CHAPTER XII.

THE TRIAL OF FAITH.

1871-1872.

I.

Two Years of Suffering. Its Nature and Causes. Spiritual Conflicts.

Ill-health. Faith a Gift to be won by Prayer. Death-bed of Dr. Skinner.

Visit to Philadelphia. "Daily Food." How to read the Bible so as to love

it more. Letters of Sympathy and Counsel. "Prayer for Holiness brings

Suffering." Perils of human Friendship.

If in the life of Mrs. Prentiss the year 1870 was marked with a white

stone as one of great happiness, the two following years were marked by

unusual and very acute suffering. Perhaps something of this was, sooner

or later, to have been looked for in the experience of one whose

organization, both physical and mental, was so intensely sensitive.

Tragical elements are latent in every human life, especially in the life

of woman. And the finer qualities of her nature, her vast capacity of

loving and of self-sacrifice, her peculiar cares and trials, as well as

outward events, are always tending to bring these elements into action.

What scenes surpassing fable, scenes both bright and sad, belong to

the secret history of many a quiet woman's heart! Then our modern

civilization, while placing woman higher in some respects than she ever

stood before, at the same time makes her pay a heavy price for

her advantages. In the very process of enlarging her sphere and

opportunities, whether intellectual or practical, and of educating

her for their duties, does it not also expose her to moral shocks and

troubles and lacerations of feeling almost peculiar to our times? Nor is

religion wholly exempt from the spirit that rules the age or the hour.

There is a close, though often very subtle, connexion between the

two; just as there is between the working of nature and grace in the

individual soul.

The phase of her history upon which Mrs. Prentiss was now entering

can not be fully understood without considering it in this light. The

melancholy that was deep-rooted in her temperament, and her tender,

all-absorbing sympathies, made her very quick to feel whatever of pain

or sorrow pervaded the social atmosphere about her. The thought of what

others were suffering would intrude even upon her rural retreat among

the mountains, and render her jealous of her own rest and joy. And then,

in all her later years, the mystery of existence weighed upon her heart

more and more heavily. In a nature so deep and so finely strung, great

happiness and great sorrow are divided by a very thin partition.

But spiritual trials and conflict gave its keenest edge to the suffering

of these years. Such trials and conflict indeed were not wanting in the

earliest stages of her religious life, nor had they been wanting all

along its course; but they came now with a power and in a manner almost

wholly new; and, while not essentially different from those which have

afflicted God's children in all ages, they are yet traceable, in no

small degree, to special causes and circumstances in her own case. Early

in 1870 she had fallen in with a book entitled "God's Furnace," and a

few months later had made the acquaintance of its author--a remarkable

woman, of great strength of character, of deep religious experience, and

full of zeal for God. Her book was introduced to the Christian public by

a distinguished Presbyterian clergyman, and was highly recommended

by other eminent divines. By means of this work, as well as by

correspondence and an occasional visit, she exerted for a time a good

deal of influence over Mrs. Prentiss. At first this influence seemed to

be stimulating and healthful, but it was not so in the end. The points

of sympathy and the points of difference between them will come out so

plainly in Mrs. Prentiss' letters that they need not be indicated here.

It would not be easy to imagine two women more utterly dissimilar,

except in love to God, devotion to their Saviour, and delight in prayer.

These formed the tie between them. Miss ----'s last days were sadly

clouded by mental trouble and disease.

A little book called "Holiness through Faith," published about this

time, was another disturbing influence in Mrs. Prentiss' religious life.

This work and others of a similar character presented a somewhat novel

theory of sanctification--a theory zealously taught, and which excited

considerable attention in certain circles of the Christian community. It

was, in brief, this: As we are justified by faith without the deeds

of the law, even so are we sanctified by faith; in other words, as we

obtain forgiveness and acceptance with God by a simple act of trust in

Christ, so by simple trust in Christ we may attain personal holiness; it

is as easy for divine grace to save us at once from the power, as from

the guilt, of sin.

For more than thirty years Mrs. Prentiss had made the Christian life a

matter of earnest thought and study. The subject of personal holiness

in particular had occupied her attention. Whatever promised to shed

new light upon it she eagerly read. Her own convictions, however, were

positive and decided; and, although at first inclined to accept the

doctrine of "Holiness through Faith," further reflection satisfied her

that, as taught by its special advocates, it was contrary to Scripture

and experience, and was fraught with mischief. Certain unhappy

tendencies and results of the doctrine, both at home and abroad, as

shown in some of its teachers and disciples, also forced her to this

conclusion. Folly of some sort is indeed one of the fatal rocks upon

which all overstrained theories of sanctification are almost certain to

be wrecked; and in excitable, crude natures, the evil is apt to take the

form either of mental extravagance, perhaps derangement, or of silly, if

not still worse, conduct. But, while deeply impressed with the mischief

of these Perfectionist theories, Mrs. Prentiss felt the heartiest

sympathy with all earnest seekers after holiness, and was grieved by

what seemed to her harsh or unjust criticisms upon them.

What were her own matured views on the subject will appear in the

sequel. It is enough to say here that "Holiness through Faith" and other

works, in advocacy of the same or similar doctrines, meeting her as

they did when under a severe mental strain, and touching her at a most

sensitive point--for holiness was a passion of her whole soul--had

for a time a more or less bewildering effect. She kept pondering the

questions they raised, until the native hue of her piety--hitherto so

resolute and cheerful--became "sicklied o'er with the pale cast of

thought."

The inward conflict which has been referred to she described sometimes,

in the language of the old divines, as the want of God's "sensible

presence," or of "conscious" nearness to and communion with Christ;

sometimes, as a state of "spiritual deprivation or aridity"; and then

again, as a work of the Evil One. She laid much stress upon this last

point. Her belief in the existence of Satan and his influence over human

souls was as vivid as that of Luther; she did not hesitate to accuse him

of being the fomenter and, in a sense, the author of her distress; the

warnings of the Bible against his "wiles" she accepted as in full force

still; and she could offer with all her heart, and with no doubt as

to the literal meaning of its closing words, the petition of the old

Litany: "That it may please Thee to strengthen such as do stand, and to

comfort and help the weak-hearted, and to raise up those who fall, and

finally to _beat down Satan under our feet_."

The coming trouble seems to have cast its shadow across her path even

before the close of 1870. Early in 1871 it was upon her in power.

Her letters contain very interesting and pathetic allusions to this

experience. But they do not explain it. Nor is it easy to explain. In

the absence of certain inciting causes from without, it would never,

perhaps, have assumed a serious form. But these sharp spiritual

trials are generally complicated with external causes, or occasions;

ill-health, morbid constitutional tendencies, loss of sleep, wearing

cares and responsibilities, sudden calamities, worldly loss or

disappointment, and the like. It is in the midst of such conditions that

pious souls are most apt to be assailed by gloom and despondency. And

yet distressing inward struggles and depression arise sometimes in the

midst of outward prosperity and even of unusual religious enjoyment.

In truth, among all the phenomena of the Christian life none are more

obscure or harder to seize than those connected with spiritual conflict

and temptation. They belong largely to that _terra incognita_, the dark

back-ground of human consciousness, where are the primal forces of

the soul and the mustering-place of good and evil. A certain mystery

enshrouds all profound religious emotion; whether of the peace of

God that passeth all understanding, or of the anguish that comes of

spiritual desertion. Those who are in the midst of the battle, or bear

its scars, will instantly recognise an experience like their own; to all

others it must needs remain inexplicable. Even in the natural life our

deepest joys and sorrows are mostly inarticulate; the great poets come

nearest to giving them utterance; but how much the reality always

surpasses the descriptions of the poet's pen, even though it be the pen

of a Shakespeare, or a Goethe!

Mrs. Prentiss never afterward referred to this "fiery trial" without

strong emotion. It terrified her to think of anyone she loved as exposed

to it; and--not to speak of other classes--she seemed to regard those as

specially exposed to it, who had just passed, or were passing, through

an unusually rich and happy religious experience. One of her last

letters, addressed to a dear Christian friend, related to this very

point. Here are a few sentences from it:

I want to give you EMPHATIC warning that you were never in such danger

in your life. This is the language of bitter, bitter experience and is

not mine alone. Leighton says the great Pirate lets the empty ships go

by and robs the full ones. [1] ... I do hope you will go on your way

rejoicing, unto the perfect day. Hold on to Christ with your teeth [2]

if your hands get crippled; He, alone, is stronger than Satan; He,

alone, knows _all_ "sore temptations" mean.

This, certainly, is strong language and will sound very strange and

extravagant in many ears; and yet is it really stronger language than

that often used by inspired prophets and apostles? or than that of

Augustine, Bernard, Luther, Hooker, Fenelon, Bunyan, and of many saintly

women, whose names adorn the annals of piety? Strong as it is, it will

find an echo in hearts that have been assailed by the "fiery darts of

the adversary," and have learned to cry unto God out of the depths

of mental anguish and gloom; while others still in the midst of the

conflict, will, perhaps, be helped and comforted to read of the manner

in which Mrs. Prentiss passed through it. Nothing in the story of her

religious life is more striking and beautiful. Her faith never failed;

she glorified God in the midst of it all; she thanked her Lord and

Master for "taking her in hand," and begged Him not to spare her for her

crying, if so be she might thus learn to love Him more and grow more

like Him! And, what is especially noteworthy, her own suffering, instead

of paralysing, as severe suffering sometimes does, active sympathy with

the sorrows and trials of others, had just the contrary effect. "How

soon," she wrote to a friend, "our dear Lord presses our experiences

into His own service! How many lessons He teaches us in order to make us

'sons' (or daughters) 'of consolation!'" To another friend she wrote:

I did not perceive any selfishness in you during our interview, and you

need not be afraid that I am so taken up with my own affairs as to feel

no sympathy with you in yours. What are we made for, if not to bear each

other's burdens? And this ought to be the effect of trial upon us; to

make us, in the very midst of it, unusually interested in the interests

of others. This is the softening, sanctifying tendency of tribulation,

and he who lacks it needs harder blows.

At no period of her life was she more helpful to afflicted and tempted

souls. In visits to sick-rooms and dying beds, and in letters to friends

in trouble, her heart "like the noble tree that is wounded itself when

it gives the balm," poured itself forth in the most tender, soothing

ministrations. It seemed at times fairly surcharged with love. Meanwhile

she kept her pain to herself; only a few intimate friends, whose prayers

she solicited, knew what a struggle was going on in her soul; to all

others she appeared very much as in her happiest days. "It is a little

curious," she wrote to a young friend, "that suffering as I really am,

nobody sees it. 'Always bright!' people say to me to my amazement.... I

can add nothing but love, of which I am so full that I keep giving off

in thunder and lightning."

The preceding account would be incomplete without adding that the state

of her health during this period, combined with a severe pressure of

varied and perplexing cares, served to deepen the distress caused by her

spiritual trials. Whatever view may be taken of the origin and nature

of such trials, it is certain that physical depression and the mental

strain that comes of anxious, care-worn thoughts, if not their source,

yet tend always greatly to intensify them. In the present case the

trials would, perhaps, not have existed without the cares and the

ill-health; while the latter, even in the entire absence of the former,

would have occasioned severe suffering.

_To Mrs. Frederick Field, New York, Jan. 8, 1871._

'If I need make any apology for writing you so often, it must be this--I

can not help it. Having dwelt long in an obscure, oftentimes dark

valley, and then passed out into a bright plane of life, I am full of

tender yearnings over other souls, and would gladly spend my whole time

and strength for them. I long, especially, to see your feet established

on an immovable Rock. It seems to me that God is preparing you for great

usefulness by the fiery trial of your faith. "They learn in suffering

what they teach in song." Oh how true this is! Who is so fitted to sing

praises to Christ as he who has learned Him in hours of bereavement,

disappointment and despair?

What you want is to let your intellect go overboard, if need be, and to

take what God gives just as a little child takes it, without money and

without price. Faith is His, unbelief ours. No process of reasoning can

soothe a mother's empty, aching heart, or bring Christ into it to fill

up all that great waste room. But faith can. And faith is His gift; a

gift to be won by prayer--prayer persistent, patient, determined;

prayer that will take no denial; prayer that if it goes away one day

unsatisfied, keeps on saying, "Well, there's to-morrow and to-morrow and

to-morrow; God may wait to be gracious, and I can wait to receive, but

receive I must and will." This is what the Bible means when it says,

"the kingdom of heaven suffereth violence and the violent take it by

force." It does not say the eager, the impatient take it by force, but

the violent--they who declare, "I will not let Thee go except Thou bless

me." This is all heart, not head work. Do I know what I am talking

about? Yes, I do. But my intellect is of no use to me when my heart

is breaking. I must get down on my knees and own that I am less than

nothing, seek _God_, not joy; _consent_ to suffer, not cry for relief.

And how transcendently good He is when He brings me down to that low

place and there shows me that that self-renouncing, self-despairing

spot is just the one where He will stoop to meet me!

My dear friend, don't let this great tragedy of sorrow fail to do

_everything_ for you. It is a dreadful thing to lose children; but a

_lost sorrow_ is the most fearful experience life can bring, I feel this

so strongly that I could go on writing all day. It has been said that

the intent of sorrow is to "toss us on to God's promises." Alas, these

waves too often toss us away out to sea, where neither sun or stars

appear for many days. I pray, earnestly, that it may not be so with you.

Among Mrs. Prentiss' most beloved and honored friends in New York was

the Rev. Dr. Thomas H. Skinner, the first pastor of the Mercer street

church, and then, for nearly a quarter of a century, Professor in the

Union Theological Seminary. His attachment to her, as also that of his

family, was very strong. Dr. Skinner had been among the leaders of

the so-called New School branch of the Presbyterian Church. He was a

preacher of great spiritual power, an able, large-hearted theologian,

and a man of most attractive personal and social qualities. He was

artless as a little child, full of enthusiasm for the best things, and

a pattern of saintly goodness. It used to be said that every stone and

rafter in the Church of the Covenant had felt the touch of his prayers.

This venerable servant of God entered into his rest on the 1st of

February, 1871, in the 80th year of his age. In a letter to her cousin,

Rev. George S. Payson, Mrs. Prentiss thus refers to his last hours:

You will hear at dear Dr. Skinner's funeral to-morrow his dying

testimony, and I want you to know that it was whispered in my enraptured

ear, that I was privileged to spend the whole of Tuesday and all he

lived of Wednesday, at his side, and that mine were the hands that

closed his eyes and composed his features in death. What blissful

moments were mine, as I saw his sainted soul fly home; how near heaven

seemed and still seems!

_To Miss E. S. Gilman, New York, Feb. 7, 1871._

I am glad to hear that you have such an interesting class, and yet more

glad that you see how much Christian culture they need. I am astonished

every day by confessions made to me by young people as to their woful

state before God, and do hope that all this is to prepare me to write

something for them. I began a series of articles in the Association

Monthly, called "Twilight Talks," which may perhaps prove to be in

a degree what you want, but still there is much land untraversed.

Meanwhile I want to encourage you in your work, by letting you feel my

deep sympathy with you in it, and to assure you that nothing will be so

blessed to your scholars as personal holiness in yourself. We _must_

practise what we preach, and give ourselves wholly to Christ if we want

to persuade others to do it. I am saying feebly what I feel very deeply

and constantly. You will rejoice with me that I had the rare privilege

of being with dear Dr. Skinner during his last hours. If you have a copy

of Watts and Select hymns, read the 106th hymn of the 2d book, beginning

at the 2d verse, "Lord, when I quit this earthly stage," and fancy, if

you can, the awe and the delight with which I heard him repeat those

nine verses, as expressive of his dying love to Christ. I feel that

God is always too good to me, but to have Him make me witness of that

inspiring scene, humbles me greatly. In how many ways He seeks us, now

smiling, now caressing, now reproving, now thwarting, and _always_ doing

the very best thing for us that infinite love and goodness can! Let us

love Him better and better every day, and count no work for Him too

small and unnoticed to be wrought thankfully whenever He gives the

opportunity. I hope I am learning to honor the day of small things.

_To Mrs. Humphrey, New York, March 14, 1871._

So you have at last broken the ice and made out, after almost a year, to

write that promised letter! Well, it was worth waiting for, and welcome

when it came, and awakened in me an enthusiasm about seeing the dear

creature, of which I hardly thought my old heart was capable (that

statement is an affectation; my heart isn't old, and never will be). Our

plan now is, if all prospers, to go to Philadelphia on Friday afternoon,

spend the night with you, Saturday with Mrs. Kirkbride, and Sunday and

part of Monday with you. I hope you mean to let us have a quiet little

time with you, unbeknown to strangers, whom I dread and shrink from....

_March 28th._--What a queer way we womenkind have of confiding in each

other with perfectly reckless disregard of consequences! It is a mercy

that men are, for the most part, more prudent, though not half so

delightful!... Well, I'm ever so glad I've seen you in your home, only

I found you more frail (in the way of health) than I found you fair. We

hear that your husband preached "splendidly," as of course we knew he

would, and the next exchange I shall be there to hear as well as to see.

Coming out of the cars yesterday, I picked up a "Daily Food," dropped, I

suppose, by its owner, "Sarah ----," of Philadelphia, given her by "Miss

H. in 1853." It has travelled all over Europe, and is therefore no doubt

precious to her who thus made it her friend. Now how shall I get it to

her? Can you learn her address, or shall I write to her at a venture,

without one? I know how I felt--when I once lost mine; it was given me

in 1835, and has gone with me ever since whenever I have journeyed (as I

was so happy as to find it again). [3] I think if I have the pleasure of

restoring it to its owner, she will feel glad that it did not fall into

profane hands. I thought it right to look through it, in order to get

some clue, if possible, to its destination; I fancy it was the silent

comforter of a wife who went abroad with her husband for his health,

and came home a widow; God bless her, whoever she is, for she evidently

believes in and loves Him. What sort of a world can it be to those who

don't? [4] Remember me affectionately to yourself and your dear ones,

and now we've got a-going, let's go ahead.

_April 1st._--What a pity it is that one can't have a separate language

with which to address each beloved one! It seems so mean to use the same

words to two or three or four people one loves so differently! Now about

my visit to you. One reason why I did not stay longer was your looking

worn out. When I am feeling so dragged, visitors are a great wear and

tear to me. But I am afraid my selfishness would have got the upperhand

of me if that were the whole story. I can't put into words the perfect

horror I have of being made into a somebody; it fairly hurts me, and if

I had stayed a week with you and the host of people you had about you,

I should have shriveled up into the size of a pea. I can't deny having

streaks of conceit, but I _know_ enough about myself to make my rational

moments bid me keep in the background, and it excruciates me to be set

up on a pinnacle. So don't blame me if I fled in terror, and that I am

looking forward to your visit, when I hope to have delightful pow-wows

with you all by ourselves.

I am glad that little book can be returned, and I will mail it to you.

I _couldn't_ send it without a loving word; it seemed to fall so

providentially into my hands and knock so at the door of my heart. In

what strange ways people get introduced to each other, and how subtle

are the influences that excite a bond of sympathy!... What do you do

with girls who fall madly and desperately in love with you? Do you laugh

at them, or scold them, or love them, or what? I used to do just such

crazy things, and am not sure I never do them now. Did you ever live in

a queerer world than this is?

_To Miss E.S. Gilman, New York, April 29, 1871._

The subject of your letter is one that greatly interests me, and I

should be glad to get more light upon it myself. As far as I know, those

who live apart from the world, communing with God and working for Him

chiefly in prayer, have least temptation to wandering and distracted

thoughts, and are more devout and spiritual than those of us who live

more in the world. But it stands to reason that we _can't_ all live so.

The outside work must go on, and somebody must do it. But of course we

have the hardest time, since while _in_ the world we must not be of

it. I have come, of late, to think that both classes are needed, the

contemplative and the active, and God does certainly take the latter

aside now and then as you suggest, by sickness and in other ways, to set

them thinking. Holiness is not a mere abstraction; it is praying and

loving and being consecrate, but it is also the doing kind deeds,

speaking friendly words, being in a crowd when we thirst to be alone,

and so on and so on. The study of Christ's life on earth reveals Him

to us as incessantly busy, yet taking _special_ seasons for prayer. It

seems to me that we should imitate Him in this respect, and when we find

ourselves particularly pressed by outward cares and duties, break short

off and withdraw from them till a spiritual tone returns. For we can

do nothing well unless we do it consciously for Christ, and this

consciousness sometimes gets jostled out of us when we undertake to do

too much. The more perfectly He is formed in us the more light we shall

get on every path of duty, the less likely to go astray from the happy

medium of not all contemplation, not all activity. And to have Him thus

to dwell in us we are led to pray by His own last prayer for us on

earth, when He asked for the "_I in them_." Let us pray for each other

that this may be our blessed lot. Nothing will fit us for life but this.

In ourselves we do nothing but err and sin. In Him we are complete.

* * * * *

II.

Her Husband called to Chicago. Lines on going to Dorset. Letters to

young Friends, on the Christian Life. Narrow Escape from Death. Feeling

on returning to Town. Her "Praying Circle." The Chicago Fire. The true

Art of Living. God our only safe Teacher. An easily-besetting Sin.

Counsels to young Friends. Letters.

Mrs. Prentiss' letters relating to her husband's call to Chicago require

perhaps an explanatory word. She had some very pleasant associations

with Chicago. It was the home of a brother and sister-in-law, to whom

she was deeply attached, and of other dear relatives. There Stepping

Heavenward had first appeared, and many unknown friends--grateful for

the good it had done them--were eager to form her acquaintance and bid

her welcome to the great city of the Interior. And yet the thought of

removing there filled her with the utmost distress. Had her husband's

call been to some distant post in the field of Foreign Missions, her

language on the subject could hardly have been stronger. But this

language in reality expresses simply the depth of her devotion to her

church and her friends in New York, her morbid shyness and shrinking

from the presence of strangers, and, especially, her vivid sense of

physical inability to make the change without risking the loss of what

health and power of sleep still remained to her. Misgiving on this last

point caused her husband to hesitate long before accepting the call,

and to feel in after years that his decision to accept it, although

conscientiously made, had been a grave mistake.

_To Mrs. Condict, New York, June 3, 1871._

I knew that you would rather hear from me than through the papers, the

fact that Mr. Prentiss has been once more unanimously elected by the

General Assembly to the Chicago Professorship. He has come home greatly

perplexed as to his duty, and prepared to do it, at any reasonable cost,

if he can only find out what it is. We built our Dorset house not as a

mere luxury, but with the hope that the easy summer there would so build

up our health as to increase and prolong our usefulness; but going to

Chicago would deprive us of that, besides cutting us off from all our

friends. But we want to know no will but God's in this question, and I

am sure you and Miss K. will join us in the prayer that we may not so

much as _suggest_ to Him what path He will lead us into. The experience

of the past winter would impress upon me the fact that _place and

position_ have next to nothing to do with happiness; that we can be

wretched in a palace, radiant in a dungeon. Mr. P. said yesterday that

it broke his heart to hear me talk of giving up Dorset; but perhaps this

heartbreaking is exactly what we need to remind us of what for many

years we never had a chance to forget, that we are pilgrims and

strangers on the earth. Two lines of my own keep running in my head:

Oh foolish heart, oh faithless heart, oh heart on ruin bent, Build not

with too much care thy nest, thou art in banishment.

I have seen the time when the sense of being a pilgrim and a stranger

was very sweet; and God can sweeten whatever He does to us. So though

perplexed we are not in despair, and if we feel that we are this summer

living in a tent that may soon blow down, it is just what you are doing,

and in this point we shall have fellowship. I am sure it is good for

us to have God take up the rod, even if He lays it down again without

inflicting a blow. I know we are going to pray till light comes. I

feel very differently about it from what I did last summer. The mental

conflicts of the past winter have created a good deal of indifference to

everything. Without conscious union and nearness to my Saviour I can't

be happy anywhere; for years He has been the meaning of everything, and

when He only _seems_ gone (I know it is only seeming) I don't much care

where I am. I am just trying to be patient till He makes Satan let go of

me. Excuse this selfish letter, and write me one just as bad!

On the 7th of June she went to Dorset with her husband and the younger

children. The following lines, found among her papers, will show in what

temper of mind she went. It is worth noting that they were written on

Monday, and express a week-day, not merely a passing Sabbath feeling:

Once more at home, once more at home--

For what, dear Lord, I pray?

To seek enjoyment, please myself,

Make life a summer's day?

I shrink, I shudder at the thought;

For what is home to me,

When sin and self enchain my heart,

And keep it far from Thee?

There is but one abiding joy,

Nor place that joy can give;

It is Thy presence that makes home,

That makes it "life to live."

That presence I invoke; naught else

I venture to entreat;

I long to see Thee, hear Thy voice,

To sit at Thy dear feet.

_To a young Friend, Dorset, June 12, 1871._

I trust it is an omen of good that the first letters I have received

since coming here this summer, have been full of the themes I love best.

I was much struck with the sentence you quote, "They can not go back,"

etc., [5] and believe it is true of you. Being absorbed in divine things

will not make you selfish; you will be astonished to find how loving you

will gradually grow toward everybody, how interested in their interests,

how happy in their happiness. And if you want work for Christ (and the

more you love Him the more you will _long_ for it), that work will come

to you in all sorts of ways. I do not believe much in duty-work; I think

that work that tells is the spontaneous expression of the love within.

Perhaps you have not been sick enough yourself to be skilful in a

sick-room; perhaps your time for that sort of work hasn't come. I meant

to get you a little book called "The Life of Faith"; in fact, I went

down town on purpose to get it, and passed the Episcopal Sunday-school

Union inadvertently. I think that little book teaches how _every_thing

we do may be done for Christ, and I know by what little experience I

have had of it, that it is a blessed, thrice blessed way to live. A

great deal is meant by the "cup of cold water," and few of us women have

great deeds to perform, and we must unite ourselves to Him by little

ones. The life of constant self-discipline God requires is a happy one;

you and I, and others like us, find a wild, absorbing joy in loving and

being loved; but sweet, abiding peace is the fruit of steady check on

affections that _must_ be tamed and kept under. Is this consistent

with what I have just said about growing more loving as we grow more

Christlike? Yes, it is; for _that_ love is absolutely unselfish, it

gives much and asks nothing, and there is nothing restless about it....

I have been very hard at work ever since I came here, with my darling M.

as my constant, joyous comrade. We have been busy with our flower-beds,

sowing and transplanting, and half the china closet has tumbled out of

doors to serve as protection from the sun. Mr. Prentiss says we do

the work of three days in one, which is true, for we certainly have

performed great feats. The night we got here we found the house lighted

up, and the dining-table covered with good things. People seem glad to

see us back. I don't know which of my Dorset titles would strike you

as most appropriate; one man calls me a "branch," another "a child

of nature," and another "Mr. Prentiss' woman," with the consoling

reflection that I sha'n't rust out.

_To Mrs. Smith, Dorset, August 6, 1871._

I don't know when I have written so few letters as I have this summer.

My right hand has forgot its cunning under the paralysis, under which my

heart has suffered, and which is now beginning to affect my health quite

unfavorably. It seems as if body and soul, joints and marrow, were

rudely separating. Poor George is half-distracted with the weight of

the questions concerning Chicago, and I think almost anything would be

better than this crucifying suspense. But I try not to make a fuss. Mrs.

D---- can tell you that I have said to her many times, during the last

few years, that, according to the ordinary run of life, things would not

long remain with us as they were; they were too good to last.

I have read and re-read "Spiritual Dislodgments," and remember it well.

I certainly wish for such dislodgments in me and mine, if we need them.

George has got hold of a book of A.'s, which delights him, Letters of

William Von Humboldt. [6] I suppose you recommended it to her. You

_must_ make your plans to come here this summer; I don't seem fully to

have a thing till you've seen it.

_To Mrs. Humphrey, Dorset, Aug. 8, 1871._

It took you a good while to answer my last letter, and I have been

equally lazy about writing since yours strayed this way. Letter-writing

has always been a resource and a pastime to me; a refuge in head-achy

and rainy days, and a tiny way to give pleasure or do good, when other

paths were hedged up. But this summer I have left almost everybody in

the lurch, partly from being more or less unwell and out of spirits,

partly because the Chicago question, remaining unsettled, has been such

a damper that I hadn't much heart to speak either of it or of anything

else. We are perplexed beyond measure what to do; the thought of losing

_my minister_ and having him turn into a professor, agonizes me; on the

other hand, who knows but he needs the rest that change of labor and the

five months' vacation would give him? _His_ chief worry is the effect

the attending funerals all the time has already had on my health. One

day I part with and bury (in imagination!) now this friend, now that,

and this mournful work does not sharpen one's appetite or invigorate

one's frame. I don't know how we've stood the conflict; and it seems

rather selfish to allude to my part of it; but women live more in their

friendships than men do, and the thought of tearing up all our roots is

more painful to me than to my husband, and he will not lose what I must

lose in addition, and as I have said before, my minister, which is the

hardest part of it.

I want you to know what straits we are in, in the hope that you and

yours will be stirred up to pray that we may make no mistake, but go or

stay as the Lord would have us. We have found our little home a nice

refuge for us in the storm; Mr. P. says he should have gone distracted

in a boarding-house. I do not envy you the Conway crowd. But I fancy it

is a good region for collecting mosses and like treasures. I think the

prettiest thing in our house is a flattish bracket, fastened to the wall

and filled with flowers; it looks like a graceful, meandering letter

S and is one of the idols I bow down to.... I have "Holiness through

Faith"; the first time I read it at Mr. R----'s request, I said I

believed every word of it, but this summer, reading it in a different

mood, it puzzles me. The idea is plausible; if God tells us to be holy,

as He certainly does, is it not for Him to provide the way for our being

so, and is it likely He needs our whole lives before He can accomplish

His own design? I talked with Mr. Prentiss about it, and at first he

rejected the thought of holiness through faith, but last night we got

upon the subject again and he was interested in some sentences I read to

him and said he must examine the book. When are you coming to spend that

week in Dorset? Love to each and all.

_To a young Friend, Kauinfels, Sept. 9, 1871._

I have had many letters to write to-day, for to-day our fate is sealed,

and we are to go. But I must say a few words to you before going to bed,

for I want to tell you how very glad I am that you have been enabled

to take a step [7] which will, I am sure, lead the way to other steps,

increase your holiness, your usefulness, and your happiness. May God

bless you in this attempt to honor Him, and open out before you new

fields wherein to glorify and please Him. This has not been a sorrowful

day to me. I hope I am offering to a "patient God a patient heart." I do

not want to make the worst of the sacrifice He requires, or to fancy I

am only to be happy on my own conditions. He has been most of the time

for years "the spring of all my joys, the life of my delights." Where

He is, I want to be; where He bids me go, I want to go, and to go in

courage and faith. Anything is better than too strong cleaving to this

world. As I was situated in New York, I lacked not a single earthly

blessing. I had a delightful home, freedom from care, and a circle of

friends whom I loved with all my heart, and who loved me in a way to

satisfy even my rapacity. Only one thing was wanting to my perfect

felicity--a heart absolutely holy; and was I likely to get that when my

earthly cup was so full? At any rate I am content. Now and then, as the

reality of this coming separation overwhelms me, I feel a spasm of pain

at my heart (I don't suppose we are expected to cease to be human beings

or to lose our sensibilities), but if my Lord and Master will go with

me, and keeps on making me more and more like Himself, I can be happy

anywhere and under any conditions, or be made content not to be happy.

All this is of little consequence in itself, but perhaps it may make me

more of a blessing to others, which, next to personal holiness, is the

only thing to be sought very earnestly. As to my relation to you, He who

brought you under my wing for a season has something better for you in

store. _That's His way._ And wherever I am, if it is His will and His

Spirit dictates the prayer, I shall pray for you, and that is the best

service one soul can render another.

About this time she and her husband had an almost miraculous escape from

instant death. They had been calling upon friends in East Dorset and

were returning home. Not far from that village is a very dangerous

railroad crossing; and, as the sight or sound of cars so affrighted Coco

as to render him uncontrollable, special pains had been taken not to

arrive at the spot while a train was due. But just as they reached it,

an "irregular" train, whose approach was masked behind high bushes, came

rushing along unannounced, and had they been only a few seconds later,

would have crushed them to atoms. So severe was the shock and so vivid

the sense of a Providential escape, that scarcely a word was spoken

during the drive home. The next morning she gave her husband a very

interesting account of the thoughts that, like lightning, flashed upon

her mind while feeling herself in the jaws of death. They related

exclusively to her children--how they would receive the news, and what

would become of them. [8]

Late in September she returned to town, still oppressed by the thought

of going to Chicago. In a letter to Mrs. Condict, dated October 2d, she

writes:

We got home on Friday night, and very early on Saturday were settled

down into the old routine. But how different everything is! At church

tearful, clouded faces; at home, warmhearted friends looking upon us as

for the last time. It is all right. I would not venture to change it

if I could; but it is hard. At times it seems as if my heart would

literally break to pieces, but we are mercifully kept from realising our

sorrows all the time. The waves dash in and almost overwhelm, but then

they sweep back and are stayed by an almighty, kind hand.... It is like

tearing off a limb to leave our dear prayer-meeting. Next to my closet,

it has been to me the sweetest spot on earth. I never expect to find

such another.

To another friend she writes a day or two later:

My heart fairly _collapses_ at times, at the thought of tearing myself

away from those whom Christian ties have made dearer to me than my

kindred after the flesh. And then comes the precious privilege and

relief of telling my yet dearer and better Friend all about it, and the

sweet peace begotten of yielding my will to His. I want to be of all

the use and comfort to you and to the other dear ones He will let me be

during these few months. Do pray for me that I may so live Christ as to

bear others along with me on a resistless tide. Those lines you copied

for me are a great comfort:

"Rather walking with Him by faith,

Than walking alone in the light."

Of the little praying circle, alluded to in her letter to Mrs. C., one

of its members writes:

It was unique even among meetings of its own class. Held in an upper

chamber, never largely attended and sometimes only by the "two or

three," it was almost unknown except to the few, who regarded it as

among their chiefest religious privileges. All the other members would

gladly have had Mrs. Prentiss assume its entire leadership; but she

assumed nothing and was no doubt quite unconscious as to how large

an extent she was the life and soul of the meeting. In the familiar

conversation of the hour nothing fell from her lips but such simple

words as, coming from a glowing heart, strengthened and deepened the

spiritual life of all who heard them. She had, in a degree I never knew

equalled, the gift of leading the devotions of others. But there was not

the slightest approach to performance in her prayers; she abhorred the

very thought of it. Those who knelt with her can never forget the pure

devotion which breathed itself forth in simple exquisite language; but

it was something beyond the power of description.

Another member of the circle writes:

Her prayers were so simple, so earnest, so childlike. We all felt we

were in the very presence of our loving Father. One thing especially

always impressed me during that sacred hour--it was her _quietness of

manner_. She was very cordial and affectionate in her greetings with

each one, as we assembled, and then a holy awe, a solemn hush, came over

her spirit and she seemed like one who saw the Lord! O how we all miss

her! There is never a meeting but we keep her in remembrance and talk

together lovingly about her.

_To a Friend, Oct. 21, 1871._

Mr. Prentiss sent in his resignation last evening, and the church

refused unanimously to let him go. "Praise God from whom all blessings

flow" penetrated the walls of the parsonage, as they sang it when the

decision was made, and so we knew our fate before a whole parlorful

rushed in to shake hands, kiss, and congratulate. You would have been

delighted had you been here. Prof. Smith, who took strong ground in

favor of his going, takes just as strong ground in favor of his staying.

I feel that all this is the result of prayer. I never got any light on

the Chicago question when I prayed about it; never could _see_ that it

was our duty to go; but I yielded my judgment and my will, because my

husband thought that he must go. I think our very reluctance to it made

us shrink from evading it; we were so afraid of opposing God's will. Now

the matter is taken out of our hands and we have only to resume our work

here. God grant that this baptism of fire may purge and purify us

and prepare us to be a great blessing to the church. It is a most

awe-inspiring providence, God's burning us out of Chicago, and we feel

like putting our shoes from off our feet and adoring Him in silence....

Pray that the lessons we have been learning through so many trying

months may help us to be helping hands to those who may pass through

similar straits. One of my brothers was burnt out, and his own and his

wife's letters drew tears even down to the kitchen. For two days and

a night they lost their baby, five months old, in addition to all the

other horrors. But they found refuge with a dear cousin, who has filled

his house to overflowing. I may have spoken of this cousin to you: he

has a foundling home on Müller's trust system.

Before taking leave of the call to Chicago a word should be added

to what she says concerning it in her letters. The prospect of her

husband's accepting the call rendered the summer a very trying one;

but it was far from being all gloom. She had a marvellous power of

extracting amusement out of the most untoward situation. In 1843 she

wrote from Richmond, referring to Mr. Persico's troubles: "I never spent

such melancholy weeks in my life; in the midst of it, however, I made

fun for the rest, as I believe I should do in a dungeon." It was so in

the present case. She relieved the weariness of many an anxious hour by

"making fun for the rest." As an illustration, one evening at Dorset,

while sitting at the parlor-table with her children and a young

friend who was visiting her, she seized a pencil and wrote for their

entertainment a ludicrous version of the Chicago affair in two parts.

The paper which was preserved by her young friend, illustrates also

another trait which she thus describes at the close of a frolicsome

letter to Miss E. A. Warner: "It is one of the peculiar peculiarities

of this woman that she usually carries on, when she wants to hide her

feelins." Part I. begins thus:

Where are the Prentisses? Gone to Chicago,

Gone bag and baggage, the whole crew and cargo.

Well, they _would_ go, now let's talk 'em over,

And see what compensation we can discover.

They are all "talked over" and then in Part II. the scene changes to

Chicago itself:

Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye,

Here's the tribe of Prentisses just agoing by;

Dr. Prentiss he,

Mrs. Prentiss she,

And a lot of young ones that all begin with P.

Well, let us view them with our eyes,

And then begin to criticise.

And first the doctor, what of him?

The doctor having been fully discussed, the criticism proceeds:

Now for his wife; well, who would guess

She had set up as authoress!

Why, she looks just like all of us,

Instead of being in a muss

Like other literary folks.

They say she likes her little jokes,

As well as those who've less to say

Of stepping on the heavenward way.

Mrs. P. having been disposed of:

Next comes Miss P.; how she will make

The hearts of all the students quake!

She'll wind them round her fingers' ends,

And find in them one hundred friends.

They'll sit on benches in a row

And watch her come, and watch her go;

But they'll be safe, the precious rogues,

Since she don't care for theologues.

The other children next pass in review and the whole closes with the

remark:

Time, and Time only, will make clear

Why the poor geese came cackling here.

_To a young Friend, New York, Nov., 1871._

My heart is as young and fresh as any girl's, and I am _almost_ as

prone to make idols out of those I love, as I ever was; and this is

inconsistent with the devotion owed to God. I do not mean that I really

love anybody better than I do Him, but that human friendships tempt me.

This easily-besetting sin of mine has cost me more anguish than tongue

can tell, and I deeply feel the need of more love to Christ because of

my earthly tendencies. I know I would sacrifice every friend to Christ,

but I am not always disentangled. How strange this is, how passing

strange!... In a religious way I find myself much better off here than

at Dorset. But there is yet something apparently "far off, unattained

and dim" that I once thought I had caught by the wing, and enjoyed for a

season, but which has flown away. I am afraid I am one who has got to be

a religious enthusiast, or else dissatisfied and restless. When I give

way to an impulse to the first, I care for nothing worldly, and am at

peace. But I am unfitted for daily life, for secular talk and reading.

Is it so with you? Does it run in our blood? I do long and pray for more

light; and I _will_ pray for more love, cost what it may. Sometimes I

long to get to heaven, where I shall not have to be curbing my heart

with bit and bridle, and can be as loving as I want to be--as I _am_.

_To a young Friend abroad--New York, Dec. 8, 1871._

There never will come a time in my life when I shall not need all my

Christian friends can do for me in the way of prayer. I am glad you are

making such special effort to oppose the icebergs of foreign life; God

will meet and bless you in it. Let us, if need be, forsake all others to

cleave only unto Him. I don't know of any real misery except coldness

between myself and Him.

I feel warm and tender sympathy with you in all your struggles,

temptations, joys, hopes and fears. As you grow older you will _settle_

more; your troubles, your ups and downs, belong chiefly to your youth.

Yes, you are right in saying that Mr. P---- could go through mental

conflicts in silence; he does not pine for sympathy as you and I do.

You and I are like David, though I forget, at the moment, what he said

happened to him when he "kept silence." (On the whole, I don't think he

said anything!)

I think the proper attitude to take when restless and lonesome and

homesick for want of God's sensible presence, is just what we take when

we are missing earthly friends for whom we yearn, and whose letters,

though better than nothing, do not half feed our hungry hearts, or fill

our longing arms. And that attitude is patient waiting. We are such

many-sided creatures that I do not doubt you are getting pleasure and

profit out of this European trip, although it is alloyed by so much

mental suffering. But such is life. It has in it nothing perfect,

nothing ideal. And this conviction, deepened every now and then by some

new experience, tosses me anew, again and again, back on to that Rock of

Ages that ever stands sure and steadfast, and on whom our feet may rest.

It is well to have the waves and billows of temptation beat upon us; if

only to magnify this Rock and teach us what a refuge He is.

I went, last night, with Mr. Prentiss and most of the children, to hear

the freedmen and women in a concert at Steinway Hall. It was _packed_

with a brilliant, delighted audience, and it was most interesting to see

these young people, simple, dignified, earnest, full of love to Christ,

and preparing, by education, to work for Him. They sang "Keep me from

sinking down" most sweetly and touchingly. I see you have the blues as I

used to do, at your age, and hope you will outgrow them as I have done.

I _suffer_ without being _depressed_ in the sense in which I used to be;

it is hard to make the distinction, but I am sure there is one. I do not

know how far this change has come to me as a happy wife and mother, or

how far it is religious.

_Aunt Jane's Hero_ was published in 1871. It is hardly inferior to

Stepping Heavenward in its pictures of life and character, or in the

wisdom of its teaching. The object of the book is to depict a home whose

happiness flows from the living Rock, Christ Jesus. It protests also

against the extravagance and other evils of the times, which tend to

check the growth of such homes, and aims to show that there are still

treasures of love and peace on earth, that may be bought without money

and without price.

* * * * *

III.

"Holiness and Usefulness go hand-in-hand." No two Souls dealt with

exactly alike. Visits to a stricken Home. Another Side of her Life.

Visit to a Hospital. Christian Friendship. Letters to a bereaved Mother.

Submission not inconsistent with Suffering. Thoughts at the Funeral of

a little "Wee Davie." Assurance of Faith. Funeral of Prof. Hopkins. His

Character.

She entered the new year with weary steps, but with a heart full of

tenderness and sympathy. A circle of young friends, living in different

parts of the country, looked eagerly to her at this time for counsel,

and she was deeply interested in their spiritual progress. She wrote to

one of them, January 6, 1872:

Your letter has filled my heart with joy. What a Friend and Saviour we

have, and how He comes to meet us on the sea, if we attempt to walk

there in faith! I trust your path now will be the ever brightening

one that shall shine more and more unto the perfect day. Holiness and

usefulness go hand in hand, and you will have new work to do for the

Lord; praying work especially. _Pray for me_, for one thing; I need a

great deal of grace and strength just now. And pray for all the souls

that are struggling toward the light. O that everybody lived only for

Christ!

A few weeks later, writing to the same friend, she thus refers to the

"fiery trials" through which she was passing:

This season of temptation came right on the heels, if I may use such

an expression, of great spiritual illumination. Of all the years of my

life, 1869-70 was the brightest, and it seems as if Satan could not

endure the sight of so much love and joy, and so took me in hand. I

have not liked to say much about this to young people, lest it should

discourage them; but I hope you will not allow it to affect you in that

way, for you must remember that no two souls are dealt with exactly

alike, and that the fact that many are looking up to me may have made it

necessary for our dear Lord to let Satan harass and trouble me as he has

done. No, let us not be discouraged, either you or I, but rejoice that

we are called of our God and Saviour to give Him all we have and all we

are.... If we spent more time in thanking God for what He _has_ done for

us, He would do more.

Malignant scarlet fever and other diseases, had invaded and isolated the

household mentioned in the following letter. Their gratitude to Mrs.

Prentiss was most touching; it was as if she had been to them an angel

from heaven. The story of her visits and loving sympathy became a part

of their family history.

_To Mrs. Humphrey, New York, Jan. 26, 1872._

I came home half frozen from my early walk this morning, to get warm not

only at the fire, but at your letter, which I found awaiting me. I am

glad if you got anything out of your visit here. I rather think you and

I shall "rattle on" together after we get to heaven.... You say, "How

skilfully God does fashion our crosses for us!" Yes, He does. And for

my part, I don't want to rest and be happy without crosses--for I can't

_do_ without them. People who set themselves up to be pastors and

teachers must "learn in suffering" what they teach in sermon and book.

I felt a good deal reproved for making so much of mine, however, by my

further visits to the house of mourning of which we spoke to you. The

little boy died early on the next day, and before his funeral his poor

mother, neglected by everybody else, found it some comfort to get into

my arms and cry there. It made no difference that twenty years had

passed since I had had a sorrow akin to hers; we mothers may cease to

grieve, outwardly, but we never forget what has gone out of our sight,

or ever grow unsympathetic because time has soothed and quieted us. But

I need not say this to _you_. This was on Saturday; all day Monday I was

there watching a most lovely little girl, about six years old, writhing

in agony; she died early next morning. The next eldest has been in a

critical state, but will probably recover a certain degree of

health, but as a helpless cripple. Well, I felt that death alone was

_inexorable_--other enemies we may hope and pray and fight against--and

that while my children lived, I need not despair. The tax on my

sympathies in the case of those half-distracted parents has been

terrible, and yet I wouldn't accept a cold heart if I had the offer of

it.

To give you another side of my life, let me tell you of a pleasant

dinner party one night last week, when we met Gov. and Mrs. C----, of

Massachusetts, and I fell in love with her then and there.... Well, this

is a queer world, full of queer things and queer people. Will the next

one be more commonplace? I know not. Good-bye.

Word has come from that afflicted household that the grandfather has

died suddenly of heart disease. His wife died a few weeks ago. Mr.

Prentiss saw him on Saturday in vigorous health.

_To Miss Rebecca F. Morse, New York, March 5,1872._

Can you tell me where the blotting-pads can be obtained? I have got into

a hospital of _spines_; in other words, of people who can only write

lying on their backs, one of them an authoress, and I think it would be

a mercy to them if I could furnish them with the means of writing with

more ease than they do now. I was sorry you could not come last Friday,

and hope you will be able to join us Saturday, when the club meets

here.... How you would have enjoyed yesterday afternoon with me! I went

to call on a lady from Vermont, who is here for spinal treatment, and

found in her room another of the patients. Two such bright creatures I

never met at once, and we got a-going at such a rate that though I had

never seen either of them before, I stayed nearly three hours! I mean to

have another dose of them before long, and give them another dose of E.

P. I have been reading a book called "The Presence of Christ" [9]--which

I liked so well that I got a copy to lend. It is not a great book, but I

think it will be a useful one. It says we are all idolaters, and reminds

me of my besetting sins in that direction. I feel overwhelmed when

I think how many young people are looking to me for light and help,

knowing how much I need both myself.... Every now and then some

Providential event occurs that wakes us up, and we find that we have

been asleep and dreaming, and that what we have been doing that made us

fancy ourselves awake, was mechanical.

I must be off now to my sewing society, which is a great farce, since

I can earn thirty or forty times as much with my pen as I can with my

needle, and if they would let me stay at home and write, I would give

them the results of my morning's work. But the minute I stop going

everybody else stops.

_To Mrs. Condict, April 7, 1872._

How I should love to spend this evening with you! This has been our

Communion Sunday, and I am sure the service would have been very

soothing to your poor, sore heart. And yet why do I say _poor_ when I

know it is _rich_? Oh, you might have the same sorrow without faith and

patience with which to bear it, and think how dreadful that would be!

Your little lamb has been spending his first Sunday with the Good

Shepherd and other lambs of the flock, and has been as happy as the

day is long. Perhaps your two children and mine are claiming kinship

together. If they met in a foreign land they would surely claim it for

our sakes; why not in the land that is not foreign, and not far off? But

still these are not the thoughts to bring you special comfort. "Thy will

be done!" does the whole. And yet my heart aches for you. Some one, who

had never had a real sorrow, told Mrs. N. that if she submitted to God's

will as she ought, she would cease to suffer. What a fallacy this is!

Mrs. N. was comforted by hearing that your little one was taken away by

the consequences of the fever, as her Nettie was, for she had reproached

herself with having neglected her to see to Johnny, who died first, and

thought this neglect had allowed her to take cold. I feel very sorry

when mothers torture themselves in this needless way, as if God could

not avert ill consequences, if He chose.

I have shed more than one tear to-day. I heard last night that my

dearly-loved brother, Prof. Hopkins, is on his dying-bed. I never

thought of his dying, he comes of such a long-lived race. I expect to go

to see him, and if I find I can be of any use or comfort, stay a week or

two. His death will come very near to me, but he is a saintly man, and I

am glad for him that he can go. How thankful we shall be when our turn

comes! The ladies at our little meeting were deeply interested in what

I had to tell them about your dear boy, and prayed for you with much

feeling. May our dear Lord bless you abundantly with His sweet presence!

I know He will. And yet He has willed it that you should suffer.

"Himself hath done it!" Oh how glad He will be when the dispensation of

suffering is over, and He can gather His beloved round Him, tearless,

free from sorrow and care, and all forever at rest.

_May 5th._--Yesterday, the friend at East Dorset whose three children

died within a few weeks of each other, sent me some verses, of which I

copy one for you:

"The eye of faith beholds

A golden stair, like that of old, whereon

Fair spirits go and come;

God's angels coming down on errands sweet,

Our angels going home."

I hope this golden stair, up which your dear boy climbed "with shout and

song," is covered with God's angels coming down to bless and comfort

you. One of the most touching passages in the Bible, to my mind, is

that which describes angels as coming to minister to Jesus after

His temptations in the wilderness. It gives one such an idea of His

helplessness! Just as I was going out to church this morning, Mr.

Prentiss told me of the death of a charming "baby-boy," one of our

lambs, and I could scarcely help bursting into tears, though I had only

seen him once. You can hardly understand how I feel, as a pastor's wife,

toward our people. Their sorrows come right home. I have a friend also

hanging in agonizing suspense over a little one who has been injured by

a fall; she is sweetly submissive, but you know what a mother's heart

is. I have yet another friend, who has had to give up her baby. She is a

young mother, and far from her family, but says she has "perfect peace."

So from all sides I hear sorrowful sounds, but so much faith and

obedience mingled with the sighs, that I can only wonder at what God can

do.

_To Miss Morse, May 7, 1872._

How true and how strange it is that our deepest sorrows, spring from

our sweetest affections; that as we love much, we suffer much. What

instruments of torture our hearts are! The passage you quote is all true

but people are apt to be impatient in affliction, eager to drink the

bitter cup at a draught rather than drop by drop, and fain to dig up the

seed as soon as it is planted, to see if it has germinated. I am fond of

quoting that passage about "the peaceable fruit of righteousness" coming

"afterward."

I have just come from the funeral of a little "Wee Davie"; all the

crosses around his coffin were tiny ones, and he had a small floral

harp in his hand. I thought as I looked upon his face, still beautiful,

though worn, that even babies have to be introduced to the cross, for he

had a week of fearful struggle before he was released.... I enclose an

extract I made for you from a work on the baptism of the Holy Spirit.

This was all the paper I had at hand at the moment. The recipe for

"curry" I have copied into my recipe-book, and the two lines at the top

of the page I addressed to M. A queer mixture of the spiritual and the

practical, but no stranger than life's mixtures always are.

_To a young Friend, New York, May 20th, 1872._

As to assurance of faith, I think we may all have that, and in my own

darkest hours this faith has not been disturbed. I have just come home

from a brief visit to Miss ----, with whom I had some interesting

discussions. I use the word _discussions_ advisedly, for we love each

other in constant disagreement. She believes in holiness by faith, while

denying that she has herself attained it. I think her life, as far as I

can see it, very true and beautiful. We spent a whole evening talking

about temptation. Not long ago I met with a passage, in French, to this

effect--I quote from memory only: "God has some souls whom He can not

afflict in any ordinary way, for they love Him so that they are ready

for any outward sorrow or bereavement. He therefore scourges them with

inward trials, vastly more painful than any outward tribulation could

be; thus crucifying them to self." I can not but think that this

explains Mrs. ----'s experience, and perhaps my own; at any rate I feel

that we are all in the hands of an unerring Physician, who will bring

us, through varying paths, home to Himself.

I had a call the other day from an intelligent Christian woman, whom

I had not seen for eighteen years. She said that some time ago her

attention was called to the subject of personal holiness, and as she

is a great reader, she devoured everything she could get hold of, and

finally became a dogmatic perfectionist. But experience modified these

views, and she fell back on the Bible doctrine of an indwelling Christ,

with the conviction that just in proportion to this indwelling will be

the holiness of the soul. This is precisely my own belief. This is

the doctrine I preached in Stepping Heavenward and I have so far seen

nothing to change these views, while I desire and pray to be taught any

other truth if I am wrong. I believe God does reveal Himself and His

truth to those who are willing to know it.

_To Miss Morse, New York, May 31, 1872._

I got home yesterday from Williamstown, where I went, with my husband,

to attend the funeral of my dearly beloved brother, Professor Hopkins.

He literally starved to death. He died as he had lived, beautifully,

thinking of and sending messages to all his friends, and on his last day

repeating passages of Scripture and even, weak as he was, joining in

hymns sung at his bedside. The day of the funeral was a pretty trying

one for me, as there was not only his loss to mourn, but there were

traces of my darling mother and sister, who both died in that house, all

over it; some of my mother's silver, a white quilt she made when a

girl, my sister's library, her collection of shells and minerals, her

paintings, her little conservatory, the portrait of her only child,

dressed in his uniform (he was killed in one of the battles of the

Wilderness). Then, owing to the rain, none of us ladies were allowed to

go into the cemetery, and I had thought much of visiting my sister's

grave and seeing her boy lying on one side and her husband on the other.

But our disappointments are as carefully planned for us as our sorrows,

so I have not a word to say.

After services at the house, we walked to the church, which we entered

through a double file of uncovered students. One of the most touching

things about the service was the sight of four students standing in

charge of the remains, two at the head and two at the foot of the

coffin. His poor folks came in crowds, with their hands full of flowers

to be cast into his grave. My brother said he never saw so many men

shed tears at a funeral, and I am sure I never did; some sobbing as

convulsively as women. I could not help asking myself when my heart was

swelling so with pain, whether love _paid_. Love is sweet when all goes

well, but oh how fearfully exacting it is when separation comes! How

many tithes it takes of all we have and are!

A worthy young woman in our church has been driven into hysterics by

reading "Holiness through Faith." I went to see her as soon as I got

home from W. yesterday, but she was asleep under the influence of an

opiate. There is no doubt that too much self-scrutiny is pernicious,

especially to weak-minded, ignorant young people. It was said of Prof.

Hopkins that he would have been a mystic but for his love to souls, and

I am afraid these new doctrines tend too much to the seeking for peace

and joy, too little to seeking the salvation of the careless and

worldly. But I hesitate to criticise any class of good people, feeling

that those who live in most habitual communion with God receive light

directly and constantly from on high; and of that communion we can not

seek too much. [10]

* * * * *

IV.

Christian Parents to expect Piety in their Children. Perfection. "People

make too much Parade of their Troubles." "Higher Life" Doctrines. Letter

to Mrs. Washburn. Last Visit to Williamstown.

Early in June she went to Dorset. The summer, like that of 1871, was

shadowed by anxiety and inward conflict; but her care-worn thoughts were

greatly soothed by her rural occupations, by visits from young friends,

and by the ever-fresh charms of nature around her.

_To a Christian Friend, Dorset, June 9, 1872._

I was obliged to give up my much-desired visit to you. We went on to the

funeral of Prof. Hopkins, and that took three days out of the busy time

just before coming here. I particularly wanted you to know _at the time_

that my three younger children united with the church on Sunday last,

but had not a moment in which to write you. It was a touching sight to

our people. Mr. P. looked down on his children so lovingly, and kissed

them when the covenant had been read. He said ---'s face was so full of

soul that he could not help it, and his heart yearned over them all.

Someone said there was not a dry eye in the house. I felt not elated,

not cast down, but at peace. I think it plain that Christian parents are

to _expect_ piety in their children, and expect it early. In mine it is

indeed "first the blade," and they will, no doubt, have their trials and

temptations. But it seems to me I must leave them in God's hands and let

Him lead them as He will. It was very sweet to have the elements passed

to me by their young hands. Offer one earnest prayer for them at least,

that they may prove true soldiers and servants of Jesus Christ. No doubt

your two little sainted ones looked on and loved the children of their

mother's friend.

The following testimony of one of President Garfield's classmates and

intimate friends may fitly be added here:

"For him there was but one Mark Hopkins in all the world; but for

Professor Albert Hopkins also, or 'Prof. Al.,' as he was called in those

days, the General--not only while at college, but all through life--

entertained the highest regard, both as a man and a scholar. His

intellectual attainments were thought by Gen. G. to be of an unusually

fine order, rivalling those of his brother, and often eliciting the

admiration not only of himself, but of all the other students. In

speaking of his Williamstown life, Gen. Garfield always referred to

Prof. Hopkins in the most affectionate manner; and, both from his own

statements and my personal observation, I know that their mutual college

relations were of the pleasantest nature possible."

On the subject of perfection, you say I am looking for angelic

perfection. I see no difference in kind. Perfection is perfection to my

mind, and I have always thought it a dangerous thing for a soul to fancy

it had attained it. Yet, in her last letters to me, Miss ---- virtually

professes to have become free from sin. She says self and sin are the

same thing, and that she is entirely dead to self. What is this but

complete sanctification? What can an angel say more? I feel painfully

bewildered amid conflicting testimonies, and sometimes long to flee away

from everybody. Miss ----'s last letter saddened me, I will own.

You say, "I am in danger of becoming morbid, or stupid, or wild, or

something I ought not." Why in danger? According to your own doctrine

you are safe; being "entirely sanctified from moment to moment." At any

rate I can say nothing "to quicken" you, for I _am_ morbid and stupid,

though just now not wild. Those sharp temptations have ceased, though

perhaps only for a season; but I have been physically weakened by them,

and have got to take care of myself, go to bed early, and vegetate all

I can--and this when I ought to be hard at work ministering to other

souls. The fact is, I don't know anything and don't do anything, but

just get through the day somehow, wondering what all this strange,

unfamiliar state of things will end in. Poor M---- has gone crazy on

"Holiness through Faith," and will probably have to go to an asylum....

Our little home looks and is very pleasant. I take some comfort in it,

and try to realise the goodness that gives me such a luxury. But a soul

that has known what it is to live to Christ can be _happy_ only in Him.

May He be all in all to you, and consciously so to me in His own good

time.

_To Miss Woolsey, Dorset, June 23, 1872._

I wish you could come and take a look at us this quiet afternoon. Not

a soul is to be seen or heard; the mountains are covered with the soft

haze that says the day is warm but not oppressive, and here and there a

brilliantly colored bird flies by, setting "Tweedle Dum," our taciturn

canary, into tune. M. and I have driven at our out-door work like a pair

of steam-engines, and you can imagine how dignified I am from the fact

that an old fuddy-duddy who does occasional jobs for me, summons me to

my window by a "Hullo!" beneath it, while G. says to us, "Where are you

girls going to sit this afternoon?"

Your sister's allusion to Watts and Select Hymns reminds me of ages long

past, when I used to sing the whole book through as I marched night

after night through my room, carrying a colicky baby up and down for

fifteen months, till I became a living skeleton. We do contrive to live

through queer experiences.

_To a young Friend, Dorset, Aug. 3, 1872._

The lines you kindly copied for me have the ring of the true metal and I

like them exceedingly. People make too much parade of their troubles and

too much fuss about them; the fact is we are all born to tribulation, as

we also are to innumerable joys, and there is no sense in being too

much depressed or elated by either. "The saddest birds a season find to

sing." Few if any lives flow in unmingled currents. As to myself, my

rural tastes are so strong, and I have so much to absorb and gratify

me, that I _need_ a mixture of experience. Two roses that bloomed in my

garden this morning, made my heart leap with delight, and when I get

off in the woods with M., and we collect mosses and ferns and scarlet

berries, I am conscious of great enjoyment in them. At the same time,

if I thought it best to tell the other side of the story, I should want

some very black ink with which to do it. We must take life as God gives

it to us, without murmurings and disputings, and with the checks on our

natural eagerness that keeps us mindful of Him.

You speak of the "Higher Life people." I still hold my judgment in

suspense in regard to their doctrines, reading pretty much all they send

me, and asking daily for light from on high. I have had some talks this

summer with Dr. Stearns on these subjects, and he urges me to keep where

I am, but I try not to be too much influenced for or against doctrines I

do not, by experience, understand. Let us do the will of God (and suffer

it) and we shall learn of the doctrine.

_To Mrs. Washburn, Kauinfels, Friday Evening, (September, 1872)._

I have done nothing but tear my hair ever since you left, to think I let

you go. It would have been so easy to send you to Manchester to-morrow

morning, after a night here, and an evening over our little wood-fire,

but we were so glad to see you both, so bewildered by your sudden

appearance, that neither of us thought of it till you were gone. And

now you are still within reach, and we want you to reconsider your

resolution to turn your backs upon us after such a long, fatiguing

journey, and eating no salt with us. I did not urge your staying because

I do so hate to be urged myself. But I want you to feel what a great

pleasure it would be to us if you could make up your minds to stay at

least over Sunday, or if to-morrow and Sunday are unpleasant, just a day

or two more, to take our favorite drives with us, and give us what you

may never have a chance to give us again. I declare I shall think you

are crazy, if you don't stay a few days, now that you are here. We have

been longing to have you come, and only waiting for our place to be a

little less naked in order to lay violent hands on you; but now you have

seen the nakedness of the land, we don't care, but want you to see more

of it. This is the time, and _exactly_ the time, when we have nothing

to do but to enjoy our visitors, and next year the house may be running

over. And if you don't come now, you'll have the plague of having to

come some other time, and it is a long, formidable journey.

Why _didn't_ we just take and lock you up when we had hold of you! Well,

now I've torn out _all_ my hair, and people will be saying, "Go up, thou

bald-head." Besides--you left them bunch-berries! and do you suppose you

can go home without them? Why, it wouldn't be safe. You would be run off

the track, and scalded by steam, and broken all to pieces, and caught on

the cow-catcher, and get lost, and be run away with, and even struck by

lightning, I shouldn't wonder. And now if you go in to-morrow's train

you'll catch the small-pox and the measles and the scarlet fever and the

yellow fever, and all the colors-in-the-rainbow fever, and go into a

consumption and have the pleurisy, and the jaundice and the tooth-ache

and the headache, and, above all, the conscience-ache. And you never ate

any of our corn or our beans! You never so much as asked the receipt for

our ironclads! You haven't seen our cow. You haven't been down cellar.

You haven't fished in our brook. You haven't been here at all, now I

come to think of it. I dreamed you flew through, but it was nothing

_but_ a dream. And the houses have a habit of burning down, and ours is

going to do as the rest do, and then how'll you feel in your minds? And

when folks set themselves up against us, and won't let us have our own

way, why then "I tell my daughter

What _makes_ folks do as they'd oughter not,

And why _don't_ they do as they'd oughter?"

And we all pine away and die like the babes in the woods, and nobody's

left to cover us up with leaves. Send all these arguments home by

telegram, and your folks will shoot you if you dare to go. I could write

another sheet if it would do any good. Now do lay my words to heart, and

come right back.

_To Miss Morse, Dorset, Oct. 7, 1872._

I sent home my servants a month ago, and they have been getting the

parsonage to rights, while I have in their places two dear old souls who

came to live with me twenty years ago. One stayed ten years and then got

married, the other I parted with when my children died because I did

not need her. It has been a green spot in the summer to have these

affectionate, devoted creatures in the house. We have had only one

slight frost, but the woods have been gradually changing, and are in

spots very beautiful. We (you know what that word means) have been off

gathering bright leaves for ourselves and the servants, who care for

pretty things just as we do. Yet not a flower has gone; we have had a

host of verbenas and gladioli, some Japanese lilies, and so on, and have

been able to give some pleasure to those who have not time to cultivate

them for themselves. It has been a dreadful season for sickness here,

and flowers have been wanted in many a sick-room, and at some funerals.

Since I wrote you last "we" have been to Williamstown. I wanted to get

possession of my sister's private papers. Everything passed off nicely;

I burned a large amount and brought away a trunk full, a part of which I

have been reading with deep interest. Her journals date back to the age

of fifteen, though to read the early ones you would never dream of her

being less than twenty or thirty. She was a wonderful woman, and as

I found such ample material for a memorial of her life, I felt half

tempted to carry out her husband's wishes and complete one. But on the

whole I do not think I shall. You can imagine how my soul has been

stirred by the whole thing; the farewell to the familiar objects of

my childhood, the sense of a new race taking possession of her

conservatory, her shells, her minerals, her pictures, her German,

French, Italian, Spanish, Latin, Hebrew and Greek library--dear me! but

I need not enlarge on it to you. And how stupid it is not to forget it

all alongside of her ten years in heaven!

[1] "Especially after a time of some special seasons of grace, and some

special new supplies of grace, received in such seasons, (as after the

holy sacrament), then will he set on most eagerly, when he knows of the

richest booty. The pirates that let the ships pass as they go by empty,

watch them well, when they return richly laden; so doth this great

Pirate."--Archbishop Leighton, on I Peter, v. 8.

[2] "Cynegvius, a valiant Athenian, being in a great sea-fight against

the Medes, espying a ship of the enemy's well manned, and fitted for

service, when no other means would serve, he grasped it with his hands

to maintain the fight; and when his right hand was cut off, he held

close with his left; but both hands being taken off, he held it fast

with his teeth."

[3] The following lines found on one of its blank pages were written

perhaps at this time:

Precious companion! rendered dear

By trial-hours of many a year,

I love thee with a tenderness

Which words have never yet defined.

When tired and sad and comfortless,

With aching heart and weary mind,

How oft thy words of promise stealing

Like Gilead's balm-drops--soft and low.

Have touched the heart with power of healing,

And soothed the sharpest hour of woe.

[4] A friend writing to Mrs. Prentiss, under date of September 24, 1872,

refers to Lady Stanley's high praise of The Story Lizzie Told, and then

adds: "You must be so accustomed to friendly 'notices'--so almost bored

by them--that I hesitate to tell you of meeting another admirer of yours

in the person of Mrs. ----, of Philadelphia, who was indebted to you for

the return of a little text-book. She means to call on you some day, if

she is ever in New York, to thank you in person for that act of kindness

of yours, and for your 'Stepping Heavenward.' She is a daughter of the

late Chief Justice of Pennsylvania. Her mother, a staunch old Scotch

lady over 80, has just returned from Europe. Mrs. ---- is a very

interesting woman, of warm religious feelings and very outspoken. She

was the companion of the famous Mrs. H., of Philadelphia, all through

the war,--as one of the independent workers, or perhaps in connection

with the Christian Commission. She witnessed the battle of

Chancellorsville--a part of it at Mary's Heights, and has told me a

great deal that was thrilling--told as _she_ tells it--even at this

late day. She has the profoundest belief in what is called the 'work of

faith' by prayer and I don't believe she would shrink from accepting

Prof. Tyndall's challenge."

[5] From the "Power of the Cross of Christ."

[6] "Briefe an eine Freundin," a remarkable little book, full of light

and sweetness.

[7] Praying before others.

[8] Since the warning we had the other day that we may be snatched from

our children, ought we not to try to form some plan for them in case of

such an emergency? I can't account for it, that in those fearful moments

I thought only of them. I should have said I ought to have had some

thought of the world we seemed to be hurrying to. I suppose there was

the instinctive yet blind sense that the preparation for the next life

had been made for us by the Lord, and that, as far as that life was

concerned, we had nothing to do but to enter it. I shudder when I think

what a desolate home this might be to-day. Poor things! they've got

everything before them, without one experience and discipline!--_From a

letter to her husband, dated Dorset, Sept. 17, 1871._

[9] The Presence of Christ. Lectures on the XXIII. Psalm. By Anthony W.

Thorold, Lord Bishop of Rochester. A. D. F. Randolph & Co.

[10] Albert Hopkins was born in Stockbridge, Mass., July 14,1807. He

was graduated at Williams College in the class of 1826, and three years

later became Professor of Mathematics and Natural Philosophy in the same

institution. Astronomy was afterward added to his chair. In 1834 he

went abroad. In the summer of 1835 he organised and conducted a Natural

History expedition to Nova Scotia, the first expedition of the kind in

this country. Two years later he built at his own expense, and in

part by the labor of his own hands, the astronomical observatory at

Williamstown. In this also, it is said, in advance of all others erected

exclusively for purposes of instruction. He was a devoted and profound

student, as well as an accomplished teacher, of natural science. But he

was still more distinguished for his piety and his religious influence

in the college. Hundreds of students in successive classes learned

to love and revere him as a holy man of God--many of them as their

spiritual father. The history of American colleges affords probably no

instance of a happier, or more remarkable, union of true science with

that personal holiness and zeal for God, by which hearts are won for

Christ. Full of faith and of the Holy Ghost, he did the work of an

evangelist for more than forty years--not in the college only, but all

over the town. During the last six years of his life he devoted himself

especially to the White Oaks--a district in the north-east part of

Williamstown-which had long before excited his sympathy on account of

the poverty, vice, and degradation which marked the neighborhood. He

identified himself with the population by buying and carrying on a small

farm among them. He also established a Sunday-school, and then he built

with the aid of friends a tasteful chapel, which was dedicated in

October, 1866. Later "the Church of Christ in the White Oaks" was

organised, and here, as his failing strength allowed, he preached and

labored the rest of his days.

Prof. Hopkins was an enthusiastic lover of nature. A few years before

his death he organised a society called "The Alpine Club," composed

chiefly of young ladies, with whom, as their chosen leader, he made

excursions summer after summer--camping out often among the hills. He

took them to many a picturesque nook and retreat, of which they had

never heard, in the mountains near by. He also explored with them other

interesting and remoter portions of northern Berkshire, and interpreted

to them on the spot the thoughts of God, as they appeared in the

infinitely varied and beautiful details of His works. In these

excursions he seemed as young as any of his young companions, with

feelings as fresh and joyous as theirs. In earlier years he was a very

grave man, with something of the old Puritan sternness in his looks and

ways, and he bore still the aspect of a homo gravis; but his gentleness,

his tender devotion to the gay young companions who surrounded him, and

the almost boyish delight with which he shared in their pleasures, took

away all its sternness and lighted up his strongly-marked countenance

with singular grace and beauty. In these closing years of his life he

was, indeed, the ideal of a ripe and noble Christian manhood. His name

is embalmed in the memory of a great company of his old pupils, now

scattered far and wide, from the White House at Washington to the

remotest corners of the earth.

P.S.--This was written soon after the inauguration of Gen. Garfield, to

whom allusion is made. His high regard for the venerable ex-President of

Williams College--the Rev. Dr. Mark Hopkins--he made known to the whole

country, but the younger brother was also the object of his warmest

esteem and love, and the feeling was heartily reciprocated. Nearly a

score of years ago, when he was just emerging into public notice from

the bloody field of Chickamauga, Prof. Hopkins spoke of him to the

writer in terms so full of praise and so prophetic of his future

career, that they seem in perfect harmony with the sentiment at once of

admiration and poignant grief which to-day moves the heart of the whole

American people--yea, one might almost say, which is inspiring all

Christendom.--_Saturday, Sept. 24, 1881._