CHAPTER XV.

FOREVER WITH THE LORD.

1878.

"But a bound into home immortal, And blessed, blessed years."

I.

Enters upon her last Year on Earth. A Letter about The Home at Greylock.

Her Motive in writing Books. Visit to the Aquarium. About "Worry." Her

Painting. Saturday Afternoons with her. What she was to her Friends.

Resemblance to Madame de Broglie. Recollections of a Visit to East

River. A Picture of her by an old Friend. Goes to Dorset. Second Advent

Doctrine. Last Letters.

Mrs. Prentiss crossed the threshold of her last year on earth with hands

and thoughts still unusually busied. Her weekly Bible-reading, painting

in oils and in water-colors, needle-work, and other household duties,

left her no idle moment. "My fire is so full of irons," she wrote, "that

I do not know which one to take out." Nor was her heart less busy than

her hands and brain. Twice in January, once in February, and again in

April, death invaded the circle of her friends; and when her friends

were in trouble she was always in trouble, too. [1] These deaths led to

earnest talk with her husband on the mystery of earthly existence, and

on the power of faith in Christ to sustain the soul in facing its great

trials. "I am filled with ever fresh wonder at this amazing power," she

said. Such subjects always interested her deeply; never more so than at

this time, when, although she knew it not, her feet were drawing so near

to the pearly gates.

The keynote of her being throughout this last winter was one of unwonted

seriousness. A certain startling intensity of thought and feeling showed

itself every now and then. It was painfully evident that she was under

a severe strain, both physical and mental. Again and again, as spring

advanced, the anxiety of her husband was aroused to the highest pitch by

what seemed to him indications that the unresting, ever-active spirit

was fast wearing away the frail body. At times, too, there was a

light in her eye and in her face an "unearthly, absolutely angelic

expression"--to use her own words about her little Bessie, six and

twenty years before--that filled him with a strange wonder, and which,

after her departure, he often recalled as prophetic of the coming event

and the glory that should follow.

But while to his ear an undertone of unusual seriousness, deepening

ever and anon into a strain of the sweetest tenderness and pathos, ran

through her life during all these early months of 1878, there was little

change in its outward aspect. She was often gay and full as ever of

bright, playful fancies. Never busier, so was she never more eager to

be of service to her friends--and never was she more loving to her

children, or more thoughtful of their happiness. She proposed for their

gratification and advantage to write four new books, one for each

of them, provided only they and their father would furnish her with

subjects. The plan seemed to please her greatly, and, had she been

spared, would probably have been carried into effect--for it was

just the sort of stimulus she needed to set her mind in action. Once

furnished with a subject, her pen, as has been said before, always moved

with the utmost ease and rapidity. But while she wrote very easily, she

did not write without reflection. 'She had a keen sense of character in

all its phases, and her individual portraits, like those of Katy, Mrs.

Grey and Margaret, Aunt Avery and Kezia Millet, were worked out with the

utmost care, the result of years of observation and study being embodied

in them.

And here, in passing, it may not be out of place to dwell for an instant

upon her motives and experience as an author. From first to last she

wrote, not to get gain or to win applause, but to do good; and herein

she had her reward, good measure, pressed down and running over. But of

that kind of reward which gratifies literary taste and ambition, she had

almost none. Her books, even those most admired by the best judges, and

which had the widest circulation, both at home and abroad, attracted but

little attention from the press. The organs of literary intelligence and

criticism scarcely noticed them at all. Nor is it known that any attempt

was ever made to analyse any of her more striking characters, or to

point out the secret of her power and success as a writer. To be sure,

she had never sought or counted upon this sort of recognition; and yet

that she was keenly alive to a word of discriminating praise, will

appear from a letter to Mrs. Condict, dated Jan. 20th:

The burglary was on this wise, as far as we know. One man stood on the

front steps, and another slipped the hasp to one of the parlor windows,

stepped in, took a very valuable French clock, given me on my silver-

wedding day, and all the hats and overcoats from the hall. This was all

they had time to do before our night-watchman came round; they left

the window wide open, and at 4 A.M. Pat rang the bell and informed Mr.

Prentiss that such was the case. We feel it a great mercy that we were

not attacked and maltreated. Poor A. was sitting up in bed, hearing what

was going on, but being alone on the third floor, did not dare to move.

I have just finished a short story called Gentleman Jim, which I am

going to send to Scribner's; very likely it will get overlooked and

lost. I received, not long ago, a letter from Mr. Cady [2] about

Greylock, which he had just read. It was a gratification to both my

husband and myself, as the most discriminating letter I ever received;

and after the first rush of pleasure, the Evil One troubled me, off and

on, for two or three hours, but at last I reminded him that I long ago

chose to cast in my lot with the people of God, and so be off the line

of human notice or applause, and that I was glad I had been enabled to

do it, since literary ambition is unbecoming a Christian woman. There

are 500 other things I should say, if you were here!

The following is a part of the letter referred to: The day after "New

Year's" I was visited with a severe cold and general prostration that

has kept me in my bed--_giving me time!_ As soon as I was strong enough

to read I had "The Home" brought. After reading it I felt I ought to

tell you how deeply I was impressed with the usefulness, excellence, and

spirit of the book. As to its usefulness, you are to be envied; to have

brought light, as I believe you have, to a large number of people upon

the most precious and vital interests of life, is something worth living

and suffering for. The good sense, wisdom, experience, and Christian

faith embodied in it must make it a strong helper and friend to many a

home in trouble and to many perplexed and discouraged hearts, who will

doubtless rise up some day to call you "blessed."

Though you cared less about the manner than the matter, I was impressed

by its literary qualities. The scene at the death of Mrs. Grey and

parting of herself and Margaret is as highly artistic and beautiful

as anything I can think of. The contrast of good and bad, or good and

indifferent, is common enough; but the contrast of what is noble and

what is "saintly" is something infinitely higher and subtler. I can't

imagine anything more exquisitely tender and beautiful than Mrs. Grey's

departure, but it is the more realised by the previous action of

Margaret. The few lines in which this is told bring their whole

character--in each case--vividly before you. But I see that if the book

had previously to this point been differently written it would have been

impossible to have rendered this scene so remarkably impressive. The

story of "Eric" is extremely quaint and charming; it is a vein I am not

familiar with in your writings. It is a little classic. This quaint

child's story and the death of Mrs. Grey affect me as a fine work of art

affects one, whenever I recall them. The trite saying is still true, "A

thing of beauty is a joy forever."

You know children complain of some sweets that they leave a bad

taste--and works of fiction often do with me. I feel tired and

dissatisfied after I have passed out of their excitements; but the

heavenly atmosphere of this book left me better; I know that the Blessed

Spirit must have influenced you in the writing of it, and I doubt not

His blessing will accompany its teachings.

Now will you excuse this blotty letter--written in bed--and accept my

thanks for all the good your book has done me.

The following is her reply:

DEAR MR. CADY:--Your letter afforded me more satisfaction than I know

how to explain. It is true that I made up my mind, as a very young girl,

to keep out of the way of literary people, so as to avoid literary

ambition. Nor have I regretted that decision. Yet the human nature is

not dead in me, and my instincts still crave the kind of recognition

you have given me. I have had heaps of letters from all parts of this

country, England, Scotland, Ireland, Germany, and Switzerland, about my

books, till I have got sick and tired of them. And the reason I tired of

them was, that in most cases there was no discrimination. People liked

their religious character, and of course I wanted them to do so. But you

appreciate and understand everything in Greylock, and have, therefore,

gratified my husband and myself. Not a soul out of this house, for

instance, has ever so much as alluded to my little Eric, except one

friend who said, "We thought that part of the book forced, and supposed

A. wrote it." Nobody has ever alluded to Margaret, save yourself.

I hoped a sequel to the book might be called for, when I meant to

elaborate her character. Still, it would have been very hard.... I am

not sorry that I chose the path in life I did choose. A woman should not

live for, or even desire, fame. This is yet more true of a Christian

woman. If I had not steadily suppressed all such ambition, I might have

become a sour, disappointed woman, seeing my best work unrecognised. But

it has been my wish to

"Dare to be little and unknown,

Seen and loved by God alone."

Your letter for a few hours, did stir up what I had always trampled

down; but only for that brief period, and then I said to myself, God has

only taken me at my word; I have asked Him, a thousand times, to make me

smaller and smaller, and crowd the self out of me by taking up all the

room Himself. There is so much of that work yet to be done, that I

wonder He ventures to make so many lines fall to me in pleasant places,

and that I have such a goodly heritage. I trust He will bless you for

your labor of love to me.

I do not like the idea of your buying my books. Greylock being for

mothers, I never dreamed of men reading it. Have you had The Story

Lizzie Told, Six Little Princesses, The Little Preacher, and Nidworth?

Neither of these is really a child's book, and the next time you are

sick, if you have not read them, I shall love to send them to you. If

this is conceit, I have the effrontery not to be a mite ashamed of it!

The following notes to Mrs. Fisher show how pleasantly she sympathised

with her teacher as a young mother, while taking lessons of and admiring

her as an artist:

NEW YORK, _February 4, 1878._

What a relief to have the days come long again! On Saturday I found in

A.'s portfolio a study you lent her; exquisite ferns behind the fallen

trunk of a tree, and a tiny group of orange-colored toad-stools. I will

send it with its two lovely sisters, when I get through with them. I

wish you could get time to come to see me, or that I could get time to

go to see you. But it is my unlucky nature to have a great many irons in

the fire at once. I am glad your baby keeps well, and hope he will grow

up to be a great comfort to you.

_Feb. 23d._--I have just received your letter. I have my hands full and

there is no need to hurry you.

As to "worry" not being of faith, I do not suppose it is. But a young

mother can not be _all_ faith. I do not envy people who love so lightly

that they have no wringing out of the heart when they lose their dear

ones; nor can I understand her who says she can sit and read the

newspaper, while her babies are crying. "None are so old as they who

have outlived enthusiasm"; and who should be enthusiastic if a mother

may not? I don't think God has laid it up against me that I nearly

killed myself for the sake of my babies, because when He took two away

within three months of each other, my faith in Him did not falter....

Dear Mrs. Fisher, if you love God nothing but His best things will ever

come to you. This is the experience of a very young, old woman, and I

hope it will comfort you.

_April 21st._--Such a fight as I have had with your exquisite studies,

and how I have been beaten! I failed entirely in the golden-rod, and do

not get the brilliant yellow of the mullein flower; one could not easily

fail on the saggitarius, and the clover was tolerable. I think I will

take no more lessons at present, as I have much to do in getting another

boy fitted for college. After I get settled at Dorset I want to make a

desperate effort to paint from nature, and if I have any success, send

to you for criticism. "Fools rush in where angels fear to tread," and I

am afraid you will be disgusted with my work, which will be in the dark,

since I have had no instruction in copying nature.... Perhaps you may

put alongside of the rejection of your picture a lady's telling me about

one of my books into which I had thrown an experience of the last thirty

years of my life, "There was nothing in it." "Il faut souffrir pour etre

belle." As long as memory lasts I shall rejoice that I have seen and

studied your work.

I remember what a splendid fellow your baby was a year ago. It will

depend on your maternal prayers and discipline whether he grows up to be

your comfort.

A few extracts from her letters will give further glimpses of the manner

in which she passed these closing months of her life in New York--

especially of her delight in the weekly Bible-reading. One of the ladies

who attended it, thus refers to that exercise:

You remember that for one or two years she was a member of a small

circle, that met weekly for Bible-study. When the leader of this circle

removed from the city, Mrs. Prentiss was urgently requested to become

its teacher, and she consented to do so. For the last four years of

her life she threw her whole soul into this exercise. Every week the

appointed morning found her surrounded by a little group of from eight

to fifteen, each with an open Bible and all intent less to analyse

the word of God than to feed upon it and "grow thereby." And what a

wonderful teacher she was! Not neglectful of any helps that dictionary

or commentator might give, her chief source of light was none of these,

but was received in answer to the promise, "If any man will do the will

of God he shall know of the doctrine." She wished the service to be

entirely informal, and that each one present should do her part to aid

in the study. This brought out diverse views and different standards of

opinion. Here her keen intellect, her warm heart, the rich stores of her

experience and her "sanctified common sense" all found play, and many

of the words that fell from her lips dwell in the memory as little

less than inspired. The last winter of this service showed some marked

differences from previous years. As eager as ever to have questions

asked and answered by others, yet from the moment she commenced to speak

she scarcely paused till the hour was finished, her eyes sparkling and

her whole manner intensely earnest. Often those words of the Psalmist

passed through my mind, _The zeal of Thy house hath eaten me up._ Her

love for her work and zeal in doing it were visibly consuming her. At

the last meeting I asked her if she should commence the Bible-reading at

Dorset immediately. She said no, she must rest a little; she would wait

till her garden was made. When next I heard from her flowers and her

Bible-study she had made the "bound into home immortal." And all who

loved her must rejoice with her; else have we failed to learn one of the

clearest lessons of her life: _For me to live is Christ, and to die is

gain._

_To Mrs. Condict, Feb. 14, 1878._

Is it possible I had portiére on the brain when I wrote you last? I

thought I had just caught the disease. I am very fond of needle-work,

but for years have nearly abandoned it, because I could not thread my

needle. But the portiére is made with a large worsted needle and will

give me pleasant work for the evening. I am getting my hand in on a

contumacious closet door that won't stay open in my bedroom....

Imitation Macaroni,

By the author of Pemaquid:

Boil hominy overnight. Next day's dinner prepare like macaroni, with a

little milk and grated cheese and bake. Good for a change and cheaper.

_March 9th._--What an improvement on the old fashion of _reading_

the Bible is the present _search_ of the Word! It is, as you say,

fascinating work. I have just given M. an admirable book called

"Emphatic Diaglott," being the Greek Testament with a literal

translation; still even that can be misunderstood by one who has a false

theory to sustain. The spiritual conflicts I have passed through have

been a blessing, as I am beginning to see; I can understand better _how_

such conflicts may prepare one for work. This afternoon I have, as

usual, been getting ready for the Wednesday reading, and as I was

requested to speak of the Holy Spirit, have been poring over the Bible

and am astonished at the frequency and variety of passages in which

He is spoken of. But I feel painfully unfit to guide even this little

circle of women, and would be so glad to sit as a learner.

Some of the children were going, last Friday night, to see the Aquarium,

and some educated horses and dogs there, and they persuaded me to go.

The performance was wonderful, but I could not help thinking of all

these poor animals had gone through in learning all these incredible

feats; each horse responding to his own name, each dog barking in

response to his; two dogs hanging a third, cutting him down, when he lay

apparently dead, other dogs driving in, in a cart, and carrying away the

body; others waltzing on their hind legs, and others jumping the rope.

Two horses played see-saw, and one rolled a barrel up an inclined plane

with his fore legs; he _hated_ to do it. But the marvellous fishes and

sea-flowers charmed me most.

_To Mrs. Reed, New York, March 13, 1878._

... I have had a busy winter. We had a variety of losses, and I

undertook, therefore, to manufacture Reed, most of my Christmas

gifts, which were, chiefly, umbrella racks; this took time. Then my

Bible-reading uses up pretty much one day. I never felt so unfit for

it, or more determined to keep it up as long as one would come. Besides

that, I have read and painted more or less and sewed a good deal; on the

whole, have had more vacation than work, at least one looking on would

say so. But we all lead two lives, and one of them is penetrated and

understood by no mortal eye. I heard such a sermon from Dr. Bevan last

Sunday night on the text, "They saw God and did eat and drink." He

divided mankind into four classes: Those who do eat and drink and do not

see God; those who do not see Him and do not eat and drink; those who

see Him and do not eat and drink (he handled them tenderly); and those

who see Him and yet eat and drink. I hope I have made its outline plain

to you. It took hold of me.

_To Mrs. Donaghe, New York, April 26, 1878._

I am living my life among breakings-up; you gone, Mrs. Smith about to

flee to Northampton, and our neighbor Miss W. storing her furniture and

probably leaving New York for good. On the other hand, M. spends most of

her time in helping Mr. and Mrs. Talbot get to rights in apartments they

have just taken. Mr. T., as I suppose you know, is pastor of our Mission

and as good as gold. God has been pleased greatly to bless two ladies,

who attend the Bible-reading, and I am sure He loves to have us study

His Word. The more I dig into it the richer I find it, and I have had

some delightful hours this winter in preparing for my Wednesday work.

There is to be a Women's Exchange in this city, where everything

manufactured by them (except underclothing) will be exposed for sale;

embroidery, pickles, preserves, confectionery, and articles rejected by

the Society of Decorative Art. I hope it will be a success, and help

many worthy women, all over the land, to help themselves.... I find it

hard to consent to your having, at your age, to flit about from home to

home, but a loving Father has a mansion for you beyond all the changes

and chances of this strange complicated life. If He gives you His

presence, that will be a home. I wish you could visit us at Dorset.

A visit to Dorset was afterward arranged, and one of Mrs. Prentiss' last

letters was addressed to this old friend, giving her directions how to

get there. [3]

_To Mrs. Condict, New York, May 6, 1878._ My last Bible-reading, or

rather one of the last, was on prayer; as I could not do justice to

it in one reading, I concluded to make a resumé of the whole subject.

Though I devoted all the readings to this topic last summer, yet it

loomed up wonderfully in this resumé. Last week the subject was "the

precious blood of Christ," and in studying up the word "precious" I

lighted on these lovely verses, Deut. xxxiii. 13-16. Since I began to

_study_ the Bible, it often seems like a new book. And that passage

thrilled the ladies, as a novelty. I am to have but one more reading.

The last sermon I heard was on lying. That is not one of my besetting

sins, but, on the other hand, I push the truth too far, haggling about

evils better let alone. A. has just finished a splendid placque to

order; a Japanese figure, with exquisite foliage in black and grey as

background. I have a widow lady every Saturday to paint with me; she has

a large family, limited means, and delicate health; and I want to aid

her all I can. She enjoys these afternoons so much, and is doing so

well.

The lady herself thus recalls these afternoons:

How dearly I should love to add but one little flower to her wreath of

immortelles! I cherish memories of her as among the pleasantest of my

life. I recall her room so bright and cheery, just like herself, and all

the incidents of those Saturday afternoons. When she first asked me to

paint with her, I thought it very kind, but with her multiplicity of

cares, felt it must be burdensome to her, and that possibly she would

even forget the invitation, and so I hesitated about going. But when the

week came round everything was made ready to give me a cordial welcome.

Again and again I found my chair, palette and other materials waiting

for me, while she sat in her little nook, busy as a bee over some

painting of her own.

One day, passing about the room, I saw on her book-shelves, arranged

with order and precision, nine little butter plates in the form of

pansies. I uttered an exclamation of delight, and she from her corner,

with the artlessness of a child, said, "I _put_ them there for you to

see." Another time she sprang up with her quick, light step, and ran to

the yard to fetch a flower for me to copy, apparently thoughtless of two

flights of stairs to tax her strength. Sometimes she would read to me

verses of poetry that pleased her. Once I remember her throwing herself

at my feet, and when I stopped to listen to the reading, she said, "Oh,

go right on with your painting." Now she would relate some amusing

anecdote that almost convulsed me with laughter, and then again speak of

some serious theme with such earnestness of feeling! She was eager to

give of her store of strength and cheer to others, but the store seemed

inexhaustible. The more she gave, the more one felt that there was

enough and to spare. I looked forward to my little weekly visit as to an

oasis in the desert; not that all else was bleak, but that spot seemed

to me so very refreshing and attractive.

Little did I think, when she loaded me down that last day with all I

could carry, then ran down to the parlor to show me some choice articles

there which she knew would give me pleasure--little did I think that I

should see her again no more! Not a day passed after leaving her that

she was not an inspiration to me. While painting a wayside flower I

would think, "Mrs. Prentiss would like this"--or, "In the fall I must

show that to Mrs. Prentiss." Even in my dreams she was present with me,

and one morning, only a little while before she passed from us, I waked

with a heavy burden upon my spirits--for it seemed to me as if she were

gone. The impression was so strong that I spoke of it at the time, and

for days could not throw it off. But at last, saying to myself, "Oh,

it is only a dream," I answered her little note, making, of course, no

reference to my strange feelings in regard to her. Her letter, by a

singular mistake, is dated "Kauinfels, _October_ 10, 1878," nearly two

months after she had fallen asleep. How just like her is this passage in

it: "I wish you could leave your little flock, and take some rest with

us. It would do you good, I am sure. Is it impossible? you do look so

tired." My letter in reply must have been one of the very last received

by her. In it I spoke of having just re-read Stepping Heavenward and

Aunt Jane's Hero, and of having enjoyed them almost as much as at the

first. This was, perhaps, one reason why she had been so constantly in

my thoughts. When the news came that she had left us, I was at first

greatly shocked and grieved--for I felt that I had lost no ordinary

friend--but when I considered how complete her life had been in all that

makes life noble and beautiful, and how meet it was that, having borne

the burden and heat of the day, she should now rest from her labors, it

seemed selfish to give way to sorrow and not rather to rejoice that she

had gone to be with Christ.

Scores of such grateful testimonies as this might be given. To all

who knew and loved her well, Mrs. Prentiss was "an inspiration." They

delighted to talk about her to each other and even to strangers. They

repeated her bright and pithy sayings. They associated her with favorite

characters in the books they read. The very thought of her wrought upon

them with gracious and cheering influence. An extract from a letter of

one of her old and dearest friends, written to her husband after her

death, will illustrate this:

On the very morning of her departure I had been conversing with my

physician about her. He spoke in admiration of her published works, and

I tried to give him a description of her personal characteristics. The

night before, in my hours of sleeplessness, I recounted the names

of friends who I thought had been most instrumental in moulding my

character, and Mrs. Prentiss led the list. How little did I dream that

already her feet had safely touched "the shining shore"! In all the

three and thirty years of our acquaintance I loved her DEARLY and

reverenced her most deeply; but between us there was such a gulf that I

always felt unworthy to touch even the hem of her garment. Whenever I

did touch it, strength and comfort were imparted to me. How much I was

indebted to her most tender sympathy and her prayers in my own great

sorrow, only another world will reveal. Is it not a little remarkable

that her last letter to me, written only a few weeks before her death,

closed with a benediction? I could go on talking about her without end;

for I have often said that there was more of her, and to her, and in

her, than belonged to any five women I ever knew. How exceedingly lovely

she was in her own home! I remember you once said to me, "The greatest

charm of my wife is, after all, her perfect naturalness." All who knew

her, must have recognised the same winning characteristic. She was

always fresh and always new--for she had "the well-spring of wisdom as

a flowing brook." ... Were you not struck, in reading Thomas Erskine's

letters on the death of Madame de Broglie, by the wonderful likeness

between her and dear Mrs. Prentiss? Twin sisters could scarcely have

resembled each other more perfectly. Such passages as the following

quite startled me:

Her friendship has been to me a great gift. She has been a witness to me

for God, a voice crying in the wilderness. She has been a warner and a

comforter. I have seen her continually thirsting after a spiritual union

with God. I have heard the voice of her heart crying after God out from

the midst of all things which make this life pleasant and satisfying....

She had all the gifts of mind and character--intelligence, imagination,

nobleness, and thoughts that wandered through eternity. She had a heart

fitted for friendship, and she had friends who could appreciate her; but

God suffered her not to find rest in these things, her ear was open to

His own paternal voice, and she became His child, in the way that the

world is not and knoweth not. I see her before me, her loving spirit

uttering itself through every feature of her beautiful and animated

countenance.... There was an unspeakable charm about her. She had a

truth and simplicity of character, which one rarely finds even in

the highest order of men. I know nobody like her now. I hope to pass

eternity with her. It is wonderful to think what a place she has

occupied in my life since I became acquainted with her.

You know it is my belief that we become better acquainted with our

friends after they have passed on "within the veil." And may it not

be that they become better acquainted with us, too, loving us more

perfectly and forgiving all that has been amiss? [4]

_To her eldest son, New York, May 12, 1878._

This is your father's birthday, and I have given him, to his great

delight, a Fairbanks postal scale. His twenty-years-old one would not

weigh newspapers or books, and it is time for an improvement on it.

On Thursday evening there was a festival at our church in aid of sick

mission children. Everybody was there with their children, and it was

the nicest affair we ever had. M. and I went and enjoyed it ever so

much. I took between four and five dollars to spend, though I had given

between twenty and thirty to the mission, but did not get a chance to

spend much, as Mr. M. took me in charge and paid for everything I ate.

Your father and I rather expect to go to East River, Conn., tomorrow to

help Mrs. Washburn celebrate her seventieth birthday; but the weather is

so cold he doubts whether I had better go. A. went on a long drive on

Friday and brought back a host of wild flowers, which I tried with some

failure and some success to paint.

_May 19th._--We went to East River on Monday afternoon and came home on

Thursday, making a delightful visit. On Tuesday Mrs. W. and I went to

Norwich to see the Gilmans. I was very tired when we got back, and had

to go to bed at half-past seven. The next day it rained; so Mrs. W. and

I fell to painting. She became so interested in learning Mrs. Fisher's

system that she got up at five the next morning and worked two hours. In

the evening your father gave his lecture at a little club-room, got up

chiefly by Mr. and Mrs. Washburn at their own expense. It is just such

a room as I should like to build at Dorset. On Thursday morning Mrs.

W. took me out to drive through their own woods and dug up some wild

flowers for me. A. has a Miss Crocker, an artistic friend from Portland,

staying with her--a very nice, plucky girl. She wants me to let her take

my portrait. [5] H. is full of a story of a pious dog, who was only fond

of people who prayed, went to church regularly, and, when not prevented,

to all the neighborhood prayer-meetings, which were changed every week

from house to house; his only knowledge of where they would be held

being from Sunday notices from the pulpit! I believe this the more

readily because of Pharaoh's always going to my Bible-reading at Dorset

and never barking there, whereas if I went to the same house to call he

barked dreadfully.

We are constantly wondering what you boys will be. Good men, I hope, at

any rate. Good-night, with a kiss from your affectionate mother.

The substance of the following letter of Mrs. Washburn, giving an

account of the visit to East River, as also her impressions of Mrs.

Prentiss, was written in response to one received by her from an old

friend in Turk's Island: [6]

I am most thankful that we had that last visit from dear Mrs. Prentiss.

It was a rare favor to us that she came. Her health was very delicate,

and a slight deviation from the regular routine of home life was apt to

give her sleepless nights. Dr. P. had sent us word that he was going to

be in New Haven, and would give us a call before returning to New York.

We' were overjoyed at the prospect of seeing him, and wrote immediately

begging Mrs. Prentiss to come with him. She, ever ready to sacrifice her

own ease for the sake of giving pleasure to others, and knowing that the

15th of May would be my 70th anniversary, and that I perfectly longed to

see her, took the risk of personal suffering upon herself to satisfy my

earnest desire, and came. They arrived on the 13th in the late afternoon

train. She was so bright and cheerful it was difficult to notice any

traces of the weariness which she must have felt.

We passed a delightful evening, and as Dr. P. was to spend a part of the

next day in New Haven, we formed a plan for Mrs. Prentiss and me to

go to Norwich at the same time and make a brief visit to our mutual

friends, the Misses Gilman. Mr. Washburn telegraphed to them that we

were coming. On arriving at New London we found, to our dismay, that we

had been misinformed in regard to the trains, and that the one we had

taken did not connect with the one to Norwich, which had been gone two

hours. So there we were, left alone on the platform, strangers in the

place, with no means of either going on or returning. What should we do?

Our first thought was to procure, if possible, some conveyance to take

us to Norwich and back; but this we found could not be done, for want of

time, the distance between the two cities being fourteen miles or more.

Fortunately for us, a young lad appeared, who promised to take us to our

friends in Norwich, allow us half an hour to spend with them, and drive

to the station there in time for the return train to New London and East

River. He looked so honest and true that we felt we could trust him, and

we acceded to his terms at once. As soon as he could get his carriage

ready we started off on our untried way.

It began at the foot of a long hill, and continued up and down over a

succession of the same kind, with very rare exceptions of a level space

between them, through the whole distance. But the scenery was so varied

and beautiful, we thought if our only object in setting out had been a

drive, we could not have chosen one more charming. The weather was fine,

and dear Mrs. Prentiss in her happiest mood. As for me, nothing marred

my enjoyment but fear that the fatigue would be too much for her, and an

undercurrent of anxiety lest by some mishap we should fail to re-arrive

at the home-station in time to meet our husbands who would be waiting

for us. But if she had any such misgivings nothing in word or manner

betrayed it. So entire was her self-control, and so delicate her tact,

not to throw the faintest shadow across the wisdom of my precipitate

arrangements. She was as happy as a bird all the way, and talked

delightfully.

We found our friends had been in a state of great excitement on our

account, having received the telegram, and knowing that we had taken the

wrong train; so that our unexpected arrival was greeted with even more

than their usual cordiality; and they were specially gratified to see

Mrs. Prentiss, who almost without looking, discovered a hundred beauties

in and around their lovely home, which it would have taken the eyes of

an ordinary guest a week to notice. The very shortness of our time to

stay, intensified our enjoyment while it lasted. Our half hour was soon

over, and we came away with our hands full of flowers and our hearts as

full of love.

We arrived in good time and met our husbands waiting for us at the

station. Dear Mrs. Prentiss did not appear to be very much fatigued

while recounting in her inimitably pleasant manner the various

experiences of the day. A restful night prepared her for the quiet

enjoyments of the next day, which we spent mostly at home, merely making

short calls in the morning on my two sisters, and slowly driving, or

rather, as I call it, "taking a walk in the buggy," through the woods,

stopping every few minutes to look at, or gather ferns or mosses or

budding wild flowers that could not escape her beauty-loving eye. The

afternoon we remained in the house, occupied with our pencils. She

painted a spray of trailing arbutus, talking while she was doing it, as

nobody else could, about things beloved and fair. Our darling Julia was

with us, completely charmed with her, and as busy as we, trying with her

little hands to make pictures as pretty as ours.

In the evening Dr. P. gave his most interesting lecture on

"Recollections of Hurstmonceaux" in our reading-room; but Mrs. Prentiss

was not able to go, which I regretted the more because I knew many

ladies would be there who came almost as much to see her as to hear him.

They were greatly disappointed, but enjoyed every word of the lecture,

as well they might. The next day was all too short. It seemed to me that

I _could not_ let them go. But she had more than enough for her ever

busy hands and mind and heart to do in preparation for going to her

summer home, and we _had_ to say good-bye.

A few short, characteristic, loving notes came from the city, before she

left, and I did not hear from her at Dorset till the overwhelming news

came of her death. I could not control my grief. Little Julia tried to

comfort me with her sweet sympathy. "Dear grandma," she said, "I am

sorry too. I can not feel so bad as you do, because you loved her so

much, and you loved her so long; but _I_ loved her too, and I can think

just how she looked when she sat right there by that little table

talking, and painting those beautiful flowers. Oh! I am very sorry."

And here the poor child's tears flowed again with mine. So will all the

children who knew her say, "We remember just how she looked." Yes, there

was no mistaking or forgetting that kindly, loving "look." Julia's

mother had felt its influence from her own early childhood till she left

her precious little one to receive it in her stead. To each of these

half-orphaned ones in turn, I had to read "Little Susy's Six Birthdays,"

and both always said to me when I finished, "Please read it again."

She could read and understand the heart of children through and through,

as indeed she could everybody's. And that was, perhaps, her chiefest

charm; a keen eye to see and a true heart to sympathise and love. She

was absolutely sincere, and no one could help feeling that she was so.

We felt ourselves fairly imaged when standing before her, as in a clear

plate-glass mirror. There were no distorted lines caused by her own

imperfections; for although she considered herself "compassed with

infirmity," no one else could take such a view of her, but only saw the

abundant charity which could cover and forgive a multitude of failings

in others. We felt that if there was any good in us, she knew it, and

even when she saw them "with all our faults she loved us still," and

loved to do us good.

You would like me to tell you "how she looked." You can form some idea

from her picture, but not an adequate one. Her face defied both the

photographer's and the painter's art. The crayon likeness, taken shortly

before her death by Miss Crocker, a young artist from Maine, is, in

some respects, excellent. The eyes and mouth--not to speak of other

features--are very happily reproduced. She was of medium height, yet

stood and walked so erect as to appear taller than she really was.

Her dress, always tasteful, with little or no ornament that one could

remember, was ever suited to the time and place, and seemed the most

becoming to her which could have been chosen. She was perfectly natural,

and, though shy and reserved among strangers, had a quiet, easy grace of

manner, that showed at once deference for them and utter unconsciousness

of self. Her head was very fine and admirably poised. She had a

symmetrical figure, and her step to the last was as light and elastic as

a girl's.

When I first knew her, in the flush and bloom of young maternity, her

face scarcely differed in its curving outlines from what it was more

than a quarter of a century later, when the joys and sorrows of

full-orbed womanhood had stamped upon it indelible marks of the

perfection they had wrought. Her hair was then a dark-brown; her

forehead smooth and fair, her general complexion rich without much depth

of color except upon the lips. In silvering her clustering locks time

only added to her aspect a graver charm, and harmonised the still more

delicate tints of cheek and brow. Her eyes were black, and at times

wonderfully bright and full of spiritual power; but they were shaded

by deep, smooth lids which gave them when at rest a most dove-like

serenity. Her other features were equally striking; the lips and chin

exquisitely moulded and marked by great strength as well as beauty. Her

face, in repose, wore the habitual expression of deep thought and a soft

earnestness, like a thin veil of sadness, which I never saw in the same

degree in any other. Yet when animated by interchange of thought and

feeling with congenial minds, it lighted up with a perfect radiance of

love and intelligence, and a most beaming smile that no pen or pencil

can describe--least of all in my hand, which trembles when I try to

sketch the faintest outline.

Hundreds of heart-stirring memories crowd upon me as I write, but it

is impossible to give them expression. Her books give you the truest

transcript of herself. She wrote, as she talked, from the heart. To

those who knew her, a written page in almost any one of them recalls her

image with the vividness of a portrait; and they can almost hear her

musical voice as they read it themselves. But, alas! in reality--

No more her low sweet accents can we hear

No more our plaints can reach her patient ear.

O! loved and lost, oh! trusted, tried, and true,

O! tender, pitying eyes forever sealed;

How can we bear to speak our last adieu?

How to the grave the precious casket yield,

And to those old familiar places go

That knew thee once, and never more shall know?

I hear from heaven a voice angelic cry,

"Blessed, thrice blessed are the dead who lie

Beneath the flowery sod and graven stone."

"Yea," saith the answering Spirit, "for they rest

Forever from the labors they have done.

Their works do follow them to regions blest;

No stain hereafter can their lustre dim;

The dead in Christ from henceforth live in Him."

O! doubly dear transfigured friend on high,

We, through our tears, behold thine eyelids dry.

By Him who suffered once, and once was dead,

But liveth evermore through endless days,

God hath encircled thy redeemed head

With rays of glory and eternal praise,

And with His own kind hand wiped every trace

Of tears, and pain and sorrow from thy face.

C. W.

WILDWOOD, March 7, 1880.

One of the notes referred to is as follows:

DEAR MRS. WASHBURN:--If you judge by my handwriting, you will have to

conclude that I am 100 years old. But it all comes of my carrying a

heavy bag too long, and is all my own fault for trying to do too many

errands in one trip. Your dear little chair, the like of which I should

love to give to 540 people, only cost $2.50, so I enclose my check

for the rest of your $10. We sent off Mrs. Badger's parcel early this

morning. I hope digging and driving and packing and climbing in my

behalf, has not quite killed you. A lot of flowers in two boxes came to

me from Matteawan while I was gone, and as my waitress fancied I had

been shopping--as if I _should_ shop at East River!--she did not open

the boxes or inform the children, so the spectacle of withered beauty

was not very agreeable. A. and M. send love and thanks. The flowers you

gave me look beautifully. Give our love to Mr. W. and Julia, and write

about her. We shall not soon forget our charming visit to East River!

In acknowledging this note Mrs. Washburn alludes to one of Mrs.

Prentiss' most striking traits--the eager promptitude with which she

would execute little commissions for her friends. It was as if she had

taken a vow that there should not be one instant's delay.

I do hope you have not been made sick by doing so many errands in such

a short time. The little chair has come and Mr. W. is much pleased with

it. Nobody is so punctual as you. We were all amazed at receiving the

picture so soon. How could you possibly have gotten home and packed it

and marked the catalogues and bought the chair and written the check and

sent me the little package of Japanese corn-seed and written me the note

and have had a moment even to look at A.'s portrait? It is a mystery to

me. You are a wonder of a woman! You are a genius! You are a _beloved

friend!_ I thank you again and again. Just think of the good you have

done us. Shall I send you some more daisies? I have written in the

greatest haste. That is the reason I have done no better and not because

I am seventy years old.

Here is her last note to Mrs. Washburn, dated June 3:

The box of daisies, clover, and grass came on Saturday. We set the

plants out in the box in which they came, and mixed the grass with what

cut flowers we had, in the very prettiest receptacle for flowers I ever

saw, just given M. The plants look this morning like a piece of Wildwood

and a piece of you, and will gladden every spring we live to see....

We are packing for Dorset, though we do not mean to go if this weather

lasts. I wonder if you have a "daily rose"? I have just bought one;

first heard of it at the Centennial. It is said to bloom every day from

May to December.

I am going out, now, to do ever so many errands for H.'s outfit for

college. Give our dear love to Mr. Washburn and Julia. O, what a mercy

it is to have somebody to love. [7]

On the 6th of June Mrs. Prentiss went to Dorset for the last time. Her

husband, after her departure, thus referred to this period:

For four or five weeks after coming here she was very much occupied

about the house, and seemed rather weary and care-worn. But the pressure

was then over and she had leisure for her flowers and her painting, for

going to the woods with the girls, and for taking her favorite drives

with me. She spoke repeatedly of you and other friends. On the 23d

of July I started for Monmouth Beach. The week preceding this little

journey was one of the happiest of our married life. No words can tell

how sweet and loving and bright--in a word, how just like herself--she

was. The impassion of that week accompanied me to the sea-side and

continued with me during my whole stay there. As day after day I sat

looking out upon the ocean, or walked alone up and down the shore, she

was still in all my thoughts. The noise of the breakers, the boundless

expanse of waters, the passing ships, going out and coming in, recalled

similar scenes long ago on the coast of Maine, before and after our

marriage--scenes with which her image was indissolubly blended. Then

I met old friends and found new ones, who talked to me with grateful

enthusiasm of "Stepping Heavenward," "More Love to Thee, O Christ," and

other of her writings. In truth, my feelings about her, while I was

at Monmouth Beach, were quite peculiar and excite my wonder still. I

scarcely know how to describe them. They were at times very intense,

and, I had almost said, awe-struck, seemed bathed in a sweet Sabbath

stillness, and to belong rather to the other world than to this of time

and sense. How do you explain this? Was my spirit, perhaps, touched in

some mysterious way by the coming event? Certainly, had I been warned

that she was so soon to leave me, I could hardly have passed those days

of absence in a mood better attuned to that in which I now think of her

as forever at home with the Lord.

The following are two of her last letters:

_To Mrs. Condict, Kauinfels, July 22, 1878._

To begin with the most important part of your letter. I reply that

neither Mr. Prentiss or myself have ever had any sympathy with Second

Adventists. All the talk about it seems to us mere speculation and

probable doom to disappointment. I do not see that it is as powerful a

stimulant to holiness as the uncertainty of life is. Christ may come any

day; but He may not come for ages; but we must and _shall_ die in the

merest fragment of an age, and see Him as He is. It will be a day

of unspeakable joy, when we meet Him here or there. I shrink from

unprofitable discussion of points that, after all, can only be tested by

time and events. I do not think our expecting Christ will bring Him a

minute sooner, for the early church expected Him, yet He came not. There

has been so much wildness in theories on this subject that I am sore

when I hear new ones advanced; none of these theories have proved to be

correct, and I do not imagine any of them will.

I have been busy indoors, upholstering not only curtains and couches,

but ever so many boxes, as our bureaus are shallow and our closets

small. I made one for A. large enough for her to get into, and she uses

it as she would a room, suspending objects from the sides and keeping

all her artistic implements in it. I began my Bible-reading last

Thursday, the hottest day we have had; but there was a good attendance.

My G. met with an accident from the circular saw which alarmed and

distressed me so that his father had to hartshorn and fan me, while

the girls did what they could for G. till the doctor could be got from

Factory Point. His eyebrow was cut open and his forehead gashed, but all

healed wonderfully, and we have reason to be thankful that he did not

lose an eye, as he was so near doing. At any time when you must have

change, let me know, as there are often gaps between guests, and

sometimes those we expected, fail. Mr. Prentiss is, apparently,

benefited by hot weather, and is unusually well. Thanks for the needles,

which will be a great comfort. Have you painted a horse-shoe? I had

one given me; black ground and blue forget-me-nots, and hung by a blue

ribbon. I am going to paint one for M. and Hatty. I feel as if I had

left out something I wanted to say.

_To Mrs. George Payson, Kauinfels, Aug. 1, 1878._

I am all alone in the house, this evening, and as this gives me room at

the table, I am going to begin to answer your letter. George is out of

town, and all the rest, including the servants, have gone to see the

Mistletoe Bough. It is astonishing how slowly you get well; and yet

with such heat and such smells as you have in Chicago, it is yet more

astonishing that you live at all. I thought it dreadful to have the

thermometer stand at 90° in my bedroom, three weeks running, and to

sniff a bad sniff now and then from our pond, when the water got low,

but I see I was wrong. We have next to no flowers this summer; white

flies destroyed the roses, frost killed other things, and then the three

weeks of burning heat, with no rain, finished up others. Portulacca is

our rear-guard, on which we fall back, filling empty spaces with it,

and I grow more fond of it every year. A good many verbenas sowed

themselves, but came up too late to be of any use. We have a splendid

bed of pansies, sown by a friend here.

I have not done much indoors but renovate the house, but that has been a

great job. I brought up a Japanese picture-book to use as a cornice in

my den, but A. persuaded me to get some wall paper, and use the pictures

as a dado for the dining-room. The effect is very unique and pretty. I

expect George home to-morrow; he has been spending a delightful week at

Monmouth Beach, visiting friends. I wish I could send you some of our

delicious ice-cream. We have it twice a week, with the juices of what

fruit is going; peaches being best. We have not had much company yet.

Last Saturday a friend of A.'s came and goes with her to Prout's Neck

to-morrow. We do not count Hatty K. as company, but as one of us. She

gets the brightest letters from Rob S., son of George. I should burst

and blow up if my boys wrote as well. They have telephone and microphone

on the brain, and such a bawling between the house and the mill you

never heard. It is nice for us when we want meal, or to have a horse

harnessed. Have you heard of the chair, with a fan each side, that fans

you twenty-five minutes from just seating yourself in it. It must be

delightful, especially to invalids, and ought to prolong life for

them.... The clock is striking nine, my hour for fleeing to get ready

for bed, but none of the angels have come home from the Mistletoe Bough,

and so I suppose I shall have to make haste slowly in undressing. Love

to all.

_Aug. 3d._--I am delighted that you enjoyed the serge so much; I knew

you would. I forgot to answer your question about books. Have you read

"Noblesse Oblige"? We admire it extremely. There are two works by this

title; one poor. I read "Les Miserables" last winter, and got greatly

interested in it; whether there is a good English translation, I do not

know. "That Lass o' Lowrie's" you have probably read. I saw a Russian

novel highly praised the other day; "Dosea," translated from the French

by Mary Neal (Sherwood); "Victor Lascar" is said to be good. I have,

probably, praised "Misunderstood" to you. "Strange Adventures of a

Phaeton" we liked; also "The Maid of Sker" and "Off the Skelligs"; its

sequel is "Fated to be Free."

Two tongues are running like mill-clappers, so good-night.

* * * * *

II.

Little Incidents and Details of her last Days on Earth. Last Visit

to the Woods. Sudden Illness. Last Bible-reading. Last Drive to

Hager-Brook. Reminiscence of a last Interview. Closing Scenes. Death.

The Burial.

Her last days on earth were now close at hand. Such days have in

themselves, of necessity, no virtue above other days; and yet a tender

interest clings to them simply as the last. Their conjunction with

death and the Life beyond seems to invest whatsoever comes to pass in

them--even trifles light as air--with unwonted significance. Soon after

her sudden departure her husband noted down, for the satisfaction of

absent friends, such little incidents and details as could be recalled

of her last ten days on earth. The following is a part of this simple

record:

_Sunday, Aug. 4, 1878._--To-day she went to the house of God for the

last time; and, as would have been her wish, had she known it was for

the last time, heard me preach. There was much in both the tone and

matter of the sermon, that made it seem, afterwards, as if it had been

written in full view of the approaching sorrow. A good deal of the day

at home was spent in getting ready for her Bible-reading on the ensuing

Thursday. At four o'clock in the afternoon she and the girls, M. and H.,

usually drove in the phaeton over to the Rev. Mr. Reed's, on the West

road, to attend a neighborhood prayer-meeting; but to-day, on account of

a threatening thunder-shower, they did not go. She enjoyed this little

meeting very much.

_Monday, Aug. 5th._--Soon after breakfast, she and the girl--"we three

girls," as she used to say--started off, carrying each a basket, for

the Cheney woods in quest of ferns; it having been arranged that at ten

o'clock I should come with the phaeton to fetch her and the baskets

home. The morning, although warm, was very pleasant and all three were

in high spirits. Before leaving the house, she ran up to her "den"--so

she called the little room where she wrote and painted--to get

something; and on passing out of it through the chamber, where just

then I was shaving, she suddenly stopped, and pointing at me with

her forefinger, her eye and face beaming with love and full of sweet

witchery, she exclaimed in a tone of pretended anger: "How dare you,

sir, to be shaving in my room?" and in an instant she was gone! A minute

or two later I looked after her from the window and saw her, with her

two shadows, hurrying towards the woods. At the time appointed, I went

for her. She awaited me sitting on the ground on the further side of

the woods, near the old sugar-house. The three baskets, all filled with

beautiful ferns, were placed in the phaeton and we drove home.

The Cheney woods, as we call them, form one of the attractions of

Dorset. They are quite extensive, abound in majestic sugar-maples, some

of which have been "tapped," it is said, for more than sixty successive

seasons, and at one point in them is a water-shed dividing into two

little rivulets, one of which, after mingling with the waters of the

Battenkill and the Hudson, finds its way at last into the Atlantic

Ocean; while the other reaches the same ocean through Pawlet River, Lake

Champlain and the St. Lawrence River. These woods and our own, together

with the mountain and waterfall and groves beyond Deacon Kellogg's,

where she often met her old friend "Uncle Isaac," [8] were her favorite

resorts.

A little while after returning home I found her in her little room,

looking well and happy, and busy with her brush. The girls, also, on

reaching the house found her there. But somewhat later, without our

knowledge, she went out and worked for a long time on and about the

lawn. There was a breeze, but the rays of the sun were scorchingly hot

and she doubtless exerted herself, as she was always tempted to do,

beyond her strength. I was occupied until noon at the mill and later,

in the field, watching the men cradling oats. On coming in to dinner, a

little past one, I was startled not to find her at the table, "Where is

mamma?" said I to M. "She is not feeling very well," M. answered, "and

said she would not come down, as she did not want any dinner." I ran

up-stairs, found her in her little room, and asked her what was the

matter. She replied that she had been troubled with a little nausea and

felt weak, but it was nothing serious. I went back to the table, but

with a worried, anxious mind. Somewhat later she lay down on the bed and

the prostration became so great, that I rubbed her hands vigorously and

administered hartshorn. It occurred to me at once that she had

barely escaped a sunstroke. After rallying from this terrible fit of

exhaustion, she seemed quite like herself again, and listened with much

interest while the girls read to her out of Boswell's Johnson. She was

in a sweet, gentle mood all the afternoon. "I prayed this morning," she

said, "that I might be a comfort to-day to everybody in the house."

_Tuesday, Aug.6th._--She passed the day in bed; feeble, but otherwise

seeming still like herself. In the course of the morning we persuaded

her to let Margaret, Eddy's old nurse, make her some milk-toast, which

she enjoyed so much that she said, "I wish, Margaret, you were well

enough to come and be our cook." M. had taken the place of our two

servants, who were gone to East Dorset to a Confirmation, at which their

bishop was to be present. Throughout the day she was in a very tender,

gentle mood, as she had been on the previous afternoon. She was much

exercised by the sudden death of the mother of one of our servants, the

news of which came while they were away. Had the case been that of

a near relative, she could hardly have shown warmer sympathy, or

administered consolation in a more considerate manner.

During the day there was more or less talk about the Bible-reading and I

begged her to give it up. We finally agreed that the girls should drive

over to Mrs. Reed's and ask her to take charge of it. They did so; but

at Mrs. R.'s suggestion it was decided not to give up the meeting, but

to convert it, if needful, into a little service of prayer and praise.

This arrangement seemed to please her. Although feeling very weak, she

did not appear at all depressed and was alive to everything that was

going on in the room. The girls having written to a friend who was to

visit us the next week, she asked if they had mentioned her illness.

They both replied no--for each supposed the other had done it. "Then

(said she) you had better add a postscript, telling her that I lie at

the point of death."

_Wednesday, Aug. 7th._--A beautiful day. She got up, put on a

dressing-gown, and sat most of the day in the easy-chair, or rather the

_sea_-chair, given us by my dear friend, Mr. Howland, when we went to

Europe in 1858. She looked very lovely and we all enjoyed sitting and

talking with her in her chamber. The girls arranged her hair to please

their own taste, and then told her how very charming she was! She liked

to be petted by them; and they were never so happy as in petting and

"fussing" about her. She spent an hour or two in looking over a package

of old Agriculturists, that had belonged to her brother-in-law, Prof.

Hopkins, of Williams College. She delighted in such reading, and nothing

curious and interesting, or suggestive, escaped her notice. She called

my attention to an article on raising tomatoes, and cut it out for me;

and also cut out many other articles for her own use.

Towards night she dressed herself and came down to tea. She remained in

the parlor, talking with me and the boys, and reading the paper, until

the girls returned from the Wednesday evening meeting. Something had

occurred to excite their mirth, and they came home in such a "gale" that

she playfully rebuked them for being so light-minded. But at the same

time she couldn't help joining in their mirth. In truth, she was quite

as much a girl as either of them; and her laugh was as merry.

_Thursday, Aug. 8th._--She seemed to feel much better this morning.

Before getting up we talked about her Bible-reading, and she asked me

various questions concerning the passage that was to be its theme,

namely, John xv. 27. She referred particularly to our Lord's sayings, at

the beginning of the sixteenth chapter, on the subject of persecution,

and told me how very strange and impressive they seemed to her, coming,

as they did, in the midst of His last conversation with His disciples--a

conversation so full of divine tenderness and love. This was almost the

last of innumerable and never-to-be-forgotten talks which we had had

together, during more than a third of a century, upon passages of Holy

Scripture.

After breakfast she went to her workshop and painted six large titles;

and then went down to the piazza and painted a chair for Hatty. She also

assisted the girls in watering her flowers. "She came round to the back

stoop Thursday morning (one of the servants told me afterwards) and I

said to her, 'Mis Prentiss, and how d'ye feel?' and she said, 'Ellen, I

feel _weak_, but I shall be all right when I get my strength.'" I still

felt troubled about her holding the Bible-reading and tried to dissuade

her from attempting it. She had set her heart upon it, however, and said

that the disappointment at giving it up would be worse than the exertion

of holding it. Her preparation was all made; the ladies would be there,

some of them from a distance, expecting to see her, and she could not

bear to lose the meeting. So I yielded. We were expecting Dr. Vincent by

the afternoon train and I was to go to the station for him. Just as I

was seated in the carriage and was about to start, she came out on the

porch, already dressed for the Bible-reading, and with an expression of

infinite sweetness, half playful and half solemn, pointing at me with

her finger, said slowly: "_You pray--one--little--prayer for me_." Never

shall I forget that arch expression--so loving, so spiritual, and yet

so stamped with marks of suffering--the peculiar tones of her voice, or

that dear little gesture!

Of her last Bible-reading the following brief account is prepared from

the recollections kindly furnished me by several of the ladies who were

present:

HER LAST BIBLE-READING.

There was something very impressive in Mrs. Prentiss' Bible-readings.

She seemed not unlike her gifted father in the power she possessed of

captivating those who heard her. Her manner was perfectly natural,

quiet, and even shy; it evidently cost her considerable effort to speak

in the presence of so many listeners. She rarely looked round or even

looked up; but a sort of magnetic influence attracted every eye to _her_

and held all our hearts in breathless attention. Her style was entirely

conversational; her sentences were short, clear as crystal, full of

happy turns, and always fresh and to the point. The tones of her voice

were peculiar; I scarcely know how to describe them; they had such a

fine, subtle, _womanly_ quality, were touched--especially at this last

reading--with such tenderness and depth of feeling; I only know that as

we heard them, it was almost as if we were listening to the voice of an

angel! And they are, I am sure, echoing still in all our memories.

The first glance at her, as she entered the room, a little before three

o'clock on the 8th of August, showed that she was not well. Her eyes

were unusually bright, but the marks of recent or approaching illness

were stamped upon her countenance. It was lighted up, indeed, with even

unwonted animation and spiritual beauty; but it had also a pale and

wearied look. The reading was usually opened with a silent prayer and

closed with two or three short oral prayers. The subject this afternoon

was the last verse of the fifteenth chapter of the Gospel according to

John: _And ye also shall bear witness, because ye have been with me from

the beginning_. Witnessing for Christ, this was her theme. She began by

giving a variety of Scripture references illustrative of the nature and

different forms of Christian witness-bearing. It was her custom always

to unfold the topic of the reading, and to verify her own views of it,

by copious and carefully prepared citations from the Word of God. A

Bible-reading, as she conducted it, was not merely a study of a text,

or passage of Scripture, by itself, but study of it in its vital

relations to the whole teaching of the Bible on the subject in hand. In

the present instance her references were all written out and were so

numerous and so skilfully arranged that they must have cost her no

little labor. Feeling, apparently, too feeble to read them herself, she

turned to her daughter, who sat by her mother's side, and requested her

to do it.

After the references had been given and the passages read, she went on

to express her own thoughts on the subject. And, surely, had she been

fully conscious that this was the last opportunity she would ever have

of thus bearing witness for Christ, her words could not have been more

happily chosen. Would that they could be recalled just as they issued

from her own lips! But it is not possible so to recall them. One might

as well try to reproduce the sunset scene on the evening of her burial.

For even if the exact words could be repeated, who could bring back

again her tender, loving accents, or that strange earnestness and

"unction from the Holy One" with which they were uttered? Or who could

bring back again the awe-struck, responsive emotions that thrilled our

hearts? The simplest outline of this farewell talk is all that is now

practicable. Had we known what was coming, our memories would, no doubt,

have been rendered thereby sevenfold more retentive, and little that

fell from her lips would have been lost.

Her first point was the great variety of ways in which we can bear

witness for Christ. We can do it in private as well as in public; and it

is in the private spheres and familiar daily intercourse of life

that most of us are called to give this testimony, and to give it by

manifesting in this intercourse and in these retired spheres the spirit

of our Master. What an opportunity does the family, for example, afford

for constant and most effective witness-bearing! How a mother may honor

Christ in what she says to her children about Him and especially by the

manner in which she fulfils her every-day home duties! How a wife may

thus testify of Christ to her worldly, unconverted husband! And here she

spoke of one form of _public_ testimony which everybody might and ought

to give. "I can not (she said) see all the faces in this room but there

may be those here who have never confessed Christ before men by uniting

with His visible church. Let me tell any such who may be present that

they are grieving their Saviour by refusing to give Him this testimony

of their love and devotion."

In referring to this subject she remarked that young persons, after

having united with the church, sometimes felt greatly disheartened and

thought themselves the worst Christians in the world. But this was often

a very wrong feeling. Their sense of their own weakness and unworthiness

might come from the Holy Comforter; and we should be very careful how we

treat Him. His influence is a very tender, sacred thing, and, like the

sensitive plant, recoils at the touch of a rude hand. I have wanted, she

said, to speak _cheerful, comforting_ words to you to-day. It was the

particular desire of my husband this morning that I should do so. He

thought that young Christians, especially, needed much encouragement on

this point. It was a great thing to lead them to feel that they could

please their Master and be witnesses for Him in quiet, simple ways, and

that, too, every day of their lives. Our Lord, to be sure, does not

really _need_ our services. He could quite easily dispense with them.

But He lets us work for Him somewhat as a mother lets her little child

do things for her--not because she needs the child's help, but because

she loves to see the child trying to please her. "And yet, Mrs. Prentiss

(asked one of the ladies), does there not come a time when the child is

really of service to the mother?" "I thank you for the suggestion (she

replied); I left my remark incomplete. Yes, it is true such a time does

come. And so, in a certain sense, it may be said, perhaps, that God

needs the services of His children. But how easily He can dispense with

the best and most useful of them! One may seem to have a great task to

perform in the service of the Master, but in the midst of it he is taken

away, and, while he is missed, the work of God goes right on. God does

not see such a difference as we do, she said, between what we call

great and small services rendered to Him. A cup of cold water given in

Christ's name, if that is all one can give, is just as acceptable as the

richest offering; and so is a tea-spoonful, if one has no more to give.

Christ loves to be loved; and the smallest testimony of real love is

most pleasing to Him. And love shown to one of His suffering disciples

He regards as love to Himself. So a little child, just carrying a flower

to some poor invalid, may thus do Christ honor and become more endeared

to Him. There is no one, old or young, who has not the power of blessing

other souls. We all have far more influence, both for good and evil,

than we dream of."

In the course of her talk she alluded to the trials of life and the

shortness of them at the longest. We are all passing away, one after

another. Our intimate friends will mourn for us when we are gone, but

the world will move on just the same. And we should not allow ourselves

to be troubled lest when our time comes we may be afraid to die. Dying

grace is not usually given until it is needed. Death to the disciple of

Jesus is only stepping from one room to another and far better room of

our Father's house. And how little all the sorrows of the way will seem

to us when we get to our home above! I suppose St. Paul, amidst the

bliss of heaven, fairly _laughs_ at the thought of what he suffered for

Christ in this brief moment of time. And as she said this, she gently

waved her hand in the way of emphasis. No one of us who saw it will soon

forget that little gesture!

In one part of her remarks she cautioned us against hasty and harsh

judgments. We should cover with our charity the faults and imperfections

of those about us, as nature hides with her mossy covering the unsightly

stone.

She referred to the case of children: a child often has a sweet

disposition until five or six years of age and then becomes very

irritable and cross, causing the parents much anxiety--and, perhaps,

much impatience. And yet it may not be the child's fault at all; but

only the effect of ill-health, too much study and confinement, or pure

mismanagement. A large portion of the disobedience and wrong temper of

children comes from improper food or loss of sleep, or something of

that sort. And it is not cross fretful _children_ alone that need to be

judged tenderly. A consumptive friend of hers, rendered nervous and weak

by long sickness, upon being asked one morning, as usual, about her

health, replied: "Don't ask me again--_I feel as if I could throw this

chair at you._" Now I do not think, said Mrs. Prentiss, that this

speech was a sin in the sight of God. He saw in it nothing but the poor

invalid's irritable nerves, God judges us according to the thoughts and

intentions of the heart; and we ought, as far as possible, to judge each

other in the same way. And when we ourselves are the ones really at

fault, we ought to confess it. I never shall forget how humiliated I

felt when my mother once came to me and asked my forgiveness--but I

loved her ten times as much for it.

Prayer was another point touched upon in this last Bible-reading. She

almost always had something fresh and striking to say about prayer. It

was one of her favorite topics. I recall two or three of her remarks

at this time. "Always move the lips in prayer. It helps to keep one's

thoughts from wandering." "A mother can pray with a sick child on her

lap more acceptably than to leave it alone in order to go and pray by

herself." "Accustom yourself to turn all your wants, cares and trials

into prayer. If anything troubled or annoyed my mother she went straight

to the 'spare room,' no matter how cold the weather, and we children

knew it was to pray. I shall never forget its influence over me." "When

a question as to duty comes up, I think we can soon settle it in this

way: 'Am I living near to Christ? Am I seeking His guidance? Am I

renouncing self in what I undertake to do for Him?' If we can say yes to

these questions, we may safely go into any path where duty lies." "We

never dread to hear people pray who pray truly and in the Spirit. They

may be unlearned. They may be intellectually weak. But if they pray

habitually in the closet, they will edify out of it."

Such is a poor, meagre account of this last precious Bible-reading.

Possibly some of the things here recorded belonged to previous

readings--though Mrs. Prentiss occasionally repeated remarks on points

to which she attached special importance. "Some good (she said) will

come of these meetings, I feel sure. It is impossible that you

should take so much pains, and some of you put yourselves to so much

inconvenience, in order to come here and study together God's Word--and

His blessing not follow." The blessing has already followed, good

measure, pressed down and running over, and it will continue to follow

in days to come; especially the blessings of this last meeting, when, in

a strain so sweet and tender--as though she had a new glimpse of heaven

and the heart of God--our beloved and now sainted teacher urged us to

bear witness for Christ and showed us so plainly how to do it.

At the close of the meeting she looked very pale and seemed much

exhausted. "You are ill, Mrs. Prentiss," said one of the ladies,

distressed by her appearance. "Yes," she said, "I _am_." Still, it

seemed a great pleasure to her to have met us once more. Nor can I help

thinking that, even if she herself had no presentiment of what was

coming, she was yet led of the Spirit, the blessed Comforter, to hold

this last Bible-reading. It was itself just such a testimony for Christ

as fitly crowned her consecrated and beautiful life.

Upon my return from the station with Dr. Vincent she met us on the

porch, bade him welcome to Dorset, told him with what extraordinary care

the girls had made ready his room, and appeared in excellent spirits all

the rest of the day. While at tea she expressed to Dr. V. our regret

that Dr. Poor could not have made his visit at the same time; although,

to be sure, they might, if together, have "brought the house down"

upon our heads by the explosions of their mirth. She then related some

amusing anecdotes of a queer, crotchety old domestic of ours in New

Bedford a third of a century ago, and of her delight when Dr. Poor

(then settled at Fair Haven, opposite New Bedford) got married, because

"_now_, it was to be hoped, he would stay at home with his wife and not

be coming over all the time and drinking up our tea!"

On my asking her about the Bible-reading, she said she got through with

it very well, expressed surprise at the large attendance, and spoke of

the deep interest manifested. After tea she sat with us in the parlor

for some time and then, kissing M. good-night, omitted Hatty and the

boys (a most unusual thing), remarking, as she left for her chamber,

"Well, I'm not going to kiss all this roomful."

_Friday, Aug.9th_--A severe thunder-storm had set in early last night

and continued at short intervals throughout the day. She was very

anxious that Dr. Vincent should enjoy his visit, and on his account

was disturbed by the weather; otherwise, a thunder-storm seemed to

exhilarate her, as is said to have been the case with her father. She

spent most of Friday in her "den," finishing a little picture and

chatting from time to time with the girls who were busy in the adjoining

room. Dr. Vincent and I sat a part of the forenoon on the piazza under

her window and whiled away the time, he in telling and I in listening to

any number of amusing stories. She called the attention of M. and H. to

our unclerical behavior: "Just hear those doctors of divinity giggling

like two schoolgirls!" But nobody enjoyed more an amusing story, or told

one with more zest than she did herself.

I forget whether it was on Friday, or an earlier day, that she showed me

a remarkable letter she had received, during my absence at the sea-side,

from London. It was written by a young wife and mother nearly related to

two of the most honored families of England, and sought her counsel in

reference to certain questions of duty that had grown out of special

domestic trials. "Stepping Heavenward," the writer said, had formed an

era in her religious life; she had read it through _from fifty to sixty

times_; it had its place by the side of her Bible; and no words could

express the good it had done her, or the comfort she had derived from

its pages. "The Home at Greylock" had also been of great help to her as

a wife and mother; and she could not but hope that one whose books had

been such a blessing to her, might be able to render her still greater

and more direct aid by personal counsel. The letter, which was

beautifully written and was full of the most grateful feelings, appealed

very strongly to her sympathy. But it was never answered.

_Saturday, Aug. 10th_--She had a tolerable night, but on coming down to

breakfast said, in reply to Dr. Vincent's question, How she felt? "I

feel like bursting out crying." After prayers, however, when the plans

for the day were arranged and a drive to Hager brook--a picturesque

mountain glen and waterfall--was made the order of the forenoon, she

proposed to go with us. I had almost feared to suggest it, and yet was

greatly relieved to find that she felt able to take the ride. It was

decided, therefore, that she, Hatty K., Dr. Vincent and I should form

the party. As we drove toward the village I noticed that Dr. Wyman was

just stopping at our next neighbor's. Dr. Hemenway, our old physician,

had removed to St. Paul's, and Dr. W. had taken his place. I was

rejoiced to see him, both on her account and my own. I had not been well

myself during the week, and although I had repeatedly proposed to

call in the doctor for her, she stoutly refused. So, after getting a

prescription for myself, I said, "And now, doctor, I want you to

do something for my wife," relating to him her ill-turn on Monday.

"Certainly (the doctor replied) she needs some _arsenicum_," which he

gave her, promising to call and see us on the next Monday. As we rode on

Dr. Vincent suggested, laughingly, what a strange story might be based

upon Dr. W.'s prescription. "I might report, for example, that I myself

saw the author of 'Stepping Heavenward' eating arsenic!" She joined

heartily in the laugh and during all the rest of the drive conversed

with great animation. She related several anecdotes of her early life,

talked with admiration of the writings and genius of Mrs. Stowe--one Of

whose New England stories she had just been reading--and seemed exactly

like herself. Upon reaching the brook in East Rupert and starting with

Dr. Vincent for the glen, I said to her, "Now don't walk off out of

sight, where I can't see you when we come back." "Oh yes, I shall," she

replied in her pleasant way.

"After we were left alone that Saturday morning (Hatty writes) Mrs.

Prentiss gathered quite a bunch of the wild ageratum, and then dug up

the roots of three wild clematis vines with her scissors. She then

called my attention to the thimbleberry bushes along the edge of

the brook, admiring the foliage of the plant and expressing the

determination to have one or more in her garden next year."

On coming down from the glen I found her sitting on the ground near the

brook. Taking her by the hand--for she seemed very tired--I helped

her to rise and walked back with her toward the carriage. Just before

reaching the road she saw some clusters of clematis on the side of the

brook, which at her desire I gathered. It was the last service of the

kind ever performed for her, and I am so thankful that no hands but mine

were privileged to perform it! During the drive home she said almost

nothing and was, evidently, feeling very much wearied. We returned by

the West road and on passing in at our gate I observed that Dr. Wyman's

gig was still in front of Miss Kent's. "Why, Lizzy, Dr. Wyman is still

here," said I. "Then, I would like to see him now rather than wait till

Monday," she said, to my surprise. I went immediately and asked him to

call. It was, I think, between eleven and twelve o'clock. He came very

soon and she received him in the parlor. I noticed at once that she was

extremely nervous and agitated, while explaining to him her symptoms;

and not being able to recall some point, she remarked that her mind had

been much confused all the week. Just then she rose hastily, excused

herself, and went up to her room. "_She is very ill_ (said the doctor,

turning to me) and must go to bed instantly." While he was preparing

her medicines Judge M. and family from New York, who were sojourning at

Manchester, called; but learning of her illness, soon left. Later in the

day I told her who had called and how much Mrs. M. and the young ladies

admired her flowers, especially the portulacas. She seemed pleased

and said to me, "You had better, then, prepare two little boxes of

portulacas and send them over to Mrs. M. to keep in her windows while

she stays at the Equinox House." A few days after her death I did so and

received a touching note of thanks from Mrs. M.

As the doctor directed, she at once took to her bed. For an hour or two

her prostration was extreme, and she nearly fainted. Her head shook and

her condition verged on a collapse. I rubbed her hands vigorously, gave

her a restorative, and gradually her strength returned. In speaking of

the attack she said the sense of weakness was so terrible that she would

gladly have died on the spot. In the course of the afternoon, however,

she was so much easier that the girls read to her again out of Boswell's

Johnson and she seemed to listen with all the old interest. It pleased

her greatly to have them read to her; and she loved to talk with them

about the books read and especially to discuss the characters depicted

in any of them.

Toward evening George brought in some trout, which he had caught for her

out of our brook. Her appetite was exceedingly poor, but she was very

fond of trout and G. often caught a little mess for her supper. Our

brook never seemed so dear to me, nor did its rippling music ever

sound so sweet, as when I did the same thing, before he came home from

Princeton and took the privilege out of my hands. When he brought in the

trout, Ellen went to his mother's chamber and asked if they should not

be kept for breakfast? "No, they are very nice and you had better have

them for supper." "Shan't I save some for your breakfast?" asked Ellen,

knowing how fond she was of them. "No," said she, "the doctor says I

must take nothing but beef-tea." "And d'ye feel better, Mis' Prentiss?"

continued Ellen. "Oh I feel better, Ellen, but I'm very weak--I shall be

all right in a few days."

After tea she insisted on sending for Mrs. Sarah C. Mitchell, of

Philadelphia, whom she had been unable to see on the previous Monday.

Mrs. M. was the last person out of the family, with whom she conversed,

excepting the doctors and nurse. [9]

_Sunday, Aug. 11th._--She slept better than I feared, but awoke very

feeble, taking no nourishment except a little beef-tea. She lay quiet a

part of the time; but the quiet intervals grew shorter and were followed

by most distressing attacks. M. and I sat by her bed, but could do

nothing to relieve her. My fears had now become thoroughly aroused and

I awaited the arrival of the doctor with the most intense anxiety. Hour

after hour of the morning, however, passed slowly away and he did not

come. At length a messenger brought word from the "West road," where he

had been called at midnight, that an urgent telegram had summoned him to

Arlington and that he should not be able to reach Dorset before one or

two o'clock P.M. The anguish of the suspense during the next three or

four hours was something dreadful. When the bell rang for church she

desired that M. should go, as Dr. Vincent was to preach, and it would

give a little relief from the strain that was upon her.

Soon after M. had left, during an interval of comparative ease, she

fixed her eyes upon me with a most tender, loving expression, and in a

sort of beseeching tone, said, "Darling, don't you think you could ask

the Lord to let me go?" Perceiving, no doubt, how the question affected

me, she went on to give some reasons for wishing to go. She spoke very

slowly, in the most natural, simple way, and yet with an indescribable

earnestness of look and voice, as if aware that she was uttering her

dying words. I can not recall all that she said, but its substance, and

some of the exact expressions, are indelibly impressed upon my memory.

For my and the children's sake she had been willing and even desired to

live; and for several years had made extraordinary efforts to keep up,

although much of the time the burden of ill-health, as I well knew, had

been well-nigh insupportable. So far as this world was concerned, few

persons in it had such reasons for wishing to live, or so much to render

life attractive. But the feeling in her heart had become overpowering

that no earthly happiness, no interest, no distraction, could any longer

satisfy her, or give her content, away from Christ; and she longed to be

with Him, where He is. During the past three months especially, she had

passed through very unusual exercises of mind with reference to this

subject; and it seemed to her as if she had now reached a point

beyond which she could not go. She evidently had in view the dreadful

_sleeplessness_, to which she had been so in bondage for a quarter of

a century, whose grasp had become more and more relentless, and the

effects of which upon her nervous system were such as words can hardly

describe. No human being but myself had any conception of her suffering,

both physical and mental, from this cause.

To return to her conversation.... In answer to a question which I put to

her later, about her view of heaven and of the relation of the saints in

glory to their old friends there and here, she replied, in substance,

that to her view _heaven is being with Christ and to be with Christ

is heaven_. By this she did not mean, I am sure, to imply any doubt

respecting the immortality of Christian love and friendship, or that

our individual human affections will survive the grave. Often had she

delighted herself in the thought of meeting her sainted father and

mother in heaven, of meeting there Eddy and Bessie and other dear ones

who had gone before; and certain I am, too, she believed that those who

are gone before retain their peculiar interest in those who are toiling

after, only her mind was so absorbed in the thought of the presence and

beatific vision of Christ in His glory that, for the moment, it was lost

to everything else.

She then said that, in the event of her death, she would like to be

buried in Dorset, where we could easily visit her grave. "But I do not

expect to go now," she added. This meant, as I interpret it, that she

regarded so speedy a departure to be with Christ as something _too good

to be true_. Repeatedly, when very ill, she had thought herself on the

verge of heaven and had been called back to earth, and she feared it

would be so now.