Hardly had this never-to-be-forgotten conversation come to a close when

her feet entered "the swelling of Jordan," and found no rest until

they walked the "sweet fields beyond." Her disease (gastro-enteritis)

returned with great violence; the medical appliances seemed to have

little or no effect; and the paroxysms of pain were excruciating.

A chill, also, began to creep over her. About two o'clock, to my

inexpressible relief, the doctor arrived. Her first thought was that he

should rest a little and that some ice-cream should be brought to him.

In answer to his inquiries she told him that she had never known agony

such as she had endured that forenoon, and he immediately applied

remedies adapted to the case. But they afforded only temporary relief.

A terrible restlessness seized upon her and would not let go its hold.

Towards evening she got into the sea-chair, and remained in it near the

open window until morning. On leaving for the night Dr. Wyman intrusted

her to the care of Dr. Slocum, who had recently come to Dorset. Dr. S.

remained with her all night and was indefatigable in trying to alleviate

her sufferings. "How kind he is!" she said to me once when he had left

the room. M. sat up with me till towards morning and assisted in

giving the medicines. Her distress could only be assuaged by inhaling

chloroform every few minutes and by the constant use of ice. As from

time to time, going down for the ice, I stepped out on the piazza, the

scene that met my eye was in strange contrast to the one I had just

left. Within the sick-chamber it was a night dark with suffering and

anxiety; as the hours passed slowly away, my heart almost died in the

shadow of the coming event; all was gloom and agitation except the sweet

patience of the sufferer. But the beauty and stillness of the night out

of doors was something marvellous. The light of the great harvest moon

was like the light of the sun. It flooded hills and valley with its

splendor. The outlines of each mountain, of every tree, and of all

visible objects, far or near, were as distinct as those of the stars, or

of the moon itself. As I stood and gazed upon the infinite beauty of the

scene, I felt, as never in my life before, how helpless is Nature in the

presence of a great trouble. The beauty of the night was fully matched

by that of the morning. As the first rays of the sun crossed the

mountains and shone down upon the valley, I said to myself, even while

my heart was racked with anxious foreboding--"How wonderful! How

wonderful!"

_Monday, Aug. 12th._--For some hours she seemed much more comfortable,

and, in the course of the morning, of her own accord, was removed from

the chair to the bed. "On Monday morning (writes Dr. Wyman) I found her

with temperature nearly normal, pulse less than 100, and other symptoms

improved. This gave us hope that the worst was passed, but it was only

the lull before the storm." She was for the most part quiet and took

little notice of anything that was going on. During the forenoon M.

tried to get some rest in the sea-chair by the window, while Hatty kept

her place by the bed. Several times Lizzy looked round the room as if

in quest of some one. Hatty perceiving this and guessing what it meant,

stepped aside (she was between the bed and the chair so as to intercept

the view), when she fixed her eyes upon M. and rested as if she had

found what she sought. Having been up most of the night, I also tried

to get a little rest in another room, and later went out in search of

a nurse and engaged an excellent one, Mrs. C., who came early in the

afternoon.

Notwithstanding my deep anxiety I was deceived by the more favorable

symptoms, and did not allow myself, during the day, to think she would

not recover. In the early evening I wrote to A., who was absent in

Maine:

I am sorry to say that your mother had a very trying day yesterday and

has been extremely weak and exhausted to-day.... Nervous prostration

appears to be the great trouble. She has rested quietly much of the time

to-day and the medicines seem to be doing their work; and in a couple of

days, I trust, she may be greatly improved. You know how these ill-turns

upset her and how quickly she often rallies from them. She is very

anxious you should not shorten your visit on her account.

Soon after this letter was written, the whole aspect of the case

suddenly changed. The unfavorable symptoms had returned with renewed

violence. Dr. W. asked her, during one of the paroxysms, about the pain.

She answered that it was not a pain--it was a distress, an _agony_. But

from first to last she never uttered a groan--not during the sharpest

paroxysms of distress. She seemed to say to herself, in the words of two

favorite German mottoes, which she had illumined and placed on the wall

over her bed, _Geduld, Mein Herz!_ (Patience, My Heart!)--_Stille, Mein

Wille!_ (Still, My Will!) "The patient and uncomplaining manner," writes

Dr. Wyman, "in which the most agonizing pains which it has ever been my

lot to witness were borne--with no repining, no murmur, no fretfulness,

but quiet, peaceful submission to endure and suffer--will not soon be

forgotten." At eleven o'clock, when the doctor left, I sent the nurse

away for a couple of hours rest and took her place by the sick-bed.

Lizzy, who had already begun to feel the effects of the morphine, lay

motionless, and breathed somewhat heavily, but not alarmingly so.

_Tuesday, Aug. 13th._--Shortly after one o'clock I called the nurse and,

directing her to summon me at once in the event of any change, retired

to the green-room for a little rest. The girls had been persuaded before

the doctor left, to throw themselves on their bed. Everything was quiet

until about three o'clock, when Hatty knocked at my door with a message

from the nurse. I hurried down and saw at the first glance as I entered

the room, that a great change had taken place. It seemed as if I heard

the crack of doom and that the world was of a sudden going to pieces. I

went to G.'s room, woke him, told him what I feared, and desired him to

go for Dr. Slocum as quickly as possible. He was dressed in an instant,

as it were, and gone. In the meantime I woke H., and told him his

mother, I feared, was dying. When Dr. Slocum arrived he felt her pulse,

looked at her and listened to her breathing for a minute or two, and

then, turning slowly to me, said, _It is death!_ This was not far from

four o'clock. I asked if I had better send at once for Dr. Wyman? "He

can do nothing for her," was the reply, "but you had better send." I

requested G. to call Albert, and tell him to go for Dr. W. as fast as

possible. "I will saddle Prince and go myself," G. said; and in a few

minutes he was riding rapidly towards Factory Point. I then knocked at

Dr. Poor's door. Upon opening it and being told what was coming, he was

so completely stunned that he could with difficulty utter a word. He had

arrived the previous afternoon on the same train by which Dr. Vincent

left. I had tried by telegraph to _prevent_ his coming; but a kind

Providence so ordered it that my message reached Burlington, where he

had been on a visit, just after he had started for Dorset.

The night, like that of Sunday, was as day for brightness. Never shall

I forget its wondrous beauty, although it seemed only a mockery of my

distress. Soon after the first rays of the sun appeared, Dr. Wyman came,

but only to repeat, _It is death_. I asked him how long she might be a

dying. "Perhaps several hours; but she may drop away at any moment."

We all gathered about her bed and watched the ebbing tide of life.

The girls were already kneeling together on the left side. They never

changed their posture for more than four hours; they wept, but made no

noise. The boys stood at the foot of the bed, deeply moved, but calm

and self-possessed. The strain was fearful; and yet it was relieved by

blessed thoughts and consolations. Although the chamber of death, it was

the chamber of peace, and a light not of earth shone down upon us all.

He who was seen walking, unhurt, in the midst of the fire and whose form

was like the Son of God, seemed to overshadow us with His presence.

As the end drew near, we all knelt together and my old friend, Dr. Poor,

commended the departing spirit to God and invoked for us, who were

about to be so heavily bereaved, the solace and support of the blessed

Comforter.... The breathing had now grown slower and less convulsive,

and at length became gentle almost like that of one asleep; the

distressed look changed into a look of sweet repose; the eyes shut; the

lips closed; and the whole scene recalled her own lines:

Oh, where are words to tell the joy unpriced

Of the rich heart, that breasting waves no more,

Drifts thus to shore,

Laden with peace and tending unto Christ!

About half-past seven it became evident that the mortal struggle was on

the point of ending. For several minutes we could scarcely tell whether

she still lived or not; and at twenty minutes before eight she drew one

long breath and all was over.

Again we knelt together, and in our behalf Dr. Poor gave thanks to

Almighty God for the blessed saint now at rest in Him--and for all she

had been to us and all she had done for Him, through the grace of Christ

her Saviour.

The following account of the burial was written by the Rev. Dr. Vincent

and appeared in the New York Evangelist:

DORSET, VT. _August 16, 1878._

This lovely valley has been, for the past few days, "a valley of the

shadow." It is not the least significant tribute to one so widely known

as Mrs. Prentiss, that her death has affected with such real sorrow, and

with such a deep sense of loss, this little rural community which has

been her home during a large part of the last ten years. It would have

been hard to find among all who gathered at the funeral services on

Wednesday, a face which did not bear the marks of true sorrow and of

tender sympathy; while from the groups of sunburned farmers gathered

round the door or walking towards the cemetery, were often heard the

words "a great loss."

* * * * *

The funeral took place at the house on Wednesday afternoon, and was

conducted by the Rev. P. S. Pratt, pastor of the old Congregational

Church of Dorset; assisted by Dr. Vincent, and Dr. D. W. Poor. Mr. Pratt

read the twenty-third Psalm and a part of the fourteenth chapter of

John, which was followed by the hymn, "O gift of gifts, O grace of

faith," after which Dr. Poor delivered a most appropriate, tender, and

interesting address. Dr. Vincent then offered prayer, and the hymn

"Nearer, my God, to Thee," was sung, closing the services at the house.

The large assemblage passed in succession by the casket, where lay such

an image of perfect rest as one is rarely favored to see. All traces of

struggle and pain had faded from the expressive face, and nothing was

left but the sweetness of eternal repose.

It was now a little after six o'clock, and the shadows were lengthening

in the valley at the close of one of those rare days of the ripe summer,

which only the hill-countries develop in their perfect loveliness. The

long procession moved from the house, and at the distance of about a

quarter of a mile entered the little cemetery; and as it mounted the

slope on which was the grave, the scene was one of most pathetic beauty.

Standing in the shadow of the hills which bound the valley on the east,

the eye ranged southward to the long, undulating outline of the Green

Mountain, coming round to the Equinox range on the west, "muffled thick"

to its very crest with the green maples and pines, and still farther

round to the bold hills and sloping uplands on the north. Below lay the

quiet village, at our feet "God's acre," with the train of mourners

winding among the white stones. Who could stand there, compassed about

by the mountains, and in the shadow of that great sorrow, and not

whisper the words of the Pilgrim Psalm, "I will lift up mine eyes unto

the hills. Whence should help come to me? My help cometh from Jehovah,

who made heaven and earth."

As the casket was borne to the grave, the setting sun, which for the

last half hour had been hidden by a mass of clouds, burst out in full

splendor, gilding the mountain-tops and shedding his parting rays upon

the group around the tomb, the stricken family, the weeping neighbors

and friends, especially the women whom for some years past she had been

in the habit of meeting at her weekly Bible-reading, and some of whom

had walked each week for miles along the mountain roads, through storm

and heat, to drink of the living waters which flowed at her touch.

Dr. Vincent, holding in his hand a little, well-worn volume, and

standing at the foot of the grave, spoke substantially as follows:

I am glad, my friends, that I am not one of those who know God only as

they find Him identified with the woods and fields and streams. If this

were so, I should turn from the grave of this beloved friend, and go my

way in utter heart-sickness and hopelessness; for Nature would but mock

me to-day with her fulness of summer life. These forest-clad mountains,

that waving grain, those woods, pulsating with the hum of insects and

with the song of birds, all speak of life, while we stand here at the

close of a precious and useful human life, to lay in the dust all that

remains of what was so dear, and so fruitful in good.

But, thanks to God, we are not here as those who face an insoluble

riddle. We believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, and in the resurrection of

the dead; and with this key in our hand, we stand here at the grave's

mouth, and looking backward, interpret the lesson of this closed life;

and looking forward, gaze with hope into the future. Thus Nature becomes

our consoler instead of our mocker; a type, and not a contradiction of

human immortality. Thus, and only thus, do we find ourselves at the

standpoint from which Christ viewed nature when He said, "Except a corn

of wheat fall into the ground and die it abideth alone; but if it die,

it bringeth forth much fruit"; the standpoint from which Paul viewed

nature when he wrote, "That which thou sowest is not quickened except it

die; and that which thou sowest, thou sowest not that body which shall

be, but bare grain, it may chance of wheat, or of some other grain; but

God giveth it a body as He willeth, and to every seed his own body. So

also is the resurrection of the dead. It is sown in corruption, it is

raised in incorruption. It is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory.

It is sown in weakness, it is raised in power. It is sown a natural

body, it is raised a spiritual body."

And thus too we can understand the words which I read from this little

volume, the daily companion of our friend for many years, containing a

passage of Scripture for every day in the year, and marked everywhere

with her notes of special anniversaries and memorable incidents. Was it

merely an accidental coincidence that, on the morning of the thirteenth

of August, on which she exchanged earth for heaven, the passage for the

day was, "I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, Write, Blessed are

the dead which die in the Lord, from henceforth, yea, saith the Spirit,

that they may rest from their labors, and their works do follow them."

There are two thoughts in this verse which seem to me to be fraught

with comfort and hope to us as we gather round this grave. There is the

thought of rest. "They rest from their labors." Bethink you of the long

life marked by the discipline of sorrow, and by those unwearied labors

for others. Bethink you of the racking agony of the last two days; and

how blessed, how soothing the contrast introduced by the words--"She

rests from her labors." Still is the busy hand; at rest the active

brain; completed the discipline; the pain ended forever.

The other thought is that her work is not done, so far as its results

are concerned. "Their works do follow them." Think you that because she

will no longer meet you in her weekly Bible-readings, because her pen

will no more indite the thoughts which have made so many patient under

life's burdens, and helped so many to make of their burdens steps on

which to mount heavenward--think you her work is ended? Nay. Go into

yonder field, and pluck a single head of wheat, and plant the grains,

and you know that out of each grain which falls into the ground and

dies, there shall spring up an hundred-fold. Shall you recognise so much

multiplying power in a corn of wheat, and not discern the infinitely

greater power of multiplication enfolded in a holy life and in a holy

thought? No. Through the long years in which her mortal remains shall be

quietly resting beneath this sod, the work of her tongue and pen shall

be reproducing itself in new forms of power, of faith, and of patience.

And yet we seem to want something more than these two thoughts give

us. It does not satisfy us to contemplate only rest from labor and the

perpetuated fruits of labor. And that something this same little volume

gives us in the words appointed for this day, on which we commit her

mortal part to the grave: "For God is not unrighteous to forget your

work and labor of love, which ye have showed toward His name, in that

ye have ministered to the saints and do minister. Be not slothful,

but followers of them who, through faith and patience, inherit the

promises." Here the veil is lifted, and we get the glimpse we want of

her inheritance and reward in heaven. She has inherited the promises;

such promises as these: "If children, then heirs, heirs of God, and

joint-heirs with Christ; if so be that we suffer with Him, that we may

be also glorified together." "They shall hunger no more, neither thirst

any more, neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat; for the

Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead

them to living fountains of waters, and God shall wipe away all tears

from their eyes." "They shall see His face, and His name shall be in

their foreheads." "To him that overcometh will I grant to sit with me in

my throne, even as I also overcame, and am set down with my Father in

His throne."

Thus we commit this mortal body to the ground in hope, and with

assurances of victory. Oh, it is one of the most wonderful of facts,

that at the grave's very portal, amid all the tears and desolation which

death brings, we can stand and sing hymns of triumph--even that song

which, from the morning when the angels met Mary at the Lord's empty

supulchre, has been sounding over the graves of the dead in Christ--"O

death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? The sting of

death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law; but thanks be to God,

who giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ."

How sweet, how impressive, is this scene! No wonder that we linger

here while Nature, at this evening hour, speaks to us so tenderly and

beautifully of rest. Even as yonder clouds break from the setting

sun, and are tinged with glory by its parting beams, so our sorrow is

illumined by this truth of the Resurrection. There is no terror in

death, and relieved by such a faith and hope, our thoughts are all of

peace, and flow naturally into the mould of those familiar lines:

"So fades a summer cloud away,

So sinks the gale when storms are o'er,

So gently shuts the eye of day,

So dies a wave along the shore."

But this scene is adapted also to kindle aspiration in our hearts--

aspiration to be followers of them who, through faith and patience,

inherit the promises. Her victory over death is the victory of love to

Christ; and that same victory may be yours through the same Christ in

whose name she conquered. Shall we not pray that His love may be shed

abroad in all our hearts in richer measure? And can we better frame that

prayer than in those lines which she wrote out of her own heart? Let us

then sing

MORE LOVE TO THEE, O CHRIST.

More love, O Christ, to Thee!

Hear Thou the prayer I make

On bended knee:

This is my earnest plea,--

More love, O Christ, to Thee!

More love, O Christ, to Thee!

More love to Thee.

Once earthly joy I craved,

Sought peace and rest;

Now Thee alone I seek;

Give what is best!

This all my prayer shall be,--

More love, O Christ, to Thee!

More love to Thee.

Let sorrow do its work,

Send grief and pain;

Sweet are Thy messengers,

Sweet their refrain,

When they can sing with me

More love, O Christ, to Thee!

More love to Thee.

Then shall my latest breath

Whisper Thy praise!

This be the parting cry

My heart shall raise,

This still its prayer shall be,

More love, O Christ, to Thee!

More love to Thee.

After the singing of these words, Mr. Pratt, according to the old

country custom, returned thanks to the assembled friends in the name of

the family, for their sympathy and aid in the burial of their dead. The

several members of the household each laid a floral offering upon the

casket lid, and the body was lowered into the grave. Dr. Vincent uttered

the solemn words of committal to the dust, and Dr. Poor pronounced the

parting blessing in the words, "The God of peace who brought again from

the dead our Lord Jesus, that Great Shepherd of the sheep, through the

blood of the Everlasting Covenant, make you perfect in every good work

to do His will, working in you that which is well-pleasing in His sight,

through Jesus Christ, to whom be glory forever and ever. Amen."

Thus the valley of the shadow has been irradiated. To those who have

been permitted to participate in these closing scenes, it has seemed

like standing at heaven's gate. The valley of the shadow has become a

transfiguration mountain, where we have seen the Lord.

* * * * *

Hardly had the news of her death left Dorset when there began to pour

in upon its stricken household a stream of the tenderest Christian

sympathy; nor did the stream cease until it had brought loving messages

from the remotest parts of the land. Her friends seemed overcome with

special wonder that she could have died, so vividly was she associated

in their thoughts with life and sunlight. For months, too, after the

return of the family to their city home, letters from far and near

continued to bear witness to the mingled emotions of sorrow and of

thanksgiving excited by her sudden departure from earth--sorrow for a

great personal loss; thanksgiving that she had gone to be forever with

the Lord. A little volume of selections from these varied testimonies

would form a very touching and precious tribute to her memory.

"The human heart," to use her own words, "was made by so delicate, so

cunning a hand, that it needs less than a breath to put it out of tune;

and an invisible touch, known only to its own consciousness, may set

all its silvery bells to ringing out a joyous chime. Happy he, thrice

blessed she, who is striving to hush its discords and to awaken its

harmonies by never so imperceptible a motion!" Surely, the triple

benediction belonged to her. Already tens of thousands, both young and

old, who never saw her face, but have been aided and cheered by her

writings, gladly call her "thrice blessed." May this story of her life

serve to increase their number and so to render her name dearer still.

Above all, may it help to inspire some other souls with her own

impassioned and adoring love to our Lord Jesus Christ.

[1] She was specially touched by the sudden decease of Mrs. Harriet

Woolsey Hodge, of Philadelphia, to whom both for her mother's and her

own sake she was warmly attached.

[2] J. Cleveland Cady, the distinguished architect.

[3] Mrs. Antoinette Donaghe died at Staunton, Va., April 14, 1882. Her

last years were passed amid great bodily sufferings, which she bore with

the patience of a saint. She was a woman of uncommon excellence, a true

Christian lady, and much endeared to a wide circle of friends in New

Haven, New York, and elsewhere. Her husband, Mr. James Donaghe, a most

worthy man, for many years a prominent citizen of New Haven, died on

the 1st of January, 1878. He and Mrs. Donaghe were among the original

members of the Church of the Covenant.

[4] The book alluded to is Letters of Thomas Erskine of Linlathen. From

1800 till 1840. Edited by Dr. Hanna, and republished by G. P. Putnam's

Sons. The Duchess de Broglie was born in Paris, in 1797, and died in

September, 1838, at the age of forty-one. She was the only daughter of

the celebrated Madame de Stael. Some pleasant glimpses of her are given

in the Life, Letters, and Journals of George Ticknor. Vol. I., pp.

128-139. Vol. II., pp. 103-139.

[5] The portrait in this volume is from a drawing by Miss Crocker,

engraved by A. H. Ritchie. Miss C., after pursuing her studies for some

time in Paris, has opened a studio in New York.

[6] In this letter she told me how much good Stepping Heavenward had

done her and how sorry she felt on hearing of Mrs. P.'s death, that she

had never written, as she longed to do, to thank her for it. "Dear soul!

(she added) perhaps she knows now how many hearts she has lifted up and

comforted by her wonderful words."--_From a letter of Mrs. W._

[7] Mr. Washburn died on Sunday, the 18th of September, 1881, aged 80

years. He was born in Farmington, Conn. His father, the Rev. Joseph

Washburn, pastor of the Congregational Church in F., was cut off in

the prime of a beautiful and saintly manhood. He inherited some of his

father's most attractive traits and was a model of Christian fidelity

and uprightness. In a notice which appeared in the New York Evangelist,

shortly after his death, President Porter, of Yale College, whose father

succeeded the Rev. Mr. Washburn as pastor of the church in Farmington,

thus refers to his life at Wildwood: "Some twenty years since he retired

for a part of eight years to the singularly beautiful house which was

selected and prepared by the taste of himself and wife, near East River,

a district in Madison, which he has for several years made his permanent

residence. His life was singularly even in its course and happy in its

allotments; a blessing to himself and a blessing to the world. His

memory will long be cherished by the many who knew him as one whom to

know was to love and honor."

[8] Mr. Isaac Farwell, or "Uncle Isaac," as everybody called him, was

the most remarkable man in Dorset. He died in 1881 in the 102d year of

his age. His centennial was celebrated on the 14th of July, 1879; the

whole town joining in it. He was full of interest in life, retained his

mental powers unimpaired, and would relate incidents that occurred in

the last century, as if they had just happened. Mrs. Prentiss was fond

of meeting him: and after her departure he delighted to recall his talks

with her and to tell where he had seen her creeping through fences,

laden with rustic trophies, as she and her daughter came home from their

tramps in the fields and over the hills.

[9] The following is an extract from a letter of Mrs. M. giving an

account of the interview: It was of her I thought, as an hour before

sunset, on that day, I passed through the grounds to the door of her

beautiful home. I thought of her as I had seen her busy at work among

her flowers on the morning of the day when the fatal illness began,

wearing a straw hat, with broad brim to protect her from the heat of the

sun. Several of her family were standing around her, and the pleasant

picture we saw as we drove by the lovely lawn is fresh and green in

my memory now. Once, after this, I had seen her, at our last precious

Bible-reading (though little thought we then it would be our last), when

she so earnestly urged us to be true "witnesses" for our Master and Lord

and gently bade us God-speed, "_encouraging_" us also, as she expressed

it, "by the particular desire of my husband to-day," in the heavenward

path. I knew that she was not quite well, and as I entered the house was

invited to her chamber.

I found her attired as usual, but reclining on the bed, apparently only

for quiet rest. Her greeting was warm, her eyes bright, she was very

cheerful, and, I think, was not then suffering from pain. To my

inquiries after her health, she replied, that she had been at first

prostrated by the heat of the sun, remaining at work in it too long,

with no idea of danger from the exposure; "but now," she said, "I do not

think much is the matter with me"--though afterwards she added, "The

doctor has said something to my husband which has alarmed him about

me, and he is anxious, but I can not perceive any reason for this." We

talked of many familiar things, even of home-like methods of cookery,

and she kindly sent for a small manuscript receipt-book of her own to

lend me, looking it over and turning down the leaves at some particular

receipts which she approved, and "those were my mother's," she said

of several. She spoke of her engagements and the guests she loved to

entertain, adding that she thought God had given this pleasant home,

surrounded by such beautiful things in nature, that others too might

be made happy in enjoying them. All the time while listening to her

remarks, and deeply interested in every one she made, the strong desire

was in my heart to speak to her of her works, of my appreciation of

their great usefulness, and how God had blessed her in permitting her to

do so much to benefit others. I longed to say to her, "O had you only

written the books for the little ones, 'Little Susy's Six Birthdays,'

and its companions, it would have been well worth living for! had

you never written anything but 'The Flower of the Family,' it were

a blessing for you to have lived! And 'Stepping Heavenward'--what a

privilege to have lived to write only that volume!" I could scarcely

refrain from pouring out before her the thoughts which warmed my heart,

but I had been told that she preferred not to be spoken to of her works,

and I refrained. Only once, when we were alone, I said, with some

emotion, "I am so glad to have seen you; it was because _you_ were here

that I wished to come to this village; this was the strong attraction."

... Thus I parted from her. I shall not look upon her again until the

day when "those who sleep in Jesus shall God bring with Him."

APPENDIX

A.

The allusion is to a young officer of the navy, James Swan Thatcher--a

grandson of General Knox, the friend of Washington, and a younger

brother of Lieutenant, afterwards the gallant Rear Admiral, Henry Knox

Thatcher. He had become deeply interested in Miss Payson, and at length

solicited her hand. The story of his hopeless attachment to her, as

disclosed after his death, is most touching. He would spend hours

together late into the night in walking about the house, which, to

borrow his brother's expression, "his love had placed on holy ground."

He was a young man of singular purity and nobleness of character--"one

of a thousand," to use her own words--and, although she could not accept

him as a lover, she cherished for him a very cordial friendship. Not

long after, he was lost at sea. In later years she often referred to him

and his tragical end with the tenderest feeling. The following is an

extract from a letter of Rear Admiral Thatcher to her husband, written

several months after her death and shortly before his own:

I have read with great interest your reference to my dear and only

brother, James Swan Thatcher. It carried me back to one of the saddest

afflictions of my life. We had both been stationed at Portland for the

purpose of recruiting some of the hardy sons of Maine as seamen for the

U. S. naval service. The wife of the Rev. Dr. Dwight had advised my

calling upon Mrs. Payson, Cumberland street, to obtain quarters. I did

so, and with my wife removed from a noisy hotel to the quiet of that

most desirable retreat. My brother made frequent visits to us, and, by

invitation of Mrs. Payson, dined with us on Sundays, and passed the

hours between meetings, accompanying the ladies to church in the

afternoons. This led to an acquaintance between Miss Payson and

himself. As they were both highly intellectual and were both "stepping

heavenward," they naturally fancied each other's conversation and

formed a mutual friendship. Until after my dear brother's death I

never imagined that it was more than a fondness for Miss Payson's

conversational gifts that induced him to call so frequently at

Cumberland street.... James was unexpectedly ordered to join the U. S.

schooner Grampus at Norfolk, Va., for a winter cruise on the Southern

coast for relief of distressed merchant vessels. The cruise continued

for some weeks without entering any port, but about the 20th of March,

1843, the Grampus appeared off the bar of Charleston, S. C., and sent in

a letter-bag for mailing. That night there came on a terrible gale and

the Grampus disappeared forever--no vestige of her ever having been

seen. She was commanded by Lt.-Commander Albert E. Downes, a good man

and a fine seaman, and who as a midshipman had sailed with me three

years before in the Pacific. My brother was educated for the law, and

studied his profession with the Hon. John Holmes, and, after completing

his studies, became Mr. Holmes' law-partner. But he being my only

brother, I was very desirous that he should obtain a commission as a

purser in the navy, in order that we might be associated on duty; and,

at Mr. H.'s request, he was appointed by General Harrison soon after his

inauguration. My brother then joined me in Portland. It is a consolation

to know that he lived and died in the exercise of those Christian

sentiments which were deeply instilled into his mind by the society of

your angelic wife, who has preceded you to our home of rest. God grant

that we may all meet there!

* * * * *

B.

S. S. PRENTISS.

One of the best informed writers on the history of the Revolutionary

times and of the war for the Union thus introduces a notice of Mr.

Prentiss:

Small in stature; limping in gait; broad-chested; a high intellectual

forehead; manly beauty in every feature; a voice of remarkable sweetness

and flexibility; a mild but deeply penetrating eye; a most retentive

memory; endowed with varied knowledge by extensive reading; unrivaled

in power of oratory; frank in thought, speech, and manner; patient and

forbearing in temper; powerfully governed by the affections, and with

unbounded generosity of disposition, Seargent Smith Prentiss was one of

the most remarkable characters in our history. Living persons who were

adults a generation ago will remember how the newspapers between 1835

and 1850 were filled with his praises as a citizen unapproachable in

oratory, whether he spoke as an advocate at the bar, a debater in the

halls of legislation, or at occasional public gatherings. [1]

S. S. Prentiss was born at Portland, Maine, September 30, 1808. While

yet an infant, he was reduced by a violent fever to the verge of the

grave and deprived for several years of the use of his limbs, the right

leg remaining lame and feeble to the last. For his partial recovery he

was indebted to the unwearied care and devotion of his mother, herself

in delicate health.

During the war of 1812 his father removed to Gorham. At the academy

in this town, then one of the best in Maine, Seargent was fitted for

Bowdoin College, where he was graduated in the class of 1826, at the

age of seventeen. After studying law for a year with Judge Pierce, of

Gorham, he set out for what was at that day the Far West, in quest of

fortune. Having tarried a few months at Cincinnati, he then made his

way down the Mississippi to Natchez, where he obtained the situation

of tutor in a private family. Here he completed his legal studies;

was admitted to the bar in June, 1829, soon afterwards became the

law-partner of Gen. Felix Huston, and almost at a bound stood in the

front rank of his profession in the State. "Boundless good-nature," to

use the language of Dr. Lossing; "keen logic; quickness and aptness

at repartee; overflowing but kindly wit; an absolute earnestness and

sincerity in all he undertook to do, made him a universal favorite

in every circle." In 1832 Mr. Prentiss removed to Vicksburg. John M.

Chilton, a leading member of the bar of that place, thus describes his

first appearance in the Circuit Court of Warren county:

There arrived, with other members of the bar, from Natchez, a limping

youth in plain garb, but in whose bearing there was a manly, indeed

almost a haughty, mien; in whose cheek a rich glow, telling the

influence of more northern climes; in whose eye a keen but meditative

expression; and in whose voice and conversation a vivacity and

originality that attracted every one, and drew around him, wherever he

appeared, a knot of listeners, whose curiosity invariably yielded in a

few moments to admiration and delight. There was then a buzz of inquiry,

succeeded by a pleased look of friendly recognition, and a closer

approach, and in most instances an introduction, to the object of this

general attraction, so soon as it was told that the stranger was S. S.

Prentiss, of Natchez. His fame had preceded him, and men were surprised

to see only beardless youth in one whose speeches, and learning, and

wit, and fine social qualities, had already rendered him at Natchez "the

observed of all observers."

Society in the Southwest at that day was full of perils to young men,

especially to young men of talent and generous, impressionable natures.

Drinking, duelling, and gambling widely prevailed. It was a period of

"flush times," and wild, reckless habits. Mr. Prentiss did not wholly

escape the contagion; but his faults and errors were very much

exaggerated in many of the stories that found currency concerning him.

One of his friends wrote after his death: "I have heard many anecdotes

of him, which I considered of doubtful authority; for he is a

traditional character all over Mississippi--their Cid, their Wallace,

their Coeur de Lion, and all the old stories are wrought over again,

and annexed to his name." Another of his friends, who knew him long and

intimately, the late Balie Peyton, of Tennessee, testified: "No man ever

left a purer fame than Seargent S. Prentiss, in all that constitutes

high honor and spotless integrity of character. His principles remained

as pure, and his heart continued as warm and fresh, as at the instant he

bade farewell to his mother."

From his settlement at Vicksburg his career as a lawyer was one of

remarkable success; and it were hard to say in what department of his

profession he most excelled, whether in the varied contests of the

_Nisi Prius_ courts, in an argument on a difficult question of legal

construction, or in discussing a fundamental principle of jurisprudence.

In 1833, at the age of 24, he appeared before the Supreme Court at

Washington, where, in spite of his youth, he at once attracted the

notice of Chief Justice Marshall. "I made a speech three or four hours

long (he wrote to his mother); and I suppose you will say I have

acquired a great deal of brass since I left home, when I tell you that I

was not at all abashed or alarmed in addressing so grave a set of men as

their Honors the Judges of the Supreme Court of the United States." In

attending the circuit courts of Mississippi he had experiences of the

roughest sort and many a hairbreadth escape. He wrote:

I travel entirely on horseback; and have had to swim, on my horse, over

creeks and bayous that would astonish you Northerners. Beyond Pearl

river I had to ride, and repeatedly to swim, through a swamp four miles

in extent, in which the water was all the time up to the horse's belly.

What do you think of that for a lawyer's life?

In the winter of 1836-7 he won the great "Commons" suit, which involved

a considerable portion of the town of Vicksburg. This made him, as was

supposed, one of the richest men in the State.

About this time he was induced to run for the legislature of

Mississippi. He was elected, and at once took a foremost position as

leader of his party.

The next summer he visited his home, and by a speech at a Whig political

meeting in Portland, on the Fourth of July, he so electrified his

hearers by his eloquence that he was pronounced, in the East, the most

finished orator of his time; as he really was. He became a candidate for

a seat in Congress, and made the most remarkable electioneering canvass

ever recorded. Traveling on horseback, he visited forty-five counties in

a sparsely-settled country. For ten weeks he traveled thirty miles each

week-day, and spoke each day two hours. He had announced his engagements

beforehand, and never missed one. Mississippi was a strong "Jackson

State," but Mr. Prentiss carried it for the Whigs. His seat was

contested by his Democratic opponent, and his speech in the House of

Representatives at Washington in favor of his claim gained for him a

national reputation as the greatest orator of the age. It occupied three

days in its delivery. He had not spoken long before intelligence of his

wonderful oratory reached the Senate chamber and drew its members to the

other House. Rumors of his speech ran through the city, and before it

was concluded the anxiety to hear him became intense. The galleries of

the House became densely packed, chiefly with ladies, and the lobbies

were crowded with foreign ministers, heads of departments, judges,

officers of the army and navy, and distinguished citizens. Among the

charmed auditors were the best American statesmen of the time who then

occupied seats in both branches of Congress--John Quincy Adams leading

those of the Representatives, and Daniel Webster and Henry Clay of

the Senate. The entire self-possession of Mr. Prentiss, then only

twenty-nine years of age, never forsook him in such an august presence.

There was no straining for effect, no trick of oratory; but, from the

first to the last sentence, everything in manner, as in matter, seemed

perfectly natural, as if he were addressing a jury on an ordinary

question of law. This feature of his speech--this evidence of sincerity

in every word--with the almost boyish beauty of his face, bound his

distinguished audience as with a magic spell. When, at the conclusion of

the speech, Mr. Webster left the hall, he remarked to a friend, with his

comprehensive brevity, "Nobody can equal that!" [2]

Mr. Prentiss was rejected by the casting vote of the Speaker, Mr.

Polk, and the election sent back to the people; when, after another

extraordinary canvass, he was triumphantly returned. After the

adjournment of Congress he visited his mother in Portland. About this

time a great reception was given to Mr. Webster, as defender of the

Constitution, in Faneuil Hall, and Mr. Prentiss was invited to be

present and address the assemblage. His speech on the occasion is still

fresh in the memory of all who heard it. He was called upon late in the

evening, and after a succession of very able speakers; but hardly had

the vast audience heard the tap of his cane, as he stepped forward, and

caught the first sound of his marvellous voice, when he held them, as it

were, spell-bound. Before he had uttered a word, indeed, he had taken

possession of his audience by his very look--for, when aroused by a

great occasion, his countenance flashed like a diamond. Gov. Everett,

who presided at the banquet, himself an orator of classic power, thus

referred to Mr. Prentiss' address, in a letter written more than a dozen

years later:

It seemed to me the most wonderful specimen of sententious fluency I had

ever witnessed. The words poured from his lips in a torrent, but the

sentences were correctly formed, the matter grave and important, the

train of thought distinctly pursued, the illustrations wonderfully

happy, drawn from a wide range of reading, and aided by a brilliant

imagination. That it was a carefully prepared speech, no one could

believe for a moment. It was the overflow of a full mind, swelling in

the joyous excitement of the friendly reception, kindling with the

glowing themes suggested by the occasion, and not unmoved by the genius

of the place. Sitting by Mr. Webster, I asked him if he had ever

heard anything like it? He answered, "Never, except from Mr. Prentiss

himself."

Political life was exceedingly distasteful to Mr. Prentiss and he

soon abandoned it and returned with fresh zeal to the practice of his

profession. The applauses of the world seemed never for an instant to

deceive him. He wrote after a great speech at Nashville, addressed, it

was estimated, to 40,000 people: "They heap compliments upon me till I

am almost crushed beneath them." And yet in the midst of such popular

ovations he wrote to his sister:

I laugh at those who look upon the uncertain, slight, and changeable

regards of the multitude, as worthy even of comparison with the true

affection of one warm heart. I have ever yearned for affection; I

believe it is the only thing of which I am avaricious. I never had any

personal ambition, and do not recollect the time when I would not

have exchanged the applause of thousands for the love of one of my

fellow-beings.

In 1842 his yearning for affection was satisfied by his marriage to Miss

Mary Jane Williams, of Natchez; and henceforth his life was full of the

sweetest domestic peace and joy. From the moment of first leaving home

he had carried on a constant correspondence with his mother, sisters,

and brothers, in the North; and he kept it up while he lived. He took a

special interest in the education of his youngest brother, and at one

time had planned to join him in Germany for purposes of study and

travel. All the later years of his life were years of unwearied toil and

struggle.

In 1845 a case involving the validity of his title to the "Commons"

property, was decided against him in the Supreme Court of the United

States; thus wresting from him at a blow that property and the costly

buildings which he had erected upon it. In consequence of this

misfortune and of his abhorrence of repudiation, which, in spite of his

determined opposition, had, unhappily, been foisted upon his adopted

State, he removed to New Orleans in 1846. Here, notwithstanding that he

had to master a new system of law, he at once took his natural position

as a leader of the bar; and but for failing health, would no doubt have

in the end repaired his shattered fortunes and made himself a still

more brilliant name among the remarkable men of the country. He died at

Natchez, July 1, 1850, in the forty-second year of his age, universally

beloved and lamented. He left a wife and four young children, three of

whom still survive.

Mr. Prentiss was a natural orator. Even as a boy he attracted

everybody's attention by the readiness and charm of his speech. But all

this would have contributed little toward giving him his marvellous

power over the popular mind and heart, had he not added to the rare

gifts of nature the most diligent culture, a deep study of life and

character, and a wonderful knowledge of books. The whole treasury of

general literature--more especially of English poetry and fiction--was

at his command; Shakespeare, Milton, and Byron he almost knew by heart;

with the Bible, Pilgrim's Progress, and Sir Walter Scott, he seemed

to be equally familiar; and from all these sources he drew endless

illustrations in aid of his argument, whether it was addressed to a

jury, to a judge, to the people, or to the legislative assembly. When,

for example, he undertook to show the wrongfulness of Mississippi

repudiation, he would refer to Wordsworth as "a poet and philosopher,

whose good opinion was capable of adding weight even to the character of

a nation," and then expatiate, with the enthusiasm of a scholar, upon

the noble office of such men in human society. He had corresponded with

Mr. Wordsworth and knew that members of his family had suffered heavily

from the dishonesty of the State; and perhaps no passages in his great

speeches against repudiation were more effective than those in which he

thus brought his fine literary taste and feeling to the support of the

claims of public honesty. This feature of his oratory, together with the

large ethical element which entered into it, was, no doubt, a principal

source of its extraordinary power. It would be hard to say in what

department of oratory he most excelled. On this point the following is

the testimony of Henry Clay, himself a great orator as well as a great

statesman, and one of Mr. P.'s most devoted and admiring friends:

Mr. Prentiss was distinguished, as a public speaker, by a rich, chaste,

and boundless imagination, the exhaustless resources of which, in

beautiful language and happy illustrations, he brought to the aid of a

logical power, which he wielded to a very great extent. Always ready and

prompt, his conceptions seemed to me almost intuitive. His voice was

fine, softened, and, I think, improved, by a slight lisp, which an

attentive observer could discern. The great theatres of eloquence and

public speaking in the United States are the legislative hall, the

forum, and the stump, without adverting to the pulpit. I have known some

of my contemporaries eminently successful on one of these theatres,

without being able to exhibit any remarkable ability on the others. Mr.

Prentiss was brilliant and successful on them all.

Of the attractions of his personal and social character the testimonies

are very striking. Judge Bullard, in a eulogy pronounced before the bar

of New Orleans, thus refers to his own experience:

What can I say of the noble qualities of his heart? Who can describe

the charms of his conversation? Old as I am, his society was one of my

greatest pleasures--I became a boy again. His conversation resembled

the ever-varying clouds that cluster round the setting sun of a summer

evening--their edges fringed with gold, and the noiseless and harmless

flashes of lightning spreading, from time to time, over their dark

bosom.

In a similar strain Gov. J. J. Crittenden, of Kentucky, wrote of him

shortly after his death:

It was impossible to know him without feeling for him admiration and

love. His genius, so rich and rare; his heart, so warm, generous, and

magnanimous; and his manners, so graceful and genial, could not fail to

impress these sentiments upon all who approached him. Eloquence was a

part of his nature, and over his private conversations as well as his

public speeches it scattered its sparkling jewels with more than royal

profusion.

* * * * *

C.

Here are the first stanzas of some of her favorite German hymns,

referred to in this letter:

Jesus, Jesus, nichts als Jesus

Soll mein Wunsch sein und mein Ziel;

Jetzund mach ich ein Verbündniss,

Dass ich will, was Jesus will;

Denn mein Herz, mit ihm erfüllt,

Rufet nur; Herr, wie du willt.

_Written by Elizabeth, Countess of Schwartzburg_, 1640-1672.

Gott ist gegenwärtig! Lasset uns anbeten,

Und in Erfurcht vor ihn treten;

Gott ist in der mitten! Alles in uns schweige

Und sich innig vor ihm beuge;

Wer ihn kennt, wer ihn nennt,

Schlagt die Augen nieder,

Kommt, ergebt euch wieder.

_By Gerhard Tersteegen_, 1697-1769.

Zum Ernst, zum Ernst ruft Jesu Geist inwendig;

Zum Ernst ruft auch die Stimme seiner Braut;

Getreu und ganz, und bis zum Tod beständig.

Ein reines Herz allein den reinen schaut.

_By the Same_.

Wir singen dir, Immanuel,

Du Lebensfürst und Gnadenquell,

Du Himmelsblum und Morgenstern,

Du Jungfrausohn, Herr aller Herrn.

_Paul Gerhard_, 1606-1676.

Such, wer da will, ein ander Ziel

Die Seligkeit zu finden,

Mein Herz allein bedacht soll sein

Auf Christum sich zu gründen:

Sein Wort ist wahr, sein Werk ist klar,

Sein heilger Mund hat Kraft und Grund,

All Feind zü überwinden.

_George Weissel_, 1590-1635.

Gott, mein einziges Vertrauen,

Gott, du meine Zuversicht,

Deine Augen zu mir schauen,

Deine Hülf versage mir nicht;

Lass mich nicht vergeblich schreien,

Sondern hör und lass gedeihen;

So will ich, Gott, halten still,

Gott, dein Will ist auch mein Will.

_Elizabeth Eleonore, Duchess of Sax-Meiningen_, 1658-1729.

O Durchbrecher aller Bande,

Der du immer bei uns bist,

Bei dem Shaden, Spott und Schande

Lauter Lust und Himmel ist,

Uebe femer dein Gerichte

Wider unsern Adamssinn,

Bis dein treues Angesichte

Uns führt aus dem Kerken hin.

_Gotter. Arnold_, 1666-1714.

* * * * *

_Lavater's Hymn._

HE MUST INCREASE, BUT I MUST DECREASE.

--John iii. 30.

O Jesus Christus, ivachs in mir,

Und alles andre schwinde!

Mein Herz sei täglich näher dir,

Und ferner von der Sünde.

Lass täglich deine Huld und Macht

Um meine Schwachheit schweben!

Dein Licht verschlinge meine Nacht,

Und meinen Tod dein Leben!

Beim Sonnenstrahle deines Lichts

Lass jeden Wahn verschwinden!

Dein Alles, Christus, und mein nichts,

Lass täglich mich empfinden.

Sei nahe mir, werf ich mich hin,

Wein ich vor dir in stillen;

Dein reiner gottgelassner Sinn

Beherrsche meinen Willen.

Blick immer herrlicher aus mir

Voll Weisheit Huld und Freude,

Ich sei ein lebend Bild von dir

Im Gluck, und wenn ich leide.

Mach alles in mir froh und gut,

Dass stets ich minder fehle;

Herr, deiner Menschen-Liebe Glut

Durchglühe meine Seele.

Es weiche Stolz, und Trägheit weich;

Und jeder Leichtsinn fliehe,

Wenn, Herr, nach dir und deinem Reich

Ich redlich mich bemühe.

Mein eignes, eitles, leeres Ich

Sei jeden Tag geringer.

O rd ich jeden Tag durch dich

Dein würdigerer Junger.

Von dir erfüllter jeden Tag

Und jeden von mir leerer!

O du, der uber Flehn vermag,

Sei meines Flehns erhörer!

Der Glaub an dich und deine Kraft

Sei Trieb von jedem Triebe!

Sei du nur meine Leidenschaft,

Du meine Freud und Liebe!

* * * * *

D.

A few extracts from the little diaries referred to are here given:

_May 15, 1857._--Box came from Mrs. Bumstead--my dear, kind friend--

containing _everything_; salmon, tomatoes, oranges, peaches, prunes,

cocoa and ham, tea and sugar from her father.[3] How pleasant the

kindness of friends! _21st._--Worked at planting aster seeds and putting

in verbena cuttings--all in my room, of course. _23d._--First hepaticas

in garden. Sweet peas coming up. Brownie hatched--_one_ chicken. _June

1st._--Books from dear Lizzy. "Sickness," may it do me good. [4]

_28th._--Sent flowers to the B.'s, flowers and strawberries to Mrs. N.,

green peas to E. M., and trout to Mother Hopkins. _July 2d._--Continue

to send strawberries--yesterday to the B.'s--to-day to A. B. and Miss

G., with rosebuds.

_Oct. 11th._--A beautiful autumn day. Could not leave my bed till near

noon. Then Albert drove me down the lane and carried me into the woods

in his arms. Eddy has collected $30 for Kansas. [5] _25th._--My whole

time, night and day, is spent in setting traps for sleep. To-day

the money was sent for Kansas--$55, of which $9 was from us. _Nov.

4th._--Election day. Great excitement. _5th._--Wretched news; it is

feared that Buchanan is elected. _Nov. 17th._--The anniversary of my

dear mother's death. My own can not be far distant. _I earnestly entreat

that none of my friends will wear mourning for me_.

_January 1, 1858._--Outwardly all looks dark--health at the

lowest--brain irritated and suffering inexpressibly--but _underneath

all_, thank God, some patience, some resignation, some quiet trust. If

it were not for wearing out my friends! But this care, too, I must learn

to cast on Him.

_5th._--Albert is reading Miss Bronte's Life to me, and oh, how many

chords vibrate deep in my soul as I hear of her _shyness_; her dread

of coming in contact with others; her morbid sensitiveness and intense

suffering from lowness of spirits; her thirst for knowledge, her

consciousness of personal defects, etc., etc., etc.

_9th._--Storms to-day "like mad." Present from Julia Willis. Each day

seems a week long, but let me be thankful that I have a chair to sit in,

limbs free from palsy, books of all sorts to be read, and kind friends

to read. Oh, yes; let me be _thankful_. A. brought "School-days at

Rugby." _22d._--Eddy began to wear his coat! A. read to me Tom Brown's

"School-days." _23d._--LOVE is the word that fills my horizon to-day.

God is Love; I must be like Him. _Feb. 3d._--How lovely seem the

words DUTY and KIGHT! How I long to be spotless--all pure within and

without!... Albert read from Adolph Monod. What a precious book!

_23d._--To-morrow I shall be forty-six years old. If I said one hundred

I should believe it as well. _24th._--My birthday.... I feel disposed to

take as my motto for this year, "I will hope continually, and will yet

praise Thee _more and more_" Eddy began Virgil to-day. _27th._--Woke

with a strong impression that I am Christ's, His servant, and as such

have nothing to do for myself--no separate interest. Oh, to feel this

and _act_ upon it always. And not _only_ a servant, but a _child_; and

therefore entitled to feel an interest in the affairs of the _Family_.

Albert read from the Silent Comforter the piece called "Wearisome

Nights," which is an exact expression of my state and feelings. Long

to do some good, at least by praying for people. A note from Mrs.

C. Stoddard to my husband and myself, which was truly refreshing.

_26th._--This morning God assisted me out of great weakness to converse

and pray with my beloved child. He also prayed. I can not but entertain

a trembling hope that he is indeed a Christian. So great a mercy would

fill me with transport.

_April 6th._--"I love the Lord because He hath heard my voice and my

supplication" (Ps. cxvi. I). Albert read this psalm to me nearly fifteen

years ago, the morning of the day succeeding that on which God had

delivered me out of great danger and excruciating sufferings and had

given us a _living child_. Our hearts swelled with thankfulness then;

now we have received our child a second time--anew _gift_. _June

8th._--A.'s holiday. First strawberry! and first rose! (cinnamon).

_July 3d._--Oh, my dear, dear sister Lizzy! Shall I never see you again

in this world? I fancied I was familiar with the thought and reconciled

to it, but now it agonizes me. [6]

_Dec. 26th._--I do long to submit to--no, to accept joyfully--the will

of God in everything; to see only Love in every trial. But to be made a

whip in His hand with which to scourge others--I, who so passionately

desire to give pleasure, to give only pain--I, who so hate to cause

suffering, to inflict nothing else on my best friends--oh, this is

_hard_!... I write by feeling with eyes closed. It is midnight; and, as

usual, I am and have been sleepless. I am full of tossings to and fro

until the dawn. All temporal blessings seem to be expressed by one

word--_Sleep_.... Disease is advancing with rapid strides; many symptoms

of paralysis; that or insanity certain, unless God in mercy to myself

and my friends takes me home first.

_31st._--"Here then to Thee Thine own I leave--

Mould as Thou wilt Thy passive clay;

But let me all Thy stamp receive,

But let me all Thy words obey.

Serve with a single heart and eye,

And to Thy glory live or die."

_Jan. 26, 1859._--Cars ran through from Adams to Troy _first time_.

Eddy studying Greek, Latin, etc., at school; Geology at home. _Feb.

3d._--Much of the day in intense bodily anguish, but have had lately

more of Christ in my heart. Albert is reading me a precious sermon by

Huntingdon on "a life hid with Christ in God." Oh, to learn more of

Christ and His love! _5th._--O God, who art _rich_ in mercy, if Thou

art looking for some creature on whom to bestow it, behold the poorest,

neediest, emptiest of all Thou hast made, and _satisfy_ me with Thy

mercy. _Sunday, 6th._--How thankful I am for the many good books I have!

and oh, how I stand _amazed_ at the faith and patience of God's dear

children (Mrs. Coutts, _e.g._), to _read_ of whose sufferings makes

my heart bleed and almost murmur on their account. _March 17th._--"So

foolish was I and ignorant, I was as a _beast_ before Thee." Oh, howr it

comforts me that there is such a verse in the Bible as this! It comes

_near_ describing my folly, stupidity, ignorance, and blindness....

Quite overcome to-day by a most unexpected favor from my dear friends

the Jameses, [7] who I thought had forgotten me. _April 12th._--My love

to my dear, dear sister. I shall never see her, never write to her, but

we will spend eternity together.

_Dec 1st._--Albert opened the _piano_, and, for the first time in _six

years_, I touched it. Beautiful flower-pictures from Lizzy. [8]

_Sunday, Jan._ 1, 1860.--"Out of weakness were made strong." This is

the verse which has been given me as a motto for the year. May it be

fulfilled in my experience! But should it not be so to my apprehension,

may I be able to say, "Most gladly, therefore, will I glory in my

infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me."

_March 26th._--For several days I have been led to pray that the

indwelling Spirit may indite my petitions. To-day He leads me to pray

for the annihilation of self. My whole soul cries out for this--to

forget my own sorrows, wants, sins even, and lose myself in Christ.... O

precious Saviour, let me see Thee; let me behold Thy beauty; let me hear

Thy voice; let me wash Thy feet with tears; let me gaze on Thee forever.

_March 31st._--A remarkable day. 1st. Weather like Indian summer. 2d.

After a very poor night, expecting to spend the day in bed, I was so

strengthened as to ride up to the mountain with Albert and to enjoy

seeing the mosses. In the P.M. rode again with Eddy.

_June 30th._--For years I have been constantly fearing insanity or

palsy. Now I hear of Mrs. ---- struck with paralysis and my dear friend

---- with mental alienation, while I am spared.

_June 27th._--Let a person take a delicately-strung musical instrument

and strike blows on it with a hammer till nearly every string is broken

and the whole instrument trembles and shrieks under the infliction--that

is what has been done to me. Words are entirely inadequate to paint what

I suffer.

_June 30th._--Another great mercy. A letter from N. P. W. [9] Under date

of June 4th, I wrote, "May God bless," etc., and God has blessed him.

Oh, praise, praise to Him who hears even before we ask.

_April 26, 1861._--"Hangs my helpless soul on Thee." Oh, how many

thousand times do I repeat this line during the sleepless hours of my

wretched nights!

As the year advanced, the entries became fewer and fewer; some of

them, by reason of extreme weakness and suffering, having been left

unfinished. But no weakness or suffering could wholly repress her love

of Nature. Imprisoned within the same pages that record her nights

and days of anguish are exquisite bits of fern, delicate mosses,

rose-leaves, and other flowers pressed and placed there by her own hand.

But far more touching than these mementoes of her love of Nature are the

passages in this diary of her last year on earth, that express her love

to Christ and testify to His presence and supporting grace in what she

describes as "the fathomless abyss of misery" in which she was plunged.

They remind one of the tints of unearthly light and beauty that adorn

sometimes the face of a thundercloud. They are such as the following:

_June 11, 1861._--Blessed be God for comfort. I see my sins all

gone--all set down to Christ's account; and not only so, but--oh,

wonder!--all His merits transferred to me. Well may it be said, "Let us

come boldly to the throne of grace." Why not be bold with such--just

like presenting an order at a bank.

_Nov. 6th._--Come, O come, dear Lord Jesus! Come to this town, this

church, this family, and oh, come to this poor longing famished heart.

_Sunday, Nov. 10th._--A better night and some peace of mind. But O my

Saviour, support me; let not the fiery billows swallow me up! And O

let me not fail to be thankful for the mercies mingled in my cup of

suffering--a pleasant room adorned with gifts of love from absent

friends, and just now with beautiful mosses brought from the woods by my

dear husband.

The next entry contains directions respecting parting gifts to be sent

to her sister and other absent friends after her death. Then comes the

last entry, which is as follows:

"I need not be afraid to ask to be--first, 'holy and without blame

before Him in love'; second, 'filled with all the fullness of God';

third--."

Here her pen dropped from her hand, and a little later her wearisome

pilgrimage was over, and she entered into the saint's everlasting rest.

* * * * *

Further extracts from her literary journal:

_Tuesday, Jan. 11, 1836._--Last meeting of the class. Mr. Dana made some

remarks intended as a sort of leave-taking. He spoke of the importance

of having some fixed _principles_ of criticism. These principles should

be obtained from within--from the study of our own minds. If we try many

criticisms by this standard, we shall turn away from them dissatisfied.

Addison's criticisms on Milton are often miserable, and, where he is

right, it seems to be by a sort of accident. He constantly appeals to

the French critics as authorities. Another advantage will result from

establishing principles of judging--we shall acquire self-knowledge.

We can not ask ourselves, Is this true? does it accord with my own

consciousness? etc., without gaining an acquaintance with ourselves. And

then, in general, the more the taste is cultivated and refined, the more

we shall find to like. Critics by rule, who have one narrow standard

by which they try everything, may find much to condemn and little to

approve: but it is not so in nature, nor with those who judge after

nature. The great duty is to learn to be happy in ourselves.... I

am surprised (said Mr. Dana) to find how much my present tastes and

judgments are those of my childhood. In some respects, to be sure, I

have altered; but, in general, the authors I loved and sympathised with

then, I love and sympathise with now. When I was connected with the

North-American, I wrote a review of Hazlitt's British Poets, in which I

expressed my opinion of Pope and of Wordsworth. The sensation it excited

is inconceivable. One man said I was mad and ought to be put in a

strait-jacket. However, I did not mind it much, so long as they did not

put me in one--that, to be sure, I should not have liked very well.

Public opinion has changed since then. Many of the old _prose_ writers

are very fine. Jeremy Taylor, though I admire him exceedingly, has been,

I think, rather indiscriminately praised.... To come to the poets again,

Young should be read and thought upon. He is often antithetical, but is

a profound thinker. I was quite ashamed the other day on taking up his

works to find how many of my thoughts he had expressed better than I

could express them. I am convinced there is nothing new under the sun.

Collins has written but little, but he is a most graceful and beautiful

creature. For faithfulness of portraiture and bringing out every-day

characters, Crabbe is unrivalled in modern days. And Wordsworth--he and

Coleridge have been obliged to make minds to understand them. Who

equals Wordsworth in purity, in majesty, in tranquil contemplation, in

childlikeness? Coleridge is exerting a great influence in this country,

especially over the minds of some of the young men.

_Friday._--To-day by invitation I attended the first meeting of the new

class and heard the introductory lecture. Mr. D. began by speaking of

the object of the formation of the class. I shall adopt the first person

in writing what he said, though I do not pretend to give his words. I

have not invited you here to amuse an idle hour, or to afford you a

topic of conversation when you meet. One great design has been to

cherish in you a love of home and of solitude. Yet this is not all, for

of what advantage is it to be at home, unless home is a place for the

unfolding of warm affections? and of what use is solitude, unless it be

improved by patient thought, self-study and a communion with those great

minds who became great by thinking. But it is not merely thinking as an

operation of the intellect that is necessary; it must be affectionate

thinking; there must be heartfelt love, and this can be attained only by

a _habit_ of loving.... I would not impart sternness to the beautiful

countenance of English literature. Beautiful indeed it is, but not like

the beauty of the human face, that may be discovered by all who have

eyes to look upon it; the heart as well as the head must engage, or

as Coleridge says, _the heart in the head_. Let us not approach with

carelessness or light-mindedness. Poetry requires a peculiar state of

mind, a peculiar combination of mental and moral qualifications to be

feelingly apprehended. But there--I will not write a word more. It is

a shame to spoil anything so beautiful. Poor Mr. Dana! I hope he will

never know to what he has been subjected.

_Wednesday._--Everybody has set out to invite me to visit them. I made

two visits last evening, one to Mrs. Robinson, where I had a fine

opportunity to settle some of my Hebrew difficulties with Prof. R., and

saw De Wette's translations of Job. This evening I am to make two more,

and to-morrow I spend the day out and receive company in the evening. So

much for dissipation, and for study.

PORTLAND, March 1, 1836.

I believe there is scarcely any branch of knowledge in which I am so

deficient as history, both ecclesiastical and profane. I have never been

much interested _facts_, considered simply as facts, and that is about

all that is to be found in most historical works. The relations of facts

to each other and of all to reason, in other words, the philosophy of

history, are not often to be found in books, and I have not hitherto

been able to supply the want from my own mind. _April 16, 1836._--If my

bump of combativeness does not grow it won't be for want of exercise.

I have had another dispute of two hours' length to-day with another

person. Subjects, Cousin--Locke--innate ideas--idea of space--of

spirit-life, materialism--phrenology--Upham--wine--alcohol--etc.

_June._--My patience has been sorely tried this afternoon. I was

visiting and Coleridge was dragged in, as it seemed for the express

purpose of provoking me by abusing him--just as anybody might show off a

lunatic.... But I did not and never will dispute on such subjects with

those who seek not to know the truth.

_Feb. 6, 1837._--Why is it that our desires so infinitely transcend our

capacities? We grasp at everything--do so by the very constitution of

our natures; and seize--less than nothing. We can not rest without

perfection in _everything_, yet the labor of a life devoted to _one

thing_, only shows us how unattainable it is. I am oppressed with

gloom--oh, for light, light, light! _Feb. 20th._--Alas! my feelings of

discouragement and despondency, instead of diminishing, strengthen every

day. I have been ill for the last fortnight; and possibly physical

causes have contributed to shroud my mind in this thick darkness. Yet I

can not believe that conviction so clear, conclusions so irresistible as

those which weigh me down, are entirely the result of morbid physical

action. In order to prove that they are not, and to have the means of

judging hereafter of the rationalness of my present judgments, I will

record the grounds of my despondency. As nearly as I can recollect, the

thought which oftenest pressed itself upon me, when these feelings of

gloom began, was that I was living to no purpose. I was conscious,

not only of a conviction that I _ought_ to live to do good, but of

an _intense desire_ to do good--to _know_ that I was living to some

purpose; and I felt perfectly certain that this knowledge was essential

to my happiness. I began to wonder that I had been contented to seek

knowledge all my life for my own pleasure, or with an indefinite idea

that it might contribute in some way to my usefulness,--without any

distinct plan.... I then began to inquire what results I had of "all my

labor which I have taken under the sun" and these are my conclusions:

1. I have not that mental discipline, or that command of my own powers,

which is one of the most valuable results of properly directed study. I

can not grasp a subject at once, and view it in all its bearings.

2. I have not that self-knowledge which is another sure result of proper

study. I do not know what I am capable of, nor what I am particularly

fitted for, nor what I am most deficient in. I am forever pouring into

my own mind, and yet never find out what is there.

3d. I have no principle of arrangement or assimilation which might unite

all my scattered knowledge. Oh, how different if I had had one definite

object which, like the lens, should concentrate all the scattered rays

to one focus. I met with this remark of Sir Egerton Bridges to-day; it

applies to me exactly: "I have never met with one who seemed to have the

same overruling passion for literature as I have always had. A thousand

others have pursued it with more principle, reason, method, fixed

purpose, and effect; mine I admit to have been pure, blind, unregulated

love."

4th. I have lost the power of thinking for myself. My memory, which was

originally good, has been so washed away by the floods of trash which

have been poured into it, that now it scarcely serves me at all.

A pleasant picture this of a mind, which ought to be in the full

maturity of its powers. And much reason have I to hope that with such an

instrument I shall leave an impress on other minds!... How I envy the

other sex! They have certain fixed paths marked out for them--regular

professions and trades--between which they may make a choice and know

what they have to do. A friend, to whom I had spoken of some of these

feelings, tried last night to convince me that they are the result of

physical derangement, and not at all the expression of a sane mind in a

sound body. I laughed at him, but have every now and then a suspicion

that he was right.

_Feb. 25th._--Last evening we had the company of some friends who are

interested in the subjects which I love most to talk about. We had a

good deal of conversation about books, authors, the laws of mind and

spirit, etc. My enthusiasm on these subjects revived; I felt a genial

glow resulting from the action of mind upon mind, and the delight of

finding sympathy in my most cherished tastes and pursuits. Whether it is

owing to this or not, I can not say; but I must confess to a new change

of mood, and, consequently, of opinion. I mean that my studies have not

only regained their former attractions in my eyes, but that it seems

unquestionably right and proper to pursue them (when they interfere with

no positive duty) as a means of expanding and strengthening the mind--

even when I can not point out the precise _use_ I expect to make of such

acquisition....

One of my friends tried to convince me last night that I was not

deficient in invention, because I assigned the fact that I am so, as a

reason for attempting translation rather than original writing. Several

others have labored to convince me of the same thing. Strange that they

can be so mistaken! I know that I have no fancy, from having tried to

exert it; and, as this is the lower power and implied in imagination, of

course I have none of the latter faculty. The only two things which look

like it are my enthusiasm and my relish for works of a high imaginative

order.

_Feb. 28th._--... Oh, how transporting--how infinite will be the delight

when _all_ truth shall burst upon us as ONE beautiful and perfect

whole--each distinct ray harmonising and blending with every other, and

all together forming one mighty flood of radiance!... I can not remember

all the thoughts which have given so much pleasure this evening; I only

know that I have been very happy, and wondered not a little at my late

melancholy. I believe it must have been partly caused by looking at

myself (and that, too, as if I were a little, miserable, isolated

wretch), instead of contemplating those things which have no relation

to space and time and matter--the eternal and the infinite--or, if

I thought of myself at all, feeling that I am part of a great and

wonderful whole. It seems as if a new inner sense had been opened,

revealing to me a world of beauty and perfection that I have never

before seen. I am filled with a strange, yet sweet astonishment.

_Sept. 24, 1837._--I have been profoundly interested in the character of

Goethe, from reading Mrs. Austin's "Characteristics" of him. Certainly,

very few men have ever lived of equally wonderful powers. A thing

most remarkable in him is what the Germans call Vielseitigkeit,

many-sidedness. There was no department of science or art of which he

was wholly ignorant, while in very many of both classes his knowledge

was accurate and profound. Most men who have attained to distinguished

excellence, have done so by confining themselves to a single

department--frequently being led to the choice by a strong, original

bias. Even when this is not the case, there is some _class_ of objects

or pursuits, towards which a particular inclination is manifested;

one loves facts, and devotes himself to observations and experiments;

another loves principles and seeks everywhere to discover a _law_. One

cherishes the Ideal, and neglects and despises the Real, while

another reverses his judgment. We have become so accustomed to this

one-sidedness that it occasions no wonder, and is regarded as the

natural state of the mind. Thus we are struck with astonishment on

finding a mind like Goethe's equally at home in the Ideal and the Real;

equally interested in the laws of poetical criticism, and the theory of

colors, equally attentive to a drawing of a new species of plants, and

to the plan of a railroad or canal. In short, with the most delicate

sense of the Beautiful, the most accurate conception of the mode of its

representation, and the most intense longing for it (which alone

would have sufficed to make him an Idealist) he united a fondness for

observation, a love of the actual in nature, and a susceptibility to

deep impressions from and interest in the objects of sense, which would

have seemed to mark him out for a Realist. But is not this the

true stale of the mind, instead of being; one which should excite

astonishment? Is it not one-sidedness rather than many-sidedness that

should be regarded as strange? Is it not as much an evidence of disease

as the preponderance of one element or function in the physical

constitution?

_26th._--I have been thinking more about this many-sidedness of Goethe.

It is by no means that _versatility_ which distinguishes so many

second-rate geniuses, which inclines to the selection of many pursuits,

but seldom permits the attainment of distinguished excellence in one.

It was one and the same principle acting throughout, the striving after

unity. It was this which made him seek to idealise the actual, and

to actualise the Ideal. The former he attempted by searching in each

outward object for the law which governed its existence and of which its

outward development was but an imperfect symbol, the latter by giving

form and consistency to the creations of his own fancy. Thus _the one_

was ever-present to him, and he sought it not in one path, among the

objects of one science alone, but everywhere in nature and out. In all

that was genuine nature he knew that it was to be found; that it was

_not_ to be found in the acquired and the artificial was perhaps the

reason of his aversion for them. This aversion he carried so far that

even acquired virtue was distasteful to him. Whatever may be thought

of such a distaste esthetically, we must think that, morally, it was

carrying his principle rather to an extreme. I have just come across a

plan of study which I formed some months ago and I could not but smile

to see how nothing of it has been accomplished. I was to divide my

attention between philosophy, language (not languages), and poetry. The

former I was to study by topics; e.g., take the subject of perception,

write out my own ideas upon it, if I had any, and then read those

of other people. In studying language, or rather ethnography, I

intended--1. To take the Hebrew roots, trace all the derivatives and

related words first in that language, then in others. 2. To examine

words relating to the spiritual, with a view to discover their original

picture-meaning. 3. Search for a type or symbol in nature of every

spiritual fact. Under the head of poetry I mean, to study the great

masters of epic and dramatic poetry, especially Shakspeare and Milton,

and from them make out a science of criticism. Alas!

_April 5, 1838._--I have been thinking about myself--what a strange,

wayward, incomprehensible being I am, and how completely misunderstood

by almost everybody. Uniting excessive pride with excessive

sensitiveness, the greatest ardor and passionateness of emotion with

an irresolute will, a disposition to _distrust_, in so far only as the

affection of others for me is concerned, with the extreme of confidence

and credulity in everything else--an incapability of expressing, except

occasionally as it were in gushes, any strong feeling--a tendency

to melancholy, yet with a susceptibility of enjoyment almost

transporting--subject to the most sudden, unaccountable and irresistible

changes of mood--capable of being melted and moulded to anything by

kindness, but as cold and unyielding as a rock against harshness and

compulsion--such are some of the peculiarities which excellently prepare

me for un-happiness. It is true that sometimes I am conscious of none of

them--when for days together I pursue my regular routine of studies and

employments, half mechanically--or when completely under the influence

of the outward, I live for a time in what is around me. But this never

lasts long. One of the most painful feelings I ever know is the sense of

an unappeasable craving for sympathy and appreciation--the desire to be

understood and loved, united with the conviction that this desire can

never be gratified. I feel _alone_, different from all others and

of course misunderstood by them. The only other feeling I have more

miserable than this is the sense of being _worse_ than all others, and

utterly destitute of anything excellent or beautiful. Oh! what mysteries

are wrapped up in the mind and heart of man! What a development will

be made when the light of another world shall be let in upon these

impenetrable recesses!

BOSTON, _Jan. 7, 1839._--I came here on the last day of the last

year, and have since then been very much occupied in different ways.

Yesterday, I heard President Hopkins all day, and in the evening,

a lecture from Dr. Follen on Pantheism. The most abstract of all

pantheistic systems he described to be that of the Brahmans, as taught

in the Vedas and Vedashta, and also at _first_ by Schelling, viz., that

the _absolute_ is the first principle of all things; and this absolute

is not to be conceived of as possessing any attribute at all--not even

that of existence. A system a little less abstract is that of the

Eleatics, who believed in the absolute as existing. Then that of

Giordano Bruno, who made _soul_ and _matter_ the formative principle and

the principal recipient of forces--to be the ground of the universe.

Then Spinoza, who postulated _thought_ as the representative of the

spiritual, and _extension_ as that of the material principle; and

these together are his _originaux_. From thence sprang the spiritual

pantheists--such as Schelling, Fichte, and Hegel--and the material

pantheists.

_Wednesday, April 10th._--To-morrow I go to Andover. Have been

indescribably hurried of late. Have finished Claudius--am reading

Prometheus and Kant's Critique. _April 19th_.--Am reading Seneca's Medea

and Southey's Life of Cowper.