mother. "Mamma's" word was indeed _Law_, but--O, happy

combination!--it was also _Gospel_!

How warm and true her friendship was! How little of selfishness in all

her intercourse with other women! How well she loved to be of _service_

to her friends! How anxious that each should reach her highest

possibilities of attainment! I record with deepest sense of obligation

the cordial, generous, sympathetic assistance of many kinds extended by

her to me during our whole acquaintance. To every earnest worker in any

field she gladly "lent a hand," rejoicing in all the successes of others

as if they were her own.

But if weakness, or trouble, or sorrow of any sort or degree overtook

one she straightway became as one of God's own ministering spirits--an

angel of strength and consolation. Always more eager, however, that

_souls should grow than that pain should cease_. Volumes could be made

of her letters to friends in sorrow. One tender monotone steals through

them all,--

'Come unto me, my kindred, I enfold you

In an embrace to sufferers only known;

Close to this heart I tenderly will hold you,

Suppress no sigh, keep back no tear, no moan.

"Thou Man of Sorrows, teach my lips that often

Have told the sacred story of my woe,

To speak of Thee till stony griefs I soften,

Till hearts that know Thee not learn Thee to know.

"Till peace takes place of storm and agitation,

Till lying on the current of Thy will

There shall be glorying in tribulation,

And Christ Himself each empty heart shall fill."

Few have the gift or the courage to deal faithfully yet lovingly with an

erring soul, but she did not shrink back even from this service to those

she loved. I can bear witness to the wisdom, penetration, skill, and

fidelity with which she probed a terribly wounded spirit, and then

said with tender solemnity, "_I think you need a great deal of good

praying._"

O, "vanished hand," still beckon to us from the Eternal Heights! O,

"voice that is still," speak to us yet from the Shining Shore!

"Still let thy mild rebuking stand

Between us and the wrong,

And thy dear memory serve to make

Our faith in goodness strong."

[1] See the poem in the appendix to Golden Hours, with the "Reply of the

New Year," written by Mrs. Prentiss.

[2] A clerical circle of New York.

[3] A Unitarian paper, published in New York.

[4] An association of ladies for providing garments and other needed

articles in aid of families of Home and Foreign missionaries, especially

of those connected in any way with their own congregation. Such a circle

is found in most of the American churches.

[5] The passage occurs in a letter to Madame Guyon, dated June 9, 1689.

For another extract from the same letter see appendix F, p. 557.

[6] On the Resurrection of Christ.

[7] Helen Rogers Blakeman, wife of W. N. Blakeman, M.D., was born on the

20th of December, 1811, in the city of New York. She was a granddaughter

of the Rev. James Caldwell, of Elizabethtown, New Jersey, the

Revolutionary patriot. The tragical fate of her grandmother has passed

into history. When the British forces reached Connecticut Farms, on

the 7th of June, 1780, and began to burn and pillage the place, Mrs.

Caldwell, who was then living there, retired with her two children--one

an infant in her arms--to a back room in the house. Here, while engaged

in prayer, she was shot through the window. Two bullets struck her in

the breast and she fell dead upon the floor. The infant in her arms was

Mrs. Blakeman's mother. On the father's side, too, she was of an old and

God-fearing family.

[8] "Your precious lamb was very near my heart; few knew so well as I

did all you suffered for and with her, for few have been over just the

ground I have. But that is little to the purpose; what I was going to

say is this,--'God never makes a mistake.' You know and feel it, I am

sure, but when we are broken down with grief, we like to hear simple

words, oft repeated. On this anniversary of my child's death, I feel

drawn to you. It was a great blow to us because it came to hearts

already sore with sorrow for our boy, and because it came so like a

thunderclap, and because she suffered so. Your baby's death brought it

all back."--_From the Letter to Mrs. W._

[9] "I must tell you what a busy day I had yesterday, being chaplain,

marketer, mother, author, and consoler from early morning till nine at

night.... A letter came from Cincinnati from the editor of the hymn-book

of the Y.M.C.A., saying he had some of my hymns in it, and had stopped

the press in order to have two more, which he wanted 'right away.' I was

exactly in the mood; it was our little Bessie's anniversary, she had

been in heaven _eighteen_ years; think what she has already gained by

my one year of suffering! and I wanted to spend it for others, not for

myself."--_Letter to her Husband, May 20_.

[10] Nidworth, and His Three Magic Wands, published by Roberts Brothers.