the work has also been translated into the French and German languages.
Mrs. Prentiss’ books were all written after her marriage to Rev. George
L. Prentiss, which occurred in 1845. Mr. Prentiss was the pastor of
a church in New Bedford. Afterwards they lived in New York and, in
the year 1866, they went to a quiet place among the Green Mountains
to spend the summer, and so delighted were they with the beauties of
Dorset that they made it their summer home, building a cottage there in
which Mrs. Prentiss died about twelve years later.
It is impossible to give you any account of the varied scenes of her
life in such a brief sketch. She was called to pass through many
sorrows. The death of the father to which I have already referred;
later the loss of her mother, sister, brother and children.
These bereavements came one after another, yet her Christian character
only shone out the brighter.
“Though the death of her children tore with anguish the mother’s
heart, she made no show of grief, and to the eye of the world her life
soon appeared to move on as aforetime. Never again, however, was it
exactly the same life. She had entered into the fellowship of Christ’s
sufferings and the new experience wrought a great change in her whole
being.” She was remarkably happy in the children spared to her, and in
all her home life. A friend has written of her:
“I have ever regarded her as favored among women, blessed in doing her
Master’s will and in testifying of Him, blessed in her home, in her
friends, in her work and blessed in her death.”
FAYE HUNTINGTON.
[Illustration: SLEEPY LITTLE FELLOWS!]
_Volume 13, Number 43._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO.
_August 28, 1886._
THE PANSY.
[Illustration: NORMANDY WOMAN IN WOODEN SHOES.]
ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON.
BY MARGARET SIDNEY.
X.
GEORGE EDWARD ALLEN was now sixteen; hale, hearty, and full of fun.
Truth compels me to state that he did not take first prize for English
Composition, Latin, Mathematics, or even for general deportment, at
the close of the summer term just past. He had no gold medals to carry
home to his admiring parents, to be afterward hung up in his room
for the delectation of any who might choose to examine. He was only
an industrious, even-tempered boy of ordinary steady ability, but
without the least capacity for shining before a large audience with the
splendor of the examination hour.
He did have bestowed upon him, however, at the last moment, in various
little rencontres with master and under teachers, several little
pleasant attentions that made his heart thrill, and the warm blood
mount his brown cheek.
“Allen, I must say I could give you a prize for loving the right, with
all my heart.” This from the master, with that peculiar light in his
gray eyes that seldom came; and because so seldom, was treasured deep
by the one who brought it there. He went further: “My boy, I would
give ten years of my life for such a son as you are.” They were in a
side recitation room alone, and the master’s hand laid on the lad’s
shoulder, no one saw, much less heard the words.
George Edward looked up quickly and gratefully.
“Good-by,” said the master. “If you want any help in vacation over a
tough spot in any study, just drop me a hint of it.” There was a smile
in the overworked face, that lighted up each hard line.
“Good-by, Allen,” said an under teacher regretfully, as George Edward
ran down the passage, “I wish you were to be near me this summer; I
shall miss you,” and Mr. Bryan put himself in the way of the boy’s
advancement. “I want to thank you for your good influence in the
class-room. For you have done more than the teacher sometimes,” he
frankly added.
George Edward tried to protest, but it was no use. “Don’t be
discouraged,” added the teacher kindly, “if prizes do not fall to you
now; but keep on.”
“I should have liked to carry one home to father and mother,” said
George Edward honestly.
“Of course; who of us does not?” assented Mr. Bryan. “Let me tell
you though, my boy, that the prizes, though late often, that fall to
industry and conscientious work, are better worth getting. Take that
with you to think of this summer.”
The boys made loud protestations of regret, which goes without saying,
at the necessary parting to come. How long the vacation seemed, looking
from the standpoint of June. How impossible to wait till September
before George Edward’s round countenance should burst upon them like
a ray of sunshine, and his cheery voice call to some sport, in which
they could see no hint of fun if he did not lead off. But all things
are finally pronounced ended. So at last George Edward found himself at
home, with the only prospect of enjoyment ahead of him, an invitation
to visit at Uncle Frost’s.
“I’m sorry it’s all the outing we can give you this summer, my boy,”
said Mother Allen soberly; “your father intended to take you if he went
on the Maine trip, but Mr. Porter wanted the Western business done now,
and that is altogether too expensive to be thought of.”
George Edward’s eyes glistened. That Western trip would have made a
vacation beating every other boy’s that he had known. He broke out
eagerly, “O mother—” then stopped. She looked pale and troubled.
“It’s a good enough place at Uncle Frost’s,” he finished indifferently;
“when do I start?”
“No, it isn’t very pleasant,” said Mrs. Allen truthfully. “I’m sorry
you couldn’t have gone into the country; but we can’t afford it unless
I go and shut up the house, and I can’t do that, because grandma isn’t
well, and must come here.”
“Never mind,” said George Edward, “there’s some fun in it, anyway.
We’ll call it bully.”
“It will be a change,” said his mother, “and that’s all you can say,
and you’ll have a chance to learn something new, and see other people.”
“When does he want me to come?” asked George Edward, dashing at the
letter again.
“Next week,” said Mrs. Allen.
“All right; I’ll put my traps together, and be off. Gainesburg is the
cry now,” cried George Edward.
But for once the boy was in luck. Two days after Uncle Frost’s house
had received him, Mrs. Allen was reading the following letter:
MY DEAR MOTHER:
Hurrah—hurrah—hurrah! Uncle Frost is a brick (beg pardon,
mother)! He’s given me a royal, out-and-out invite to go to
the White Mountains with the family. Expenses all thrown in,
etc., etc. Start on Saturday. Telegraph “yes” please.
Your affectionate Son,
GEORGE EDWARD.
“Yes” was telegraphed over the hills on Thursday, and for two weeks our
boy revelled in the bliss of mountain life, with quantities of fun,
frolic and adventure thrown in by the way, to return all made over,
to Uncle Frost’s, there to meet the ill news travelling fast over the
electric wires:
“Your father died suddenly at St. Paul. Come at once.”
Had it come so soon? George Edward looked life in the face this
vacation time, accepted his cross, bade good-by to all hopes of
ever entering school or college life again, and thanked God for the
situation in the drug store that the apothecary around the corner gave
him.
His father’s affairs, well looked over, gave no hope of anything but
the direst economy for the widow. As for the son, he must go to work,
and at once.
“Now we will see if he holds out a saint,” one boy was mean enough to
think, seeing George Edward hurry to his place of work every morning
bright and early. Other eyes quite as sharp, though far from cruel,
were on him. It was an awful ordeal for any boy to pass through; most
of all, because of the commonplaceness of the sacrifice he was daily
making. Had he marched up to the cannon’s mouth, and courted death
to save his mother’s life, this would have been easy compared to the
monotonous dead-level existence he was enduring. For to the active
boy, alert for an excitement, wide awake for novelty, with every muscle
crying out for exercise and change, the close confinement of the small
store, and the routine work, were torture indeed. He began to show the
effects of such a life, and in three weeks his mother was aghast to
find that her boy had grown suddenly thin and pale.
“Why, George Edward,” she cried, “you can’t stay in that store.”
“I must,” said George Edward doggedly.
“But you will die,” cried poor Mrs. Allen, “then what shall I do?” And
the tears began to come.
George Edward thought a bit. Then he said “There isn’t anything else,
mother, only work on a farm. But it’s August now, who’d give me a
chance at it, pray tell?”
“I shall try,” said his mother, rousing herself, “you will die where
you are.” And she seized paper and pen and wrote the following:
A boy of sixteen who has just lost his father wishes a place
to work on a farm for the remainder of the season. Only
those persons of unexceptional references who wish such a
farm hand not afraid to work, need apply to
MRS. E. C. ALLEN,
—— ——
George Edward was in a fever of excitement, though he tried not to show
it, all the next three days. His mother met with such poor success in
her efforts to conceal her state of mind, that she went around the
house, a bright spot in either cheek, scarcely able to set herself with
calmness at any task. At last, on the evening of the third day, this
letter was drawn from the post-office:
RESPECTED MADAM:
If your son really wants to work, send him on. Here’s a
letter from my paster, maybe that will be satisfyin’. Three
dollars a week an’ board. That’s what I pay. Yours to
command,
JOB STEVENS,
_Blueberry Hill_.
The “paster’s” letter reading remarkably well, and a friend
investigating the matter with thoroughness for Mrs. Allen, finding it
all right, George Edward’s trunk was packed, and he at once dispatched
for Blueberry Hill.
It was evening when he arrived there.
QUEEN ELIZABETH.
QUEEN ELIZABETH was the daughter of the wicked Henry the Eighth and
of Anne Boleyn. Elizabeth was about three years old when she was left
motherless. On the death of her sister Mary she ascended to the throne,
and amid joyful acclamations was proclaimed queen.
As the grand procession moved along the queen was very kind and
gracious, and the poor came up to her carriage, with nosegays for her,
and when any one wanted to speak to her, she would stop the carriage.
The coronation took place at Westminster. The crown was placed upon
her head amidst great shouting and rejoicing. Elizabeth placed a ring
upon her own finger, to signify that she was espoused to the realm of
England, and that ring she wore for forty years.
Elizabeth was a fine scholar, and in many respects her reign was
prosperous, but she was very irritable, and did several things which
have marred and stained her name.
[Illustration: WESTMINSTER ABBEY.]
Of course there is very much to learn about her which you must read
yourself in history. You will there be told all about her troubles
with the unfortunate Mary, Queen of Scots, who was her relative, and
who after being a prisoner in Fotheringay Castle for many years, was
executed.
She was very beautiful. It is thought that Elizabeth envied her
remarkable beauty, which is a very wicked thing to do. Elizabeth,
though homely, was very vain, and dearly loved compliments.
At one time there were many pictures of the queen circulated, much
resembling her, and therefore not very handsome. So the queen issued a
formal proclamation against them, forbidding the people to sell them,
and stating that an artist would be employed to make a true picture of
her. What a pity she did not realize that beauty of mind, kindness
of heart, nobleness of character, and above all, the true Christian
spirit, were much more to be desired than anything so frail and
perishable as human beauty. Never, in any reign, has England known such
pomp and splendor as in Elizabeth’s time. She was fond of parade. She
once went to church surrounded by a thousand men in armor, and drums
and trumpets sounding.
You will read in her life about the Earl of Essex, who was a prime
favorite with Elizabeth for a long time, but he offended her, and
she caused him to be executed. She had once given him a ring, to be
returned to her in case he ever needed her aid. When in prison he sent
it, but it was intercepted. The queen got angry because the ring did
not come, and therefore thought Essex was very proud. After his death,
however, she learned about the ring, and was therefore thrown into deep
distress, and soon pined away and died. She had about three thousand
dresses at the time of her death, in her wardrobe. Her last words were,
“Millions of worlds for an inch of time.”
She was buried in Westminster Abbey, where many of the great of England
sleep in unbroken repose.
RINGWOOD.
OUR ALPHABET OF GREAT MEN.
S.—SAVONAROLA, GIROLAMO.
FOUR hundred and thirty-four years—1452-1886. What wonderful events
have been taking place all along through these years since the young
Girolamo first saw the light! And I have been wondering what Savonarola
would have said and done had he lived in this nineteenth century. He is
spoken of as one whose soul was stirred by ardent faith which burned
through all obstacles; as a fervid orator and as a sagacious ruler, who
evolved order out of chaos; as one who to maintain his cause of reform
braved single-handed the whole power of the Papacy. He is described as
a serious, quiet child, early showing signs of mental power. The books
which were his favorites would, I fear, be pronounced dry by the boys
of to-day. But although he was given to solid reading, he was fond of
music and poetry, and even wrote verses himself. He enjoyed solitude,
and loved to wander alone along the banks of the River Po. I ought
to have told you that his native city was Ferrara, in Italy. He was
expected to succeed his grandfather who was an eminent physician, and
with that end in view he was carefully trained. But as he grew older,
he found himself growing to regard the thought with disfavor, and as
time went on he became convinced that “his vocation was to cure men’s
souls instead of men’s bodies.” Yet he was for a long time restrained
from entering upon the priesthood by regard for the hopes and desires
of his parents. But at length after having made this his daily prayer,
“Lord, teach me the way my soul must walk,” the path of duty became
clear and he, avoiding the painful farewells, slipped away from
home one day when the rest of the family were absent at a festival,
writing an affectionate note of explanation and farewell. He entered a
monastery at Bologna, where he gave himself up to the work of special
preparation for the duties of his profession.
[Illustration: QUEEN ELIZABETH. (_From painting in the English National
Portrait Gallery._)]
After some years he was sent to Florence to preach. At first his plain
and severe denunciations of the prevailing sins of the time repelled
the people who preferred to go where they could hear more polished
and less conscience-awakening sermons, and Savonarola mourned over
his apparent failure to reach the hearts of the multitude who were
rushing on in the ways of sinful indulgence. But his soul was moved
with zeal “for the redemption of the corrupt Florentines. He must, he
would, stir them from their lethargy of sin.” He was convinced that he
was in the line of duty, and the more indifferent his hearers were the
more anxious he grew for their awakening. Actuated by this motive he
suddenly found his voice and revealed his powers as an orator. God had
shown him how to reach men’s hearts at last, and “he shook men’s souls
by his predictions and brought them around him in panting, awestruck
crowds;” then at the close of his denunciations of sin, his voice would
sink into tender pleading and sweetly he would speak of the infinite
love and mercy of God the Father.
After a time, St. Mark’s Church would not hold the crowds which came
to hear him and he was invited to preach in the Cathedral. He was now
acknowledged as a power in Florence, and the great Lorenzo de’ Medici
who was then at the height of his fame as a ruler, was alarmed, and he
sent a deputation of five of the leaders of the government to advise
the monk to be more moderate in his preaching, hinting that trouble
might follow a disregard of this advice. But the monk was unmoved. He
replied, “Tell your master that although I am an humble stranger and
he the city’s lord, yet I shall remain and he will depart.” He also
declared that he owed his election to God, and not to Lorenzo, and to
God alone would he render obedience.
Lorenzo was very angry, but he tried to silence the monk by bribery,
but Savonarola would not be bribed nor driven. He continued to preach
with great fervor, denouncing sin in high places as well as in low.
You know that in those times corruption had crept into the Church of
Christ, and it was against these sins of the Church that his most
scathing denunciations were hurled. He had many followers, and he
pushed his reforms in Church and State. His enemies grew more bitter
and fiercer. Remonstrances from those in authority had no effect. He
was offered a cardinal’s hat, but would not accept the conditions. He
said, “I will have no hat but that of the martyr, red with mine own
blood.”
And this was his fate; at last he was put to death in 1498. Almost his
last words were, “You cannot separate me from the Church triumphant!
that is beyond thy power.” In the convent of St. Mark’s are preserved
various relics of the martyred monk, among which are his Bible with
notes by his own hand, and a portrait said to have been painted by Fra
Bartolommeo. I have seen a copy of this portrait. It is in profile,
with the Friar’s cowl. At the first glance the expression of the
prominent features seems strangely stern, but as you study the face
it seems to soften and the sternness becomes sadness mingled with
tenderness. One can imagine those worn and pallid features lighted up
with excitement, the eyes animated and glowing with zeal, and the lips
so expressive of power, relaxing into a smile even, and thus looking
upon it we wonder not that crowds hung upon his words.
Hatred of sin, zeal for its removal from Church and State, seems to
have been two of his strong characteristics. And he was ever bold and
active in lifting up and carrying forward the standard of truth. If
sometimes his zeal outran his wisdom and judgment, if sometimes his
enthusiasm seemed to reach what we might call a religious frenzy in
which he heard supernatural voices and saw visions, we can but believe
in his sincerity and admire his boldness and commend his fearless
exposure of sin. And as we study his character again and again we
wonder as in the beginning of this sketch, how he would have acted in
these days when sin “comes in like a flood!” Have we not need of a
Savonarola? Have we not need of an army of strong, fearless men and
women who shall lift up the standard of the Gospel against the tide of
sin? One thought more: will each of my young readers enlist in this
army and be diligent in preparing to meet the attacks of the enemy?
FAYE HUNTINGTON.
======
THORWALDSEN was a Danish sculptor. Returning from Italy to his native
land, he brought a great number of lovely works of art, which he packed
in straw. When unpacked, the straw was strewn about the streets, and it
so happened that it contained a great many seed. These took root, and
before long flowers were blooming in Copenhagen, from those very seed.
Every hour we are scattering seed: see that it be the kind that shall
grow beauteous flowers.
[Illustration: ROUND THE FAMILY LAMP]
MY DEAR PANSIES:
The game for this Midsummer “month of evenings,” is one that I
especially commend to you. It will be enjoyed so very much longer after
it has been played, and years to come whenever you think of the happy
hour it engrossed you, you will always be very glad that you and your
little friends played it.
This is the game:
THE WHEELING PARTY.
All who have carriages, or wagons, and a faithful horse or two in the
generous barns at home, ask your father or uncle if they will loan them
to you for an hour after supper on a pleasant evening, that all the
players may choose. Those who have no wagons, or anything that a horse
could draw, need not be debarred from joining in this game; possibly
they can contribute a large cart, that they could propel themselves or,
a boy not easily baffled, might join the procession, with an improvised
floor on wheels on which soft cushions are piled.
At any rate, let the procession be formed, of every “go-able vehicle,”
superintended by careful drivers, and where the space admits, carrying
happy, merry-voiced children to make the poor invalids forget their
sufferings.
Invalids? Yes, indeed, this is the “Invalids Wheeling Party,” the
blessedest invention of modern times. The “Shut-in Society” brought out
for a breath of fresh air—God’s poor children, who for wise reasons of
His, are serving Him in narrow rooms of want, now, by the kind hands of
children, admitted to the sweet peace of the summer eventide.
Do you not know them—these patient invalids? living perhaps very near
to you. There is the little lame boy—the washerwoman’s son, who when
she goes out to her work, minds the baby, and tries in his poor way to
help mother. “Dot-and-go-one” you and the other children perhaps call
him.
Wouldn’t it vary proceedings a bit if you were to send him a little
note, saying something like this:
JIMMY:
Will you go to ride after supper with Frank and me?
EGBERT.
Or, there is old Mrs. Clemens. She is not pleasant-looking, to be sure;
snuffy and disagreeable in her ways also. But she has not stepped out
of her cottage only to go as far as the woodpile in five years. Think
of it! Suppose now Mrs. Clemens should find under her door some fine
morning a little white note in which the old lady should read:
DEAR MRS. CLEMENS:
Mary Alice Smith and I would like to give you a ride this
evening after supper in my father’s wagon. I hope you can go.
SUSAN EMBURY.
Don’t you suppose the Clemens cottage would be a new place all that day?
And so on. Even if you do not personally know who is needing these
sweet country drives, some one will be brought to your notice on
inquiry.
When the procession is formed, let some one lead who is intelligent,
as to the choice of a delightful locality (for invalids like to see
something new and pretty), and the best way for getting there.
Then while the greatest cheerfulness prevails let there be no
unnecessary noise, I beseech you, for your guests are unaccustomed to
excitement, and are easily wearied. There should be sweet attentions,
little courtesies, and the feeling of real enjoyment of giving
hospitality on your part, but all done and expressed quietly.
Try it, dear Pansies, this little game, and see if you do not often
play it these lovely summer evenings. I doubt not you will enjoy it as
much as the invited guests of “The Wheeling Party.”
M. S.
[Illustration: THE BIRD OF PARADISE.]
[Illustration: THE P. S. CORNER]
THE PANSY.
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D. LOTHROP & CO., Publishers, Boston.
======
_Willie_ from New York. My boy, I sent you the last badge a short time
ago. I hope they are now all right. Let me hear from your society as
often as you have anything interesting to tell us.
_Esca_ from Illinois. So you think you need more “sticktoativeness”!
Good! Ever so many people do. I counted no less than ten different
pieces of work which a boy of my acquaintance had commenced, and never
finished. They were all worth finishing too. What a pity! Imagine a
dress all done but the sleeves! Mammas do not work in that way; do they?