The Life and Letters of Elizabeth Prentiss Part 49

[15] See HENRY BOYNTON SMITH; His Life and Work. Edited by his Wife. A.

C. Armstrong & Son. 1880.

[16] His biographer, Mr. Moore, relates of Lord Byron that in all the plenitude of his fame, he confessed that "the depreciation of the lowest of mankind was more painful to him than the applause of the highest was pleasing."

[17] _Peterchen and Gretchen_. She translated it at Genevrier during the illness of her children.

[18] Dr. Gurdon Buck. He died shortly afterwards. For more than a quarter of a century be had been a faithful friend of Mrs. Prentiss, and as their family physician had made both her and her husband his debtors alike by his kindness and his skill. With a generosity so characteristic of his profession, he refused, during all these years, to receive any compensation for his services. As a surgeon he stood in the front rank; some of the operations, performed by him, attracted wide attention for then--novelty and usefulness. He published an account of them, with ill.u.s.trations, which greatly interested Mrs. Prentiss. She was almost as fond of reading about remarkable eases in surgery as about remarkable criminal trials.

Dr. Buck was one of the founders and first ruling elders of the Church of the Covenant. His gratuitous labors in connection with the New York Hospital and other public inst.i.tutions were very great. He was a man of solid worth, modest, upright, and devoted to his Lord and Master.

[19] "One of my brightest recollections of this season at Dorset is our last Sunday before returning to town. We went in the phaeton to Pawlet, where I preached for the Rev. Mr. Aiken. The morning was pleasant, the road lay through a lovely mountain valley, and the beauty of nature was made perfect by the sweet Sabbath stillness; and our thoughts were in unison with the scene and the day. I preached on Rest in Christ, and the service was very comforting to us both. How well I recall the same drive and a similar service early in September of 1876, when prayer was my theme! What sweet talks and sweeter fellowship we had together by the way, going and coming!"--_Recollections of_ 1877-8.

[20] Recollections of 1876-7

[21] "Better is it sometimes to go down into the pit with him, who beholding darkness and bewailing the loss of consolation, crieth from the bottom of the lowest h.e.l.l, My G.o.d, my G.o.d, why hast Thou forsaken me? than continually to walk arm in arm with angels, to sit, as it were, in Abraham's bosom, and to have no thought, no cogitation but this, '_I thank my G.o.d it is not with me as it is with other men._'"--HOOKER.

[22] A list of Mrs. Prentiss' writings, with brief notices of some of them, will be found at the end of the appendix, p. 568.

CHAPTER XV.

FOREVER WITH THE LORD.

1878.

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

I.

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

Her Motive in writing Books. Visit to the Aquarium. About "Worry." Her Painting. Sat.u.r.day Afternoons with her. What she was to her Friends.

Resemblance to Madame de Broglie. Recollections of a Visit to East River. A Picture of her by an old Friend. Goes to Dorset. Second Advent Doctrine. Last Letters.

Mrs. Prentiss crossed the threshold of her last year on earth with hands and thoughts still unusually busied. Her weekly Bible-reading, painting in oils and in water-colors, needle-work, and other household duties, left her no idle moment. "My fire is so full of irons," she wrote, "that I do not know which one to take out." Nor was her heart less busy than her hands and brain. Twice in January, once in February, and again in April, death invaded the circle of her friends; and when her friends were in trouble she was always in trouble, too. [1] These deaths led to earnest talk with her husband on the mystery of earthly existence, and on the power of faith in Christ to sustain the soul in facing its great trials. "I am filled with ever fresh wonder at this amazing power," she said. Such subjects always interested her deeply; never more so than at this time, when, although she knew it not, her feet were drawing so near to the pearly gates.

The keynote of her being throughout this last winter was one of unwonted seriousness. A certain startling intensity of thought and feeling showed itself every now and then. It was painfully evident that she was under a severe strain, both physical and mental. Again and again, as spring advanced, the anxiety of her husband was aroused to the highest pitch by what seemed to him indications that the unresting, ever-active spirit was fast wearing away the frail body. At times, too, there was a light in her eye and in her face an "unearthly, absolutely angelic expression"--to use her own words about her little Bessie, six and twenty years before--that filled him with a strange wonder, and which, after her departure, he often recalled as prophetic of the coming event and the glory that should follow.

But while to his ear an undertone of unusual seriousness, deepening ever and anon into a strain of the sweetest tenderness and pathos, ran through her life during all these early months of 1878, there was little change in its outward aspect. She was often gay and full as ever of bright, playful fancies. Never busier, so was she never more eager to be of service to her friends--and never was she more loving to her children, or more thoughtful of their happiness. She proposed for their gratification and advantage to write four new books, one for each of them, provided only they and their father would furnish her with subjects. The plan seemed to please her greatly, and, had she been spared, would probably have been carried into effect--for it was just the sort of stimulus she needed to set her mind in action. Once furnished with a subject, her pen, as has been said before, always moved with the utmost ease and rapidity. But while she wrote very easily, she did not write without reflection. 'She had a keen sense of character in all its phases, and her individual portraits, like those of Katy, Mrs.

Grey and Margaret, Aunt Avery and Kezia Millet, were worked out with the utmost care, the result of years of observation and study being embodied in them.

And here, in pa.s.sing, it may not be out of place to dwell for an instant upon her motives and experience as an author. From first to last she wrote, not to get gain or to win applause, but to do good; and herein she had her reward, good measure, pressed down and running over. But of that kind of reward which gratifies literary taste and ambition, she had almost none. Her books, even those most admired by the best judges, and which had the widest circulation, both at home and abroad, attracted but little attention from the press. The organs of literary intelligence and criticism scarcely noticed them at all. Nor is it known that any attempt was ever made to a.n.a.lyse any of her more striking characters, or to point out the secret of her power and success as a writer. To be sure, she had never sought or counted upon this sort of recognition; and yet that she was keenly alive to a word of discriminating praise, will appear from a letter to Mrs. Condict, dated Jan. 20th:

The burglary was on this wise, as far as we know. One man stood on the front steps, and another slipped the hasp to one of the parlor windows, stepped in, took a very valuable French clock, given me on my silver- wedding day, and all the hats and overcoats from the hall. This was all they had time to do before our night-watchman came round; they left the window wide open, and at 4 A.M. Pat rang the bell and informed Mr.

Prentiss that such was the case. We feel it a great mercy that we were not attacked and maltreated. Poor A. was sitting up in bed, hearing what was going on, but being alone on the third floor, did not dare to move.

I have just finished a short story called Gentleman Jim, which I am going to send to Scribner's; very likely it will get overlooked and lost. I received, not long ago, a letter from Mr. Cady [2] about Greylock, which he had just read. It was a gratification to both my husband and myself, as the most discriminating letter I ever received; and after the first rush of pleasure, the Evil One troubled me, off and on, for two or three hours, but at last I reminded him that I long ago chose to cast in my lot with the people of G.o.d, and so be off the line of human notice or applause, and that I was glad I had been enabled to do it, since literary ambition is unbecoming a Christian woman. There are 500 other things I should say, if you were here!

The following is a part of the letter referred to: The day after "New Year's" I was visited with a severe cold and general prostration that has kept me in my bed--_giving me time!_ As soon as I was strong enough to read I had "The Home" brought. After reading it I felt I ought to tell you how deeply I was impressed with the usefulness, excellence, and spirit of the book. As to its usefulness, you are to be envied; to have brought light, as I believe you have, to a large number of people upon the most precious and vital interests of life, is something worth living and suffering for. The good sense, wisdom, experience, and Christian faith embodied in it must make it a strong helper and friend to many a home in trouble and to many perplexed and discouraged hearts, who will doubtless rise up some day to call you "blessed."

Though you cared less about the manner than the matter, I was impressed by its literary qualities. The scene at the death of Mrs. Grey and parting of herself and Margaret is as highly artistic and beautiful as anything I can think of. The contrast of good and bad, or good and indifferent, is common enough; but the contrast of what is n.o.ble and what is "saintly" is something infinitely higher and subtler. I can't imagine anything more exquisitely tender and beautiful than Mrs. Grey's departure, but it is the more realised by the previous action of Margaret. The few lines in which this is told bring their whole character--in each case--vividly before you. But I see that if the book had previously to this point been differently written it would have been impossible to have rendered this scene so remarkably impressive. The story of "Eric" is extremely quaint and charming; it is a vein I am not familiar with in your writings. It is a little cla.s.sic. This quaint child's story and the death of Mrs. Grey affect me as a fine work of art affects one, whenever I recall them. The trite saying is still true, "A thing of beauty is a joy forever."

You know children complain of some sweets that they leave a bad taste--and works of fiction often do with me. I feel tired and dissatisfied after I have pa.s.sed out of their excitements; but the heavenly atmosphere of this book left me better; I know that the Blessed Spirit must have influenced you in the writing of it, and I doubt not His blessing will accompany its teachings.

Now will you excuse this blotty letter--written in bed--and accept my thanks for all the good your book has done me.

The following is her reply:

DEAR MR. CADY:--Your letter afforded me more satisfaction than I know how to explain. It is true that I made up my mind, as a very young girl, to keep out of the way of literary people, so as to avoid literary ambition. Nor have I regretted that decision. Yet the human nature is not dead in me, and my instincts still crave the kind of recognition you have given me. I have had heaps of letters from all parts of this country, England, Scotland, Ireland, Germany, and Switzerland, about my books, till I have got sick and tired of them. And the reason I tired of them was, that in most cases there was no discrimination. People liked their religious character, and of course I wanted them to do so. But you appreciate and understand everything in Greylock, and have, therefore, gratified my husband and myself. Not a soul out of this house, for instance, has ever so much as alluded to my little Eric, except one friend who said, "We thought that part of the book forced, and supposed A. wrote it." n.o.body has ever alluded to Margaret, save yourself.

I hoped a sequel to the book might be called for, when I meant to elaborate her character. Still, it would have been very hard.... I am not sorry that I chose the path in life I did choose. A woman should not live for, or even desire, fame. This is yet more true of a Christian woman. If I had not steadily suppressed all such ambition, I might have become a sour, disappointed woman, seeing my best work unrecognised. But it has been my wish to

"Dare to be little and unknown, Seen and loved by G.o.d alone."

Your letter for a few hours, did stir up what I had always trampled down; but only for that brief period, and then I said to myself, G.o.d has only taken me at my word; I have asked Him, a thousand times, to make me smaller and smaller, and crowd the self out of me by taking up all the room Himself. There is so much of that work yet to be done, that I wonder He ventures to make so many lines fall to me in pleasant places, and that I have such a goodly heritage. I trust He will bless you for your labor of love to me.

I do not like the idea of your buying my books. Greylock being for mothers, I never dreamed of men reading it. Have you had The Story Lizzie Told, Six Little Princesses, The Little Preacher, and Nidworth?

Neither of these is really a child's book, and the next time you are sick, if you have not read them, I shall love to send them to you. If this is conceit, I have the effrontery not to be a mite ashamed of it!

The following notes to Mrs. Fisher show how pleasantly she sympathised with her teacher as a young mother, while taking lessons of and admiring her as an artist:

NEW YORK, _February 4, 1878._

What a relief to have the days come long again! On Sat.u.r.day I found in A.'s portfolio a study you lent her; exquisite ferns behind the fallen trunk of a tree, and a tiny group of orange-colored toad-stools. I will send it with its two lovely sisters, when I get through with them. I wish you could get time to come to see me, or that I could get time to go to see you. But it is my unlucky nature to have a great many irons in the fire at once. I am glad your baby keeps well, and hope he will grow up to be a great comfort to you.

_Feb. 23d._--I have just received your letter. I have my hands full and there is no need to hurry you.

As to "worry" not being of faith, I do not suppose it is. But a young mother can not be _all_ faith. I do not envy people who love so lightly that they have no wringing out of the heart when they lose their dear ones; nor can I understand her who says she can sit and read the newspaper, while her babies are crying. "None are so old as they who have outlived enthusiasm"; and who should be enthusiastic if a mother may not? I don't think G.o.d has laid it up against me that I nearly killed myself for the sake of my babies, because when He took two away within three months of each other, my faith in Him did not falter....

Dear Mrs. Fisher, if you love G.o.d nothing but His best things will ever come to you. This is the experience of a very young, old woman, and I hope it will comfort you.

_April 21st._--Such a fight as I have had with your exquisite studies, and how I have been beaten! I failed entirely in the golden-rod, and do not get the brilliant yellow of the mullein flower; one could not easily fail on the saggitarius, and the clover was tolerable. I think I will take no more lessons at present, as I have much to do in getting another boy fitted for college. After I get settled at Dorset I want to make a desperate effort to paint from nature, and if I have any success, send to you for criticism. "Fools rush in where angels fear to tread," and I am afraid you will be disgusted with my work, which will be in the dark, since I have had no instruction in copying nature.... Perhaps you may put alongside of the rejection of your picture a lady's telling me about one of my books into which I had thrown an experience of the last thirty years of my life, "There was nothing in it." "Il faut souffrir pour etre belle." As long as memory lasts I shall rejoice that I have seen and studied your work.

I remember what a splendid fellow your baby was a year ago. It will depend on your maternal prayers and discipline whether he grows up to be your comfort.

A few extracts from her letters will give further glimpses of the manner in which she pa.s.sed these closing months of her life in New York-- especially of her delight in the weekly Bible-reading. One of the ladies who attended it, thus refers to that exercise:

You remember that for one or two years she was a member of a small circle, that met weekly for Bible-study. When the leader of this circle removed from the city, Mrs. Prentiss was urgently requested to become its teacher, and she consented to do so. For the last four years of her life she threw her whole soul into this exercise. Every week the appointed morning found her surrounded by a little group of from eight to fifteen, each with an open Bible and all intent less to a.n.a.lyse the word of G.o.d than to feed upon it and "grow thereby." And what a wonderful teacher she was! Not neglectful of any helps that dictionary or commentator might give, her chief source of light was none of these, but was received in answer to the promise, "If any man will do the will of G.o.d he shall know of the doctrine." She wished the service to be entirely informal, and that each one present should do her part to aid in the study. This brought out diverse views and different standards of opinion. Here her keen intellect, her warm heart, the rich stores of her experience and her "sanctified common sense" all found play, and many of the words that fell from her lips dwell in the memory as little less than inspired. The last winter of this service showed some marked differences from previous years. As eager as ever to have questions asked and answered by others, yet from the moment she commenced to speak she scarcely paused till the hour was finished, her eyes sparkling and her whole manner intensely earnest. Often those words of the Psalmist pa.s.sed through my mind, _The zeal of Thy house hath eaten me up._ Her love for her work and zeal in doing it were visibly consuming her. At the last meeting I asked her if she should commence the Bible-reading at Dorset immediately. She said no, she must rest a little; she would wait till her garden was made. When next I heard from her flowers and her Bible-study she had made the "bound into home immortal." And all who loved her must rejoice with her; else have we failed to learn one of the clearest lessons of her life: _For me to live is Christ, and to die is gain._

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

Is it possible I had portiere on the brain when I wrote you last? I thought I had just caught the disease. I am very fond of needle-work, but for years have nearly abandoned it, because I could not thread my needle. But the portiere is made with a large worsted needle and will give me pleasant work for the evening. I am getting my hand in on a contumacious closet door that won't stay open in my bedroom....

Imitation Macaroni,

By the author of Pemaquid:

Boil hominy overnight. Next day's dinner prepare like macaroni, with a little milk and grated cheese and bake. Good for a change and cheaper.