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 Verbuendniss,
Dass ich will, was Jesus will;
Denn mein Herz, mit ihm erfuellt,
Rufet nur; Herr, wie du willt.
_Written by Elizabeth, Countess of Schwartzburg_, 1640-1672.
Gott ist gegenwaertig! 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 bestaendig. Ein reines Herz allein den reinen schaut. _By the Same_.
Wir singen dir, Immanuel,
Du Lebensfuerst 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 gruenden:
Sein Wort ist wahr, sein Werk ist klar, Sein heilger Mund hat Kraft und Grund,
All Feind zue ueberwinden.
_George Weissel_, 1590-1635.
Gott, mein einziges Vertrauen,
Gott, du meine Zuversicht,
Deine Augen zu mir schauen,
Deine Huelf versage mir nicht;
Lass mich nicht vergeblich schreien, Sondern hoer 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 fuehrt 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 taeglich naeher dir, Und ferner von der Suende.
Lass taeglich 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 taeglich 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
Durchgluehe meine Seele.
Es weiche Stolz, und Traegheit weich; Und jeder Leichtsinn fliehe,
Wenn, Herr, nach dir und deinem Reich Ich redlich mich bemuehe.
Mein eignes, eitles, leeres Ich
Sei jeden Tag geringer.
O rd ich jeden Tag durch dich
Dein wuerdigerer Junger.
Von dir erfuellter jeden Tag
Und jeden von mir leerer!
O du, der uber Flehn vermag,
Sei meines Flehns erhoerer!
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.
ANDOVER, _May 13th._–Dr. Woods was remarking to-day at dinner on the influence of _hope_ in sustaining under the severest sufferings. It recalled a thought which occurred to me the other day in reading Prometheus; that, regarded as an example of unyielding determination and unconquerable fortitude he is not equal to Milton’s Satan. For he has before him not only the _hope_, but the _certainty_ of ultimate deliverance, whereas Satan bears himself up, by the mere force of his will, unsustained by hope, “which comes to all,” but not to him. _15th_.–It has just occurred to me that the doctrine of the soul’s mortality seems to have _no_ point of contact with humanity. It surely can not have been entertained as being agreeable to man’s _wishes_. And what is there in the system of things, or in the nature of the mind, to suggest it? On the contrary, everything looks in an opposite direction. How is it _possible_ to help seeing that the soul is not here in its proper element, in its native air? How is it possible to escape the conviction that all its unsatisfied yearnings, its baffled aims, its restless, agonizing aspirings after a _something_, clearly perceived to exist, but to be here unattainable–that all these things point to _another_ life, the _only_ true life of the soul? There is such a manifest disproportion between all objects of earthly attainment and the capacities of the spirit, that, unless man is immortal, he is vastly more to be pitied than the meanest reptile that crawls upon the earth. So I thought as I was walking this morning and saw a frog swimming in a puddle of water. I could hardly help envying him when I considered that _his_ condition was suited to his nature, and that he has no wants which are not supplied.
_June 17th._–I am reading Goethe’s Conversations with Eckermann. One thing I remark is this–he does not, as most men do, make the degree of sympathy he finds in others the measure of his interest in them and attention to them. Goethe looked at all as specimens of human nature, and, therefore, all worthy of study. But, after all, this way of looking at others seems to be more suited to the _artist_ than to the man; and I can not conceive of any but a very passionless and immobile person who could do it…. Does all nature furnish one type of the soul? If so, it might be the ocean; the rough, swelling, fluctuating, unsounded ocean. Shall it ever _rest? Rest?_ What an infinite, mournful sweetness in the word! How perfectly sure I feel that my soul can never rest in _itself_, nor in anything of earth; if I find peace, it must be in the bosom of God.
_July 2d._–The vulgar proverb, “It never rains but it pours,” is fully illustrated in my case. Last week I would have given half the world for a new book; yesterday and today have overflooded me. Mr. Hubbard has sent me Prof. Park’s “German Selections,” Pliny, Heeren’s Ancient Greece, two volumes of the Biblical Repository, and two of his own magazines; Mr. Judd has sent me two volumes of Carlyle, and Mr. Ripley four of Lessing–all of these must be despatched _a la hate. July 5th._–Last evening we spent upon the Common witnessing a beautiful exhibition of fireworks. This morning I have been to Union wharf to see the departure of some missionaries. For a few minutes, time seemed a speck and eternity near–but how transient with me are such impressions! I am indulging myself too much of late in a sort of sentimental reverie. Life and its changes, the depths of the soul, the fluctuations of passion and feeling–these are the subjects which attract my thoughts perpetually…. We spent last evening at Richard H. Dana’s. _He_ does not separate his intellectual and sentimental tastes from his moral convictions as I do–I mean that neither in books nor men does he find pleasure unless they are such as his conscience approves. _Tuesday, 9th._–Have visited the Allston gallery and seen Rosalie for the last time before going home. I could not have believed that I should feel such a pang at parting from a picture. I did not succeed in getting to the gallery before others–but, no matter. I forgot the presence of everybody else and sat for an hour before Rosalie without moving. I took leave of the other pictures mentally, for I could not look. Farewell, sweet Beatrice, lovely Inez, beautiful Ursulina–dear, dear Rosalie, farewell!
_Monday, 15th._–Yesterday I was happy; to-day I am not exactly unhappy, but morbid and anxious. I feel continually the pressure of obligation to write something, in order to contribute toward the support of the family–and yet, I can not write. Mother wants me to write children’s books; Lizzy wants me to write a book of Natural Philosophy for schools. I wish I had a “vocation.” _Sabbath._–Stayed at home on account of the rain and read one of Tholuck’s sermons to Julia. Wrote in my other journal some account of my thoughts and feelings. Burned up part of an old diary.
_Thursday, July 25th._–“My soul is dark.” What with the sin I find within me, and the darkness and error, disputes and perplexities around me, I well-nigh despair. Whether I seek to _discover_ truth or to _live_ it, I am _equally_ unsuccessful. “I grope at noon-day as in the night.” But there is a God, holy and changeless. He _is_. From eternity to eternity, He IS. On this Rock will I rest—-. I stopped a moment and my eye was caught by the waving trees. What do they say to me? How silent they are! and yet how _eloquent!_ And here I sit–to myself the centre of the world, wondering and speculating about this same little self. Do the trees so? No; they wave and bend and bloom for _others._ I am ready to join with Herbert in wishing that I were a tree; then
“At least some bird would trust
Her household to me, and I should be just.”
_Evening._–I read to-day another of Lessing’s tragedies–“Miss Sarah Sampson,”–which I do not like nearly as well as Mina von Barnhelm. We were engaged to take tea with “the Mayor,” and went with many tremblings and hesitations on account of the rain. Very few there, and a most uncommonly stupid time.
_Saturday Evening._–I have been alone for a little while, and, as usual, this time brings with it thronging remembrances of absent friends. Their forms flit before me; their spirits are around me; I feel their presence–almost; dear friends, almost I clasp you in my arms. My soul yearns for love and sympathy. I do bless and praise my God for all His goodness to me in this respect, for my _many_ tender and faithful and devoted friends. Part of the day I spent in arranging shells in my cabinet of drawers. This afternoon I went to Mr. Prentiss’ library and obtained Schlegel’s Lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature.
_Monday Morning._–Have been trying to rouse myself to write Lessing, but can not. It looks so little. When it is all done, what will it amount to? Why, I shall get a few dollars for mother, which will go to buy bread and butter–and that’s the end of it.
_Evening._–S. W. and M. W. made a call on us and the former played and sang. Then we sat up till after eleven naming each of our acquaintances after some flower. _Aug. 8th_,–Oh, what a happy half hour I had last evening, looking at the sky after sunset! We went down to the water–it was smooth as a crystal lake. The horizon was all in a glow–the softest, mellowest, warmest glow, and above dark, heavy clouds of every variety of form–the clouds and the glow alike reflected in the answering heaven below–I was almost _too_ happy; but–it _faded_. _Evening_.–I had something to wake me up this afternoon, viz., the arrival of the July No. of the New York Review, containing “Claudius.” This led to some conversation about writing, its pecuniary profitableness, subjects for it, etc. Julia wished I would take some other topics besides German authors, but when I told her the alternative would be metaphysics, she laughed and retracted the wish. We then laughed over several schemes such as these–that one of us should write a review and another make the book for it afterward; that I should review some book which did not exist and give professed extracts from it, etc. Soon after Mrs. D. came in and began to talk about “Undine,” which she and her husband have just been reading–the new translation. I was amused at their opinion of it. The most absurd, ridiculous story, she said–with no _rationality_, nothing that one can _understand_ in it–and so on, showing that she had not the slightest idea of a work of fancy merely. I have been wishing, as I often do, for some records of my past life. What could I not give for a daily journal as minute as this, beginning from my childhood! My past life is mostly a blank to me. _Aug. 15th_.–I am beginning to see dimly some new truths–such I believe them to be–in theology. I am inclined to think, but do not feel sure, that Redemption, instead of being merely a necessary _remedy_ for a great evil, is in itself the highest positive good, and that the state into which it brings man, of union with God, is a far nobler and better condition than that of primitive innocence, and at the same time a condition attainable in no other way than through redemption, and, of course, through sin. In this case the plan of redemption, instead of being an _afterthought_ of the divine mind (speaking anthropomorphically), is that in reference to which the whole world-system was contrived. These thoughts were partly suggested by reading Schleiermacher, who, if I understand him, has some such notions. If there is any truth in them, do they not throw light on the much-vexed question why God permitted the introduction of moral evil? Another point which I feel confident is misunderstood by our theologians is the nature of the redemptive act. The work of Christ in redemption is generally explained to be His incarnation, sufferings, and death, by which He made _atonement_ to justice for the sins of the world. This, it is true, is a part of what He did; it is that part which He performed in reference to God and His law, but it is not what Coleridge calls the “spiritual and transcendent act” by which He made us one with Himself, and thus secured the possibility of our restoration to spiritual life. _Aug. 17th_.–Have devoted almost the whole day to Coleridge’s Literary Remains, which Mr. Davenport brought me. My admiration, even veneration, for his almost unequalled power is greater than ever, but I can not help thinking that his studies–some of them–exerted an unfavorable influence upon him, especially, perhaps, Spinoza. _Aug. 22d_–Mr. Park sent me the Life of Mackintosh by his son. I rejoiced much too soon over it, for it proves very uninteresting. This is partly to be accounted for from my want of interest in politics, etc. In great measure, however, it is the fault of the biographer, who has shown us the man at a distance, on stilts, or at best only in his most outward circumstances, never letting us know, as Carlyle says, what sort of stockings he wore, and what he ate for dinner. I don’t think Sir James himself has much _inwardness_ to him, but certainly his son has shown us only the outermost shell. Have read the Iliad and Schleiermacher to-day. _Aug. 24th_.–A queer circumstance happened this evening. Col. Kinsman and Mr. C. S. Davies called. I was considering what unusual occurrence could have brought Mr. D. here, when he increased my wonder still more by disclosing his errand. He had received, he said, a letter from Prof. Woods, requesting that I, or a “lady whose taste was as correct in dress as in literature,” would decide upon the fashion of a gown to be worn by him at his inauguration as President of Bowdoin College, and forthwith procure such a gown to be made. _Aug. 25th_.–I have been reading the second volume of Mackintosh, which is much better than the first, and gives a higher opinion of him. He is certainly well described by Coleridge as the “king of men of talent.” It is curious, by the way, to compare what M. says of C.: “It is impossible to give a stronger example of a man, whose talents are beneath his understanding, and who trusts to his ingenuity to atone for his ignorance…. Shakespeare and Burke are, if I may venture on the expression, above talent; but Coleridge is not!” Ah, well–_de gustibus_, etc.
I have been as busy as a bee all day; wrote notes, prepared for leaving home, read Schleiermacher, and Philip von Artevelde, which delighted me; walked after tea with Lizzy, then examined my papers to see what is to be burned. I wish I knew what I was made for–I mean, in _particular_–what I _can_ do, and what I _ought_ to do. I can not bear to live a life of literary self-indulgence, which is no better than another self-indulgence. I _do want_ to be of some use in the world, but I am infinitely perplexed as to the _how_ and the _what_. _Aug. 26th_.–Hurried through the last 200 pages of Mackintosh today. On the whole, there is much to _like_ as well as to admire in him. One thing puzzles me in his case as in others: How men who give no signs through a long life of anything more than the most cold and distant _respect_ for religion–the most unfrequent and uninterested remembrance, if any at all–of the Saviour, all at once become so devout–I mean it not disrespectfully–on their death-beds. What strange doubts this and other like mysteries suggest!
After tea I carried a bouquet to Mrs. French. Saw all the way a sky so magnificent that words can do no justice to it–splendors piled on splendors, till my soul was fairly sick with admiration. Mrs. French asked me if life ever looked sad and wearisome to me. _Ever!_
BOSTON, _Saturday morning, Sept. 8th_–The rain keeps me home from church, but I still have the more time for reading and reflection. At every change in my outward situation I find myself forming new purposes and plans for the future…. I _will_ trust that, by the grace of God, the ensuing winter shall be a period of more vigorous effort and more persevering self-culture than any previous season of my life. Above all, let me remember that intellectual culture is worthless when dissociated from moral progress; that true spiritual growth embraces both; and the latter as the basis and mould of the former. Let me remember, too, that in the universe _everything_ may be had for a price, but nothing can be had without price. The price of successful self-culture is unremitted toil, labor, and self-denial; am I willing to pay it? I feel that I need light and strength and life; may I find them in _Christ!_ As to studies, I mean to study the Bible _much;_ also dogmatic theology–which of late has an increasing interest for me–and ecclesiastical history. To the Spirit of all Truth I surrender my mind.
_Monday._–I have fallen in with Swedenborg’s writings. Wonder whether the destiny which seems to bring to us just what we chance to be interested in is a real ordinance of fate or only a seeming one–because interest in a subject makes us observant. Am reading Greek with Julia. We began the sixth book of the Iliad. _Tuesday_.–Fifty lines in Homer; Companion proofs; Schleiermacher; the prologue and first scene of Terence’s comedy of Andria; two Nos. of N. Nickleby, and walked round the Common with Julia twice. _Wednesday_.–Studies the same as yesterday, except that I read less of Schleiermacher and spent an hour or so upon Lessing. Read “Much Ado about Nothing,” and disliked Beatrice less than ever before. But I am not satisfied with Claudio; he is not _half_ sorry and remorseful enough for the supposed death of Hero–and then to think of his being willing to marry another right off! Oh, it is abominable! Walked over _four miles_ in the morning, and out again before tea.
_Tuesday, Sept. 17th_–Well. The family are off–Mr. and Mrs. Willis, and Julia too–and the Recorder and Companion [10] are left for a fortnight in my charge. I have been much interested in what I have read to-day in Schleiermacher. It is his evolution of the idea of God–if I may so say–from holy, human consciousness. It recalls some thoughts which I had on this subject once before, and which I began to write about. My notion was this–that an absolutely perfect idea of man implies, contains an idea of God. I have a great mind to try and make something out of it, only I am so hurried just now. They keep sending me papers to make selections for the Recorder, and I have just been writing an article for the Companion. I spend half my time looking over newspapers. Double, double toil and trouble; most wearisome and profitless. Would not edit a paper for the world.
No truth can be said to be seen _as it is_ until it is seen in its relation to all other truths. In this relation only is it true…. No _error_ is understood till we have seen all the truth there is in it, and, therefore, as Coleridge says, you must “understand an author’s ignorance, or conclude yourself ignorant of his understanding.”
_Monday, 30th._–I have been very happy this afternoon–writing all the time with a genial flow of thought and without effort. How I love to feel that for this I am indebted to God. He is my intellectual source, the Father of my spirit, as well as the author of everything morally good in me.
_Friday, Oct. 4th._–I have been too busy reading and writing for the last few days to find time for my journal. I go on with Schleiermacher and have resumed Lessing. I am reading the Memoir of Mrs. S. L. Smith and Tappan’s “Review of Edwards on the Will.” Fifty lines in the Iliad with Julia. Finished the Andria and to-day began the Adelphi. I am amused at comparing the comedy of that day with the modern French school. Davus in Andria is but a rough sketch of Moliere’s valet, and the whole plot is so bungling in comparison. Have had very few attacks of melancholy lately; because, I suppose, my health is good and I am constantly employed.
_Evening_.–I never came nearer losing my wits with delight than this afternoon. Went to call on Mr. and Mrs. Ripley, and saw his fine library of German books. The sight was enough to excite me to the utmost, but to be told that they were all at my service put me into such an ecstasy that I could hardly behave with decency. I selected several immediately and promised myself fuller examination of the library very soon…. Mr. R. proposed to me to translate something for his series. Shall I? [11]
_Sabbath Evening, Oct. 13th_.–I have just been writing to my dear brother G., for whom as well as for my other brothers, I feel the greatest solicitude. I have separate sources of anxiety for each of them, and hope that the intenseness of this anxiety will make me more earnest in commending them to God. _Oct. 14th_.–Gave up the time usually devoted to Lessing to writing two articles for the Mother’s Magazine. Read Homer, and the 149th and 150th Psalms and the first chapter of Genesis in Hebrew. Read or rather _studied_ Schleiermacher. Corrected proof. Read several articles in the Biblical Repository–one by Prof. Park–aloud to Julia. On the whole, I have been pretty industrious. Oh, how many reasons I have for gratitude! Health, friends, books–nothing is wanting but the heart to enjoy God in all. Wrote to mother.
_Oct. 17th._–This morning dear Lizzy came; of course the day has been given up to _miscellanies_.
_Oct. 21st._–Mr. Albro [12] called and stayed till dinner-time. After dinner read Greek with Julia and then wrote a notice of Gesenius’ Hebrew Grammar, and then set off for Lucy’s, where the others were already gone. Mr. Albro has concluded to read Schleiermacher with me–that is, to keep along at the same rate, that we may talk about it. Letter from mother, and notes from Mr. Condit and Mr. Hamlin, with a copy of “Payson’s Thoughts” in Armenian. Have just finished reading Mr. Ripley’s Reply to Mr. Norton. Mr. Willis is forming a Bible-class for me to teach on the Sabbath–am very glad.
_Nov. 14th._–Finished Lessing yesterday, and hope for a little rest from hurry. Shall resume Schleiermacher and take up Fichte on the Destination of Man.
_Nov. 22nd._–I am afraid that I may have to be resigned to a very great misfortune; namely, to the partial loss of eyesight–for a time at least; so yesterday I resolved to give them a holiday, though sorely against my will, by not opening a book the whole day. Whether I should have succeeded in observing such a desperate resolution without the aid of circumstances is quite problematical, but Mr. Gray opportunely came with a request that I should take a ride with him to Cambridge, and visit the libraries there. This occupied four or five hours, and a lyceum lecture provided for the evening. I have always congratulated myself on being so little dependent on _others_ for entertainment–but never considered how entirely I am dependent on _books_. If I should be deprived of the use of my eyes, I should be a most miserable creature.
_Thanksgiving, Nov. 29th._–A very pleasant and delightful day–our hearts full of gladness and, I hope, of gratitude. I hope dear mother and all at home are as happy.
_Dec. 25th._–How plain that all the creations of the ancient mythology are but representations of something in the heart of man!… What is the end of man? Infinite contradictions–all opposites blended into one–a mass of confused, broken parts, of disjointed fragments–such _is_ he. The circumstances that surround him–the events that happen unto him, are no less strange. What shall be the end? Oh then, abyss of futurity, declare it! unfold thy dark depths–let a voice come up from thy cloudy infinite–let a ray penetrate thy unfathomable profound. If we could but _rest_ till the question is decided! if we could but float softly on the current of time till we reach the haven! But no, we must _act_. We must _do_ something. _I_ must do something _now_–WHAT?
_Evening._ But as the morning. In the afternoon I was talking with L. W. [13] with as much eagerness and vivacity as if I had never known a cloud. This evening I was going to a _dance_ at the _Insane_ Hospital. For me truly it has been a day of opposites–all the elements of life have met and mingled in it.
_Wednesday, 26th._–The end of man, says Carlyle, is an action, not a thought. This is partly true, though all noble action has its root in thought. Thought, indeed, in its true and highest sense, _is_ action. It is never lost. If uttered, it may breathe inspiration into a thousand minds and become the impulse to ten thousand good actions. If unuttered, and terminating in no single outward act, it yet has an emanative influence; it impregnates the man and makes itself felt in his life. A man can not do so noble and godlike a thing as to think, without being the better for it. Indeed, the distinction between thought and action is not always an accurate one. Many thoughts deserve the name of activities much better than certain movements of the muscles and changes of the outward organization which we denominate actions. In this sense, it is better of the two to think without acting than to act without thinking.
Mrs. Hopkins was the author of the following works, intended mostly for the young. Some of them have had a wide circulation. They are written in an attractive style and breathe the purest spirit of Christian love and wisdom: 1. The Pastor’s Daughter. 2. Lessons on the Book of Proverbs. 3. The Young Christian Encouraged. 4. Henry Langdon; or, What Was I Made For? 5. The Guiding Star; or, The Bible God’s Message; a Sequel to Henry Langdon. 6. The Silent Comforter; a Companion for the Sick-room. A Compilation.
* * * * *
E.
The following is the rhapsody referred to by Mr. Butler: (The words to be used were _Mosquito, Brigadier, Moon, Cathedral, Locomotive, Piano, Mountain, Candle, Lemon, Worsted, Charity_, and _Success_).
A wounded soldier on the ground in helpless languor lay, Unheeding in his weariness the tumult of the day; In vain a pert _mosquito_ buzzed madly in his ear, His thoughts were far away from earth–its sounds he could not hear; Nor noted he the kindly glance with which his _brigadier_ Looked down upon his manly form when chance had brought him near. It was a glorious autumn night on which the _moon_ looked down, Calmly she looked and her fair face had neither grief nor frown. Just as she gazed in other lands on some _cathedral_ dim, Whose aisles resounded to the strains of dirges or of hymn. But now with _locomotive_ speed the soldier’s thoughts took wing: Back to his home they bore him, and he heard his sisters sing– Heard the softest-toned _piano_ touched by hands he used to love. Was it home or was it heaven? Was that music from above? Oh, for one place or the other! In his mountain air to die, Once more upon his mother’s breast, as in infancy, to lie!
The scene has changed. Where is he now? Not on the cold, damp ground. Whence came this couch? and who are they who smiling stand around? What friendly hands have borne him to his own free _mountain_ air? And father, mother, sisters–every one of them is there. Now gentle ministries of love may soothe him in his pain; Water to cool his fevered lips he need not ask in vain. His mother shades the _candle_ when she steals across the room; A face like hers would radiant make a very desert’s gloom. The fragrant _lemon_ cools his thirst, pressed by his sister’s hand– Not one can do enough for him, the hero of their band.
Oh, happy, convalescing days! How full of pleasant pain! How pleasant to take up the old, the dear old life again! Now, sitting on the wooden bench before the cottage door, How many times they make him tell the same old story o’er! How he fought and how he fell; how he longed again to fight; And how he would die fighting yet for the triumph of the right. His good old mother sits all day so fondly by his side; How can she give him up again–her first-born son, her pride? His sisters with their _worsted_ his stockings fashion too, In patriotic colors–the red, the white, the blue. If he should never wear them, a _charity_ ’twill be To give them to some soldier-lad as brave and good as he. They’re dreadful homely stockings; one can not well say less, But whosoever wears ’em–why, may he have _success_!
Here are samples of the charades referred to by Miss Morse:
ON RETURNING A LOST GLOVE TO A FRIEND.
MARCH, 1873.
A hand I am not, yet have fingers five; Alive I am not, yet was once alive.
Am found in every house and by the dozen, And am of flesh and blood a sort of cousin. Now cut my head off. See what I become! No longer am I lifeless, dead, and dumb. I am the very sweetest thing on earth;
Royal in power and of royal birth. I in the palace reign and in the cot–
There is no place where man is and I’m not. I am too costly to be bought and sold;
I can not be enticed by piles of gold. And yet I am so lowly that a smile
Can woo and win me–and so free from guile, That I look forth from many a gentle face In tenderness and truthfulness and grace. Say, do you know me? Have you known my reign? My joy, my rapture, and my silent pain? Beneath your pillow have I roses placed– Your heart’s glad festival have I not graced? Ah me! To mother, lover, husband, wife
I am the oil and I the wine of life. With you, my dear, I have been hand and _glove_. Shall I return the first and keep the _Love_?
CHARADE.
My _first_ was born to rule; before him stand The potentates and nobles of the land.
He loves his grandeur–hopes to be more grand.
My second you will find in every lass– Both in the highest and the lowest class, And even in a simple blade of grass.
But add it to my _first_, and straightway he Becomes my _whole_–loses identity;
Parts with his manhood and becomes a _She_.
(Prince, _ss.,_ Princess).
* * * * *
F.
Here is another extract from the same letter:
J’ai peine a me mettre a l’oraison, et quelquefois quand j’y suis il me tarde d’en sortir. Je n’y fais, ce me semble, presque rien. Je me trouve meme dans une certaine tiedeur et une tachete pour toutes sortes de biens. Je n’ai aucune peine considerable ni dans mon interieur, ni dans mon exterieur, ainsi je ne saurois dire que je passe par aucune epreuve. Il me semble que c’est un songe, ou que je me moque quand je cherche mon etat tant je me trouve hors de tout etat spirituel, dans la voie commune des gens tiedes qui vivent a leur aise. Cependant cette languor universelle jointe a l’abandon qui me fait acceptes tout et qui m’empeche de rien rechercher, ne laisse pas de m’abattre, et je sens que j’ai quelquefois besoin de donner a mes sens quelque amusement pour m’egayer. Aussi le fais–je simplement, mais bien mieux quand je suis seul que quand je suis avec mes meilleurs amis. Quand je suis seul, je joue quelquefois comme un petit enfant, etc., etc.
The letter may be found in Vol. V., pp. 411-12, of Madame Guyon’s LETTRES CHRETIENNES ET SPIRITUELLES _sur divers Sujets qui regardent La Vie Interieure, ou L’esprit du vrai Christianisme_–enrichie de la Correspondance secrette de MR. DE FENELON avec l’Auteur. London, 1768. The whole work is extremely interesting.
* * * * *
G.
[From The Evangelist of May 27, 1875.]
IN MEMORIAM.
Died in Paris, France, May 8, 1875, VIRGINIA S. OSBORN, only daughter of William H. and Virginia S. Osborn, of this city, and granddaughter of the late Jonathan Sturges.
The sudden death of this gifted young girl has overwhelmed with grief a large social and domestic circle. Last February, in perfect health and full of the brightest anticipations, she set out, in company with her parents and a young friend, on a brief foreign tour. After passing several weeks at Rome and visiting other famous cities of Italy, she had just reached Paris on the way home when a violent fever seized upon her brain, and, in defiance of the tenderest parental care and the best medical skill, hurried her into the unseen world.
And yet it is hardly possible to realise that this brilliant young life has forever vanished away from earth, for she seemed formed alike by nature and Providence for length of days. Already her character gave the fairest promise of a perfect woman. It possessed a strength and maturity beyond her years. Although not yet twenty-one, her varied mental culture and her knowledge of almost every branch of English literature, history, poetry, fiction, even physical science, were quite remarkable; nor was she ignorant of some of the best French and German, not to speak of Latin, authors. We have never known one of her age whose intellectual tastes were of a higher order. She seemed to feel equally at home in reading Shakespeare and Goethe; Prescott, Motley, and Froude; Mrs. Austin, Scott, and Dickens; Taine, Huxley, and Tyndall; or the popular biographies and fictions of the day. And yet her studious habits and devotion to books did not render her any the less the unaffected, attractive, and whole-hearted girl. Her friends, both old and young, greatly admired her, but they loved her still more. As was natural in one of so much character, she was very decided in her ways; but she was also perfectly frank, truthful, and conscientious–resembling in this respect, as she did in some other excellent traits, her honored grandfather, Mr. Sturges.
Several years before her death she was enrolled among the disciples of Jesus. How vividly the writer recalls her earnest look and tones of voice when she declared to him her desire publicly to confess her Saviour and to remember Him at His table! When from beneath the deep sea the news that she was dangerously ill and then soon after that she was dead stole upon her friends here like a thief in the night, almost stunning them with grief; their first feeling was one of tender sympathy for the desolate, sorely-smitten parents, and of prayer that God would be pleased to comfort and uphold them in their affliction.
From many hearts, we are sure, that prayer has been offered up oftentimes since. If it were not for the relief which comes of faith and prayer, what a cloud of hopeless gloom would enshroud such an event! Blessed be God for this exceeding great and precious relief. The dark cloud is not indeed dispersed even by faith and prayer, but with what a silver lining they are able to invest it! If we really believed that such tragical events are solely the effects of chance or mere natural law–if we did not believe that the hand of infinite wisdom and love is also in them, surely the grass would turn black beneath our feet. _The Lord gave; the Lord hath taken away; and blessed be the name of the Lord._
G. L. P.
* * * * *
H.
_Extracts front Dr. Vincent’s Memorial Discourse._
The men and women who know how to comfort human sorrow, and to teach their fellows to turn it to its highest uses, are among God’s best gifts to the world. The office and the name of Comforter have the highest and purest associations. It is the Holy Spirit of God who calls Himself by that name, and to be a true comforter is to be indeed a co-worker with God. But even as the _word_ “comfort” goes deeper than those pitying commonplaces which even nature teaches us to utter to those who are in any trouble, so the _office_ of a true comforter requires other qualifications than mere natural tenderness of heart, or even the experience of suffering. One must know how to _interpret_ as well as how to _feel_ sorrow; must know its _lessons_ as well as its _smart_. Hence it is that God makes His comforters by processes of His own; by hard masters ofttimes, and by lessons not to be found in books.
It is in illustration of this truth that I bring to you to-day some memorials of the experience, character, and life-work of one widely known, deeply beloved, and greatly honored by God as an instrument of Christian instruction and of Christian comfort. It would, indeed, be possible to strike some other keynote. A character presenting so many points of interest might be studied from more than one of those points with both pleasure and profit; but, on the whole, it seems to me that the thought of a _Christian comforter_ best concentrates the lessons of her life, and best represents her mission to society; so that we might aptly choose for our motto those beautiful words of the Apostle: “Blessed be God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort, who comforteth us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort them which are in any trouble by the comfort wherewith we ourselves are comforted of God.”
In endeavoring to depict a life which was largely shaped by sorrow, I am not going to open the record of a sorrowful life, but rather of a joyful one; not of a starved and meager life, but of a very rich one, both in itself and in its fruits; yet it may be profitable for us to see through what kind of discipline that life became so rich, and to strike some of the springs where arose the waters which refreshed so many of the children of pain and care.
The daughter of Edward Payson might justly have appropriated her father’s words: “Thanks to the fervent, effectual prayers of my righteous parents, and the tender mercies of my God upon me, I have reason to hope that the pious wishes breathed over my infant head are in some measure fulfilled.” She might have said with Cowper:
“My boast is not that I deduce my birth From loins enthroned and rulers of the earth; But higher far my proud pretensions rise; The child of parents passed into the skies.”
The life and work of that devoted minister of Jesus Christ have passed into the religious history of New England–not to say of our whole country–and no student of that history is unfamiliar with that character so tried, yet so exalted by suffering; with that ministry so faithful, so unselfish, marked by such yearning for souls, and with such persistence, tact, and success in leading them to Christ; with that intellect so richly endowed and so well trained; that devotional spirit so rapt, that conscience so acutely sensitive; with that life so fruitful and that death so triumphant….
* * * * *
In the summer of 1869 she found a lovely and peaceful retreat among the hills of Vermont. There arose that tasteful home with which, perhaps more than any other spot, memory loves to associate her. There, for ten happy summers, she enjoyed the communion with Nature’s “visible forms,” and heard her “various language,” and felt her healing touch on the wearied brain and overstrung nerves; there, as I think she would have wished, she took leave of earth amid the pomp and flush of the late summer, and gladly ascended to the eternal sunshine of heaven; and there, in the shadow of the giant hills which “brought peace” to her, and the changing moods of which she so loved to study, her ashes await the morning of the Resurrection.
In reviewing this life of nearly sixty years, we find its keynote, as was said at the outset, in the thought of the Christian comforter. We see in her one whom God commissioned, so far as we can judge, to bring light and comfort to multitudes, and whom He prepared for that blessed work by peculiar and severe discipline.
There is nothing in which ordinary minds are more commonly mistaken than in their estimate of _suffering._ They seem often unable to conceive it except in its association with appreciable tragedies, in those grosser forms in which it waits upon visible calamity. Such do not know that the heart is often the scene of tragedies which can not be written, and that there are sufferings more subtle and more acute than any which torture the nerve or wring the brow. Take a character like this with which we are dealing; combine the nature to which love was a necessity of being with those high and pure ideals of character which culled cautiously the objects of affection; add the intense sensitiveness without the self- esteem which so often serves as a rock of refuge to the most sensitive; add the sharply-cut individuality which could only see and do and express in its own way, and which, therefore, so frequently exposed its subject to the misunderstanding of strangers or of unappreciative souls; crown all with the stern conscientiousness which would not compromise the truth even for love’s sake, and the exquisite selfreverence, if you will allow the expression, which held the region of religious emotion as holy ground, and which regarded the attempt to open or to penetrate the inner shrines of Christian feeling as something akin to sacrilege–and blend all these in a delicate, highly-strung, nervous organization, and you have the elements of a fearful capacity for suffering.
Besides this _capacity_ for suffering, Mrs. Prentiss had a very clear cognition of the sacred _office_ of suffering, and of its relation to perfection of character. There were two ideas which pervaded her whole theory of religious experience. The one was that whenever God has special work for His children to do, He always fits them for it by suffering. She had the most intense conviction of any one I ever knew of the necessity of suffering to perfection of character or of work. Doubtless there have been others who have learned as well as she its value as a purifying and exalting power, but very few, I think, who have so early and so uncompromisingly taken that truth into their theory of Christian education. She quoted with approval the words of Madame Guyon, that “God rarely, if ever, makes the educating process a painless one when He wants remarkable results.” Such must drink of Christ’s cup and be baptized with His baptism. Along with this went another and a complementary thought, viz., that as God prepares His workmen for great work by suffering, so there is another class of His children whom He does not find competent to this preparation; who escape much of the conflict and suffering, but never attain the highest enjoyments or fight the decisive battles of time…. In a volume of Fenelon’s Christian Counsel, which was one of her favorite closet companions, this passage is scored: God “attacks all the subtle resources of self-love within, especially in those souls who have generously and without reserve delivered themselves up to the operations of His grace. The more He would purify them, the more He exercises them interiorly.” And she has added a special note at the foot of the page: “He never forces Himself on ungenerous souls for this work.”
Along with this went the thought that God’s discipline was intended to make not only _models_, but _ministers_; that one who had passed through the furnace with Christ was to emerge from the fiery baptism not merely to be _gazed_ at, but to go down to his brethren telling with power the story of the “form of the Fourth.” This is the sentiment of some lines addressed by her to an afflicted friend:
“O that this heart with grief so well acquainted Might be a fountain, rich and sweet and full, For all the weary that have fallen and fainted In life’s parched desert–thirsty, sorrowful.
“Thou Man of Sorrows, teach my lips that often Have told the sacred story of my woe,
To speak of Thee till stony griefs I soften– Till those that know Thee not, learn Thee to know.”
At a comparatively early period of her Christian experience, the theme of her prayer was: “I beseech Thee, show me Thy glory”; for in the answer to that prayer there seemed, as she said, to be summed up everything that she needed or could desire. In a paper in which she recorded some of her aspirations, she wrote: “Let my life be an all-day looking to Jesus. Let my love to God be so deep, earnest, and all-pervading, that I can not have even the passing emotion of rebellion to suppress. There is such a thing as an implicit faith in, and consequent submission to, Christ. Let me never rest till they are fully mine.”
I do not know the precise date, but I think it could not have been very late when she received a mighty answer to the prayer to behold God’s glory. New views of Christian privilege and of the relation of Christ to believing souls came with prayerful searching of the Scriptures. She entered, to use her own words, upon “a life of incessant peace and serenity–notwithstanding it became, by degrees, one of perpetual self- denial and effort.” The consciousness of God never left her. The whole world seemed holy ground. Prayer became a perpetual delight. The pride and turbulence of nature grew quiet under these gentle influences, and anything from God’s hand seemed just right and quite good.
The secret of her peace and of her usefulness lay very largely in the prayerfulness of her life. From her early years, prayer was her delight. In describing the comforts of her chamber in the school at Richmond, she noted as its crowning charm the daily presence of the Eternal King, who condescended to make it His dwelling-place. With the deeper experiences of which we have spoken came a fresh delight in prayer. “It was very delightful,” she says, “to pray all the time; all day long; not only for myself, but for the whole world–particularly for all those who loved Christ.” Her views of prayer were Scriptural, and, therefore, discriminating. She fully accepted Paul’s statement that “we know not what we should pray for as we ought” without the help of the Spirit; and, therefore, she always spoke of prayer as something to be _learned_. If she believed that a Christian “learns to pray when first he lives,” she believed also that the prayer of the infant Christian life was like the feeble breath of infancy. She understood by prayer something far more and higher than the mere preferring of petitions. It was _communion_; God’s Spirit responding harmoniously to our own. With Coleridge she held, that the act of praying with the total concentration of the faculties is the very highest energy of which the human heart is capable. Hence she was accustomed to speak of _learning_ the mysterious art of prayer by an apprenticeship at the throne of grace. She somewhere wrote: “I think many of the difficulties attending the subject of prayer would disappear if it could be regarded in early life as an art that must be acquired through daily, persistent habits with which nothing shall be allowed to interfere.” She saw that prayer is not to be made dependent on the various emotive states in which one comes to God. “The question,” she said, “is not one of mere delight.” The Roman Catholic poet accurately expressed her thought on this point:
“Prayer was not meant for luxury,
Nor selfish pastime sweet;
It is the prostrate creature’s place At the Creator’s feet.”
She illustrated in her own quaint way the truth that moods have nothing to do with the duty of prayer. When one of your little brothers asks you to lend him your knife, do you inquire first what is the state of his mind? If you do, what reply can he make but this: “The state of my mind is, I want your knife.”
With her natural temperament and inherited tendencies she might, perhaps, under other influences have been drawn too far over to the emotional, or at least to the contemplative side of religious life. But she saw and avoided the danger. She discerned the harmony and just balance between the contemplative and the active Christian life, and felt that they ought to co-exist in every genuine experience. She attached as little meaning to a life of mere raptures as to one of bare, loveless duty. “Christian life,” she wrote, “is not all contemplation and prayer; it is not all muscle and sinew. It is a perfect, practicable union of the two. I believe in your joyful emotions if they result in self-denying, patient work for Christ–I believe in your work if it is winged by faith and prayer.” She had scored this passage in her copy of Fenelon: “To be constantly in a state of enjoyment that takes away the feeling of the cross, and to live in a fervor of devotion that continually keeps Paradise open–this is not dying upon the cross and becoming nothing.”
Such experience and such views were behind the active side of her life, as represented by her personal ministries and by the work of her pen. The one book in which she endeavored to embody _formally_ her views of Christian doctrine and experience did not, as might have been expected, find the same reception or the same response which were accorded to other productions. It was a book which appealed to a smaller and higher class of readers. But, when she wrought these same truths into pictures of living men and women–when she illustrated them at the points where they touched the drudgery and commonplace of thousands of lives–when she opened outlooks for hundreds of discouraged souls upon the roads where hundreds more were bearing the very same burdens, and yet stepping heavenward under their pressure–when she, who had walked in the fire herself, went to her sisters in the same old furnace and told them of her vision of the form of the Fourth–when she went down to the many who were sadly working out the mistakes of ill-judged alliances, and lifted the veil from sorrows which separate their subject from human sympathy because they must be borne in silence–when she told such how heaven might come even into their life–when she, with her hands yet bleeding from the grasp of her own cross, came to other sufferers, not to mock them by the show of an unattainable beauty and an impossible peace, but to _offer_ them _divine_ peace and the beauty of the Lord in the name of her Saviour–then she spoke with a power which multitudes felt and confessed.
I am sure that hers is, in an eminent degree, the blessing of them that were ready to perish. Weary, overtaxed mothers; misunderstood and unappreciated wives, servants, pale seamstresses, delicate women forced to live in an atmosphere of drunkenness and coarse brutality, widows and orphans in the bitterness of their bereavement, mothers with their tears dropping over empty cradles–to thousands of such she was a messenger from heaven.
Of all her seventeen or eighteen published volumes, “Stepping Heavenward” is the one which best represents her and her life-work–not that she produced nothing else of value, nor that many of her other books were not widely read, greatly enjoyed, and truly useful; but “Stepping Heavenward” seemed to meet so many real, deep, inarticulate cravings in such a multitude of hearts, that the response to it was instant and general….
She wrote for readers of all ages. Not the least fruitful work of her pen was bestowed upon the little ones; and in the number of copies circulated, the Susy Books stand next to Stepping Heavenward. Through those little half allegories she initiated the children into the rudiments of self-control, discipline and consecration, and taught eyes and hands and tongue and feet the noble uses of the kingdom of God. Even from these children’s stories the thought of the discipline of suffering was not absent, and _Mr. Pain_, as many mothers will remember, figures among Little Susy’s Six Teachers. With the same pure and wholesome lessons, and with the same easy vivacity she appealed to youth through “The Flower of the Family,” “The Percys,” and “Nidworth,” and it would be hard to say by readers of what age was monopolised the interest in “Aunt Jane’s Hero,” “Fred and Maria and Me,” and those two little gems–“The Story Lizzie Told,” and “Gentleman Jim.”
While all her writings were _religious_ in the best sense, they were in nothing more so than in their _cheerfulness_. They were not only happy and hopeful in their general tone, but sparkled with her delicate and sprightly humor. The children of her books were not religious puppets, moving in time to the measured wisdom of their elders, but real children of flesh and blood, acting and talking out their impish conceits, and in nowise conspicuous by their precocious goodness.
I think that those who knew her best in her literary relations, will agree with me that no better type of a consecrated literary talent can be found in the lists of authors. She received enough evidences of popular appreciation to have turned the heads of many writers. Over 200,000 bound volumes of her books have been sold in this country alone, to say nothing of the circulation in England, France, and Germany. She was not displeased at success, as I suppose no one is–but success to her meant doing good. She did not write for popularity, and her aversion to having her own literary work mentioned to her was so well known by her friends, that even those who wished to express to her their gratitude for the good they had received from her books were constrained to be silent. “While,” says her publisher, “she was very sensitive to any criticism based on a misconception or a perversion of her purpose, never, in all my intercourse with her, did I discover the slightest evidence of a spirit of literary pique, or pride, or ambition.”
In attempting to sum up the characteristics of her writings, time will suffer me only to state the more prominent features without enlarging upon details.
First, and most prominent, was their _purpose_. Her pen moved always and only under a sense of _duty_. She held her talent as a gift from God, and consecrated it sacredly to the enforcement and diffusion of His truth. If I may quote once more the words of her publisher in his tribute to her memory–“her great desire and determination to educate in the highest and best schools was never overlooked or forgotten. She never, like many writers of religious fiction, caught the spirit of sensationalism that is in the air, or sought for effects in unhealthy portraiture, corrupt style, or unnatural combinations.”
Second, she was _unconventional_. Her writings were not religious in any stereotyped, popular sense. Her characters were not stenciled. The holiest of them were strongly and often amusingly individualized. She did not try to make automatons to repeat religious commonplaces, but actual men and women, through whose very peculiarities the Holy Spirit revealed His presence and work.
Third, I have already referred to her _sprightliness_. She had naturally a keen sense of humor which overflowed both in her conversation and in her books. She saw nothing in the nature of the faith she professed which bade her lay violent hands on this propensity; and she once said that if her religion could not stand her saying a funny thing now and then it was not worth much. But, whatever she might say or write of this character, one never felt that it betrayed any irreverent lightness of spirit. The undertone of her life was so deeply reverential, so thoroughly pervaded with adoring love for Christ, that it made itself felt through all her lighter moods, like the ground-swell of the sea through the sparkling ripples on the surface.
Fourth, her style was easy, colloquial, never stilted or affected, marked at times by an energy and incisiveness which betrayed earnest thought and intense feeling. She aimed to impress the truth, not her style, and therefore aimed at plainness and directness. Her hard common sense, of which her books reveal a goodly share, was offset by her vivid fancy which made even the region of fable tributary to the service of truth.
Fifth, her books were intensely _personal_; expressions, I mean, of her own experience. Many of her characters and scenes are simple transcripts of fact, and much of what she taught in song, was a repetition of what she had learned in suffering.
To go back once more to her office of consoler. She exercised this not only through her books, but also through her personal ministries in those large and widening circles which centred in her literary and pastoral life. Those who were favored with her friendship in times of sorrow found her a comforter indeed. Her letters, of which, at such times, she was prodigal, were to many sore hearts as leaves from the tree of life. She did not expect too much of a sufferer. She recognized human weakness as well as divine strength. But in all her attempts at consolation, side by side with her deep and true sympathy, went the _lesson_ of the _harvest_ of sorrow. She was always pointing the mourner _past_ the floods, to the high place above them–teaching him to sing even amid the waves and billows–“the Lord will command His loving-kindness”; “I shall yet praise Him for the help of His countenance.” “I knew,” she wrote to a bereaved friend, “that God would never afflict you so, if He had not something beautiful and blissful to give in place of what He took.” The insight which her writings revealed into many and subtle aspects of sorrow, made her the recipient of hosts of letters from strangers, opening to her their griefs, and asking her counsel; and to all she gave freely and joyfully as far as her strength and time and judgment would allow. There was a tonic vein mingling with her comforts. Her touch was firm as well as tender. She knew the shoals of morbid sentimentality which skirt the deeps of trouble, and sought to pilot the sorrowing past the shoals to the shore.
And now, having thus spoken of her preparation for God’s work, the work itself, and its fruits, how can we gather up and depict the many personal traits and associations which crowd upon the memory? Of such things how many are incapable of reproduction, their fine flavor vanishing with the moment. How often that which most commends them to remembrance lies in the glance of an eye, an inflection of the voice, an expression of the face, which neither pen nor pencil can put on record.
How many such recollections, for example, group themselves round that beautiful home among the hills. How it bore her mark and was pervaded with her presence, and seemed, more than any other spot, the appropriate setting of her life. Now she was at her chamber window studying the ever shifting lights and shadows on the hills; now rambling over the fields and through the woods and returning with her hands laden with flowers and grasses; now busy with her ferns in her garden; again beguiling the hours with her pencil, or stealing away to develop some happy fancy or fresh thought on which her mind had been working for days. And how pleasant her talk. How she would dart off sometimes from the line of the gravest theme into some quaint, mirth-provoking conceit. How many odd things she had seen; of how many strange adventures she had partaken, and how graphically and charmingly she told them. With what relish she would bring forth some good thing saved up to tell to one who would appreciate it; yet, on the other hand, how earnestly, how intelligently, with what simplicity, with what eager delight would she pursue the discussion of the deep things of God. Nor was her home merely a place of rest and retirement. Its doors were ever wide open to congenial spirits, and also to some of Christ’s poor, to whom the healing breath of the mountains and the rare sights and sounds of country life were as gifts from heaven. In that little community she was not content to be a mere summer idler. There, too, she pursued her ministry of comfort and of instruction. Eternity alone will reveal the fruitage of the seeds she sowed in her weekly Bible-reading, to which the women came for miles over the mountain roads, through storm and through sunshine.
And here the end came. Death, if a surprise at all to her, could only be a pleasant surprise. In one of her stories an old family servant says of her departed mistress: “Often’s the time I’ve heard her talk about dying, and I mind a time when she thought she was going, and there was a light in her eye, and it was just as she looked when she said, ‘Mary, I’m going to be married.'” It was a leaf out of her own life. She had marked in one of her books of devotion a passage which, I imagine, summed up her view of the whole matter: “A true Christian is neither fond of life nor weary of it.” She had no sentimental disgust with life, but her overmastering desire was to see and be like her Lord, and death was the entrance gate to that perfect vision. Only the opening of that portal could bring the full answer to her prayer of years, “I beseech Thee, show me Thy glory.” In this attitude the messenger found her. I will not dwell on the closing scenes…. It is pleasanter to turn from that long, weary Sabbath, when nature in its perfect beauty and repose seemed to mock the bitter agony of the death-chamber, to the hour when, with the first full brightness of the morning, the silver cord was loosed, and she was present with the Lord. Surely it was something more than an accidental coincidence that, in the little “Daily Food,” which for nearly forty years had been her closet companion, the passage for the 13th of August 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.” That summer afternoon when she was laid to rest had a brightness which was not all of the glories of the setting sun, as he burst forth from the encircling clouds, and touched with his parting splendor the gates of the grave. Nature, with its fulness of summer life, was set in the key of the resurrection by the assurance of her victory over death, and it was with a new and mighty sense of their truth that we spoke over her ashes the words of the Apostle: “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. O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?”
So now, as then, _more_ even than then, since these months have given us time to study the lesson of that life and the sources of its power, we give thanks to God through Jesus Christ our Lord; thanks for the divine processes which moulded a daughter of consolation; thanks for the fountains of comfort opened by her along life’s highways and which continue to flow while she sleeps in Jesus; thanks for a good and fruitful life ended “in the communion of the Holy Catholic Church, in the confidence of a certain faith, in the comfort of a reasonable, religious, and holy hope, in charity with all mankind, and in peace with God.”
* * * * *
I.
A List of Mrs. Prentiss’ Writings, with notices of some of them and the dates of their publication:
1. _Little Susy’s Six Birthdays._ 1853.
2. _Only a Dandelion, and other Stories._ 1854.
The first piece, from which the little book takes its name, was written at the time, and is not excelled by anything of the kind written by Mrs. Prentiss. Spring Breeze is as fresh and delicate as a May flower. The other stories are mostly a selection from her early contributions to The Youth’s Companion.
3. _Henry and Bessie; or, What they did in the Country._ 1855.
4. _Little Susy’s Six Teachers._ 1856.
5. _Little Susy’s Little Servants._ 1856.
The three Little Susy books were republished in England, where they seem to have been as popular among the children as at home. Not far from 50,000 copies have been sold in this country.
6. _The Flower of the Family._ A Book for Girls. 1856.
This work has had a wide circulation at home and abroad. Some 19,000 copies have been sold here. The following is the title-page of one of the French editions:
* * * * *
Le Fleur de La Famille
ou
Simple Histoire pour Les
Jeunes Filles.
Ouvrage Americain.
Cinquieme edition.
Toulouse,
Societe des Livres Religieux.
1877.
* * * * *
Die Perle der Familie is the German title. Here are a few sentences from a highly laudatory notice in the well-known “Neue Preuss. Zeitung”:
In ausserordentlicher lieblicher und sinniger Weise wird uns ein haeusliches, schlichtes, von edlem Christlichen Sinn getragenes Familien- leben forgefuehrt, das durch seine treffliche Characterschilderung unser lebhaftestes Interesse flir jedes Glied des kinderreichen Hauses in Anspruch nimmt. Es ist im eigentlichsten Sinne ein Buch fuer die Familie.
_The Flower of the Family_ was translated into German,–as were also _Stepping Heavenward, The Percys, Fred and Maria and Me_,–by Miss Marie Morgenstern, of Goettingen. Some omissions in the version of _Stepping Heavenward_ mar a little the vivacity of the book; but otherwise her work seems to have been very carefully and well done, and to have met with the warm approval of the German public.
7. _Peterchen and Gretchen; or, Tales of Early Childhood._ 1860.
This is a translation from the German.
8. _The Little Preacher._ 1867.
One of the most striking of her smaller works. It has throughout the flavor of German peasant life and of the Black Forest. But it seems never to have found its way across the sea.
9. _Little Threads; or, Tangle Thread, Silver Thread, and Golden Thread._ 1868.
The aim of _Little Threads_ is happily indicated in its closing sentences:
If you find that you like to have your own way a good deal better than you like your mamma to have hers; if you pout and cry when you can not do as you please; if you never own that you are in the wrong, and are sorry for it; never, in short, try with all your might to be docile and gentle, then your name is Tangle Thread, and you may depend you cost your mamma many sorrowful hours and many tears. And the best thing you can do is to go away by yourself and pray to Jesus to make you see how naughty you are, and to make you humble and sorry. Then the old and soiled thread that can be seen in your mother’s life will disappear, and in its place there will come first a silver, and by and by, with time and patience, and God’s loving help, a sparkling and beautiful golden one. And do you know of anything in this world you should rather be than Somebody’s Golden Thread?–especially the Golden Thread of your dear mamma, who has loved you so many years, who has prayed for you so many years, and who longs so to see you gentle and docile like Him of whom it was said: “Behold the _Lamb_ of God!”
_Little Threads_ is based upon a very keen observation of both the dark and the bright side of childhood. The allegory, in which its lessons are wrought, is, perhaps, less simple and attractive than that of _Little Susy’s Six Teachers_, or that of _Little Susy’s Little Servants_; but the lessons themselves are full of the sweetest wisdom, pathos, and beauty.
10. _Little Lou’s Sayings and Doings_. 1868.
Among the papers of her sister, Mrs. Prentiss found a journal containing numerous little incidents in the early life of her only child, together with more or less of his boyish sayings. Much of the material found in this journal was used in the composition of _Little Lou_; and that is one thing that gives it such an air of perfect reality.
11. _Fred and Maria and Me._ 1868.
12. _The Old Brown Pitcher._ 1868.
This is a temperance tale. It was written at the request of the National Temperance Society and issued for their press.
_13. Stepping Heavenward. 1869._
Some interesting details respecting this work have been given already. Its circulation has been very large, both at home and abroad; far greater than that of any other of Mrs. Prentiss’ books. More than 67,000 copies of it have been sold in this country; while in England it was issued by several houses, and tens of thousands of copies have been sold there, in Canada, in Australia, and in other parts of the British dominions.
Among the English houses that republished _Stepping Heavenward_, were James Nisbet & Co.; Ward, Lock & Co.; Frederick Warne & Co.; Thomas Nelson & Sons, London and Edinburgh; Milner & Co.; Weldon & Co. An edition by the last-named house, neatly printed and intended specially for circulation in Canada and Australia, as well as at home, was sold at fivepence, so that the very poorest could buy it. No accurate estimate can be formed of the number of copies circulated in Great Britain and its dependencies, but it must have been enormous. It was also issued at Leipsic, by Tauchnitz, in his famous “Collection of British Authors.” The German translation has already passed into a fourth edition–a remarkable proof of its popularity. In the preface to this edition Miss Morgenstern, the translator, says: “So moege sie denn hinausziehen in die Welt, diese vierte Auflage, moege wiederum aufklopfen an die Stuben und Herzenthueren, der deutschen Lesewelt, und nachdem ihr aufgethan, hineintragen in die Stuben und Herzen, was ihre Vorgaengerinnen hineintrugen;–Freude und Rath und Trost.” Nowhere has the work won higher, or more discriminating, praise than in Germany. The following extract from one of the critical notices of it may serve as an instance:
In Form von Tagebuch–Aufzeichnungen, somit Selbstbekenntnissen, wird uns das Leben einer Frau erzaelt, welche–ohne andere _aeussere_ Schickungen freudiger und trueber Art, als sie in _jedem_ Leben vorzukommen pflegen–aus einem zwar gutartigen und wohlbegabten aber Susserst reizbaren und leidenshaftlich erregten Muedchen zu einer gelaeuterten Juengerin des Herrn heranreift. Was aber dies Buch zu einem wahren Kleinod macht, das ish nicht die ueberaus wahre und tiefe Analyse jener menschlichen Suende, Suendenschwachheit und Eitelkeit, die sich auch in die froemmsten Regungen einuschleichen sucht, sondern die Angabe des wahren Heilmittels. Der goldne Faden naemlich, der sich durch das ganze Buch zieht, ist die Wahrheit; Nicht _unser_ Rennen und Lanfen, sondern _Sein_ Erbarmen! Nicht _wir_ haben _Ihn_ geliebt, sondern _Er_ hat _uns_ geliebt, und daran haben _wir_ kindlich zu _glauben_. Sich _Ihm_ an _Sein_ Herz werfen mit all unsern Schwaechen, all unser Armuth–das _wirkt_–ja das _ist_ Heilung…. Das Ganze ist im hoechsten Grade fesselnd. Man lebt sich unwillkuerlich in dies christliche Hauswesen mit ein, und glaubt in vielen Zuegen einen Spiegel des eigenen zu erkennen. [14]
The title-page of the French translation is as follows:
* * * * *
MARCHANT
VERS LE CIEL.
par
E. PRENTISS.
Auteur de _La Fleur de la Famille_, etc. Traduit de L’Anglais avec
L’Autorization de L’Auteur.
Lausanne:
Georges Bridel, Editeur.
* * * * *
The following extract from a letter of Madame de Fressense, dated Paris, July 18, 1882, will show what impression the work made not only upon the gifted and accomplished writer, but upon many other of the most cultivated Christian women of France and Switzerland:
C’est un livre qui fait aimer celle qui y a mis son ame, une etude du coeur humain bien vraie et bien delicate. L’amour de Dieu deborde dans ses pages charmantes, dont la lecture rechauffe le coeur. Je crois qu’il a ete fort apprecie dans nos pays de langue francaise. Une personne dont toute la vie est un service de ceux qui souffrent me disait l’autre jour: “C’est _mon_ livre, il m’a fait beaucoup de bien.”
Le nombre d’editions qu’a atteint la traduction francaise teemoigne qu’il a eu du succes, et je suis sure que beaucoup de personnes ont prefere, avec raison, le lire dans l’original.
Je suis heureuse que vous m’avez donne l’occasion de le relire, et d’en eprouver de nouveau la bienfaisante influence….
Ce serait un vrai privilege de pouvoir faire connaitre a notre public francais cette femme aussi distinguee par le coeur que par l’esprit, que nous aimons tous.
14. _Nidworth, and his three Magic Wands._ 1869.
The three Magic Wands are: Riches, Knowledge, and Love; and in depicting their peculiar and wonderful virtues Mrs. Prentiss has wrought into the story with much skill her own theory of a happy life. She wrote the book with intense delight, and its strange, weird-like scenes and characters–the home in the forest; Dolman, the poor woodcutter; Cinda, his tall and strong-minded wife; Nidworth, their first-born; wandering Hidda, boding ill-luck; the hermit; these and all the rest–seemed to her, for a while, almost as real as if she had copied them from life.
Its publishers (Roberts Brothers) pronounced _Nidworth_ “a gem” and were not a little surprised at its failure to strike the popular fancy. It certainly contains some of the author’s brightest pictures of life and character.
15. _The Percys._ 1870.
This work was translated into French and German, and won warm praise in both languages. It is full of spirit, depicts real boys and girls and a loving Christian mother with equal skill, and abounds in the best lessons of domestic peace.
16. _The Story Lizzie Told._ 1870.
17. _Six Little Princesses and what they turned into._ 1871.
No one of Mrs. Prentiss’ lesser works betrays a keener insight into character or a finer touch than this. Its aim is to illustrate the truth that all girls are endowed with their own individual talents; and to enforce the twofold lesson, that the diligent use of these talents, on the one hand, can furnish innocent pleasures beyond the reach of any outward position, however brilliant; and, on the other, is the best preparation for the day of adversity.
The closing sentences of the story will give an inkling of its aim and quality: