It is said to be an ill wind that blows n.o.body good, and as I am still idling about, doing absolutely nothing but receive visits from neuralgia, I have leisure to think of poor Miss ----. I wrote to ask her if there was anything she wanted and could not get in her region; yesterday I received her letter, in which she mentions a book, but says "anything that is useful for body or mind" would be gratefully received.

Now I got the impression from that article in the Independent, that she could take next to no nourishment. Do you know what she _does_ take, and can you suggest, from what you know, anything she would like? What's the use of my being sick, if it isn't for her sake or that of some other suffering soul? I want, very much, to get some things together and send her; n.o.body knows who hasn't experienced it, how delightfully such things break in on the monotony of a sick-room. Just yet I am not strong enough to do anything; my hands tremble so that I can hardly use even a pen; yet you need not think I am much amiss, for I go out every pleasant day, to ride, and some days can take quite a walk. The trouble is that when the pain returns, as it does several times a day, it knocks my strength out of me. I hope when all parts of my frame have been visited by this erratic sprite, it may find it worth while to beat a retreat.

Only to think, we are going to move to No. 70 East Twenty-seventh street, and you have all been and gone away! The rent is _enormous_, $1,000 having been just added to an already high price. Our people have taken that matter in hand and no burden of it will come on us. I received your letter and am much obliged to you for writing to Miss ----, for me; the reason I did not do it was, that it seemed like hurrying her up to thank me for the little drop of comfort I sent her.

Dear me! it's hard to be sick when people send you quails and jellies, and fresh eggs, and all such things--but to be sick and suffer for necessaries must be terrible.

_To the Same, New York, March 9, 1865._

I thank you for the details of Miss ----'s case, as I wished to describe them to some friends. I sent her ten dollars yesterday for two of my friends. I also sent off a box by express, for the contents of which I had help. The things were such as I had persuaded her to mention; a new kind of farina, figs, two portfolios (of course she didn't ask for two, but I had one I thought she would, perhaps, like better than the one I bought), a few crackers, and several books. Mr. P. added one of those beautiful large-print editions of the Psalms which will, I think, be a comfort to her. I shall also send Adelaide Newton by-and-by; I thought she had her hands full of reading for the present, and the great thing is not to heap comforts on her all at once and then leave her to her fate, but keep up a stream of such little alleviations as can be provided. She said, she had poor accommodations for writing, so I greatly enjoyed fitting up the portfolio which was none the worse for wear, with paper and envelopes, a pencil with rubber at the end, a cunning little knife, some stamps, for which there was a small box, a few pens, etc. I know it will please you to hear of this, and as the money was furnished me for the purpose, you need not set it down to my credit.

I meant to go to see your sister, but my head is still in such a weak state that though I go to walk nearly every day, I can not make calls.

It is five weeks since I went to church, for the same reason. It is a part of G.o.d's discipline with me to keep me shut up a good deal more than the old Adam in me fancies; but His way is _absolutely perfect_, and I hope I wouldn't change it in any particular, if I could. Have you Pusey's tract, "Do all to the Lord Jesus"? If not, I must send it to you. It seems as if I had a lot of things I wanted to say, but after writing a little my hands and arms begin to tremble so that I can hardly write plainly. You never saw such a lazy life as I lead now-a-days; I can't do _any_ thing. I advise you to do what you have to do for Christ _now_; by the time you are as old as I am perhaps you will have the will and not the power. Well, good-bye till next time.

The summer of this year was pa.s.sed at Newburgh in company with the Misses Butler--now Mrs. Kirkbride, of Philadelphia, and Mrs. Booth, of Liverpool--and the families of Mr. William Allen Butler, Mr. B.

F. Butler, and Mr. John P. Crosby, to all of whom Mrs. Prentiss was strongly attached. The late Mr. Daniel Lord, the eminent lawyer, with a portion of his family, had also a cottage near by and was full of hospitable kindness. In spite of the exacting hydropathic treatment, she found constant refreshment and delight in the society of so many dear friends. "The only thing I have to complain of" she wrote, "is everybody being too good to me. How different it is being among friends to being among strangers!"

In a letter to her husband, dated New York, Sept. 15, 1879, Mr. William Allen Butler gives the following reminiscence of an excursion to Paltz Point and an evening at Newburgh:

From the date you, give in your note (to which I have just recurred) of our trip to Paltz Point, it seems that in writing you to-day I have unwittingly fallen on the anniversary of that pleasant excursion.

Without this reminder I could not have told the day or the year, but of the excursion itself I have always had a vivid and delightful recollection; and, if I am not mistaken, Mrs. Prentiss enjoyed it as fully as any one of the merry party. It was only on that jaunt and in our summer home at Newburgh that I had the opportunity of knowing her readiness to enter into that kind of enjoyment, which depends upon the co-operation of every member of a circle for the entertainment of all.

The elements of our group were well commingled, and the bright things evoked by their contact and friction were neither few nor far between.

The game to which you allude of "Inspiration" or "Rhapsody" was a favorite. The evening at Paltz Point called out some clever sallies, of which I have no record or special recollection; but I know that then, as always, Mrs. Prentiss seemed to have at her pencil's point for instant use the wit and fancy so charmingly exhibited in her writings. She published somewhere an account of one of our inspired or rhapsodical evenings, but greatly to my regret failed to include in it her own contribution which was the best of all. I distinctly remember the time and scene--the September evening--the big, square sitting-room of the old Seminary building in which you boarded--the bright faces whose radiance made up in part for the limitations of artificial light--the puzzled air which every one took on when presented with the list of unmanageable words, to be reproduced in their consecutive order in prose or verse composition within the next quarter or half hour--the stillness which supervened while the enforced "pleasures" of "poetic pains" or prose agony were being undergone--the sense of relief which supplemented the completion of the batch of extempore effusions--and the fun which their reading provoked. Mrs. Prentiss had contrived out of the odd and incoherent jumble of words a choice bit of poetic humor and pathos, which I never quite forgave her for omitting in the publication of the nonsense written by other hands. These trifles as they seemed at the time, and as in fact they were, become less insignificant in the retrospect, as we a.s.sociate them with the whole character and being we instinctively love to place at the farthest remove from gloom or sadness, and as they rediscover to us in the distance the native vivacity and grace of which they were the chance expression. Since that summer of 1865, having lived away from New York, I saw little of Mrs.

Prentiss, but I have a special remembrance of one little visit you made at our home in Yonkers which she seemed very much to enjoy--saying of the reunion which made it so pleasant to the members of our family and all who happened to be together at the time, that it was "like heaven."

[13]

During the summer of 1865 the sympathies of Mrs. Prentiss were much wrought upon by the sickness and death of her husband's mother, who entered into rest on the 9th of August, in the eighty-fourth year of her age. On the 12th of the previous January, she with the whole family had gone to Newark to celebrate the eighty-third birthday of this aged saint. Had they known it was to be the last, they could have wished nothing changed. It was a perfect winter's day, and the scene in the old parsonage was perfect too. There, surrounded by children and children's children, sat the venerable grandmother with a benignant smile upon her face and the peace of G.o.d in her heart. As she received in birthday gifts and kisses and congratulations their loving homage, the measure of her joy was full, and she seemed ready to say her _Nunc dimittis_. She belonged to the number of those holy women of the old time who trusted in G.o.d and adorned themselves with the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, and whose children to the latest generation rise up and call them blessed.

In the course of this year her sympathies were also deeply touched by repeated visits from her brother-in-law, Professor Hopkins, on his way to and from Virginia. Allusion has been made already to the death of her nephew, Lieutenant Edward Payson Hopkins. He was killed in battle while gallantly leading a cavalry charge at Ashland, in Virginia, on the 11th of May, 1864. In June of the following year his father went to Ashland with the hope of recovering the body. Five comrades had fallen with Edward, and the negroes had buried them without coffins, side by side, in two trenches in a desolate swampy field and under a very shallow covering of earth. The place was readily discovered, but it was found impossible to identify the body. The disappointed father, almost broken-hearted, turned his weary steps homeward. When he reached Williamstown his friends said, "He has grown ten years older since he went away."

Several months later he learned that there were means of identification which could not fail, even if the body had already turned to dust.

Accordingly he again visited Ashland, attended this time by soldiers, a surgeon, and Government officials. His search proved successful, and, to his joy, not only was the body identified, but, owing to the swampy nature of the ground, it was found to be in an almost complete state of preservation. There was something wonderfully impressive in the grave aspect and calm, gentle tone of the venerable man, as with his precious charge he pa.s.sed through New York on his way home. In a letter to Mrs.

Prentiss, dated January 2d, 1866, he himself tells the story of the re-interment at Williamstown:

... After stopping a minute at my door the wagon pa.s.sed at once to the cemetery, and the remains were deposited in the tomb. This was on Thursday. After consulting with my brother and his son (the chaplain) I determined to wait till the Sabbath before the interment. Accordingly, at 3 o'clock--after the afternoon service--the remains of my dear boy were placed beside those of his mother. The services were simple, but solemn in a high degree. They were opened by an address from Harry.

Prayer followed by Rev. Mr. n.o.ble, now supplying the desk here. He prefaced his prayer by saying that he never saw Edward but once, when he preached at Williamstown at a communion and saw him sitting beside me and partaking with me. Singing then followed by the choir of which Eddy was for a long time a member. The words were those striking lines of Montgomery:

Go to the grave in all thy glorious prime, etc.

After which the coffin was lowered to its place by young men who were friends of Edward in his earlier years.

The state of the elements was exceedingly favorable to the holding of such an exercise in the open air at a season generally so inclement.

The night before there was every appearance of a heavy N. E. storm. But Sabbath morning it was calm. As I went to church I noticed that the sun rested on the Vermont mountains just north of us, though with a mellowed light as if a veil had been thrown over them. In the after part of the day the open sky had spread southward--so that the interment took place when the air was as mild and serene as spring, just as the last sun of the year was sinking towards the mountains. Almost the entire congregation were present.... Thus, dear sister, I have given you a brief account of the solemn but peaceful winding up of what has been to me a sharp and long trial, and I know to yourself and family also. In eternity we shall more clearly read the lesson which even now, in the light of opening scenes, we are beginning to interpret.

[1] Richard H. Dana, the poet.

[2] The article referred to appeared in The Biblical Repository and Quarterly Observer for January, 1835. Vol V., pp. 1-32. It is ent.i.tled, "What form of Law is best suited to the individual and social nature of man?"

[3] Mr. Ralph Waldo Emerson.

[4] The article appeared in the New York Review for July, 1839.

[5] Some pa.s.sages from the little diaries referred to, together with further extracts from her literary journal, will be found in appendix D, p. 541.

[6] The Proclamation of Emanc.i.p.ation.

[7] By Anna Warner.

[8] By her friend, Mrs. Frederick G. Burnham.

[9] "The Little Corporal."

[10] At Fredericksburg.

[11] Referring to the sudden death of a young niece of Mrs. S.

[12] This was written before the a.s.sa.s.sination of President Garfield.

[13] The "Rhapsody," referred to by Mr. Butler was preserved by a young lady of the party, and will be found in appendix E, p. 555.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE PASTOR'S WIFE AND DAUGHTER OF CONSOLATION.

1866-1868.

I.

Happiness as a Pastor's Wife. Visits to Newport and Williamstown Letters. The great Portland Fire. First Summer at Dorset. The new Parsonage occupied. Second Summer at Dorset. _Little Lou's Sayings and Doings_. Project of a Cottage. Letters. _The Little Preacher_. Illness and Death of Mrs. Edward Payson and of Little Francis.

We now enter upon the most interesting and happiest period of Mrs.

Prentiss's experience as a pastor's wife. The congregation of the Church of the Covenant had been slowly forming in "troublous times"; it was composed of congenial elements, being of one heart and one mind; some of the most cultivated families and family-circles in New York belonged to it; and Mrs. Prentiss was much beloved in them all. What a help-meet she was to her husband and with what zeal and delight she fulfilled her office, especially that of a daughter of consolation, among his people, will soon appear.

How ignorant we often are, at the time, of the turning-points in our life! We inquire for a summer boarding-place and decide upon it without any thought beyond the few weeks for which it was engaged; and yet, perhaps, our whole earthly future or that of those most dear to us, is to be vitally affected by this seemingly trifling decision. So it happened to Mrs. Prentiss in 1866. Early in May her husband and his brother-in-law, Dr. Stearns, went, at a venture, to Dorset, Vt., and there secured rooms for their families during the summer. But little did either she, or they, dream that Dorset was to be henceforth her summer home and her resting-place in death! [1]

The Portland fire, to which reference is made in the following letters, occurred on the 4th of July, and consumed a large portion of the city.

_To Miss Mary B. Shipman, Dorset, July 25, 1866._

Never in my life did I live through such a spring and early summer as this! As to business and bustle, I mean. You must have given me up as a lost case! But I have thought of you every day and longed to hear how you were getting on, and whether you lived through that dreadful weather. Annie went with the children to Williamstown about the middle of June; I nearly killed myself with getting them ready to go and could see the flesh drop off my bones. George and I went to Newport on what Mrs. Bronson called our "bridal trip," and stayed eleven days. Mr. and Mrs. McCurdy were kindness personified. We came home and preached on the first Sunday in July, and then went to Greenfield Hill to spend the Fourth with Mrs. Bronson. [2] That nearly finished me, and then I went to Williamstown on that hot Friday and was quite finished on reaching there, to hear about the fire in Portland. Did you ever hear of anything so dreadful? I did not know for several days but H. and C. were burnt out of house and home; most of my other friends I knew were, and can there be any calamity like being left naked, hungry and homeless, everything gone forever.... But let no one say a word that has a roof over his head. All my father's sermons were burned, the house where most of us were born, his church, etc. Fancy New Haven stripped of its shade-trees, and you can form some idea of the loss of Portland in that respect. Well, I might go on talking forever, and not have said anything. [3] The heat upset G. and we have been fighting off sickness for a week, I getting wild with loss of sleep. We are enchanted with Dorset. We are so near the woods and mountains that we go every day and spend hours wandering about among them. If there is any difference, I think this place even more beautiful than Williamstown; it suits us better as a summer retreat, from its great seclusion. I am, that is we are, mean enough to want to keep it as quiet and secluded as it is now, by not letting people know how nice it is; a very few fashionably dressed people would just spoil it for us. So keep our counsel, you dear child.

A few days later she writes to Mrs. Smith, then in Europe:

On the sixth, a day of fearful heat, I went to Williamstown, where I found all the children as well as possible, but heard the news of the Portland fire which almost killed me. All my father's ma.n.u.scripts are destroyed; we always meant to divide them among us and ought to have done it long ago. I heard of any number of injudicious babies as taking the inopportune day succeeding the fire to enter on the scene of desolation; all born in tents. I am sorry my children will never see my father's church, nor the house where I was born; but private griefs are nothing when compared with a calamity that is so appalling and that must send many a heart homeless and aching to the grave. I spent two weeks at Williamstown, when George came for me, and the weather cooling off, we had a comfortable journey here. We are perfectly delighted with Dorset; the sweet seclusion is most soothing, and the house is very pleasant.

Mr. and Mrs. F. are intelligent, agreeable people, and do all they can to make us comfortable. The mountains are so near that I hear the crows cawing in the trees. We are making pretty things and pressing an unheard-of quant.i.ty of ferns. We go to the woods regularly every morning and stay the whole forenoon. In the afternoon we rest, read, write, etc.; sometimes we drive and always after tea George walks with me about two miles. I hope the war is not impeding your movements. I suppose you will call this a short letter, but I think it is as long as is good for you. All my dear nine pounds gained at Newburgh have gone by the board.

_August 20th._--I am sorry you had such hot weather in Paris, but hope it pa.s.sed off as our heat did. Dr. Hamlin's two youngest daughters have been here, and came to see me; they are both interesting girls, and the elder of the two really brilliant. They had never been here before, and were carried away with the beauties of their mother's birthplace. I wish you could see my room. Every pretty thing grows here and has come to cheer and beautify it. The woods are everywhere, and as for the views, oh my child! However, I do not suppose anything short of Mt. Blanc will suit you now.