b'BV 4907 \n.P65 \nCopy 1 \n\n\n\ni I \n\n\n\nI \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nN \n\n\n\n\n\n\nSPaKp*/""*\' i \n\n\n\n\n\n\nLIBRARY OF CONGRESS. \n\n\n\nrap. ._. \xe2\x80\x9e ^q^rigy Ifu* \n\nHhfilf /*?.CS \n\nUNITED STATES OF AMERICA. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nSPF? ok \n\n\n\nf \n\n\n\nvA \n\n\n\n1 \n\n\n\n3 \n\n\n\ns \n\n\n\n4< *\xc2\xbb \n\nHOW SORROW WAS CHANGED \nINTO SYMPATHY. \n\n\n\nWORDS OF CHEER FOR MOTHERS \n\n\n\nBEREFT OF LITTLE CHILDREN. \n\n\n\nOUT o/the life of \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa3rt\xc2\xb0 \n\n\n\n$&&y^ \n\n\n\nMRS. PRENTISS, \n\nAuthor of the "Susy Books" etc. \n\n\n\n7 V %f /<^ COPY R IG/??^ \n\n/ APH 2(T1B84 \n\n\n\nNEW YORK : \n\nAnson D. F. Randolph & Company, \n\n9OO BROADWAY, COR. 20th ST. \n\n\n\n\n\n\xc2\xa3 \n\n\n\nV** \n\n\n\n0*1 \n\n\n\n.f \n\n\n\nCOPYRI \nGEORGE \n\n\n\n\nNEW YORK : \nEdward O. Jenkins, Robert Rutter, \n\nPrinter, Binder,, \n\n20 North William St. 116 and 118 East 14th Street. \n\n\n\n* \n\n\n\nThis volume contains the story of Eddy and \nBessie, written by Mrs. Prentiss shortly after \ntheir death and passages from which were given \nin her memoir, verses relating chiefly to the loss \nof these children, a few of her letters to bereaved \nfriends, and some thoughts by the editor on the \ndeath of infants. The most of it is now \nprinted for the first time. The work is designed \nspecially for mothers who mourn the loss of \nyoung children. And may it please God to com- \nfort every one of them who shall read it, with \nHis own peace ! \n\nG. L. /> \nNew York, February, 1884. \n\n\n\nTHE DEATH OF LITTLE CHILDREN \nIN THE LIGHT OF FAITH. \n\n\n\nVarious estimates have been i n f an t mor- \nformed as to the proportion tallt y- \nof mankind that die in infancy ; some \nmaking it more than a third, others not \nless than one-half. Such estimates are, \nof course, largely guesswork. The pro- \nportion has differed at different peri- \nods and among different tribes and na- \ntions. The wide prevalence of infanticide, \nas in India and China, for example, has \ngreatly increased it ; and so have other \ncriminal practices, both in heathendom \nand Christendom. But irrespective of such \nspecial causes, it is certain that a vast num- \nber of the human race have died, and still \ndie, in early childhood. Little graves \nabound in every place of burial. There \n* *1 \n\n\n\nVI \n\nare comparatively few households out of \nwhich no infant bier was ever carried. \nHow many have been bereft of all their \nchildren ! The humane spirit of modern \nsociety, aided by medical skill and sani- \ntary science, has done much to reduce \nthe scale of infant mortality ; but it is still \nlarge enough to cast a dark shadow over \nthe face of existence. It suggests a prob- \nlem full of perplexity, and which science \nand philosophy seem alike unable, or un- \nwilling, to grapple with. \n\nDeath of in- Viewed solely as a natural \n\nfants as a nat- \nural event. Its event, it is true, the death of lit- \n\nhopelessness. ,, \xe2\x96\xa0. .,, , \n\nr tie children, however grievous, \n\nis yet of a piece with the general course \nof the world. By no choice of their \nown they are thrust upon this earthly \nstage of being and forced to take their \nchance in the bitter struggle of life. It is \nno more strange, perhaps, that they so often \nsuccumb than that so many spring blos- \nsoms drop off and perish. Nature cares as \n\n\n\nVll \n\n\n\nlittle for young children as for young ani- \nmals or plants. Nor is the death of infants \nat all more strange than that of boys and \ngirls, or of young men and maidens. In \neither case death is full of anguish and \ndisappointment. It is, too, so inexorable, \nthe blow it deals is so stunning, that we \nhave no will to resist, and can only express \nour amazement in groans and tears, or else \nin the dead silence of grief. \n\nBut if we view the death of The death of \n\ninfants as a \nlittle children on its moral Providential \n\n\xc2\xa3*U6flt \n\nside, the case is wholly altered. \nFor here we have to do \xe2\x80\x94 not with blind \nchance or with inexorable physical law, \nbut with the ruling hand of God, the \nFather Almighty. His providence em- \nbraces all events, both great and small, \nwhich affect human destiny. It would be \nas atheistic to say that without Him an in- \nfant leaves the world, as to say that with- \nout Him it came into the world. This is, \nindeed, a truth hard to believe, both be- \n\n\n\nVlll \n\ncause it lies so entirely beyond the sphere \nof sense, and because it is so sublime and \nconsoling. Some things seem almost too \ngood to be true ; and this is one of them. \nFor what is implied in our saying that the \ndeath of an infant is a Providential event ? \nIt is implied that an infant has an immor- \ntal soul and is a special object of God\'s \ncare and interest. In a certain sense, to be \nsure, the birds of the air, the fishes of the \nsea, and even the lilies of the field, are ob- \njects of the Divine care. But not as spir- \nitual beings ; not as made in God\'s image ; \nnot as capable of knowing and loving Him \nand of enjoying Him forever. It is in this \npeculiar sense that He cares for little chil- \ndren. He is their Father in heaven, and \nHis love for them is infinitely more tender \nthan that felt by their earthly parents. On \nthe ground of this great love rests the be- \nlief, so unspeakably comforting, that if \nearly taken out of the world, they do not \nperish, but inherit everlasting life. \n\n\n\n* \n\n\n\nIX \n\n\n\nThis belief did not always \n\nGro7vth of this \nprevail. It has been the slow belief. Its con- \n\ngrowth of centuries. We find tfZa\'Ju \n\nnothing like it in the ethnic teaching of \n\nChrist. \nreligions, and but little trace \n\nof it is to be found in the Old Tes- \ntament. The earlier revelations contain \nmany proofs of God\'s gracious interest in \nchildren. The law of Jehovah protected \nthem, and provided most carefully for \ntheir pious training. But they were re- \ngarded as members of the family and shar- \ners in its covenant privileges rather than in \ntheir infant personality, as destined to live \nforever. How little there is in the Old \nTestament about the future existence of \neither parents or children ! The distinct \nannunciation of both their immortality and \nits blessedness seems to have been reserved \nfor " the fulness of the time " when He \ncame, who is the light equally of this world \nand the next. Until Jesus said : " Suffer the \nlittle children to come unto Me, and forbid them \nnot, for of such is the kingdom of heaven "j until \n\n\n\n* \n\n\n\nHe "took them up in His arms, put His hands \nupon them and blessed them" infant salvation \nwas a conjecture only \xe2\x80\x94 at best a hope \xe2\x80\x94 but \nnot an assurance. And even the wonder- \nful saying of the Lord Jesus would have re- \nmained an enigma, had not His own nativity \nfurnished a key to its meaning. It may \nstagger the mere intellect to understand \nhow the Babe in the manger could have \nbeen at the same time the Incarnate Word, \nthe only-begotten of the Father ; but surely \nno one, whose faith does, sincerely and in \ntranquil conviction, accept this amazing \ntruth, ought to marvel at the doctrine of \ninfant personality, or that the souls of those \ndying in infancy enter into life eternal. \n\nThe Incarnation shows us that Divinity \nitself once dwelt in a new-born child. \n" And the angel said unto them, Fear not ; for \nbehold I bring you good tidings of great joy, which \nshall be to all people. For unto you is born this \nday in the city of David, a Saviour, which is \nChrist the Lord." \n\nAnd Christ is not the Saviour only, He is \n\n\xc2\xab 4\xc2\xab \n\n\n\nXI \n\nalso the Pattern and Ideal of our humanity in \nall the stages of its development ; childhood \nno less than manhood is complete in Him \nalone ; yea, in Him both alike have their \nbeing. "All things have been created through \nHim, and unto Him ; and He is before all \nthings, and in Him all things consist." 1 A su- \npernatural light, issuing from His cradle, \nhas shone upon ten thousand, yea, ten thou- \nsand times ten thousand cradles ever since. \nHow many myriads of pious mothers have \nsung, and are still singing, their little ones \nasleep to the music of His name ! The story \nof His advent has been the inspiration of \nart and of literature. Probably no other pic- \nture in all the world attracts to its shrine so \nmany pilgrims, or adorns so many homes, as \nthat of the Divine Child in the arms of the \nblessed among women. \n\nSome of the fairest gems of poetry, too, \nreflect His infantile grace and loveliness. \nThis is strikingly true in our own language. \n\n\n\n\' Coloss. i. 1 6, 17.\xe2\x80\x94 Rev. Ver. \n\n\n\nXll \n\nFrom Spenser to Wordsworth and Keble it \nabounds in Christmas carols, in lullabies \nand hymns of childhood, in threnodies and \nepitaphs, which are full of sweetness and \npathos, because they are so full of Him. \nHere is a specimen from the " Hallelujah " \nof George Wither, a Puritan poet and sol- \ndier of Cromwell\'s time : \n\nWhen God with us was dwelling here, \n\nIn little babes He took delight ; \nSuch innocents as thou, my dear ! \nAre ever precious in His sight. \nSweet baby, then forbear to weep ; \nBe still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. \n\nA little infant once was He, \n\nAnd strength in weakness then was laid \nUpon His virgin mother\'s knee, \nThat power to thee might be convey\'d. \nSweet baby, then forbear to weep ; \nBe still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. \n\nThe wants that He did then sustain, \n\nHave purchased wealth, my babe, for thee ; \nAnd by His torments and His pain, \nThy rest and ease secured be. \nMy baby, then forbear to weep ; \nBe still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. \n\n\n\nXlll \n\nThou hast yet more to perfect this, \n\nA promise and an earnest got, \nOf gaining everlasting bliss, \nThough thou, my babe, perceiv\'st it not. \nSweet baby, then forbear to weep ; \nBe still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. \n\n\n\nA new conception of child- \n\nNew concep- \nhood, in truth, entered the Hon of child- \n\nworld with the infant Re- in/an? destiny \ndeemer. In no sphere of hu- *|f^^ * \nman life was the change \nwrought by His coming greater or more \nfull of blessing. At first the change, per- \nhaps, did not appear so distinctly as in the \nsphere of manhood and womanhood ; but \nfrom age to age it has revealed itself with \never-increasing power. Nor can we thank \nGod too often, or too much, that in our own \nday its real significance and the benedictions \nwrapt up in it are so clear to the eye of \nfaith. Especially is this the case with re- \nspect to those dying in infancy. For many \ncenturies it was a doctrine of the Church \nthat by water baptism alone could their \n\n\n\nXIV \n\n\n\nsalvation be made sure ; and in later times, \nthe opinion widely prevailed that, whether \nbaptized or not, only a certain elect num- \nber of them would inherit eternal life. \nThese and various other theories limiting \nthe salvation of infants, are still more or \nless widely held by good men ; not, surely, \nfrom any special lack of tenderness, but be- \ncause, in their view, such limitation is re- \nquired by fidelity to the teaching of Scrip- \nture. The theories in question, however, \nno longer rule the Christian Church ; to a \nlarge extent they have lost their power, and \nare regarded as in conflict with the real \nteaching and spirit of the New Testament. \nIt is now a common belief, in the Protest- \nant churches at least, that all infants, dying \nin infancy, are regenerated and saved by \nChrist through the Spirit. A single extract \nfrom the writings of the late Dr. Charles \nHodge will suffice to indicate the change \nof opinion on this subject, which has taken \nplace within our own century. His lan- \nguage may be too strong as to the extent \n\n\n\nXV \n\n\n\nof the change, but coming from so eminent \na champion of the old Calvinistic ortho- \ndoxy, furnishes of itself a striking proof \nthat the change is very great and radical : \n\nThe Scriptures teach, according to the common \ndoctrine of Evangelical Protestants, that all who die \nin infancy are saved. This is inferred from what \nthe Bible teaches of the analogy between Adam \nand Christ. " Therefore, as by the offence of one \njudgment came upon all men to condemnation, \neven so by the righteousness of one the free gift \n\xe2\x80\xa2 came upon all men unto justification of life. For \nas by one man\'s disobedience many were made sin- \nners, so by the obedience of one shall many be \nmade righteous" (Rom. v. 18, 19). We have no \nright to put any limit on these general terms, ex- \ncept what the Bible itself places upon them. The \nScriptures nowhere exclude any class of infants, \nbaptized or unbaptized, born in Christian or in \nheathen lands, of believing or unbelieving parents, \n\nfrom the benefits of the redemption of Christ \n\nNot only, however, does the comparison, which the \napostle makes between Adam and Christ, lead to \nthe conclusion that as all are condemned for the sin \nof the one, so all are saved by the righteousness of \nthe other, those only excepted whom the Scriptures \nexcept ; but the principle assumed throughout the \nwhole discussion teaches the same doctrine. That \nprinciple is, that it is more congenial with the nature \n\n\n\nXVI \n\n\n\nof God to bless than to curse, to save than to de- \nstroy. If the race fell in Adam, much more shall it \nbe restored in Christ. If death reigned by one, \nmuch more shall grace reign by one. This " much \nmore" is repeated over and over. The Bible every- \nwhere teaches that God delighteth not in the death \nof the wicked ; that judgment is His strange work. \nIt is therefore contrary, not only to the argument of \nthe apostle, but to the whole spirit of the passage, \nto exclude infants from the " all " who are made \nalive in Christ. \n\nThe conduct and language of our Lord in refer- \nence to children are not to be regarded as matters \nof sentiment, or simply expressive of kindly feeling. \nHe evidently looked upon them as the lambs of the \nflock for which, as the Good Shepherd, He laid \ndown His life, and of whom He said they shall \nnever perish, and no man could pluck them out of \nHis hands. Of such, He tells us, is the kingdom \nof heaven, as though heaven was, in great meas- \nure, composed of the souls of redeemed infants. 1 \n\nMuch relating to this subject is, indeed, \nwrapt in mystery. It suggests many ques- \ntions to which neither reason nor Scripture \nenables us to give a definite answer. Pre- \ncisely when, or how, the souls of those \n\n\n\n1 Syst. TheoL, vol. i., pp. 26, 27. \n\n\n\nXV11 \n\ndying in infancy are renewed and saved by \nChrist, we can not tell. But all that we \nwillingly leave to Christ Himself and to \nthe Blessed Comforter, by whose gracious \npower their salvation is wrought. Nor \ncan we tell how, in the world within the \nveil, the new life, which had no opportu- \nnity for growth here, develops itself there \nunto the measure of the stature of the ful- \nness of Christ. This also we gladly leave \nto the Master Himself, \xe2\x80\x94 content to know \nthat our little ones are with Him and \nare "nurslings of the Holy Ghost." \n\nIn the memoir of Mrs. Pren- \xe2\x80\x9e , . \n\nThe design of \n\ntiss occurs the following pas- this volume. \nsage: \n\nA chapter might be written about her love for little \nchildren, the enthusiasm with which she studied all \ntheir artless ways, her delight in their beauty, and \nthe reverence with which she regarded the mystery \nof their infant being. Her faith in their real, com- \nplete humanity, their susceptibility to spiritual influ- \nences, and, when called from earth, their blessed \nimmortality in and through Christ, was very vivid ; \nand it was untroubled by any of those distressing \n\n\n\nXV111 \n\ndoubts or misgivings that are engendered by the \nmaterialistic spirit and science of the age. Con- \ntempt for them shocked her as an offence against \nthe Holy Child Jesus, their King and Saviour. \nHer very look and manner as she took a young in- \nfant, especially a sick or dying infant, in her arms \nand gave it a loving kiss, seemed to say : \n\n" Sweet baby, little as thou art, \nThou art a human whole ; \nThou hast a little human heart, \nThou hast a deathless soul." l \n\nThe following pages exemplify what is \nhere said. They show Mrs. Prentiss\' ten- \nder feeling towards young children as a \nChristian mother ; how that feeling was \ndeepened and enriched by sorrow; and \nhow the sorrow was transfigured into lov- \ning sympathy. In all this her case is not \npeculiar; it is that of thousands of Christian \nmothers, who have passed, or are passing \nnow, through a like experience. The story \nof Eddy and Bessie is all the time repeating \nitself ; and similar letters to bereaved \n\n\n\n1 The Life and Letters of Elizabeth Prentiss, \nP- 305. \n\n\n\nXIX \n\nfriends every day cross each other on their \nerrands of holy cheer and solace. As in \nwater face answer eth to face, so the heart of \nman to man. It consoles us in affliction \nto know that in our sighs and tears and \ngroans we are not alone; \xe2\x80\x94 that others have \nfelt just as we do; that others, too, have \ncried unto God out of the depths ; and that, \nafter they had suffered a while, He gave \nthem beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for 7?ioimi- \ning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heavi- \nness. \n\nThis little work contains nothing strange \nor new. The simple narrative, the verses \nand letters, which compose it, were penned \nmany years ago, and without a thought that \nthey would ever meet the eye of the public. \nAnd they would not now do so, had not the \nextraordinary favor with which the memoir \nof Mrs. Prentiss has been received, led the \neditor to hope that they might prove a word \nin season to some weary, sorrow-stricken \nhearts. He feels, as she so deeply felt, that \n\n\n\nno office is more Christ-like than that of a \ncomforter; and that few so much need its \ngentle and cheering ministrations as moth- \ners weeping at the graves of their children. \n\n\n\nI. \n\n\n\nEddy\'s Birth and suffering Babyhood \xe2\x80\x94 Given \nback as from the Grave \xe2\x80\x94 " Not mine, but \nGod\'s." \n\n\n\nAh, joyful hearts that know not grief, \n\nCan never Jesus know ; \nHe must be learned in darksome nights, \n\nWhere bitter fountains flow ; \nWhere souls are floated off to sea \n\nBy tides of earthly woe. \n\nThere have I met Thee, dearest Lord ; \n\nAnd oh, how passing sweet \nWas to my sinking soul the sound \n\nOf Thine approaching feet ! \nTo point Thee out to drowning ones, \n\nOh, make me, make me meet ! \n\n\n\nI. \n\n\n\nOUR dear little Eddy was born at \nNew Bedford, on Sunday, October \n22, 1848, at three in the afternoon. His \nfather was preaching at the time, on \n"Walking with God," and gave him his \nfirst greeting while his own heart was full \nof this delightful subject. We had selected \nfor our first boy the name of Robert \nLeighton, and called him so for about a \nweek, when it was exchanged for that of \nEdward Payson, in consideration of his \nhaving been born on the anniversary of \nhis grandfather\'s death. He was a fine, \nhealthy-looking boy, with a high forehead, \ndark blue eyes, and a good deal of hair on \nhis head. On the Saturday succeeding his \nbirth, we heard of my dear mother\'s seri- \n\n\n\nous illness ; and when he was about three \nweeks old, of her death. \n\nWe were not surprised that his health \nsuffered from the shock it thus received. 1 \nHe began, at once, to be afflicted with dis- \ntressing colic, which gave him no rest, day \nor night. We supposed he would soon \n\n\n\n1 In a letter to a kinsman, written some years \nlater, occurs the following passage : \n\n"Are you not all making a sad mistake in keep- \ning C. ignorant so long of that [the sudden death \nof a sister] which she must learn, otherwise, on \nher sick-bed? Is she not in a bodily state now \nof less feebleness than she will be then ; and, con- \nsequently, better able to bear this distressing news ? \nYou will say it is not to be communicated on \nher sick-bed ; but I greatly mistake if she does \nnot so long for her sister\'s congratulations on the \nbirth of her child, that it will be necessary to ex- \nplain why they are withheld. I feel strongly on \nthis point ; for my friends, through ill-judging kind- \nness, kept me ignorant of my dear mother\'s illness \ntill after the birth of my little boy ; and when I was \nawaiting in a kind of transport of joy her sympathy \nin my gladness, I learned that she was on her dying \nbed. Eddy was just a week old, and I had no way of \ndiverting my mind by employment of any sort \xe2\x80\x94 \nnothing to do but to lie the long day, the long night, \n\n\n\n* \n\n\n\nsurmount this disorder; but on the con \ntrary, he grew worse and worse. His father \nused to call him a " little martyr," and \nsuch indeed he was, for many long, tedious \nmonths. \n\nAt last, between want of sleep and pain, \nhe was sadly worn and emaciated, and Dr. \nMayhew advised the use of opiates. We ad- \n\n\n\nreflecting on my sorrow. The constitution of my \nchild received a shock from which it never recovered ; \nand I have not a single doubt that he would now, \nas far as human eye can see, be living in the enjoy- \nment of the fine health of which he gave promise, \nhad my affliction been made known to me before his \nbirth, when I was not tied to one spot, with an un- \nsympathizing nurse ever present to witness my \nsufferings and upbraid me for them ; yes, if on my \nknees I could have spread my case before God. Af- \nfliction has, in my case, come hand in hand- with \nevery child ; I have left my sick-room each time in \nmourning garments. This makes me feel for C, as \nI can not describe. L. told me how much she suffer- \ned in this condition ; here, too, I can feel for her as a \nfellow-sufferer, for not one in ten thousand knows \nas well as I do the worth of a child, for whose at- \ntainment the agonies of months of martyrdom must \nbe the penalty. All this must be my excuse for \nventuring to question your judgment." \n\n\n\n4 \n\nministered them with reluctance, but it was \nonly by their aid we could procure for the \nlittle sufferer the sleep he could not live \nwithout. No language can describe the \nscene our nursery presented month after \nmonth ; during which he was never well \nenough for a single hour, with one excep- \ntion, to be dressed and taken from the \nroom. He wore little night-gowns till he \nwas old enough to put on short frocks. \nOften, for his and my own health, we at- \ntempted to ride out, but just as the car- \nriage would drive to the door, one of his \nparoxysms of pain would come on, and \nbefore we could get off his cloak, or I \ncould throw off mine, we must hasten to \nadminister something for his relief. A few \nmoments\' delay would reduce him to a \nstate bordering so closely on convulsions, \nthat I never dared wait even to deliberate \nwhat remedy I would use ; something must \nbe snatched up at once. \n\nOn the 16th of February the doctor, \n\n\n\nV \n\n\n\nwho had visited him at intervals, of his \nown accord, came and spent about two \nhours carefully investigating his case. He \nexamined Eddy particularly, and said it \nwas a most trying condition of things, and \nhe would gladly do something to relieve \nme, as he thought I had been through \n" enough to kill ten men." He urged me \nto increase the nightly dose of laudanum, \ndeclaring that, in his opinion, the child was \nsuffering severely from want of sleep. \nDuring the next two weeks Eddy became \nmore and more feeble ; he was so emacia- \nted that if I had had any time for such in- \ndulgence of my feelings, I should have \nshed floods of tears whenever his little \nwasted frame was exposed to view. I \ndreaded washing and dressing him, because \nin this process I was obliged to see how \nevery day he was losing flesh. \n\nSome persons had suggested that he \ncried from hunger, and I had made various \nattempts to feed him without having cour- \n\n\n\nage to persevere in the face of the danger \nto which I knew ill-cJwsen diet must ex- \npose him. I was thus driven to procure a \nwet-nurse for him. A woman lived near \nby who had a child of about Eddy\'s age, \nplump and in fine health; I engaged her \nto come once in three hours to nurse \nhim, and thought there was some reason \nto hope this plan might result in a favor- \nable manner. The first day on which this \nexperiment was tried, Eddy could with \ndifficulty swallow a drop of the new nour- \nishment thus provided for him ; his suffer- \nings all day were terrible ; and when at \nnight he at last fell asleep under the influ- \nence of an opiate, I could only lie and \nwatch his uneasy slumbers, thinking he \nmight not survive till morning. On learn- \ning what I had done, Dr. M. hastened in \nto remonstrate with me on what he at first \ndeemed a rash act. But on seeing the \ncondition the poor little creature was in, \nhe said I had done just right, and that, \n\n\n\nthough there was now little hope that the \nchild could be raised to health, the season \nof the year was in his favor, and there was \na possibility that before warm weather ar- \nrived, a change for the better might occur. \nHe said if I had continued to nurse him, \nthat mother and child would have shared \none grave very speedily. 1 \n\nFor two or three days after this, Eddy \ndeclined so fast that I expected to see him \nbreathe his last from hour to hour. I \nasked the nurse if she had ever seen so \nfeeble a child ; she said she had. I asked \n\n\n\n1 In a letter to her husband\'s mother, written at \nthis time, she says : " I can\'t describe what we have \nsuffered during the past week. But if Eddy gains \nstrength on the new milk, he will probably get the \nupper hand of his trouble. His eyes are as bright \nas diamonds, but otherwise he does not look at all \nlike himself. We can only wait in hope and patience. \nDear mother, we are in a good school, hard as it is, \nand we shall not suffer one pang too many ; so don\'t \nworry about us, if you can help it ; will you? We \nlong to see you, but we feel that you are very near \nus in your love and sympathy and prayers ; and that \nis next best to being with you." \n\n\n\n8 \n\nher if it lived, and she said, " Oh, no ! " \nand afterwards told me that she thought \nhe would die in her arms, every time she \ntook him from mine. At the end of the \nfirst week, however, he had evidently im- \nproved ; and from that time gained flesh \nand strength very rapidly. I now left off \nnursing him myself, and began to feed him, \nand at the end of a month, as he was quite \nrecruited, and had an excellent appetite, \nand as his nurse became irregular and care- \nless about coming, I dismissed her. He \ncontinued to thrive on the arrowroot pre- \npared for him, though there was little, if \nany, improvement as to his colic. Still, he \nhad now more strength with which to bear \nthis pain, and we kept hoping every day \nhe would be freed from it. \n\nHis aunt Tibby came, this spring, to \nhelp me take care of him, and he became \nmuch attached to her, as she did to him. \nShe stayed till he was more than a year old, \nand devoted herself to him day and night. \n\n\n\nWhen he was about eight months old, \nwe determined to discontinue the use of \nopiates. He was now a fine, healthy baby, \nbright-eyed and beautiful, and his colic was \nreducing itself to certain seasons in each \nday, instead of occupying the whole day and \nnight, as heretofore. We went through \nfire and water, almost, in trying to procure \nfor him natural sleep. We swung him in \nblankets, wheeled him in little carts, walked \nthe room with him by the hour, etc., etc.; \nbut it was wonderful how little sleep he \nobtained, after all. He always looked \nwide awake, and as if he did not need sleep. \nHis eyes had gradually become black, and \nwhen, after a day of fatigue and care with \nhim, he would at last close them, and we \nwould flatter ourselves that now we too \nshould snatch a little rest, we would see \nthem shining upon us in the most amusing \nmanner, with an expression of content and \neven merriment. \n\nAbout this time he was baptized. I well \n\n\n\nIO \n\nremember how, in his father\'s study, and \nbefore taking him to church, we gave him \nto God. He was very good while his papa \nwas performing the ceremony, and looked \nso bright and so well, that many who had \nnever seen him in his state of feebleness, \nfound it hard to believe he had been aught \nsave a vigorous and healthy child. One \nlady told me that she laughed right out in \nchurch, because his father and he looked \nso alike. He is, indeed, his papa\'s own \nboy, saving the eyes. \n\nMy own health was now so broken down \nby long sleeplessness and fatigue, that it \nbecame necessary for me to leave home for \na season. Dr. Mayhew promised to run in \nevery day to see that all went well with \nEddy ; his aunty was more than willing to \ntake this care upon herself, and many of \nour neighbors offered to go often to see \nhim, promising to do anything for his \nsafety and comfort, if I would only go. \nNot aware how miserable a state I was in, \n\n\n\nII \n\nI resolved to be absent only one week, and \nonly took with me clothes for that week ; \nbut I was away for a whole month. As \nsoon as I had gone, his aunt Tibby had \nhim daguerreotyped, and sent the picture to \nme. It was like him, except in its being so \nvery dark, while he was fair, and had light \nhair. On my return I found him looking \nfinely. He had had an ill turn, owing to \nteething, which they had kept from me, \nbut had recovered from it, and looked \nreally beautiful. i \n\nHis father and uncle S. S. had been to \nsee him once during our vacation, and we \nwere now expecting them again with his \naunt Mary and the three children and his \ngrandmother. We depended a great deal \non seeing Eddy and Una together, as she \nwas his twin cousin, and only a few hours \nolder than he. \n\nBut the very evening of their arrival he \nwas taken sick, and though they all saw \nhim that night looking like himself, by the \n\n\n\n12 \n\nnext morning he had changed sadly. He \ngrew ill and lost flesh and strength very \nfast, and no remedies seemed to have the \nleast effect on his disorder, which was in- \nduced by teething. His aunt Mary used \nto help us in the care of him, and would \nwalk with him in her arms to relieve us. \nOn Sunday, September 16th, he was very \nlow and suffered a great deal ; he would \nnot allow us to sit with him one moment, \nand he was carried about the nursery day \nand night, during which his countenance \nhad a strange, unnatural expression and \naspect, and he constantly pressed his feet \nagainst the breast of whoever was carrying \nhim, as if in terrible distress. His aunt \nTibby and I were alone with him at night, \nand became more and more alarmed. At \ntwo in the morning I woke his father, told \nhim how Eddy appeared, and asked him to \ngo to the doctor and describe his condition. \nHe was gone only a few moments, and on \nhis return, said the doctor had ordered \n\n\n\nfifteen drops more laudanum ; and retired \nagain to bed, having had a hard day\'s work \non Sunday. We gave Eddy with great re- \nluctance this additional opiate, as he had \nhad a good deal during the day, both by the \nusual mode and in starch enemas. His \ndistress increased till we thought him dy- \ning ; and his aunty ran across the street for \na neighbor, who came directly. She was a \nperson of experience, and after giving one \nglance at the poor little sufferer, ran her- \nself for the doctor, though it was still dark. \nHe came directly ; was much concerned to \nsee Eddy in such a state ; said there had \nbeen a great change during the night, and \nthat the remedies employed had acted un- \nfavorably. I said I had thought him dy- \ning ; he replied, " He is not dying now" \nbut sat down with an air of despondency \nthat made me soon after ask if I had not \nbetter call Mr. Prentiss. He said I had, \nand I did so. \n\nThe first dull light of morning began to \n\n\n\n14 \n\n\n\nsteal in and to reveal the change a single \nnight had wrought in our dear child. The \ndoctor still remained, and now and then \ntook him from our arms, and himself car- \nried him up and down the nursery, remark- \ning that it was a wonder and a mercy that \nEddy did not go into fits. As soon as it \nbecame light we sent for Miss Deborah, \nwho was our ever-faithful friend in the \ntime of trouble ; his aunt Mary came \nfrom her room, and shortly after his grand- \nmother Prentiss from hers. On looking at \nEddy she burst into tears, and asked me if \nI felt willing to give him up. The doctor \nsaid there was nothing to be done, and left \nus ; and with breaking hearts we knelt \naround our apparently dying child, who \nnow lay exhausted in Miss Deborah\'s lap, \nwhile his father, as well as tears would let \nhim, commended his spirit to God. The \nlaborious respiration of the dear little one \nnow filled the room ; the intervals between \nbeing so long, that again and again I held \n\n\n\n* 15 * \n\nmy own breath, thinking he had gone. \nThe doctor came in again, before long, and \nas Eddy now lay in my arms, I thought \nagain that he had dropped away ; but pres- \nently there came another long, weary breath \nto assure me he still lived. The third time \nthe doctor came he brought a mixture of \nchloroform, camphor, etc., and said if the \nchild were his own he would try this as a \nlast resort. We made no objection to his \ngiving it to Eddy ; for myself, I did not \nbelieve anything could now save my pre- \ncious baby, and had given him to God so \nunreservedly that I was not conscious of \neven a wish for his life. \n\nSoon after the administration of a few \ndrops of the mixture, however, Eddy fell \nasleep, and slept about five minutes, when \nhis little cousins, who were all at play in \nthe garden, unconscious of his situation, \nburst into loud shouts of laughter, which \naroused him at once. But even this little \nrepose refreshed him. He had had no \n\n\n\n* 16 ^ \n\nsleep for a great number of hours ; I think \nmore than sixty. The doctor, on his next \nvisit, expressed great satisfaction with this \nimprovement ; continued the chloroform, \nand in the course of the day, Eddy had sev- \neral of these little naps, which did him good. \nAs the day declined our hopes rose. On \nmaking his seventh visit in the evening, the \ndoctor absolutely forbid my taking any \nmore care of Eddy at night ; and we left \nhim in the kind hands of watchers, as he \nwas so nearly unconscious as not to per. \nceive that strangers ministered to him in his \nmother\'s place. Our chief ground of hope \nfor many succeeding, anxious days, was the \nmere fact that he lived. We were obliged \nto give nourishment with the utmost cau- \ntion, and to keep bottles of hot water at \nhis feet, and to warm his little cold hands \nin our own. He now lay in the swinging \ncot, of which he had been so fond, and \nslept a good deal. When, at last, we saw \nevident tokens of returning health and \n\n\n\n* 17 \n\nstrength, we felt that we received him a \nsecond time as from the grave. To me, he \nnever seemed the same child. My darling \nEddy was lost to me, and another, and yet \nthe same, filled his place. I often said after- \nwards, that a little stranger was running \nabout my nursery; not mine, but God\'s. \nIndeed I can not describe the peculiar feel- \ning with which I always regarded him after \nthis sickness, nor how the thought con- \nstantly met me, \' He is not mine ; he is \nGod\'s.\' Every night I used to thank God \nfor sparing him to me one day longer, thus \ntruly enjoying him a day at a time. \n\n\n\nII, \n\n\n\nA Year old \xe2\x80\x94 The Cloud changed into \nSunshine. \n\n\n\nNow let me lay the pearl away, \nThat on my breast I\'ve worn all day; \nHow sweet, how soft the casket fair, \nWhere hides all night my jewel rare. \n\nMy snow-white lamb, thy gambols o\'er, \nThy sportive limbs must sport no more ; \nNow to thy rest, let slumber creep \nWith gentle tread to bid thee sleep. \n\nMy winsome one ! my heart\'s delight ! \nI give thee to the arms of night ; \nOh, darksome night ! with soft caress \nMy darling little baby bless. \n\nMy heart\'s delight ! my pearl, my lamb ! \n\nHow rich, how blest, how glad I am ! \n\nIn sweetest sleep I see thee lie ; \n\nGood-bye, good-night ! good-night, good-bye ! \n\n\n\nII. \n\n\n\nHAD kept a little journal about A., \n\xe2\x96\xa0*- and her father now wished me to begin \nEddy\'s. On his birthday he went out td \nprocure a book for this purpose. This is \nthe first record : \n\nOctober 22, 1849. \xe2\x80\x94 Our dear little Eddy is \na year old to-day, and his papa has been \nout to buy this book for him. If he lives, \nit will be a gratification to him years hence; \nif he is taken from us, it will be of great \ncomfort to us in our sorrow. \n\nIt has pleased God to make him a very \ngreat sufferer during most of his short life, \nand twice in the course of the year we have \nbelieved him at the point of death. He has \nbeen restored to us, we know not for what \npurpose ; and while we thank God for this \ngreat mercy, we pray that it may prove a \n\n(21) \n\n\n\nT 22 T \n\nmercy indeed, and that we may see him \ngrow up a "perfect man in Christ Jesus." \n\nHe is considered by many a beautiful \nboy; he has a very fine forehead, bright \nblack eyes, and an uncommonly intelligent, \nsunshiny smile. He has been put back by \nhis sickness, so that he is but just begin- \nning to be interested in trying to sit alone \nin a little chair, and to get about, by the \nhelp of the furniture, upon his feet. But for \nthis last sickness, he would undoubtedly have \nwalked by this time, as previously he was \nalways on his feet. We fancied he could \nsay "Eddy" before his illness; for instance, \nif he dropped a toy, he would keep saying, \n"Eddy, Eddy!" till we returned it to him. \nBut he never says so now. He tries very \nhard to say " kitty," and whenever he sees \nher coming cries, " Taty ! Taty ! " and \nlaughs and shouts and throws his little \nbody into all sorts of shapes. He began to \nshake his hand as good-bye some months \nago, and is a famous kisser. In this respect, \nas in many others, he is unlike A. He \n\n\n\n23 \n\nthinks everything she does is cunning ; and \nshouts for joy when she comes into the \nnursery, and when his eye first falls upon \nher, as he awakes from a nap. He keeps \nkissing her whether she likes it or not, and \nreally hurts her by his vivacious greetings. \nHis aunt Tibby taught him all he as yet \nknows. She has gone, and he misses her \nsadly. He has four teeth, wears high-necked, \nlong-sleeved dresses, and though he still \nlooks like a child who has suffered, and is \ndelicate, no one could mistake him for a girl, \nhe is so decidedly a boy in every feature and \nmotion. \n\nAs his aunt Tibby had gone on another \nerrand of love and mercy, to Portland, the \nwhole care of Eddy was thrown upon me ; \nand my health, already miserable, soon \ngave way. I could get very little sleep, he \nwas so restless; he had parted with his \nold enemy, the colic, during his last illness ; \nbut teeth were now coming, and they kept \nhim wakeful, though he did not appear to^ \n\n\n\n24 \n\nsuffer much with them. I used to think I \nwas out of bed with him fifty times a \nnight. We began to think seriously of \nprocuring a nurse for him. We had often \ntalked of it, but I could not bear to give \nhim up to a stranger, and we put it off \nfrom day to day till I was in such a state \nfrom loss of sleep, that I feared I should \nlose my senses. One evening, when I was \nsick in bed, his father went out and en- \ngaged Margaret, of whom we had heard ex- \ncellent accounts, to come that very night. \n\nThis was the sixth of December, and \nwithout much difficulty she succeeded in \nattaching the dear child to her, and from \nthat night until his last sickness, with the \nexception of one or two necessary inter- \nruptions, he slept with her, and took his \nfood from her hands. He soon began to \nsleep with his little arms around her neck, \nand to repay her with his affection for the \nmany sleepless hours he cost her. His \nuncle Henry and aunt Tibbv came on \n\n\n\n25 \n\nthe same night with his nurse, and his un- \ncle said he would not go to California until \nhe had seen Eddy walk. He was on his \nfeet most of the time, and seemed to be \nrestrained from running alone merely by \ntimidity. With a little encouragement, \ntherefore^ from his uncle, he learned to \nwalk very well. This is the next record of \nthe journal : \n\nJanuary 5, 1850. \xe2\x80\x94 Eddy is now fourteen \nmonths old, has six teeth, and walks well, \nbut with timidity. He is at times really \nbeautiful. He is very affectionate, and will \nrun to meet me, throw his little arms round \nmy neck, and keep pat, pat, patting me, \nwith delight. He tries to talk, but says \nnothing distinctly. Miss Arnold sent him, \nat New Year\'s, a beautiful ball, with which \nhe is highly pleased. He rolls it about by \nknocking it with a stick, and will shout for \njoy when he sees it moving. Mrs. Allen \nsent him a rattle and another toy. He is \nxrazy to give everybody something, and \n\n\n\n26 \n\n\n\nwhen he is brought down to prayers, hur- \nries to get the Bible for his father ; his lit- \ntle face all smiles and exultation, and his \nbody in a quiver with emotion. He is like \nlightning in all his movements, and is never \nstill for an instant. Except that his teeth \ntrouble him, he is now pretty well, and it is \nworth a good deal to see his face, it is so \nbrimful of life and sunshine and gladness. \n\nJanuary 22d. \xe2\x80\x94 Eddy is fifteen months to- \nday. He has eight teeth, his hair begins to \ncurl, and his face is full of smiles. He says \n"There \'tis," quite plainly, and tries to say \n" baby." He is very cunning and interest- \ning ; will tell what the cow says, and call \nthe cat. He and Annie play horse, as he \nwants to be in motion perpetually. He \ntakes down the hearth-brush and tries to \npush up the latch of the nursery door, in \norder to get down-stairs, and will trot across \nthe room with the poker, in order to drive \nhis ball from under the sofa. \n\nMarch 22a*. \xe2\x80\x94 Eddy is seventeen months old \n\n*5* \xe2\x96\xa0 *h \n\n\n\n2/ \n\nHe keeps us all laughing as we watch his \nfunny little capers. While Annie was sick, \nhe would come in and punch her with a \nstick thrust through the bars of the crib, in \norder to make her get up and play with \nhim, and if I was not careful, would hurt \nher head. After she got able to sit up, he \ndid not know what to make of it, and would \ntry to pull her from my lap, making signs \nto have her put into her crib. He now calls \nher "Addie," and his nurse "Mardet," and \nsays a number of words. Whatever A. does, \nhe does, and he is all stir and noise and \nlife and smiles; fat, and as well as one could \nexpect him to be, while he has four big teeth \nswelling his gums to the size of walnuts. He \nis a dear little boy to us. \n\nApril 2 2d. \xe2\x80\x94 All his first four double teeth \nhave pricked through, and he is feeling \nrather unwell, and looks pale and somewhat \nthin. He has begun, however, to walk out, \nand enjoys it with all his heart. He does \nnot say as many words as A. did at his \nage, but has quite a number \xe2\x80\x94 " baby \xe2\x80\x94 kitty, A \n\n\n\npretty," etc. He wears the sack and hat \nA. has worn all winter, and his foot is \nlarger than hers, so she has his cast-off \nshoes and stockings. He is very affection- \nate still, and when I go into the nursery \nruns to throw his arms round my neck, and \nwill hang on me, with his little soft face \npressing closer and closer to mine, as long \nas I will let him! \n\nEarly in June, with the hope of improv- \ning my health, I went with A. to New- \nark. As it was necessary for me to stay \nlonger than I intended, and they, as well \nas myself, all longed to see Eddy, we per- \nsuaded his father to come on with him and \nhis nurse. He stayed two weeks and then \nreturned, taking both the children, hoping \nby this means to give me a better opportu- \nnity to recover my strength. During my \ncontinued absence from home, his father \nwrote of Eddy: "He is finely this morn- \ning ; it would have done your heart good \nto hear him laagh and scream while M. \n\n\n\nwas at breakfast ; running and riding on \nmy back. How I love the little fellow ! " \nand again : " He makes great dependence \non spending M.\'s meal-times with me ; is \nvery affectionate, and we have grand sport \nrunning from parlor to study, throwing \nbeans at each other, and making believe \neat the wall, at which he fairly beats me. \nWhen I ask him for mamma and Annie, \nhe makes great ado, and points vehemently \nto the front door." \n\nDuring their visit to Newark, the chil- \ndren took the whooping cough, and on \nhearing that this was the case I hastened \nhome. Eddy had it very lightly and only \nwhooped once. But as long as it lasted, \nhe was rather feeble, and required much \ncare and attention. When we removed to \nNewark, in October, he was looking deli- \ncate in consequence of his cough, but soon \nbegan to recruit, and shortly became, as \nwe thought, the very picture of health. \nHe never had had so brilliant a color in his \n\n\n\n3o \n\nlife, as during this winter, and he was in \nsuch fine spirits and enjoyed everything sc \nmuch, that he was like sunshine wherever \nhe went. Every night he and A. were \nbrought to the parlor, and their father had \na little frolic with them. Eddy enjoyed \nthis wonderfully ; and his shouts of mer- \nriment still ring in my ears. Whatever he \nenjoyed, he enjoyed very heartily. His \nnurse was sick for three weeks in the early \npart of this winter, and he then came to \nthe table with us, and used to take his \nwalks out with A. and myself. During \nthese walks he was fur! of pretty little talk, \nnot one word of which can I now recall. \nBut there is one record in the journal, for \nthis winter. \n\nJanuary \\ 1851. \xe2\x80\x94 Eddy is a dear little boy, \nvery gentle, very loving, and at times, beau- \ntiful. He is learning to talk very fast ; and \nsays such little sentences as these : " My man \nsick." " I see Annie." " My man up \'tairs." \n" Annie gone away," etc. He has invented \n\n\n\n3i \n\nnames for his favorite toys ; his ninepins \nare " ni-men-ees "; his houses, "shootoos," \nand his night-dress is a "dan-down." He \nloves to hug and kiss, and when he is well \nis very sweet and pleasant and docile. He \nhas had two little conflicts with me, in \nwhich I have, with ease, come off conqueror, \nand I think has but little self-will. He is \nneat and orderly, and won\'t go to bed till \nhe has picked up and put away all his play- \nthings. \n\nBooks and ninepins are his idols. There \nis one trait in his character which I ought \nto mention. A year ago, when he and A. \nhad their suppers in the nursery, he would \nnot taste his own, until he had fixed a cush- \nion for her to sit upon, and seen her lifted \ninto her chair. Ever since he could put two \nwords together, no matter what he had \ngiven him, he always says, "An-nie, too"; \nand often won\'t taste a morsel till he sees \nher provided also. He will save a part of \nwhat he has given him in her absence, until \nhe sees her again, when he will run to give \n\n\n\n32 \n\nit to her. The other day I came in with a \nlittle toy-horse for him ; and before he \nwould touch it, he said : "Buy Annie one, \ntoo ! " And when he had drawn it across \nthe room, he said, " Now, Annie drag it," \nwith such infinite sweetness, that she could \nnot help throwing her arms round him and \nkissing him. \n\nOne day of this winter Miss E. M \n\nmet him out walking with his nurse with a \nvery disconsolate air ; and on inquiring \nwhat was the matter, he told her he wanted \na " little boy-baby." She went home and \nmade one for him, with which he was high- \nly delighted. When she gave it to him he \nwould not kiss her for it, but seemed shy \nand in a hurry to run to exhibit it to his \nnurse, but afterwards he repented, and \nsaid : " I wish Mit Miller would turn again, \nso I could kiss her." He gave his baby \nthe name of " Charley," and it was the last \ntoy he ever noticed. \n\nHis father used to tell him that by and \n\n\n\n33 \n\nby he should have all his books, and would \ntake perfect delight in asking him, " Who\'s \ngoing to have papa\'s books?" and hearing \nhim say in the prettiest manner, " / am ; \nbut I shall give A nnie some " \xe2\x80\x94 which was \nthe invariable addition. He was the most \nunselfish child I ever saw. \n\nEarly in May he had the measles, but so \nlightly that I did not think it worth while \nto ask the doctor to see him. Annie had \nbeen quite sick with them, and I knew just \nwhat to do. He was more fretful than was \nusual with him in sickness, and both he \nand A. got well rather slowly, owing, I \nthought, to our removal to New York, dur- \ning which we had to turn them off a good \ndeal. Eddy was so regular in his habits, \nand had such an aversion to confusion and \ndisorder, that all the process of moving \nand getting to rights, annoyed him ; and \nwhen we came to this house, said repeat- \nedly : " I don\'t like this house at all ! " \nBut as soon as we subsided into a quiet \n\n\n\n34 \n\nand regular life, he became very happy, \nand enjoyed greatly his large, airy nursery. \n\nIn June we procured a waitress, whose \nname was Margaret, on which by way of \ndistinguishing them, he began to address \nhis nurse as " my Marget." He took no \nfancy to this new Maggy, but felt it his \nduty to pray for her from the night of her \narrival until he could pray no longer. \n" God bless Marget," he had been in the \nhabit of saying ; but now it was " God \nbless two Margets." His little cousin An- \nnie P. visited us after this ; he became very \nfond of her, and prayed for her with his \nsister: " God bless two Annies." As long \nas she stayed with us he called our Annie \n" my Annie," and it sounded so prettily \nto hear him say, " My Annie, will you tome \nplay with me?" " My Annie ! I will dive \nyou half my blocks." \n\nOne day in the season of strawberries, we \nhad some on the dinner-table, and A. had \nher share of them. As we were leaving \n\n\n\n35 \n\nthe table, her father selected and offered \nto her a large one, and merely to try her, \nI said : " Don\'t you want papa to eat that \nhimself?" She is far from being a selfish \nchild ; but until this year, we had never \nallowed her to eat fruit. She hesitated ; \non which her father said : " You want \npapa to eat it, don\'t you?" She smiled, \nbut still hesitated, and after amusing our- \nselves a little about it, we let her eat it \nherself. I then proposed to make an ex- \nperiment of like nature on Eddy. We \nwere not in the habit of giving him fruit, \nbut he was as fond of it as other children, \nand the beautiful red strawberry always at- \ntracted his eyes. His father selected three \nvery fine ones, and we proceeded to the \nnursery. I called him to see what we had \nbrought for him, and put a large pin \ninto his hand, telling him to eat them. He \nwas highly pleased, put his pin into the \nlargest, and was just conveying it to his \nmouth, when I said : " Don\'t you want to \n\n\n\n36 \n\ngive that nice large one to dear papa?" \nWith his bright, quick smile, he instantly \nran and held it to his papa\'s lips. And we \nhad some difficulty in convincing him that \nhis father had already eaten enough, down- \nstairs. He then devoured it himself, with \ngreat gusto, but offered the second to me ; \non my refusing over and over again to take \nit, he ran to his nurse and urged it upon \nher, and on her positive and repeated re- \nfusal to accept it, ate that also. " Now," \nsaid he, taking up the last one, " I want \nAnnie to have this one." And she could \nhardly induce him not to force it into her \nmouth. \n\n\n\nIII. \n\nSunshine still\xe2\x80\x94 Baby Talk and Ways\xe2\x80\x94 Shadows \nof coming Trouble. \n\n\n\n* \n\n\n\nTo sleep, to sleep, my baby dear, \nMamma is nigh thee, do not fear ; \nClose those bright eyes, and lay away \nThose dainty limbs, so glad all day. \n\nHush ! do not cry, \n\nBut listen to my lullaby. \n\nNo bird had e\'er so sweet a nest, \nIn which to hide away and rest ; \nNow nestle in it soft and warm, \nNothing shall come to do thee harm. \n\nHush ! do not cry, \n\nBut listen to my lullaby. \n\nThou sweetest one ! thou darling child ! \nThou blossom fair and undefiled ! \nOur household joy ! our sunbeam bright 1 \nLove shall thy cradle be all night. \n\nHush ! do not cry, \n\nBut listen to my lullaby. \n\n\n\n38 \n\n\n\nN \n\n\n\nIII. \n\nOW follows the last record I made in \nhis journal. \n\n\n\nJuly, 1851. \xe2\x80\x94 Eddy is now two years and \nnine months old. He is quite large, and has \ngrown almost too fast during the last month. \nAs to talking, he now keeps up a perfect \nchatter ; and I can see indications of humor, \nwhich in so young a child are amusing \nenough. He is as precise and orderly as \never, but is growing more and more rogu- \nish, and takes a real boy\'s delight in \nteasing Annie. He will keep kissing the \nback of her neck when she is busy and \ndoesn\'t want to be disturbed ; or will touch \nher with one finger and then run off and \nhide, laughing all the way. \n\nLast Sunday I was holding him at the \nwindow to keep him from falling out, as he \nwas eager to see people returning from \n^ <39) ^ \n\n\n\n40 \n\nchurch ; and he kept saying things to \nmake them look up and laugh, until I was \nashamed to be seen. One sentence poured \nout after another, as fast as his tongue \ncould fly. " Oh, do see those two /olored \nwomen ! Their faces are black and dirty ! " \n" Oh, do see that little dear Airly-head ! " \n" You gemplen ! there is a happy land in \neternity!" "What\'s that lady ^ot in her \nhand ? A doll ! no, a live baby ! " and so \non, with a dozen speeches I can\'t remember, \nthe fun of which was in the manner rather \nthan in the matter. He is as restless as he \nwell can be ; there is no holding him in \none\'s lap, as a pet, or telling of stories, or \nsinging ; if you sing one thing he calls for \nsomething else till you yield the field. \nWhen he has been naughty, he does not \nscream and kick, but stands still till he recov- \ners his good humor. It takes a good deal to \nvex him, but very little to wound his feel- \nings. A sharp word grieves him exceed- \ningly, and calls forth a shower of silent \ntears. \n\n\n\n4 I \n\nOn the 2 1st of this month we all went \n\nto Rockaway to visit Mr. and Mrs. B \n\nWe had moved\' about so much of late that \nEddy seemed to think we were now about \ntaking final leave of New York, for on \nreaching the hotel at Jamaica, where we \nwere obliged to spend the night, he said : \n" This is our home." He enjoyed this \nvisit at Rockaway very much, pronouncing \nthe sand on the shore " clean dirt," and \ntaking great delight in playing with it. \nWe had him bathed twice ; he did not like \nit at all, and when he saw his nurse after- \nwards go into the water, he cried till she \ncame out again. He said they were going \nto drown her, and received her, on her re- \nturn to the shore, with every demonstra- \ntion of relief and satisfaction. He was as \nbrown as a nut when we returned home. \n\nOn the 1st of August his father left \nhome, intending to be absent five or six \nweeks. As the children stood at the win- \ndow, seeing him off, I was amused at their \n\n\n\n42 \n\ncharacteristic remarks. A. said, " Papa \nwill never come back again. I am afraid \nwe shall never see him any more." " Oh, \nyes, he will," returned Eddy ; " he will \ncome* back, certainly." And during his \npapa\'s whole absence, his frequent, " Oh, I \ndon\'t like to have papa gone ! " "I wish \npapa would not stay so long ! " was inva- \nriably followed with, " But he will come \nhome soon." He begged all summer to be \nallowed to go to church, but I was afraid \nhe would not sit still ; one Sunday, how- \never, he coaxed so prettily, that I consented \nto let him go and sit with his nurse in the \ngallery, whence he could be removed, \nshould he begin to disturb the congrega- \ntion. He was so elated by this permission, \nthat I could hardly make him listen while \nI charged him to be a good boy. As I was \nputting on his sack, I said to M. that if he \nfell asleep, I wished her to take it off. \n" Ho ! " said he, " I sha\'n\'t go to sleep ! \nChrist don\'t have rocking-chairs in His \n\n\n\n43 \n\nhouse ! " In this vivacious state he set off, \nfollowed by our loving eyes till he was out \nof sight. Soon after service commenced, \nI heard him laugh loud and begin to play \nwith a parasol ; M. then took him out. He \nwas very sorry he had behaved so, and \noften said he would not do so again if I \nwould try him once more. \n\nAbout this time I got for him a pair of \nlittle white pantaloons, and made a French \nshirt to wear with them. He was delight- \ned, and said, " Now I am a little gentle- \nman"; and was so pleased that I let him \nlay aside his frocks sooner than I had in- \ntended. His father was pleased too, on \nhis return from his journey, to find his lit- \ntle boy in boy\'s garments, and made him \nrun up and down that he might see how \ncunning he looked. I was about going to \nNewark when this change was made in his \ndress, and Eddy asked if he might go too, \nand let his grandmother see his pantaloons, \nespecially the pockets. This was on the \n\n\n\n44 \n\nnth of August. He spent the day very \nhappily with his little cousins, and I was \nglad I had consented to his going. \n\nI stayed until the next Saturday with \nA., when she became quite unwell, and I \nreturned with her. Eddy was grieved to \nsee her sick, and wanted to hang round \nand kiss her continually, and often said : \n" Mamma, why don\'t you say something \nto my Annie?" as if he thought I might \ncomfort her with loving words. About \nthis time he said to me, " Mamma, if I die \nyou must put me out in the \'treet." I \nasked why? He was lying in bed, and \nlooked up to the wall, as he answered : \n" Christ wouldn\'t like to have to break \nthrough that wall to get me." At another \ntime, as he sat at his little table, he said, as \nif to himself, " When I go to heaven, I \nshall take hold of mamma\'s hand." He \n\xe2\x80\xa2now began to enjoy hearing Bible stories, \nand particularly about the man to whom \nChrist gave eyes, and the restoration of the \n\n\n\n45 \n\nwithered hand. He had tried for a year \nnearly, to learn hymns, and would say : \n"Tinkle, tinkle, little \'tar"; and " Fusser \nlittle children to turn unto me " \xe2\x80\x94 with in- \ndescribable sweetness. \n\nHis aunt Mary from New Orleans came \nto visit us, with her children, in Septem- \nber. On the 29th, we took them all to \nBarnum\'s Museum. I took Eddy under \nmy own special care, and enjoyed his en- \njoyment of all he saw. He laughed very \nheartily at the " Happy Family," and his \nshouts of pleasure filled the room \xe2\x80\x94 but he \ncould not be happy unless Annie were near. \n*\' I want my Annie to see this ! " he would \nexclaim at every new object that attracted \nhis eye. His father weighed all the chil- \ndren ; Eddy weighed 29 lbs. \n\nHis uncle Charles was here during most \nof August and September, and played \nwith him a good deal, carrying him on his \nshoulders and lifting him up to touch the \nwall. When he went back to Portland \n\n\n\n\'\xe2\x96\xa0* \n\n\n\n* 46 v \n\nEddy cried, but soon consoled himself in \nhis usual style. " But he will come back \nsoon." He missed his aunt and little \ncousins, too, and prayed for them every \nnight ; particularly for Una, who had played \nwith him a good deal. \n\nOn the 1 8th of October Mrs. Randall \nand her sister, Miss Deborah S., old and \ndear New Bedford friends, came. During \ntheir visit, he appeared well and bright, and \nthey often spoke of his being such a happy \nchild, and of his amusing himself so much, \nand making so little trouble. He used at \nthis time to run round to kiss us all, as soon \nas family prayers were over, with such a sun- \nshiny face. Before they left us, early in No- \nvember, I observed one morning at prayers \nthat he looked pale, and spoke of it. I felt \nmore uneasy than seemed rational. He \nwas getting two teeth, however, and I con- \ncluded they were the occasion of his look- \ning ill. But he never appeared well to me \nagain. His complexion changed, he had \n\n\n\n47 \n\nquite a bad cough, and began to be nerv- \nous and irritable. I was exceedingly dis- \nappointed. His uncles Henry and George \narrived on the 6th of November from Cali- \nfornia, and I had thought so much of the \npleasure they would take in him, and he in \nthem ! But he was shy, and avoided them \nall he could, and generally was not willing \nthey should even kiss him. \n\nAbout the middle of the month I sent \nfor the doctor. He said there appeared to \nbe some gastric derangement, prescribed \nfor him, and at the end of a week he \nseemed better ; but he was very nervous, \nand did not act like himself. I spoke of \nthis to the doctor, who said he perhaps \nneeded to return to a more generous diet, \nand that we had better begin to give him \nmeat once a day \xe2\x80\x94 especially chicken, per- \nhaps oysters. I sent out instantly for a \nfew oysters, as it was too late in the day \nto cook chicken, and he enjoyed them. \nHe always called them " little birds." The \n\nc . \n\n\xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x96\xba \n\n\n\n* 48 * \n\nnext day I gave him a bit of chicken, which \nhe also enjoyed, and made arrangements for \nhim to have chicken-broth every day for a \nweek. I had promised to spend Thanks- \ngiving at Williamstown if he were well \nenough to make it safe for me to leave him. \nHis uncles did not wish to go without me, \nand thought Eddy did not need me at all, \nas he was playing about as usual and out \nof the doctor\'s hands. I never left home \nso reluctantly, however. I felt extreme \nuneasiness about Eddy; more than I could \naccount for. \n\nWe left at 5 P.M., November 25, and \nreturned in just a week from that night. \nEddy was awake when I hastened into the \nnursery to see him, though it was mid- \nnight, and sitting up in bed. He seemed \nglad to see me again, and gave me one of \nhis sweetest smiles of welcome. On seeing \nhim next morning, however, I was disap- \npointed. He did not appear to have gain- \ned anything during my absence, though his \n\n\n\n* 49 * \n\nnurse said his appetite had been good, and \nthat he had enjoyed his little Thanksgiving \ndinner very much. I thought he would \nperhaps recover his strength as soon as he \ncould begin regularly to take the air, and \nhad him taken down-stairs that morning, \ndirecting M. to allow him, with certain re- \nstrictions, to return to his usual diet. \n\nI was very unwell myself at this time, \nand when lying on the couch in the nur- \nsery had leisure to watch him as he played \nabout the room. He struck me as much \nchanged. In a few minutes he would get \ntired of his toys, and sigh, as if fatigued ; \nnow and then he would come and climb \nupon the couch and lie by my side, on my \narm, with one little hand and arm thrown \nover my neck. This was not natural in a \nchild so full of vivacity as he had been ; \nand as I thus lay with him like an infant \nin my embrace, tears often filled my eyes. \nIf he observed it, he would draw closer, pat \nmy face with his hand, and say, " Poor \n\n\n\n5 o \n\nmamma ! dear mamma ! " over and over \nagain. More than once I observed him to \nlaugh and cry at once in a hysterical manner, \nvery painful to witness. He would now only \nsit in just such a chair, and get into bed \njust so, and have his little table just so. \nOne day some food was brought up for \nA. on a dining-room plate. On seeing it, \nhe said, "/don\'t eat off such a nice plate, \nat all." I told him he should do so if he \nwished. He said, " Is there a lady on that \nplate ? " and on my telling him there was \nnot, he said, " I can\'t eat unless there is a \nlady on my plate." There was a picture \nof one on the kitchen plates. \n\nOn the 19th of December the Rev. Mr. \n\nP was here. On hearing of it, Eddy said \n\nhe wanted to see him. As he took now so \nlittle interest in anything that would cost \nhim an effort, I was surprised, but told \nAnnie to lead him down to the parlor. On \nreaching it, they found Mr. P. was not there, \nand they then went up to the study. I \n\n\n\n5i \n\nheard their father\'s joyous greeting as he \nopened his door for them, and how he \nwelcomed Eddy, in particular, with a per- \nfect shower of kisses and caresses. This \nwas the last time the dear child\'s own feet \never took him there ; but his father after- \nwards frequently carried him up in his \narms and amused him with pictures, espec- \nially with what Eddy called the " bear \nbooks." \n\nThinking our late dinners not proper \nfor him in his now feeble state, I had one \nprepared for him at twelve, and he en- \njoyed this change. At times he would be \nas bright and playful as ever. When I \nplayed with A. and himself, for instance, \nhe would run and laugh and shout as he \nused to do \xe2\x80\x94 the difference being that he \nnow soon flagged as if fatigued. His \nnervousness and irritability increased from \nday to day, and he wanted to be amused \ninstead of amusing himself, and to sit a \ngreat deal in M.\'s or my own lap. One \n\n\n\n* 5 2 * \n\n\xe2\x96\xa0 \nmorning Ellen told him she was going to \n\nmake a little pie for his dinner, but on his \nnext appearance in the kitchen told him \nshe had let it burn all up in the oven, and \nthat she felt dreadfully about it. " Never \nmind, Ellie," said he, " mamma does not \nlike to have me eat pie ; but when I get \nwell I shall have as many as I want." \n\nOne day in the early autumn I said, \nby way of amusing the children, that I \nthought God would send us a little baby \nby and by. They were even more de- \nlighted than I expected ; and A., looking \nup, said, " I shall be all the time looking \nup till I see it come flying down from \nheaven." Eddy looked up, and said, "/ \nshall too." " Oh, you are such a little boy, \nyou don\'t even know which way to look \ntowards heaven," said A., who fancied his \neyes turned in a wrong direction. After \nthis, I do not think a day passed in which \nsome allusion was not made to this longed- \nfor baby. No matter how fretful and \n\n\n\n* 53 * \n\nunwell he might be, it invariably would \nbring a happy smile to his face, if I said \nto him, " When my little baby comes, you \nshall take it in your arms." I made use \nof this idea to divert him when he was \nrestless. \n\nOnce, when talking about it, he asked \nme some question, I forget what, which \nmade me take him up in my lap and tell \nhim something about his own suffering \nbabyhood. " Where was my Marget \nthen ? " he asked. I told him she had \nnot come here, but was taking care of \nanother baby. " Well," said he, with that \nexpression of humor about the mouth \nwhich had so often amused me, " I was \ntying for her all that time \xe2\x80\x94 that was what \nI was tying for ! " Again he came to \nme, and said, with this same expression, \n"What /olor are my eyes?" He knew \nperfectly well, as he did the color of every- \nthing. I smiled, and said, " Why, you little \nrogue, you know they are black." "Well, \n\n\n\n54 \n\nI hope my little brother-boy\'s eyes will be \nblack, then ; I want him to look just like \nme." \n\nSometimes he would leave his play and \nrun to M., and say, " We must be very \ngood to that little baby when it comes. \nIf we are not kind to it, God will take it \nright back to heaven again "; or, " I shall \ngive my little brother all my toys." Once, \non hearing this, I asked if he would give it \nhis nine-pins, this being his favorite toy. \nAfter a moment\'s reflection, he said, " Yes, \nand all my blocks too." He was very fond \nof his nurse, and would hardly allow her \nto leave the room or go anywhere without \nhim, but often said, with great cheerful- \nness, " When my little brother comes, / \nwill sleep with Annie and let him sleep with \nMarget "; and " When we take our journey \nnext summer papa will carry Annie, mam- \nma will carry me, and I will let my Marget \ncarry the baby." Although we never spoke \nof the baby as a boy, he always insisted \n\n\n\n* 55 \n\n\n\non its being a " brother-boy " ; and one \nday, as if to explain this, said to his nurse : \n" Marget, little dirls like little dirls best ; \nbut little boys like little boys best." \n\nI said to M. one day that I was glad I \nhad put Eddy into boy\'s clothes, as I \nshould want his frocks, etc., for the baby, \nnot supposing he observed what I said. \nShortly afterwards, however, on seeing her \nchange her dress on her return from church \non Sunday, he asked her why she changed \nit ; and on her replying, "To save it," he \nsaid, " Oh, I suppose you are saving it for \nyour little sister," and added that he was sav- \ning all his for his little brother. Owing to \nhis playing about less, I could now interest \nhim with stories to more advantage than \never before. He wanted to hear about \n" the little fly that hadn\'t any breakfast," \nover and over and over again. I also read \nto him from various little books such stories \nas he could understand. \n\n\n\n* \n\n\n\nIV. \n\n\n\nChristmas \xe2\x80\x94 Faint Sunbeams amid thickening \nShadows \xe2\x80\x94 In Doubt and Perplexity. \n\n\n\nSo be it ; \'tis Thy plan, not mine, \nAnd being Thine, is good ; \n\nMy God, my will shall yield to Thine \nEre it is understood. \n\n\n\nIV. \n\nWAS much interested in preparing for \n\xe2\x96\xa0*\xe2\x80\xa2 Christmas, and promised myself great \npleasure in seeing the children hang up \ntheir little stockings. They talked about \nit a good deal, and not realizing that it was \nthe state of his health which made Eddy \nappear tired of all his toys, I flattered my- \nself that he would enjoy some new ones \nstill more. I said to their father that I \nwanted to make this Christmas a very \nhappy day to the children, and that we \nmight not all be together on the next. \nOn the 24th Mr. Stearns and Anna were \nhere. I was out with Anna much of the \nday. On my return, Eddy came to me \nwith a little flag which his uncle had given \nhim ; and after they had left us, he ran up \nand down with it ; and as my eyes follow- \nto) \n\n\n\n6o \n\ned him, I thought he looked happier and \n\nbrighter, and more like himself than I had \n\nseen him for a long time. He kept saying, \n\n" Mr. Stearns gave me this flag ! " and then \n\nwould correct himself, and say, " I mean \n\nmy uncle Stearns." A dear friend had \n\nsent the children some grapes ; I asked \n\nEddy if he wanted one, and told him to \n\nhelp himself, as they lay within his reach. \n\nPresently I asked him if he would like \n\nanother, and he said no. As he was very \n\nfond of them, I was surprised at this, and \n\nasked why not ? He said he had had one. \n\nI told him he might have another, and \n\nwelcome, on which he said he was afraid \n\nit would hurt him, and that he would wait \n\ntill he got well. I saw that he longed for \n\nmore, notwithstanding, and took him on \n\nmy lap and gave him several, when, as \n\nusual, he returned the seeds and skins. A \n\nfew days before, an apple was offered me, \n\nwhich I declined, saying I was afraid it \n\nwould make Eddy want it, to see me eat \n4. * \n\n\n\nT 6l T \n\nit. He was then on my lap. " Oh, I don\'t \nwant any," said he, " because it might \nmake me sick ; but when I get well I shall \nhave a whole basket full." \n\nWhile M. was out of the room towards \nnight, he brought his flag to me and \nclimbed into my lap with it, saying, with \ngreat animation, " Mamma ! when your \nlittle baby sees this flag, it will dance for \njoy ! " M. then came and lighted a lamp ; \nI was busy, at his request, in rolling up the \nflag to be put away for the night, and did \nnot observe what he was doing until I \nheard him cry out that the light hurt his \n\xc2\xabyes. Knowing but too well what this cry \nmight indicate, I looked at him anxiously, \nand asked if his head ached. He said it \ndid not, but that M. was a " naughty d\\x\\ " \nto let the light shine in his eyes and make \nthem ache. \n\nFor some time, I think for weeks, his \nsleep had been restless and disturbed. He \nwould grind his teeth, scream, moan, and \n\n\n\n62 \n\ntalk, from the time he fell asleep until after \nmidnight, when he would be more quiet. \nI used to dread his bedtime on this ac- \ncount ; it was distressing to see such signs \nof suffering. His nurse was so sure he had \nworms, and said so often that she had seen \nchildren suffering with them, give just such \ntokens of their presence, that I had allowed \nmyself to be somewhat relieved on this \npoint ; but only by fits and starts, as it \nwere. On this night he hung up his bag \nfor his presents, and after going to bed, \nsurveyed it with a chuckle of pleasure pe- \nculiar to him, and finally fell asleep in this \nhappy mood. I took great delight in ar- \nranging his and A.\'s presents, and getting \nthem safely into the bags. He enjoyed \nChristmas as much as I had reason to ex- \npect he would, in his state of health, and \nwas busy among his new playthings all day. \nMiss Bleecker sent him a toy which grati- \nfied him extremely. I enjoyed this day my- \nself ; it was the first on which I had had two \n\n\n\n* 63 * \n\nchildren old enough to enjoy a little festi- \nval, and Eddy was brighter and better than \nusual. \n\nAfter going to bed that night and re- \npeating his prayer, he said to his nurse, " I \ndon\'t want to be died, but I want to be a \nlittle angel without being died." I was \npleased to hear him say this in his sweet, \nclear voice; but as soon as he fell asleep he \nbegan to moan and throw himself about as \nusual, and seemed to think some one was \ngetting his toys away. I feared he had eat- \nen too much candy, as he had had a variety \nin his bag. On asking his nurse, however, \nshe said she had put most of it aside, at \nhis request, and showed me that very little \nhad been eaten. I felt of his head and \nhands, as I always did the last thing before \ngoing to bed, but observed only a very \nslight degree of unnatural heat in either ; \nstill, in contrast with A.\'s, they were too \ndry and warm. \n\nThe next morning Miss Bleecker sent for \n\n\n\n6 4 \n\nthe children to come in there for a few \nhours ; Annie went, and his nurse soon \nafter took Eddy in, but he was languid \nand uninterested, and soon asked to be \nbrought home. On his return, feeling very \nanxious about him, I took him up and be- \ngan rocking and singing to him, and he \nsoon fell asleep. The rest of the day one \ncheek was red and the other pale, and I \nobserved this to be the case repeatedly \nafterwards. He had had for some time \nlittle feverish turns, but they were so slight \nas hardly to be noticeable, nor did they \nlast more than fifteen minutes at any one \ntime. Still, they restrained me from giving \nhim tonics, as I should otherwise have done. \nHe began this week to be disturbed by \nnoise, and said once, as he lay in my \narms, " Oh, I wish the boys in the street \nwouldn\'t make so much noise ! " and again, \n"The boys in the street make more noise \nthan they used to." \n- On the 29th Mrs. Washburn came in to A \n\n\n\n* 65 * \n\ninvite us to take tea with her. Eddy was \ngoing down-stairs as she came in, and she \nstopped and spoke with him. In the even- \ning she told me she had seen him, and \nthought him a dear little fellow. I replied \nthat he was not looking like himself, and \nthat I was feeling anxious about him. This \nwas a very mild day, and he asked if he \nmight ride out. Thinking the air would \nrefresh him, I directed M. to take him in \nan omnibus to the foot of Cortlandt street, \nand promised him, if this did not fatigue \nhim too much, he should go every day to \nride. I should not have allowed him to \ngo had I known the state his poor little \nhead was in ; but as he always declared it \ndid not ache, I had allowed my fears con- \ncerning it to slumber for a season. He \nenjoyed his ride down, but on reaching the \nferry said that was the way to grandma\'s, \nand urged M. to let him go to Newark to \nsee her. On her telling him she could not \nwithout mamma\'s leave, he said no more, \n\n\n\n66 \n\n\n\nbut laid his head on her shoulder, and did \nnot lift it again until they reached home. \nHe fell asleep then, and I reproached my- \nself with having sent him so far, and it \nseems now as if I might have known the \nfatal disease which was fastening itself \nupon him. But I must remember that \nmost of " his symptoms needed the event \nto interpret them." \n\nThe next day I was out a good deal on \nbusiness. As I was dressing to go, Eddy \nasked if he might go with me, and seemed \nunusually disappointed when I told him \nI was going too far for his strength. I \ntold M. she might take him a short dis- \ntance ; she did so, and they went as far \nas the corner of the Bowery and Fourth \nstreet. Even this little walk fatigued him, \nso that she brought him home in her arms. \nHe had taken his last walk on earth, and \nnever went out again until he left this \nweary, weary world for that in which the \nweary are at rest. Towards night A. cried \n\n\n\n*\xe2\x96\xa0 67 v \n\na little about a book I had taken from her \nIt worried and grieved him, and he came \nand stood by my side in an inconvenient \nposition to himself, as he stood on tiptoe \nto throw one arm around my neck. . \n\nI then took him in my arms and carried \nhim down into the parlor, where I sat \ndown with him on the rug, and asked him \nif he did not think that bright fire beauti- \nful. I wished to ascertain the effect of \nlight on his eyes. He turned his head \naway, sighed, and said he did not. I then \ndirected his attention to the solar lamp \nwhich had just been lighted. He said he \ndid not like to look at it, that it made his \neyes ache, and sighed again. Then looking \nup at the bright circle on the ceiling above \nthe lamp, he said, " But I think that is \npretty." He then sat quite silent and ab- \nstracted, with his head on my breast, and I \nmissed that incessant little prattle which he \nalways used to keep up if taken to any new \nplace. \n\n\n\n* 68 * \n\nThe next morning he was quite bright \nwhile taking his bath, and said, " How my \nuncle Henry would laugh to see me in my \ntub ! " He took the sponge, as usual, and \nwet his head with it. In the course of the \nday, as he lay in my arms, he asked me \nto "ride" him to see his uncles, cousin \n" Eddy Hocsins" [Hopkins], etc., remind- \ning me of each one. I had lately amused \nhim in this way as I sat rocking him gently \nin my lap, and it had gratified him not a \nlittle. He often asked when his uncle \nHenry would come ; and once when he did \nso, M. said, " Why, you wouldn\'t love him \nwhen he was here before." " I would \nnow" he said. On this, as well as the \npreceding morning, we had taken him to \nthe breakfast-table with us. I wished to \ntake the entire care of his diet myself. \nFeeble as he was, he would not allow me \nto help him down-stairs, but went by him- \nself. He hardly tasted his food on either \nof these mornings, and seemed to be lost \n\xe2\x80\xa2*\xc2\xabin thought. >k \n\n\n\n69 \n\nFor a week or ten days past he had \nchanged his seat at prayers from M.\'s side \nto my own, and while his father read the \nScripture he held my hand. On this \nmorning he called M. to come and sit on \nhis other side and hold his other hand. \nThere was something very touching in his \nappearance as he thus sat ; his little figure, \nalready wasted and languid, looked so \nhelpless, as it were, so anxious for the \nsupport love even could not give it. He \nhad taken a fancy within a few weeks to \nkneel with me at my chair, and would \nthrow one little arm round my neck, while \nwith the other hand he so prettily and \nseriously covered his eyes. As their heads \ntouched my face as they thus knelt, I ob- \nserved that Eddy\'s felt hot when compared \nwith A.\'s \xe2\x80\x94 just enough so to increase my \nuneasiness. \n\nOn the afternoon of this day, which was \n\nthe last of the year, Mrs. S sent over two \n\nlittle chairs for the children, with the mes-. \n\n\n\nsage that the arm-chair was for Eddy and \nthe rocking-chair for A. Before the cover- \nings were removed, Eddy said he should \nlike the rocking-chair best. I then told \nA. how unwell he was, and asked her to \nlet him have his choice. She consented at \nonce, and on examination we found the \narm-chair was too high for him and just \nright for her ; so both were suited. He \nwas very much pleased with his, pointed \nout its peculiarities, rocked in it, and said \nhe would now give his old one to " the \nbaby." Towards night I proposed that \nthese chairs should be placed in the parlor, \nas they would soon get injured if kept in \nthe nursery. He objected a little at first, \nbut soon went down with his himself, \nselected a place for it, and put it there \nwith his own hands. \n\nHe slept miserably this evening, and \nthrew himself about all over the bed. I \nwent to him several times and asked the \nquestion I had already asked scores of \n\n\n\n7i \n\ntimes, " Where is Eddy sick?" and he \ngave his usual answer of " I don\'t know." \nI offered to bathe his head, but he would \nnot allow it ; afterwards, however, he called \nme to come and comb it, and I did so \ngently, a long time, hoping to soothe his \n\nnerves by this means. Mrs. B had sent \n\nsome New Year\'s toys for the children, and \nas he was wide awake and very restless, I let \nM. exhibit to him one which I thought \nmust certainly attract him. "Take it \naway ! take it away ! " he cried out, as if \nit distressed him to be called upon to ad- \nmire anything. \n\n\n\nV. \n\n\n\nThe Agony of Suspense \xe2\x80\x94 " Via Dolorosa " \xe2\x80\x94 \nAlone with her dying Boy \xe2\x80\x94 Cheering him \nwith Song and Story. \n\n\n\nSo be it ; I, a child of dust, \nWill not oppose Thy way ; \n\nMove on, mysterious Will ; I trust, \nI love, and will obey. \n\n\n\nV. \n\n/^VN entering the nursery on New Year\'s \n^^ morning, I was struck with his ap- \npearance, as he lay in bed ; his face being \nspotted all over. On asking M. about it, \nshe said he had been crying, and that this \nhad occasioned the spots. This did not \nseem probable to me, for I had never seen \nanything of this kind on his face before. \nHow little I knew that these were the last \ntears my darling would ever shed ! It oc- \ncurred to me that as scarlet fever was more \nor less prevalent, he might have taken it ; \nthis would account for most of the symp- \ntoms which had made me uneasy. I had \nalways dreaded this fearful disease, but \nnow said to myself, "Anything but water \non the brain ! " \xe2\x80\x94 and went down to break- \nfast really elated, thinking I would now \nhave the doctor see him. I waited until \n\n* 75) * \n\n\n\n7 6 \n\nhe came to make his New Year\'s call ; he \ncame early, and I asked him up to see \nEddy, and told him everything that I \nthought would throw light upon the case. \nHe said he should not like to prescribe any \nremedy until he knew the disease ; asked \nif he had had the measles, and said he \nwould come the next day. \n\nI felt more easy, and spent most of the \nday in the parlor, receiving visitors ; as \noften as I could I ran up to look at Eddy, \nor take him in my arms. He was very \nrestless, and looked pale ; and there was an \nexpression of pain in his eyes. He did not \nplay on this day, but once or twice had \nsome of his toys arranged on a table, where \nhe could look at them. He slept a good \ndeal. Miss Bronson sent him a box of \nvery pretty blocks ; he aroused himself on \nseeing them, and wanted me to spread \nthem out on the table, but did not touch \nthem himself. A., who stood where she \ncould see his face, cried out that he was \n\n\n\n77 \n\nsmiling at them. If so, it was for the last \ntime. \n\nOn Saturday, January 3, Dr. B. ordered \ntwo grains of calomel, to be followed by \nmagnesia, etc. Eddy had now a very \nslight, but frequent cough, which seemed \nto annoy him ; every time he coughed he \nwould mention it to M. and then to me. \nHe showed great aversion to noise ; if A. \nmoved or sang or read, he would say, \n" Don\'t, Annie ! " And it was a trial to \nhim to have her even kiss his hand. Some- \ntimes he would not let his nurse hold him, \nand then he would turn to me ; then all of \na sudden, would cry out for his Marget. \nagain. He took his powders without ob- \njecting, and afterward a great spoonful of \nrhubarb mixture. He was tortured with \nconstant nausea, and it cost him a great \neffort to take this large dose ; on my prom- \nising to t^ll papa and grandmamma what \na good boy he was, he swallowed it cheer- \nfully. He said again on this day: "I do \n\n\n\n* 78 \n\nwish my uncle Henry would come." He \nslept much, and had no appetite. \n\nEarly in the morning he asked to sit in \nhis little chair and have his hair cut off ; I \naccordingly cut a good deal from the back \nof his head ; after which, as he seemed \ntired, I said we would let the rest go till \nsome other time, and then took him up. \nHe was in my arms nearly the whole day, \n. as he would neither lie on the bed or let \nme take him About dusk he mani- \nfested great distress, and tore hair from his \nhead by the handful, which I took from his \nclenched fingers and laid aside. I had \nnow little doubt as to the nature and seat \nof the disease ; I could not restrain a few \ntears. A. hung round him and said : \n" Mamma, if Eddy has many more such \ndreadful pains, I am afraid he will die." \nWhen she said this, I supposed him to be \nasleep ; but without opening hfs eyes, he \nsaid quickly : " No, Annie ! No, Annie ! I \nsha\'n\'t die." He had another restless \n\n\n\n79 \n\nnight ; I came into the nursery repeatedly \nduring the night, unable to sleep myself, \nand heavy-hearted indeed. He would not \nallow me to take him, however, and after \nsitting awhile idle and anxious I would re- \nturn to bed. \n\nOn Sunday morning, January 4, not \nbeing able to come himself, Dr. B. sent \nDoctor W. in his place. We had succeeded \nin persuading Eddy not to be entirely \n. dressed, as he had been hitherto, and he \nnow lay a little at a time on the bed in his \ndressing-gown. I told Dr. W. that I \nthought he had water on the brain; he \nsaid he had not, but might have worms, \nand ordered nothing but a warm bath. . . . \nAbout noon, on this day, he rallied for \nmore than an hour; asked for his candies \nwhich had been put away on Christmas \nday, and had them arranged on the table. \nI told him I thought I might lend him a \nbox to keep them in, he had so many, and \nhe was interested in seeing me look for \n\n\n\n8o \n\none. I had two little pink hearts left, or \nrather a heart and a ring, and told him he \nmight have one of them ; he selected one \nand put it into the box himself. \n\nI then brought a little bottle, into which \nhe had taken pleasure in dropping, one by \none, a quantity of tiny sugar-plums ; he \nplayed in this way a few minutes, I hold- \ning the bottle and M. the plums for him. \nIt did seem so pleasant to see him amusing \nhimself once more ! He talked a great \ndeal all the time, but we do not remember \na word he said ; it was about his play- \nthings \xe2\x80\x94 his usual little prattle. He ap- \npeared to sleep most of the afternoon, and \nwhen he found us preparing his bath at \nnight, objected to going into his tub, stren- \nuously, but at last consented. He had a \nvery restless night ; slept little, and com- \nplained of pain in every part of his body ; \nnow of his feet and legs, now of his arms \nand hands, then of his forehead, then of \nthe back of his neck. \n\n\n\n* \n\n\n\n8i \n\nOn awaking, Monday morning, January \n5, he said: "Marget, why didn\'t I have \nmy own doctor yesterday? What did \nthat other man come here for?" And \nsoon after to me : " Oh, mamma, there \nhave been hairs in my eyes all night, and \nmy teeth ached." His father wanted to \ncarry him about the room in his arms, but \nhe declined. He had wanted the shutters \nclosed the day before, but now asked M. to \nopen them, and she did so. He would not \nlet me hold him much, and was very rest- \nless. When the doctor came I told him that \nEddy was unable to retain any nourish- \nment ; he said I might try ice-cream, and \nat night apply a mustard plaster to the \nback of his neck and soak his feet. I sent \ninstantly for the ice-cream, but owing to \nsome misunderstanding failed to procure \nany. I then went down and mixed a little \nsnow, cream, and sugar together, with the \nhope that this might possibly tempt his \nappetite. He took several teaspoonfuls \nand said it was " dood." \n\n\n\n82 \n\nSoon after, as I was sitting with him in \nhis little chair, he said, mournfully, looking \ntowards the window : " I wish I could see \nleaves on those trees once more." Touched \nby his manner, and by the thought these \nwords suggested, I could not restrain a few \ntears ; and then said, " Mamma thinks that \nbefore the leaves come again upon the \ntrees, her little darling will be where the \nleaves never fade." I did not expect or \nwish him to understand this, but A. imme- \ndiately said, " Mamma means that she \nthinks you will be in heaven before long." \n" I don\'t want to die," he returned. I \nthen said as cheerfully as I could : " Why, \nyou know it is a great deal pleasanter in \nheaven than it is here. There are no old, \nnaked trees there; little boys don\'t have \nthe headache there; /should love dearly \nto go, if God should say I might." " Yes," \nsaid A. ; " don\'t you know how we used \nto sing about \' that happy land \' ? " I then \nbegan to sing that little hymn beginning : \n\n\n\n83 \n\n\xe2\x96\xa0 Around the throne of God in heaven, ten \nthousand children stand," till my fainting \nheart was cheered. The next time he was \nalone with his nurse, he said : " Marget, \nshall I ever see the leaves come on those \ntrees?" Not knowing what had passed, \nshe said : " Of course you will." " My \nmamma said perhaps I shouldn\'t," he re- \nturned. \n\nSoon after this he said to me : " Mam- \nma, I must go to the top of the house \nnow." " Oh, no ; not to-day, must you ? " \nI said. " Yes, I must go ; there is a lady \nthere who has been waiting for me all day; \nshe has dot something for me." I perceived \nthat his mind was wandering, and again \nbegan to sing, in order to soothe him, and \nhe relapsed into a sort of stupor in which \nhe lay some time. He said repeatedly dur- \ning this day : " Oh, I don\'t like to be \nsick ! " " Oh, I wish God would make me \nget well." Towards night we applied the \nplaster ; we had a good deal of trouble in \n\n\n\n* 84 * \n\nkeeping it on, for this was his restless time \nof day, and he did not appear to know \nwhat he was saying or doing. It drew \nvery well, but gave no relief. He had, if \npossible, a worse night than the previous \none, and would not take a particle of \nnourishment, though now very feeble from \nthe want of it. \n\nIn the morning, January 6, 1 offered him \neverything I could think of, but in vain. \nNot knowing what to do, and seeing him \nalmost fainting with exhaustion, I said, \n" Does my Eddy want to die ? " He said, \n" No, I don\'t want to die at all" I told \nhim he would certainly die if he neither \nate nor drank, and asked if he would not \ntake just one little baby teaspoonful of \njelly to please mamma, who would cry very \nmuch if he should die. He then consented \nto my putting a very little into his mouth. \nNot knowing that it would be safe to do \notherwise, I had made this jelly without \nwine, but with a good deal of lemon-juice, \n\n\n\n* \n\n\n\n85 \n\n\n\nhoping thus to make it palatable. His father \nwas going to Newark, and came in to bid \nhim good-bye, asking if he would send a \nkiss to grandma. He kissed him, and very \nsoon relapsed into a stupor, in which he lay \nwith his eyes rolled up into his head, when \nhe suddenly started up. I sent M. for \nsome more snow and cream, and he sat \nwithout support on my lap while I fed him \nwith it, as he would not allow her to do \nso. During these five minutes the doctor \ncame in, and was deceived, I suppose, by \nhis appearance. I told him it was a tran- \nsient exertion of strength, and that he had \nnot noticed anything since the early morn- \ning ; and now for the first time said to him \nthat I believed there was water on the \nbrain. To this he returned no answer and \nleft the room. \n\nEddy, in the meantime, had thrown \nhimself back upon my arm, in a stupor \nagain. The moment the doctor had left, M. \nburst into tears ; for myself, I was almost \n\n\n\n* 86 \n\n\n\ndesperate. A long day and a long night, \nduring which we had nothing to do but \nhang over this failing child. I gave him \nto his nurse and went into my room, \nwhere I walked up and down in a fever \nof suspense and distress. Already worn \nwith sleepless, anxious nights and restless \ndays, I felt unable to endure the pressure \nof another day and night of solitary care, \nnor could I find it easy to say : " Thy will \nbe done ! " I said to myself that I was \nwilling to give my child to God ; but that \nthis uncertainty I should sink under. Then \nI reflected that even this was divinely \nordered, and so trying to trust and not be \nafraid, 1 returned to my little darling. He \nlooked even more ill as I now saw him in his \nnurse\'s arms than when in my own. It \nwas a dreadful day; so stormy without \nthat I did not feel it would be right to \nsend for any friend ; so stormy in my heart \nthat it was like a troubled sea. \n\nWhen his father returned at night, I told \n\n\n\n* 8 7 * \n\nhim what a day I had spent ; that Eddy \nhad been apparently unconscious ever since \nnoon, and gave no sign of life whatever, \nsave by the gentlest little breathing which \nI had to listen for with my ear near his \nmouth. He said he had seen sicker chil- \ndren repeatedly, in his pastoral visits ; but \nif I wished he would go and ask Dr. B. his \nopinion of the case. I said that his opinion \nfor that day was founded on false appear^ \nances ; that if he considered Eddy in as \ncritical a state as I did, he would have been \nin again this evening, and that I should not \nhave been surprised to see the poor little \nboy drop away at almost any moment, his \nprostration was now so very great. On \nhearing all this, his father said he should \ngo round and see the doctor, and accordingly \ndid so. Dr. B. said it was a puzzling case ; \nthat he had feared that disease of the head \nwas creeping on and establishing itself ; \nbut that there might be worms \xe2\x80\x94 and that \nDoctor W. was divided, with himself, be- \n>J\xc2\xabtween these two- points. >j< \n\n\n\n88 \n\nEddy lay all night in this exhausted con- \ndition ; and on Wednesday morning, Jan- \nuary 7, for the first time, did not insist on \nbeing dressed. He remained, therefore, in \nbed, with no pulse at the wrist, but with \nhis eyes wide open. When Dr. B. came \nin, he put his ear to Eddy\'s mouth, just as \nI had done, and said he must as soon as \npossible have an enema of beef- tea, a \nwine-glassful every four hours; and that \nhe wished to call in Dr. Johnson, as con- \nsulting physician. My own mind had now \nbecome calm, and its strugglings were over. \nI saw what God would have of me, and \nthat He was going to help me through \nwhat lay before me. \n\nSoon after the administration of the \nfirst enema Eddy revived, and continued \nto improve in strength all day, but was \n\nmore and more restless. Mrs. B came \n\nearly in the morning, and offered to send \nher cradle for his use ; he said after she \nwent out, on hearing us talking about it, \n\n\n\n89 \n\nthat he would not lie in a " Cradle." We \ntried to hold him, but I thought it must \nfatigue him more to lie in our arms than \non the bed or in a cradle. When it came, \nwhich was late in the afternoon, his rest- \nlessness was very great, and he did not like \nit long at a time. In the course of the \nday he would often sigh, and say : " Oh, so \ntired ! " And repeated what he had said \nbefore : " I wish God would make me get \nwell." \n\nOn Thursday, January 8, while M. was \nat dinner, I knelt by the side of the cradle, \nrocking it very gently, and he asked me to \ntell him a story. I asked what about, and \nhe said: "A little boy"; on which I said \nsomething like this : " Mamma knows a \ndear little boy who was very sick. His \nhead ached, and he felt sick all over. God \nsaid, \' I must let that little lamb come into \nmy fold ; then his head will never ache \nagain, and he will be a very happy little \nlamb.\' " I used the words " little lamb," \n\n\n\n9 o \n\nbecause he was so fond of them. Often \nhe would run to his nurse with his face full \nof animation, and say : " Marget ! mam- \nma says I am her little lamb ! v While I \nwas telling him this story his eyes were \nfixed intelligently on my face. I then \nsaid : " Would you like to know the name \nof this boy?" With eagerness he said, \n" Yes ; yes, mamma." Taking his dear lit- \ntle hand in mine, and kissing it, I said : " It \nwas Eddy." Just then M. came in, and his \nattention was diverted, so I said no more. \n\n\n\n* \n\n\n\nVI. \n\nStill watching and waiting \xe2\x80\x94 A parting Kiss \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe Good-bye \xe2\x80\x94 The Master comes! \xe2\x80\x94 "// \nis well with the Child " \n\n\n\nTO MY DYING EDDY. \n\nJanuary 16th. \n\nBlest child ! Dear child ! For thee is Jesus call- \ning; \n\nAnd of our household thee \xe2\x80\x94 and only thee ! \nOh, hasten hence ! to His embraces hasten ! \n\nSweet shall thy rest and safe thy shelter be. \n\nThou who unguarded ne\'er hast left our threshold, \nAlone must venture now an un*known way ; \n\nYet, fear not ! Footprints of an Infant Holy \nLie on thy path ; thou canst not go astray. \n\n\n\nVL \n\n\n\nT T E presently asked to be taken up ; \n*\xe2\x96\xa0\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x96\xa0*\xe2\x96\xa0 M. was about doing so, when he \nsaid, " No, I want mamma to." I was not \nable to lift him up, though I could hold \nhim without much difficulty, and M. there- \nfore lifted him for me as usual. He sank \ninto his stupor almost immediately, and \ncontinued in this state for about an hour, \nwhen he suddenly started up and said he \nwanted his little table set out. M. rose \nand got it for him, placing it as near him \nas possible. " Now bring my chair." This \nhaving been done, he said, " Now hurry \nand get my dinner." I told M. she might \nbring some of the jelly I had made for. \nhim, which was in the next room, and his \nlittle mug of water; and when this was \n* (93) ^ \n\n\n\n94 \n\nalso done he resisted my attempt to place \nhim in his chair, saying he could get down \nhimself. He could not bear his own weight \non his feet, however, and let us help him \ninto his chair, where he sat some minutes \nfeeding himself with a little spoon. There \nwas an expression of anguish in his eyes \nand an air of stern resolution about him \nwhich made it painful to see him exerting \nhimself to such a degree ; and yet there \nwas a pleasure in seeing him once more in \nthe old familiar place. I was sorry his \nfather was not at home to see his little \nsufferer contending so patiently with dis- \nease. \n\nThinking he would probably never take \nfood again, I put away his little spoon in \nanother room. He was now in M.\'s lap, \nand very uneasy ; she, too, looked very \ntired, and for both their sakes I asked him \nif he would lie on the bed if I would lie by \nhis side. He consented, but soon called \nM. to lie on his other side, and as she did \n\n\n\n95 T \n\nso, became more restless, and soon told her \nto. get up and lie on the floor. Then, as \nif fearful he had hurt her feelings, he asked \nme to give her a pillow, and, to gratify \nhim, I did so, though I knew she was not \non the floor. He said many rather inco- \nherent things, and finally told me to get up \nand make room for his Marget. We grati- \nfied him in this also, and I then went down \nto tea. As soon as I had gone, he asked \nM. to rub the back of his head, and as she \ndid so, cried out, " Rub harder ! rub harder ! \nrub harder ! " till uttering a scream he \nthrew himself across the bed, in a fit. \n\nOn going down to tea I had said to M. \nshe could ring the bell if anything hap- \npened. She had not the least idea what I \nmeant, but she now flew to the bell and \nrang it. I screamed out, " Eddy has a fit ! " \nand was in the nursery almost in the twink- \nling of an eye, his father following me like \none distracted, saying, " Remember your \nlife is of more consequence to me than \n\n\n\nthat of a hundred children." In two min- \nutes, thanks to our bathing-room, we had \nthe poor little rigid form in warm water. \nWhile in the tub, his cries were fearful, and \nrent my heart with their strange, unnatural \nsound ; his hands were clenched and his \neyes fixed, but there was little convulsive \nagitation. In eight or ten minutes I had \nhim taken from the water and wrapped in \nblankets and laid in my arms. I had never \nseen a child in a fit, and was so agitated \nthat I hardly knew what was best to be \ndone, nor how long it was proper he should \nremain in the bath. His father had gone \nfor the doctor, who applied a mustard plas- \nter to the pit of his stomach. In about \nan hour he recovered consciousness, and \nlooked up at me as he would have done if \nawaking from sleep. Miss Bleecker, for \nwhom I had sent, was here, and said she \nwould spend the night. The doctor gave \ndirections for a blister, and its application \nto the back of his neck, and ordered one \n\n\n\n97 * \n\nor two more eilemas of beef-tea before \nmorning. We now put on the dear child\'s \nnight-clothes and applied the blister ; he \nappeared to sleep until the blister began \nto draw, when he cried out at intervals \ntill 5 A.M., " Oh, mamma ! my neck ! oh, \nMarget ! my neck ! " in accents of distress \nwhich my ears will ever hear. At this \ntime he had another fit like the first, and \nwas unconscious for about three-quarters \nof an hour. On recovering, he looked at \nme with that same intelligent but surprised \nglance I had seen before. \n\nAs soon as it became light, on the \nmorning of the 9th, he raised himself a \nlittle and looked round the room, saying, \n" Where\'s Annie? I want her." I told \nhim it made her cry so to see him sick \nthat I had put her into papa\'s bed. He \nsaid again, " I want her ! " and she says \nnow, " Oh, mamma ! why didnt you call \nme ! " He lay in the cradle all day, most \nof the time unconscious ; his eyes were \n\n\n\n98 \n\nopen and very brilliant. Mrs. S. came \nearly and stayed most of the day. Once \nEddy tried to speak, but could not ; he \n.then made signs that he had a sore finger \nand that he wanted a rag on it. He had \npicked at it until it was quite inflamed. \n\nIn the afternoon Dr. B. brought Dr. \nJohnson, and on their asking him to put \nout his tongue he did so. On leaving, \nthey directed nothing but wine whey. Dr. \nB. came again in the evening, and said we \nmight give about two tablespoonfuls every \nhour from a cup, if he would drink from \none. I had asked if it would be safe to \ntake him up, put on clean clothes, and \nget him more comfortably fixed in a crib \nMrs. S. had offered to send over. Dr. B. \nthought it not only safe, but advisable. \n. . . . He was very neat, and dearly loved \nto have clean clothes on, and after some \npersuasion, consented readily. But little \ntime as it occupied to make the change, it \nfatigued him so much that it was two \n\n\n\n99 \n\nhours from the moment he was taken up \nbefore we ventured to put him into the \ncrib. It was so comforting to have him \nonce more in my arms that I was only- \nwilling, for his sake, to lay him down. \n\nLouise Shipman came in at this time and \noffered to spend the night, but as we had \nmade other arrangements, I asked her to \ncome next day instead. She did so, and did \nnot leave us again till all was over. Mrs. \nTracy watched this night, and I threw my- \nself on the nursery bed, and made M. do \nthe same, as we both were worn out. I \ndid not sleep, but heard Mrs. T. every \nhour give Eddy his wine whey and some- \ntimes water. Towards morning he kept \nsaying, as if remonstrating with some one \nurging it upon him, " I don\'t want any more \nwater" \xe2\x80\x94 over and over, from which I per- \nceived that his mind was wandering again. \n\nOn going to him Saturday morning, \nJanuary 10, I observed at once that his \ncountenance had changed, and that he did \n\n\n\nv 100 T \n\nnot see any of us, and feared he was soon \nto leave us. At seven he was seized with \nspasms, which affected only one side, and \nwhich lasted two hours. When they \nceased, he looked tranquil and beautiful \nbeyond description. His eyes were lighted \nup with the brilliancy lent by this disease, \nand the very spirit of heaven seemed to \nlook forth from that lovely countenance. \nWe stood around the crib fascinated and \nsoothed, expecting every moment that his \nsun would go down amid these bright \nclouds. Contrary to these expectations, \nhowever, he lingered on, but as he could \nnot swallow, and began to look extremely \nworn and exhausted, it was painful to see \nhis heaven-bound spirit still detained and \n\nimprisoned here. Mrs. B watched with \n\nhim this night, during which he appeared \ncomfortable, and could take wine whey \nand water. His head was kept wet, or \nhad a bag of ice applied to it ; this re- \nfreshed and relieved him evidently. \n\n\n\n101 \n\nOn Sunday, January II, he took drinks \nfrequently. I had not left the room since \nThursday evening for more than three \nminutes at a time, fearing he would drop \naway in my absence. Mr. and Mrs. Bull \ncame in, and Mrs. Smith, who offered to \nstay then or come at night, and it was ar- \nranged that she should spend the night. \nOh, how many kind friends now surround- \ned us ! How many friendly acts were per- \nformed ! How many prayers offered for us \nand for our little one ! May God, who has \nrecorded them all, bless those whom He \nmoved to sympathize with us in our afflic- \ntion ! \n\nAt noon, while they were all at dinner \nor elsewhere, I was left alone with my dar- \nling for a few moments, and could not help \nkissing his unconscious lips. To my utter \namazement he looked up and plainly recog- \nnized me, and warmly returned my kiss. \nThen he said, feebly but distinctly, twice, \n" I want some meat and potatoes." I was \n\n\n\n102 \n\ntransported with joy. I do not think 1 \nshould have been more delighted if he had \nrisen from the dead once more to recognize \nme. Oh, it was such a comfort to feel \nagain the sweet pressure of those little \nlips, and to be able to gratify one more \nwish ! Mrs. Wainwright had sent in some \ncalves\'- foot jelly and grapes. I was about \nto put some of the jelly into his mouth \nwhen he put forth his little thin hand and \ntook it from me, feeding himself with it \neagerly, and as if starving. I then asked \nhim if he would have a grape ; he said \n"Yes," in his own sweet way, and he took \nit from me as he had done with the jelly, \nreturning the skin and seeds as usual. \nBefore they returned to the room he had \nsunk away again. \n\nDr. Johnson came in, and was surprised, \napparently, at his having asked for food, \nand said I should by all means give him \neverything I thought he would fancy. \nAfter this, as long as he could swallow, he \n\n\n\n103 \n\nwas fed, just like a little pet robin, with \nice-cream, jelly, little bits of sugar, and \nice. One night he ate six grapes besides \nsome jelly. About six in the evening, \nas his father sat by his side with the dear \nlittle hand in his own, Eddy looked up and \nrecognized him, and spoke to him twice, \nbut in so faint a whisper that we could not \nunderstand what he said. Shortly after \nthis he began to sink rapidly, and we all \nsat in silence around him, expecting every \nmoment would be his last. We sat thus \nfor five hours, during which a little pulsa- \ntion in the neck was the only indication \nthat life still lingered. As it approached \nmidnight, his father stopped the noisy \nclock, whose loud tones we all dreaded. \nAt this moment Eddy partly turned over, \npointing with his hand to his neck. We \nhad not been able to dress his blister since \nFriday night, as he had been lying on his \nback ever since ; but now, as he remained \ninclining to one side, it was dressed with- \n\n\n\n104 \' \n\nout disturbing him. He was so relieved \nby the dressing on this occasion that he \nput his hand up to his nurse\'s neck, just \nas he did in health when he loved her best, \nand so fell sweetly asleep. \n\nThe next day, January 12, his uncle \nStearns and aunt Anna spent with us. \nHe had another sinking turn in the course \nof it, but rallied again, and took jelly and \ngrapes which a friend brought for him. \n\nAll day on Tuesday, January 13, he lay \nin a lethargy ; could hardly swallow, and \nhad a more flushed and feverish appear- \nance than he had ever done. \n\nAt half-past two on Wednesday morn- \ning, January 14, slight spasms came on ; \nthey continued for some hours, and in- \ncreased his exhaustion. He took little \nnourishment after this, as it was difficult \nfor him to swallow ; a teaspoonful of water \nor a bit of ice, and once a very little ice- \ncream. I went to sleep in my own room \non Wednesday and Thursday nights, as I \n\n\n\n105 \n\nwas now fearful of doing wrong in neglect- \ning proper care of my health for the sake \nof the baby. I made M., too, try to get \nsome sleep in another room, as she looked \ngreatly worn, and was suffering much in \nparting with her loving charge. \n\nOn Friday, January 16, his little weary \nsighs became more profound, and as the \nday advanced, more like groans, but ap- \npeared to indicate extreme fatigue rather \nthan severe pain. Towards night his \nbreathing became quick and laborious, and \nbetween seven and eight, slight spasms \nagitated his little feeble frame. He uttered \ncries of distress for a few minutes, when \nthey ceased, and his loving and gentle \nspirit ascended to that world where thou- \nsands of holy children, and the blessed \ncompany of angels, and our blessed Lord \nJesus, I doubt not, joyfully welcomed him. \nNow, indeed, we were able to say: It is \nwell with the child ! \n\n" Oh," said the gardener, as he passed \n\n\n\nio6 \n\ndown the garden walk : " who plucked \nthat flower? Who gathered that plant?" \nHis fellow-servant answered : " The MAS- \nTER ! " And the gardener held his peace. \n\n\n\n(The following is from a letter of Mrs, \nPrentiss to her brother Henry, dated Janu- \nary 26, 1852.) \n\nHis father closed his eyes in an agony of \nweeping ; and I threw myself down by his \nlittle crib and thanked God that those eye- \nlids, which for a whole week had been open, \ncould now repose in a sleep from which \nthey never need waken. Yes, I was glad \nthat my darling had got away from this \nweary world, and that I had now a little \nangel in heaven. I had said that no hands \nbut mine should fit him for the grave, but \nGod knows how to break us in to His will \nwhen He sees best to do so. I was alarmed \nfor the safety of my yet unseen baby which \nhad given no sign of life since the night of \n\n\n\nT 107 v \n\ndear Eddy\'s fit, and let them persuade me \nto sit by, while M. and Louise did what lit- \ntle there was to be done. Then we knelt \ndown, and George prayed with such faith \nand fervor that at last a few tears refreshed \nmy tired eyes, which I feared would never \nweep again. The funeral was on Monday. \nDr. Skinner officiated, and the choir came \nover and sung, " Thy will be done," most \ndelightfully. It was like cold water to \nthirsty souls. This was all we had to say \nor could say. The little body lies almost \nwithin a stone\'s throw of us, for the pres- \nent, and the little spirit is all about us, \nwhispering words of comfort and cheering \nus even in our saddest hours. \n\nI need not try to tell you how much we \nmiss those dear little feet, how much we \ntalk of all his pretty ways, how at times it \nseems as if we heard his voice on the stairs. \nEvery hour we feel more and more that he \nis gone and gone forever; and every hour \nthe sharp pang presses harder and harder, \nuntil our hearts die within us We \n\n\n\nio8 \n\nhave been loaded with kindness from every \ndirection, and our people have manifested \nthe most hearty sympathy. Louise Ship- \nman endeared herself to us very much, and \nwe feel most grateful to her. Mrs. Bull was \nhere day and night, and watched every \nother night for a week ; and I have had \nsome of the most comforting little notes \nsent in. I used to think I could never en- \ndure to lose a child, but you see how it is. \nGod does carry us through anything He \npleases, \n\n\n\nVII. \n\nLittle Bessie \xe2\x80\x94 A Mojnent here ; then gone for- \never \xe2\x80\x94 The Mother\'s Lament. \n\n\n\n* \n\n\n\nJesus, I turn to Thee ! oh, let me hide \n\nWithin Thy breast ; \nRefuge and shelter, peace and grace provide, \n\nAnd needed rest. \n\nFor in the mazes of a troublous hour \n\nI make my way ; \nOh, come to me ! Thou hast the will, the power, \n\nBe mine alway ! \n\n\n\nVII. \n\n/^UR darling Eddy died on the 16th of \n^^ January. From that time my health \nwas very feeble, and it was a weary and \npainful thing to bear the baby he had so \noften spoken of. She was born on the \n17th of April. I was too feeble to have \nany care of her; never had her in my \narms but twice; once the day before she \ndied, and once while she was dying. I \nnever saw her little feet. She was a beau- \ntiful little creature, with a great quantity \nof dark hair, and very dark blue eyes. The \nnurse had to keep her in another room on \naccount of my illness. When she was a \nmonth old she brought her to me one \nafternoon. " This child is perfectly beau- \ntiful," said she. " To-morrow I mean to \ndress her up and have her likeness taken." \n\n\n\n112 T \n\nI asked her to get me up in bed and let \nme take her a minute. She objected, and \nI urged her a good deal, till at last she con- \nsented. The moment I took her I was \nstruck by her unearthly, absolutely angelic \nexpression, and not being strong enough \nto help it, burst out crying, bitterly, and \ncried all the afternoon, while I was strug- \ngling to give her up. \n\nHer father was at Newark. When he \ncame home at dark, I told him I was sure \nthat baby was going to die. He laughed \nat me; said my weak health made me \nfancy it, and asked the nurse if the child \nwas not well. She said she was perfectly \nwell. My presentiment remained, how- \never, in full force, and the first thing next \nmorning I asked Margaret to go and see \nhow baby was. She came back, saying: \n" She is very well. She lies there on the \nbed scolding to herself." I cried out to \nhave her instantly brought to me ; M. re- \nfused, saying the nurse would be displeased. \n\n\n\n* 113 *** \n\nBut my anxieties were excited by her use \nof the word " scolding/\' as I knew no baby \na month old did anything of that sort, and \ninsisted on its being brought to me. The \ninstant I touched it I felt its head to be of \na burning heat, and sent for the nurse at \nonce. When she came, I said : " This child \nis very sick." "Yes," she said; "but I \nwanted you to have your breakfast first. \nAt one o\'clock in the night I found a little \nswelling. I do not know what it is, but \nthe child is certainly very sick." On ex- \namination I knew it was erysipelas. " Don\'t \nsay that ! " said the nurse, and burst into \ntears. I made them get me up and partly \ndress me, as I was so excited I could not \nstay in bed. The doctor came at 10 o\'clock ; \nhe expressed no anxiety, but prescribed for \nher, and George went out to get what he \nordered. \n\nThe nurse brought her to me at 11 \no\'clock, arid begged me to observe that the \nspot had turned black. I knew at once \n\n\n\nv 114 A \n\nthat this was fearful, fatal disease, and \nentreated George to go and tell the doctor. \nHe went to please me, though he saw no \nneed of it, and gave a wrong message to \nthe doctor, to the effect that the swelling \nwas increasing, to which the doctor replied \nthat it naturally would do so. The little \ncreature whose moans Margaret had termed \nscolding, now was heard all over that floor ; \nevery breath a moan that tore my heart in \npieces. I begged to have her brought to \nme, but the nurse sent word she was too \nsick to be moved. I then begged the nurse \nto come and tell me exactly what she \nthought of her, but she said she would not \nleave her. I then crawled on my hands \nand knees into the room, being unable then \nand for a long time after to bear my \nweight on my feet. What a scene our \nnursery presented ! Everything upset and \ntossed about ; medicines here and there on \nthe floor, a fire like a fiery furnace, and \nMiss H. sitting hopelessly and with falling \n\n\n\nii5 \n\ntears, with the baby on a pillow in her lap. \nAll its boasted beauty gone forever. The \nsight was appalling, and its moans heart- \nrending. George came and got me back \nto my sofa, and said he felt as if he should \njump out of the window every time he heard \nthat dreadful sound. He had to go out, \nand made me promise not to try to go to \nthe nursery till his return. I foolishly \npromised. Mrs. White called, and I told \nher I was going to lose my baby ; she was \nvery kind and went in to see it, but I be- \nlieve expressed no opinion as to its state. \nBut she repeated an expression which I \nrepeated to myself many times that day, \nand have repeated thousands of times \nsince, " God never makes a mistake" \n\nMargaret went, soon after she left, to see \nhow the poor little creature was, and did \nnot come back. Hour passed after hour \nand no one came. I lay racked with cruel \ntorture, bitterly regretting my promise to \nGeorge, listening to those moans till I was \n\n\n\n* u6 \n\nnearly wild. Then, in a frenzy of despair, \nI pulled myself over to my bureau where \nI had arranged the dainty little garments \nvny darling was to wear, and which I had \npromised myself so much pleasure in see- \ning her wear. I took out everything she \nwould need for her burial with a sort of \nwild pleasure, in doing for her one little \nservice, where I had hoped to render so \nmany. She it was whom we expected to \nfill our lost Eddy\'s vacant place ; we \nthought we had had our sorrow and that \nnow our joy had come. As I lay back ex- \nhausted with those garments on my breast, \nLouisa Shipman 1 opened the door. One \nglance at my piteous face, for oh, how glad \nI was to see her ! made her burst into tears \nbefore she knew what she was crying for. \n\n" Oh, go bring me news from my poor \ndying baby ! " I almost screamed as she \n\n\n\n1 Her cousin, whose sudden death occurred under \nthe same roof in October of the next year. \n\n\n\nH7 \n\napproached me ; " and see, here are her \ngrave-clothes." " Oh, Lizzy, have you gone \ncrazy?" cried she, with a fresh burst of \ntears. I besought her to go, told her how \nmy promise bound me, made her listen to \nthose terrible sounds which two doors \ncould not shut out. \n\nAs she left the room she met Dr. B., \nand they went to the nursery together. \nShe soon came back, quiet and composed, \nbut very sorrowful. \n\n"Yes, she is dying," said she; "the \ndoctor says so. She will not live an hour." \n.... At last, we heard the sound of George\'s \nkey. Louisa ran to call him. I crawled \nonce more to the nursery, and snatched my \nbaby in fierce triumph from the nurse. At \nleast once I would hold my child, and no- \nbody should prevent me. George, pale as \ndeath, baptized her as I held her in my \ntrembling arms ; there were a few more of \nthose terrible, never-to-be-forgotten sounds, \nand at y o\'clock we were once more left \n\n\n\n* u8 \n\n\n\nwith only one child. A short, sharp con. \nflict, and our baby was gone. \n\nDr. B. came in later and said the whole \nthing was to him like a thunderclap, as it \nwas to her poor father. To me it followed \nclosely on the presentiment that in some \nmeasure prepared me for it. Here I sit \nwith empty hands. I have had the little \ncoffin in my arms, but my baby\'s face \ncould not be seen, so rudely had death \nmarred it. Empty hands, empty hands, a \nworn-out, exhausted body, and unutterable \nlongings to flee from a world that has had \nfor me so many sharp experiences. God \nhelp me, my baby, my baby ; God help me, \nmy little lost Eddy. \n\n\n\nT 119 A \n\nBESSIE. \n\nThey have put away the cradle forever out of sight ; \n\nThey have folded up and laid away the little gar- \nments white ; \n\nThey have ransacked every drawer ; every cupboard \nthey\'ve laid bare ; \n\nLest mine eye perchance should fall on what my baby \nused to wear ! \n\nBut my sorrow and amazement \xe2\x80\x94 they have left them \n\nas they lay \xe2\x80\x94 \nNo tender, thoughtful hand has yet folded these \n\naway ; \nMy rooms restored to order, look as they did before, \nBut will the old look haply to my heart return once \n\nmore ? \n\nI fancied, little daughter, thou hadst flown to my em- \nbrace, \n\nTo fill with thy sweet presence, thy brother\'s empty \nplace ; \n\nI said, " I\'ve had my sorrow ! Now welcome to my \njoy! \n\nHe sends this precious baby who took my only boy !" \n\nWhy flee that place, my darling? why didst thou \n\nbut alight \nA moment there, bright vision ! then take thy speedy \n\nflight ? \nWas it not warm with tenderness, not rich in love \n\nand prayer ; \nAnd sacred to his memory who used to nestle there ? \n\n\n\n120 \n\n\n\nAlas ! alas ! my baby. I loved, I loved thee so ! \nHow eagerly, how thankfully thou surely didst not \n\nknow ; \nHow could that tiny coffin attract thine infant eye ? \nWhy not like other little ones within thy cradle \n\nlie? \n\nDear Lord, have pity on me ! oh, see my idle hands ! \n\nSee how my crib stands empty, how my cradle va- \ncant stands ; \n\nOf my little ones forsaken, hast Thou aught for me \nto do? \n\nWhat shall I turn to now? oh, what path shall I \npursue ? \n\nThou knowest, oh, my Father, what work I love the \n\nbest ; \nThou only knowest how I clasp my children to my \n\nbreast ! \nYet Thou hast taken from me the task I fancied \n\nThine, \nThy hand it has bereft me of the treasures I thought \n\nmine. \n\nOh, let me not distrust Thee in this hour of my dis- \ntress ; \n\nClose, closer to Thy side in my sorrow let me press. \n\nWhat I know not now Thou knowest! On that \nrock I plant my feet ; \n\nOh, blessed Lord, I thank Thee for this refuge, sure \nand sweet. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n121 \n\n\n\nMY NURSERY. 1852. \n\nI thought that prattling boys and girls \n\nWould fill this empty room ; \nThat my rich heart would gather flowers \n\nFrom childhood\'s opening bloom. \n\nOne child and two green graves are mine, \n\nThis is God\'s gift to me ; \nA bleeding, fainting, broken heart \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThis is my gift to Thee. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n* \n\n\n\n\n\n\nVIII. \n\nSorrow blossoming into Sympathy \xe2\x80\x94 Letters to \nan old Schoolmate ; written in 1854-6. \n\n\n\nOh, that this heart with grief so well acquainted, \nMight be a fountain rich and sweet and full \n\nFor all the weary that have fall\'n and fainted \nIn life\'s parched desert, thirsty, sorrowful ! \n\n\n\n* \n\n\n\nVIII. \n\nTo Mrs. M. C. H. C. \n\nNew York, March 25, 1854. \n\nHOW could you say, my dear Carrie, \nthat I don\'t like long letters ! I only wish \nyours had been twice as long, and that you \nhad told me more about yourself and your \nlittle ones \xe2\x80\x94 the one here, and the one \nthere! Knowing that you have a child \nwhere my own two darlings have gone, and \nthinking that they who never met on earth, \nare perhaps meeting there, seems to draw \nme nearer to you than ever. How gladly I \nwould spend days in talking with you over \nall the way in which the Lord has led us \nsince we parted nine eventful years ago ! I \ncan not but think that bereavement of lit- \ntle children is one of our Father\'s chosen \nmethods of best teaching us lessons of \n\n(125) \n\n\n\n* \n\n\n\n126 \n\nwhich we are ignorant, and without which \nfew are fit to live. For how few, how very \nfew parents, but know what it means to lay \naway in the cold earth the little form so \ntenderly cared for and shielded up to that \nhour ! For myself I feel that I have only \nbegun to learn the truths my afflictions \nwere sent to teach me ; it makes my heart \nache to think how little real good they \nhave done me, and how ignorant and blind \nI still am. Yet, I can truly say that I feel \nmyself a favored mother, to have been per- \nmitted to send two of my children away \nfrom my own poor training, my mistakes \nand follies, to the very bosom of the Good \nShepherd. Of those two I may feel assured \nthat they will never sin against God ; never \nfoe guilty of any of my infirmities, or ever \ntaste the bitter fruits of iniquity. How many \ncomforts we have in such sorrows as ours ! \nWhat blessedness in the certainty that it is \nwell with our children ; well beyond our con- \nception ; well forever and ever. \n\n\n\n127 \n\nI feel that you have had a great addition to \nyour affliction in the fact of your husband\'s \nabsence and utter inability perfectly to share \nit, at a distance as he was, and if I understand \nit, of his never having seen his first-born \nson. But doubtless this trying feature of \nyour lot has its own peculiar work to per- \nform, and will bring its own peculiar bless- \ning. I much wonder that I was so long \nignorant of the deaths of your brother and \nyour child ; but about that time we went into \nthe country, where we saw only the city pa- \npers. I assure you, dear Carrie, you have my \nwarmest love and sympathy. If it were pos- \nsible, I would go to Portland this summer, \nand at one time I did think quite seriously \nof going there for some months. But I \ncould not make up my mind to be sepa- \nrated so long from my husband, except in \ncase of need. Should the cholera make its \nappearance here, I may yet be driven away. \nI hope you are not going to California, for \nthough I may never see you, I like to feel \n\n\n\n128 \n\nit not impossible. We ought, both of us, \nto be wiser and better than we were when \nwe parted. \n\nThank you for your interest in my little \nbooks, with which I am much gratified. I \nwould not have you think little Susy a pic- \nture of my A., though many seem to regard \nit so. Unconsciously I suppose I made them \nnot unlike, yet there is hardly a word of \nliteral truth in the whole book. That about \nthe burned fingers is, and some other little \nthings which related to other children ; for \ninstance, Hatty Linton, who is a real child. \nI only tried to make the story true to na- \nture. The other book l I do long to have \ndoing good. I never had such desires about \nanything in my life ; and I never sat down \nto write without first praying that I might \nnot be suffered to write anything that would \ndo harm, and that, on the contrary, I might \nbe taught to say what would do good. And \n\n1 The Flower of the Family. \n\n\n\n129 \n\nit has been a great comfort to me that every \nword of praise I ever have received from \nothers concerning it has been, " // will do \ngood!\' and this I have had from so many \nsources that amid much trial and sickness \never since its publication, I have had rays \nof sunshine creeping in now and then to \ncheer and sustain me. Ill health of the \npeculiar kind under which I suffer is very \ndepressing ; it disposes me to write bitter \nthings against myself, and to think myself \na useless cumberer of the ground, so that I \nreally need the counter stimulus of an ap- \nproving word from those I love. Oh, my \ndear Carrie, how hard it is to live up to \none\'s own ideal ! My own book reproached \nme as I wrote it and reproaches me still, \nand I often wonder how I dared to write \nfor the good of others, when I so poorly \npractice my own doctrine ! \n\nI should love dearly to see your little \ngirl and to have her and my own darling \n\n\n\n130 \n\nknow each other. She is at a sweet age, \nand I trust will be spared to you. I read \nto A. all you wrote about " Maymee," to \nher great delight. Owing to her lonely \nchildhood she is rather too grave and disin- \nclined to go out, or do anything but read ; \nand I was quite amused this morning to \nhear her ask if I did not wish I had a child \nless boyish than herself, when as a matter \nof fact, if I changed her habits at all, it \nwould be to those of more life and frolic. \n\nI don\'t know what Louise * will say to \nme if she knows I have written so long \na letter to you. I am sure I love her dear- \nly, but I feel a sympathy with you beyond \nwhat I can with her, because you are a \nwife and a mother, which makes it easier \n\n\n\n1 Her old Richmond room-mate, Miss A. L. P \nLord. Their friendship remained unbroken to the \nlast. Miss Lord died in 1883, greatly beloved by \nall who knew her. \n\n\n\ni3i \n\n\n\nto write you than her. But I must stop. \nDo write again soon to \n\nYour ever affectionate \n\nLizzy. \n\n\n\nTo the same. \nNew YORK, September 14, 1854. \n\nMy dearest Carrie :\xe2\x80\x94 A few moments \nago, after placing my little M. in her cradle, \nI took up the Mirror and read with an \naching heart the brief notice of the death \nof yours. Is it possible, is it indeed pos- \nsible that you are made childless? Oh, \nwhat a world this is ! what a world ! What \nwould become of us if this were all ! I \nfeel distressed for you, my dear friend ; I \nlong to fly to you and weep with you ; it \nseems as if I must say or do something to \ncomfort you. But God only can help you \nnow, and how thankful I am for a throne \nof grace and power to commend you, again \nand again, to Him who doeth all things \nwell. I never realize my own affliction in \xc2\xbb \n\n\n\nI 3 2 \n\nthe loss of my children, as I do when death \nenters the home of a friend. Then I feel \nthat I can\'t have it so ; I can not be willing \nto know they must suffer so. But why \nshould I think I know better than my \nDivine Master what is good for me, or \ngood for those I love ! Why should I have \nso little faith, so little submission ! Dear \nCarrie, I trust that in this hour of sorrow you \nhave with you that Presence before which \nalone sorrow and sighing will flee away. \nGod is left ; Christ is left ; sickness, acci- \ndent, death, can not touch you here. Is \nnot this a blissful thought ? \n\nYesterday a happy mother came to see \nme, who said with great earnestness that \nall her eight children were yet spared to her \nthrough this sickly season, and that all she \nwanted was gratitude to God. Another the \nday before said very nearly the same thing. \nYet, sanctified bereavement may be sub- \nject of higher and holier gratitude ; who \n\nknows what the light of eternity will re- \n4" \xc2\xbb|* \n\n\n\n133 * \n\nveal concerning these full households and \nyour empty one ? As I sit at my desk my \neye is attracted by the row of books before \nme, and what a comment on life are their \nvery titles ! " Songs in the Night," " Light \non Little Graves," " The Night of Weep- \ning," "The Death of Little Children," \n"The Folded Lamb," "The Broken Bud," \n\xe2\x80\x94 these have strayed one by one into my \nsmall enclosure, to speak peradventure a \nword in season unto my weariness. And \nyet, dear Carrie, this is not all of life. You \nand I have both tasted some of its highest \njoys, as well as its deepest sorrows, and it \nhas in reserve for us only just what is best. \nIf you feel able, do write me all about \nyour dear child. Everything will interest \nme. Since I saw you, another sweet \ndaughter has been lent to me of the Lord. \nLent, LENT, let me repeat to myself in \nremembrance of my own sorrow and of \nyours. She is seven weeks old, and since \nher birth I have not been without care and \n\n\n\n134 \n\ntrial. My husband\'s mother has been \nlying, for weeks, very ill with dysentery ; \nand fatigue and anxiety brought on him a \nsimilar attack, which, however, proved less \nsevere, and he is now able to go to see her, \nthough not strong enough to preach. I \nhave been obliged to neglect my baby in \nmy care of these two, and to-day for the \n\nfirst time washed and dressed her \n\nMy trials have made me feel during the \nlast seven weeks that to have no God, is to \nhave nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing. \nI write in great haste, hardly knowing \nwhat ; I only want to express my hearty \nsympathy with you, and to have you know \nhow much nearer and dearer sorrow brings \nyou to my heart. . May it bring us both \nnearer to Christ ! * \n\n\n\n1 What a comforter she was ! The letter I received \nfrom her after the birth of my first-born, I shall never \nforget. I had taken my three years\' old daughter to \nChicago, where my husband was going into business. \nShe was a child of remarkable attractiveness and in- \ntelligence, and my whole being was wrapped up, as it \n\n\n\n135 \n\n\n\nTo the same. \n\nNew York, October 19, 1854. \nI read your letter, my dear Carrie, with \nmany tears, and in my heart have answered \nit twenty times. This morning I do not \nfeel as if I could do anything but commune \nwith some one who knows what sorrow \nmeans, for I am oppressed with heavy care. \nBy this time I trust you are established \n\n\n\nwere, in hers. She seemed blessed with abounding \nhealth when we left Portland, but almost directly on \nour reaching C, was taken ill ; and among strangers \nin a strange land her life went out in ten days after \nour arrival. When all was over, I gave out utterly, \nand for days lay on my bed, conscious only of a long- \ning to die, and wondering why I could not die. The \nlast words of my darling, as she clung in my arms, \nhad been, "Come after me, mamma, you come after \nme." This seemed to me my call\xe2\x80\x94 to follow after my \nchild \xe2\x80\x94 and so the dreary days wore on. One morn- \ning my husband brought me from the P. O. (into \nwhich he had accidentally strayed) a letter from New \nYork, saying, " Whom do you think it can be from ?\'\xc2\xbb \nI grasped it and recognized the handwriting. Then a \nsudden revulsion of feeling in my weak state brought \non a spasm. After a while I read the letter, and oh, \nhow it went to my heart ! Lizzy, too, had been be- \n\n\n\n136 \n\nagain in Portland, where I may hope oc- \ncasionally to see you. How painful was \nthe providence that sent you to a land of \nstrangers to meet affliction ! But to your \ndear little lamb, it was but a brief sojourn \nthere, a sort of entrance-way to the gates \nof Paradise, and the fold of the Good \nShepherd. Blessed will be the day that \npermits us to go where she has gone. We \nshall then look back upon life and its dis- \n\n\n\nreaved ; she, too, had suffered (I recalled a precious \nletter written in 1852, after the death of Eddy and \nBessie\xe2\x80\x94 a letter whose loss I have bitterly regretted) ; \nand I said to myself, "Is it right to give myself up to \nsuch grief ? May it not be God\'s will that, for my \nhusband\'s sake, I should live?" Well, I was fairly \naroused, lifted up, placed upon my feet, and by the \ngrace of God have continued unto this day. This was \ntwenty-nine years ago. Lizzy did not know of my re- \nmoval from Portland, until she read in the Christian \nMirror a notice of the death at C. Instantly she was \nprompted to write, directing simply to Chicago. Our \nletters were always brought to the house, addressed \nto the care of Mr. C.\'s friend. I have ever felt that \nthere was something providential in my receiving that \nletter, so full of sympathy, tenderness, pathos ! It \ntouched me as if inspired. \xe2\x80\x94 [From a letter of Mrs \n\nC , dated Portland, Oct. 24, 1883 ] \n\n4* * \n\n\n\n\xc2\xbb 137 \n\ncipline from the right point, and see the \n" needs be " for it all. When I last wrote \nyou, I did not like to thrust my own sorrow \nand care upon you in the midst of your over- \nwhelming affliction, and it was selfish in me \neven to allude to it. Yet I had a sort of \nfeeling that to think of me as rejoicing \nover a new-born child, while you were \nmourning the loss of yours, would some- \nwhat jar upon your heart, which would \nturn for sympathy to the bereaved and not \n\nthe triumphant mother The dear \n\nlittle creature can not raise her head, or \nsupport it a second if we raise it for \nher, and my own opinion, in which I think \nthe doctor now coincides, is that she never \nwill sit upright, much less stand upon her \nfeet. She has emaciated to such a degree \nthat it distresses me to look at her puny \nface and great bright eyes, and the doctor \nhas ordered a wet-nurse, under whose wing \nshe now sleeps, while I, poor anxious \nmother, am turned out of my nursery that \n\n\n\n* 138 * \n\na stranger may do what I most delighted \nin doing, and for want of which I feel lost. \n.... Poor little afflicted darling ! My faith \nhas staggered under this new blow, and I \nblush to tell how hard I find it to say \ncheerfully -, " Thy will be done ! " But \nrather than not learn thus to say it, let me \ngo on to suffer as long as I live ! Dear \nCarrie, the hand of the Lord is on us both ; \nlet us yield ourselves to His pleasure. Oh, \nhow I do wish, do long to feel an entire, \nunquestioning submission to Him who \npities while He afflicts me ! \n\nI feel much for you and think of you \nevery day, praying that the Lord will \nrefine you in the furnace, and so make you \nmore and more meet for His service here, \nand His presence hereafter. I do trust He \ncomforts you with His presence now, and \nthat you enjoy that of which I now and \nthen catch a blissful glimpse : the sweet- \nness of submission. I can almost fancy \nthat my little Eddy has taken your little \n>j< Maymee by the hand and led her to the^ \n\n\n\n* 139 * \n\nbosom of Jesus. How strange that our \nchildren, even our little infants, have seen \nHim in His glory, whom we are only yet \nlonging for and struggling towards ! A \nstruggle indeed it is to me ; I am so little \nin faith, so strong in will, so determined to \nseek enjoyment away from God. How \ngood He is to condescend to go on year \nafter year, correcting, restraining, teaching \nus, if haply we will at last give up striving \nagainst Him, and yield ourselves to His \nwill ! Oh, may He hasten on that blessed \nday when we shall know no will but His! \nDear Carrie, do write often to me ; tell me \nwhat new thoughts and feelings this sor- \nrow is stirring in your heart ; how you \nspend the time that used to be your child\'s, \nand how you speed on your pilgrimage \ntowards that better country whither we are \nbound. I can not tell you how I feel for \nyou, nor how much I think of you in your \nlonely hours. \n\nAs ever, affectionately yours, \n\n\xe2\x99\xa6 Lizzy. * \n\n\n\n. 14\xc2\xb0 \n\nTo the same. \nNew York, February 4, 1856. \nMy dear Carrie :\xe2\x80\x94 If I had been sure \nanything could be said to soothe or relieve \nyou, I should have answered your letter as \nsoon as it was received. But if submission \nto God\'s will is what you need for your \nsolace (and I think it is), this is His gift ; \nand He alone can bestow it. Human sym- \npathy and human aid are useless here. \nOur sorrows are hard enough to bear when \nborne in unquestioning assent and patience. \nThey must be insupportable when yielded \nto only as to the inevitable. I have found \nit very useful in studying my heavenly \nFather\'s dealings with me, to ask myself how \nI would have my child demean herself when \nunder my discipline. Everything of docil- \nity, patience, humility, and repentance I \nrequire or desire to see in her, He has \nmore right and reason to require from me. \nHe does not want me to ask questions \nabout the mode or time of chastisement, \n>j\xc2\xab or to struggle with Him when I see the blow>j< \n\n\n\n141 \n\ncoming. He wants me to submit. He \nwants me even to choose to be smitten, to \nthank Him for it with tenderness and con- \ntrition, owning it was what I needed and \n\ndeserved Penitence comes before \n\nsubmission, and penitence is God\'s gift ; \nand He is just as willing to grant that as \nany other of His mercies. When God gave \nyou your sweet little Maymee, He had \nalready ordained that you should keep her \nonly a little while. He sent you to Chica- \ngo. He arranged that great aggravation \nof your affliction, that she should die in a \nstrange land. So you have nothing to do \nwith the question, whether it was wise to \ngo there or not. I took my little Eddy on \nno journey ; he was smitten down at home, \nsurrounded by watch and care. Should I \nsay, " Oh, if I had only taken him away he \nwould have lived ! " Such thoughts only \ntorture. They do no good, but sour and \nembitter the heart already wounded and in \nneed of solace rather than aggravation. \n\n\n\n42 \n\n\n\nAnd the solace is at hand. God, my Fa- \nther \xe2\x80\x94 my Father who loves me \xe2\x80\x94 He has af- \nflicted me ; and He makes no mistakes. I \nhave asked Him a thousand times to wean \nme from this world, and He is answering my \nprayers. Shall I dispute with Him about \nHis methods? Shall I pretend to know a \nbetter way than His infinite wisdom has \nplanned ? Oh, my dear Carrie, how often \nhave I walked my room, struggling after \nthe sweet peace and comfort to be found \nin such thoughts ; for, do not for a moment \nfancy that because I venture to write \nto you on this subject I have already at- \ntained that entire, unfaltering submission, \ntowards which I aim. All I have attained \nis a great longing for it. Sometimes I walk \nup and down for hours, chafed and torn by \nthe wild beast that rages in my soul, refus- \ning to yield, refusing to be comforted. But \nI look upon myself at such times as a \ngrievous sinner, and there are moments \nwhen I can see afar off in the distance. \n\n\n\nF 143 ft \n\nsweet peace and holy submission which \nshall one day be mine. Oh, let us study \nour blessed Master\'s will more and more, \ntill the time comes when we shall learn to \ncount our mercies and be silent concerning \nour sorrows, and shall ask nothing, care for \nnothing, but to be like Him whose name \nwe bear. \n\nSince I received your letter, we have \nbeen greatly moved by a new alarm con- \ncerning our dear little daughter. She is \nnow eighteen months old, a sweet age, and \nwe had begun to feel that she might yet \nenjoy life and help us to enjoy it. She \nwas suddenly taken ill a few nights ago ; \nand lay about twelve hours at the very \ndoor of death. The doctor gave us no hope, \nsupposing her to be dying when he came \nin, and only suggesting that she might get \nthrough the night. She was quite insensi- \nble through the whole, and so nearly gone \nthat her little hands were cold, purple, and \nstiff. It was a very dreary night. The \n\n\n\n144 \n\nsuddenness of the blow made it startling. \nFive minutes before she became insensible \nshe was playing peep, and appearing unusu- \nally bright and well. Her little blue frock \nand white apron were lying in her basket \njust as they were taken off a few minutes \nbefore, and it seemed to me I must see her \nin them once more ; and my heart ached \nso for poor A., already bereft of her \nplaymates, and whose love for her lit- \ntle sister is so tender and thoughtful. God \nspared her, is still sparing her ; but at any \nmoment she is likely to be snatched away. \nHer father feels, as I do, that while the \nsuspense is very hard to bear, every week \nshe lives will be something to remember \nand enjoy, after she is gone. She is very, \nvery dear to us. \n\nEddy\'s little sayings still comfort and \nare precious to us. We rejoice that we \nhad him three years. Life looks more and \nmore to me like a weary pilgrimage which \nI am making towards a home. I pray God \n\n\n\n145 \n\nit may always seem so, and that I may \nforever turn my back on the world and set \nmy face towards Him. Prosperity I begin \nto dread more than adversity. \n\n" Nearer, my God, to Thee ! Nearer to Thee ! \nE\'en though it be a cross that raiseth me." \n\n" The Folded Lamb " is the history of a \nvery remarkable little boy, three years old, \nwho died in England. My copy is lent, \nand I fear lost, or I would send it to you. \nIt would not afford you any special comfort, \nbut it is always some solace to a bereaved \nmother to read about other sweet children, \nlikewise " folded " by the Good Shepherd. \nHe was the most wonderful child I ever \nheard of. If it will not frighten you to \nown a Unitarian book, there is one called \n" Christian Consolations," by Rev. A. P. \nPeabody, that I think you would find very \nprofitable. I see nothing, or next to noth- \ning, Unitarian in it, while it is full of rich, \nholy experience. One sermon, on " Con- \n\n\n\n146 \n\ntingent Events and Providence," touches \nyour case exactly. As to my last little \nbook, I do not suppose\' you would care \nanything about it, as it is for little children \nof eight years. I began another Susy \nbook, but can not do much when so rest- \nless, though what I can do is a pleasant \nresource. If I could cry, I do not think I \nshould write books. But there must be \nsome vent to the activity of brain afflic- \ntion creates. I should love to see your little \nEmma. Count your mercies, dear Carrie. \nWhat would you do with your time, if she \ndid not occupy it? As to Maymee, you \nknow you have not lost her; she is only \ngone home first, and is waiting ; and as Mr. \nPeabody suggests, praying for you there. \nI have written a long letter, and hope to \nget a long answer. \n\nWith best love, as ever, \n\nLizzy. \n\n\n\nIX. \n\nThe bright Side of Sorrow \xe2\x80\x94 Letters written \nin 1858-9 and 1866. \n\n\n\nCome unto me, my kindred ! I enfold you \nIn an embrace to sufferers only known ; \n\nClose to this heart I tenderly will hold you, \nSuppress no sigh, keep back no tear, no groan, \n\n\n\nIX. \n\n\n\nTo Mrs. S. H. \n\nNew York, January 20, 1858. \n\nMY DEAR COUSIN : \xe2\x80\x94 I have just heard, \nwith great pain, of the death of your dear \nlittle boy, and most heartily wish I could \nsay or do something to comfort you. \nThere is, indeed, not much that the ten- \nderest sympathy can do in such affliction as \nyours, and all ordinary sources of consola- \ntion are a painful mockery to the breaking \nheart. I know it by my own experience ; \nit did me no good to hear people say, \n" Your child is better off ; he might have \nlived to give you great pain " \xe2\x80\x94 for I felt it \nto be equally true that he might have lived \nto give me great joy, and that my intense \nlove for him might have made even this \n* (149) 4. \n\n\n\n150 \n\nweary world a happy home to him. But \nthe simple thought, " God has done this ; \nHe, who never makes a mistake, has done \nthis "; has it not infinite consolation ? \n\nFaith grows strong when great demands \nare made upon it, and yours truly needs \nstrength, for I do feel that you are sorely \nsmitten. You have your prayers for entire \nsanctification very painfully answered. But \nbesides the rest the soul finds in just sub- \nmitting to God\'s will, there is comfort in \nknowing that this will is not arbitrary ; \nthat the blow may do for us what smiles \nand gifts never did and never can do. I \nlook with a certain joy on the afflicted \nchild of God, because I know he will have \nto run to Christ for refuge, and that he \nwill find what he seeks. This is truly a \nsorrowful world ; everybody is tried and \ntempted and afflicted. How few parents \nthere are who never lost a child ! And is \nit true, is it really true, that the mother \nwho has never known this sorrow, this in- \n\n\n\n151 v \n\ncurable sorrow, is the mother most to be \nenvied ? Do not disappointment and sor- \nrow bear the best fruit ? \n\nI know this world never can seem to you \nas it did before you lost your precious \nboy ; but then think how many, many \ntimes you have prayed to be weaned from \nit. All the Christian needs to help him to \nbear its trials and losses is a quiet submis- \nsion to God\'s will, and a holy courage to \nendure the pain. Pain I know there must \nbe ; no manner of consolation can help \nthat ; and when the mind is once convinced \nof this, and sits patiently down content to \nsuffer, or, what is better, rises up cheerfully, \nthough still suffering, the battle is half won. \nSome one has said she would not be the \nonly unchastened child in her Father\'s \nhouse, if she could ; I doubt not you can \nand do say so too, and that if a wish could \nrecall your dear child, you would not \nbreathe the wish. Oh, how good God is \nnot to give us over to our own way ; not \n\n\n\n152 \n\nto tempt us with too great prosperity ; not \nto grant us our request and send leanness \ninto our souls ! I trust and pray, my dear \ncousin, that He will be very near you now \nand evermore, giving you such communion \nwith Himself, such peace in believing, such \nhope of heaven, such sweet submission as \nare better than ten sons. \n\nI fear I have not said much to comfort \nyou, though I did long to do so ; but I \nknow you will accept the wish. Give my \nlove to Mary. She is afflicted in your \naffliction, I know ; but I know, too, that \nshe is one who understands the blessed \nuses of sorrow and pain. \n\nYours affectionately, \n\nLizzy. \n\nMr. P. joins me in every expression of \nsympathy ; and as to the bright side of \nsorrow, he feels just as I do. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n153 \n\n\n\nTo Mrs. R. K. M. \n\nMontreux, October 24, 1858. \n\nMy dear Cousin : \xe2\x80\x94 What was my grief \nand pain on taking up the paper, which \nhad been lying round unread for more \nthan a week, to see the notice of the \ndeath of your dear little Katie. I read \nand re-read it, hoping to find, in my selfish- \nness, that it was somebody else\'s Katie \nand not yours. I was thinking of you, \nwhen I took up the paper, and saying to \nmyself what a long letter I was going to \nwrite ; but now I feel little heart to write, \nand you will feel no heart to read a word. \nNow I realize that there is an ocean be- \ntween us which not only forbids my flying \nto see you, but which will for months, per- \nhaps, keep me in ignorance of your state \nbeyond the one bare sad fact which a news- \npaper has cruelly told me. Dear Hatty, \nmy heart aches for you. That little, bright, \nsweet face is vividly before me. I know \n\n\n\nT 154 T \n\nyour motherly heart, your anxious temper, \nand how many trials and sorrows you have \nalready passed through, and tremble lest \nthis blow should quite crush you ; and I \ncan not help fearing, that whatever disease \nsnatched her from you, may have assailed \nthe other children also. \n\nThis is, indeed, a weary world ; and at \ntimes when I think of losing my children, \nI almost triumph in the thought of the \nheart-sickness, the sorrow, and the conflict \nthey would escape by an early death. But \nthis is not the Christian source of consola- \ntion, for at best it is a partial and fitful \none. The real solace, the true refuge, I \ndo not doubt you have found, for God \ndoes not deal such blows as that under \nwhich you are weeping without giving \ngrace and strength to bear them. I often \nused to wonder how a devoted mother ever \nlived through the loss of a child, bone of \nher bone and flesh of her flesh ; and I \nnever knew, till I learned the sorrow my. \n\n\n\n155 \n\nself, what secret springs of holy peace and \njoy He could make it afford. It is, indeed, \nsuch a joy and peace as the world knows \nnothing about, and must needs be mixed \nwith tears and groans as long as we dwell \nhere upon earth. Dear little Katie ! happy \nlittle Katie ! she never will know what this \nhard world can do to us ! She never can \nknow the anguish of remorse or the pangs \nof a heart out of harmony with itself ! \nHer sunny little life knew nothing about \nclouds and darkness, and never can. I \nlong to learn every particular about her,/ \nand if you do not feel able to write, I hope- \ndear Mary will. How glad I am that youi \nhave her faithful heart to lean on in your \naffliction. \n\nWe have taken rooms here, and are keep- \ning house in a pleasant situation near the \nlake of Geneva, but neither George or my- \nself is well enough to thoroughly enjoy \nour comforts or our advantages. I see \nnow that he did not stop working am^ \n\n\n\ni 5 6 \n\ntoo soon, and that a little delay would \nhave been fatal. \n\n\n\nTo the same. \nMontreux, Ja,7iitary 13, 1859. \n\nMy poor, darling Hatty: \xe2\x80\x94 I have \njust received dear Mary\'s letter, which has \nmade my heart ache for you, and I hardly \nfeel as if I could wait for a letter to go all \nthe way to New York before you can hear \nhow I long to do something, or say some- \nthing, to comfort you. Oh, what a dread- \nful world this is, and how happy are your \nthree blessed little ones to have left its sins \nand sorrows forever behind them ! There \nare times when the burden of life seems \ntoo hard to bear, and yet we must go strug- \ngling and toiling on, dragging it on with \nus as best we can. Dear little Rufie ! So \nfull of health and beauty ! It did seem as \nif he could not be sick and die! I know \nwhat it is to be left with an only child, and \n\n\n\n157 \n\nall the torture and solicitude of having \nonly one left. But it is true, as George \nsaid when we finished reading Mary\'s let- \nter, that losing a baby a month old is not \nlike giving up such a child as Rufie. God \nonly can give you strength to endure all \nHe has laid upon you ; and one source of \nearthly comfort lies open to every broken \nand bruised heart, which we are perhaps \ntoo apt to forget. It is the avoidance of \ncomparisons \xe2\x80\x94 the not allowing ourselves to \ncast one envying glance on other house- \nholds where sickness and sorrow seem to \nbe almost unknown. If we only can wait \ntill the end we shall see all these mysteries \nexplained ; why you should bear children \nonly to lose them with tenfold the anguish \nthe bearing cost you, and why many a \nmother sees her table surrounded with hap- \npy faces, and not one vacant place. \n\n\n\nSoon and forever \nThe breaking of day \n\n\n\ni 5 8 \n\nShall drive all the night-clouds \n\nOf sorrow away. \nWe\'ll see as we\'re seen \n\nAnd learn the deep meaning \nOf things that have been, \n\nWhen tears and when fears \nAnd when death shall be never, \n\nChristians with Christ shall be \nSoon, and forever." \n\nWhen I think of all your many trials \nand afflictions, dear Hatty, how great is \nthe sum of them ! And knowing as well \nas I do all the sweet uses of sorrow, if it \nwere left to me or any earthly friend who \nloves you to say whether you should ever \nhave another, how we should exclaim and \nprotest against it. And yet how much \nbetter God loves you than we do, and how \nwell He knew, when He gave you those \ndear children, what He was going to do \nwith them and with you. Notwithstand- \ning all He knew you would suffer, He \nwho is very pitiful and of tender mercy \nlet the blow fall. It is a mystery \xe2\x80\x94 but \n\n\n\n*r 159 * \n\na mystery of love \xe2\x80\x94 just as all the pain- \nful remedies you used for dear little \nKatie and Rufie would have seemed to \nthem if they could have reasoned about it. \n" How strange," little Rufie might have \nsaid, " if my mother loves me that she \ngives me medicines that make me so sick ! " \nOh, dear Hatty, why can we not have more \nfaith ? with it we might bear any and every- \nthing ! I know it, I see it ; but my faith \nis like a grain of mustard-seed. The least \nthing sets me to crying out : " What a \nmiserable sinner I must be since God finds \nit needful so to harass and disappoint and \nweary me ! " when I ought rather to ex- \nclaim : " How my blessed Master proves \nHis love for me, a sinner, in not leaving \nme to the temptations of worldly felicity ! " \nBut if we do see through a glass, darkly, \nnow, it will not always be so. " Soon, and \nforever," dear Hatty, you will see " face \nto face "; you will fall down and worship \nHim who took away little Eddie, Katie, \n\n\n\ni6o \n\n\n\nand Rufie, and look back on all your suffer- \nings with the smile of one who has fought \nthe fight, whose battle is ended, and whose \nvictory is won. I do not doubt that even \nthis world may yet afford you some joys \nand alleviations, for all is not lost ; but it \nnever can seem a real home to one who has \nso often experienced its tribulations as you \nhave. Your only deep and abiding and \nsatisfying happiness must be in God \xe2\x80\x94 in \ntrying to live for Him, and in doing and \nsuffering His will. May He comfort you \nas no earthly friend can even try to do, and \ngrant you His peace. \n\nDear little M., how her childhood has \nbeen clouded ! Tell her we all love her, \nand wish we could have her here a little \nwhile to tell her so. I am sure she will \nalways be a good child when she remem- \nbers that three little angels are watching \nand praying for her. \n\nThe mail that brought Mary\'s letter, also \nannounced the death of my dear friend, \n\n\n\n\xc2\xab* 161 \n\nMrs. Wain w right, whose loss to me is irrep- \narable, for she was like a mother to me. \nThe news came like a thunderclap. I do \nnot know that I ever doubted seeing her \nagain ; she had lived through such a long \nand dangerous illness since we knew her \nthat I fancied her life sure for many years. \nAt any rate I loved her most heartily, and \nher death makes me tremble when letters \ncome in lest I hear of another loss. \n\n\n\nTo Mrs. M. R. B. \n\nDorset, August 26, 1866. \n\nMy dear Mrs. B. : \xe2\x80\x94 I have been lying \non the bed trying to get a little rest before \nwriting you, but my eyes keep filling with \ntears and will not let me sleep. Dear, dar- \nling little Johnnie ! All the wealth of affec- \ntion lavished on him could not keep him \naway from his real home ! I have been think- \ning with what acclamations we all welcomed \n\n\n\n1 62 \n\n\n\nhim when he lighted down upon us, and of \nthe yet more wondrous joy with which he \nhas been met on the threshold of heaven. \nHow could we have failed to foresee that \nthis pure and spiritual little creature was \nsent here but for a brief mission, and must \ninevitably be recalled when his errand was \ndone. For whether we ever know it or \nnot, God knows that this little brief life \nhad a ministry of its own, and that a far- \nreaching one. I almost envy him, that " he \nhas so easily won his crown, while we must \ngo on fighting for ours." But for you and for \nyou all how sorry, how sorry I am, that you \nare passing through the weariness and pain- \nfulness of a new sorrow, which will revive \nevery one of the past, and make you trem- \nble for the precious things still left you. I \nam sure I need not say that I pray for . \nyou with all my heart, that God would \ncomfort you and keep you. He can ; and \nno human sympathy is of much avail. You \nhave been longing and yearning for more \n\n\n\nI63 \n\nperfect union to Christ, and He has per- \nhaps chosen to answer your prayers in this \nway \xe2\x80\x94 painful now and very hard to bear \nbut afterward it may yield the peaceable \nfruits of righteousness. How often we \ncry \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n" Nearer, my God, to Thee ! Nearer to Thee, \nE\'en tho\' it be a cross that raiseth me ! " \n\n\n\nand then when He takes us at our word, \nhow we shudder and shrink from the very \nsuffering we have invoked. \n\nYou are still very rich in children, who \nwill do all they can to comfort you. But \nthis is a great blow for them with their \nkeen sensibilities, and you will feel their \nsorrow as well as your own. Give my love \nto them, every one ; give my dear little G. \na special kiss for me ; how I should love to \nsee that sunny head moving about, as we \ndid last summer ! I dare not weary you \nwith a longer letter, though I could go on \nwriting all night. Annie sends a great deal \n\n\n\nof love to you and to all the children. Re- \nmember me to your husband, who I know \nwill deeply feel this sorrow, and believe me \nMost affectionately yours, \n\nE. Prentiss. \n\n\n\nOH, DARLING LITTLE BABY. \n\nOh, darling little baby, \nHow glad we are you\'ve come ! \nAnd now we\'ll bid you welcome, \nWe\'ll sing you welcome home. \nWe\'ll love you dearly, baby, \nWe\'ll love you night and day \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd Jesus, too, will love you \nAnd keep all harm away. \nWe\'ll love, we\'ll love, \nYes, love, love, love. \n\nYou are so pure, \n\nYou are so dear, \n\nWe\'re all so glad that you are here, \n\nWe\'re all, we\'re all so glad that you are here. \n\nOh, darling baby brother, \nWe\'re glad that you are here, \nAnd all your little cooings \nAre music to our ear ; \n\n\n\n\n\n\n* \n\n\n\n165 \n\nWe long to have you with us, \nWithin our happy band, \nTo kiss and to caress you \nAnd touch your little hand. \nWe love, we love, \nYes, love, love, love. \n\nYou are so pure, \n\nYou are so dear, \n\nWe\'re all so glad that you are here, \n\nWe\'re all, we\'re all so glad that you are here. 1 \n\n1 These lines were written by Mrs. Prentiss after the birth \nof our little Johnnie. Nine little voices were trained by her \ndaughter A. , and the lines were sung; under my window just be- \nfore the setting of the sun, when he was but a few days old. \nTo me the music seemed as from the spirit land, welcoming \nour darling child* One short year, and he was called to that \nland, verifying her own words : \n\n" That child will be a saint." \n\nNovember 5, 1S79. M. R. B. \n\n\n\nX. \n\n\n\nWitnessing for Christ as Healer of the broken- \nhearted \xe2\x80\x94 Letters written in 1870-2 \xe2\x80\x94 " The \nMother "\xe2\x80\x94"Is it well with the Child 2 "\xe2\x80\x94 \n" Is it well with thee ? " \n\n\n\nDear Lord, my heart was but a willful thing, \nStrong in its strength, and ever on the wing ; \nIt needed mastership, and Thou hast claimed it, \nIt needed taming, and Thy hand has tamed it. \nNow, gentle, peaceful, harmless as a dove, \nIt lives as erst it lived its life, in love ; \nLove to all living things that Thou hast made, \nA love that is all sunshine without shade. \nThy fair, green earth is dotted as with flowers, \nWith little human souls, and blissful hours \nI spend in blessed ministries to them. \nAh, many a flower I gather, many a gem ! \nAnd I have Thee ! \n\n\n\nX. \n\n\n\nTo Mrs. F. F. \n\nNew York, October 19, 1870. \nMy DEAR Mrs. F. : \xe2\x80\x94 I deeply appreciate \nthe Christian kindness that prompted you \nto write me in the midst of your sorrow. \nI was prepared for the sad news by a \ndream, only last night. I fancied myself \nseeing your dear little boy lying very rest- \nlessly on his bed, and proposing to carry \nhim about in my arms to relieve him. He \nmade no objection, and I walked up and \ndown with him a long, long time, when \nsome one of the family took him from me. \nInstantly his face was illumined by a won- \ndrous smile of delight that he was to leave \nthe arms of a stranger and go to those fa- \nmiliar to him ; such a smile, that when I \n* (169) * \n\n\n\n170 \n\nawoke this morning, I said to myself, " Ed- \ndie F. has gone to the arms of his Sav- \niour, and gone gladly." You can imagine \nhow your letter, an hour or two later, \ntouched me. \n\nBut you have better consolations than \ndreams can give : the belief that your child \nwill develop without spot or wrinkle or \nany such thing, into the perfect likeness \nof Christ, and in your own submission to \nthe unerring will of God. I sometimes \nthink that patient sufferers suffer most ; \nthey make less outcry than others, but the \ngrief that has little vent wears sorely. \n\n"Grace does not steel the faithful heart, \nThat it should feel no ill." \n\n.And you have many a pang yet before \nyou. It must be so very hard to see twin \nchildren part company, to have their paths \ndiverge so soon. But the shadow of death \nwill not always rest on your home ; you \nwill emerge from its obscurity into such a \n\n\n\n171 \n\nlight as they who have never sorrowed can \nnot know. We never know, or begin to \nknow, the great Heart that loves us best, \ntill we throw ourselves upon it in the \nhour of our despair. Friends say and do \nall they can for us, but they do not \nknow what we suffer or what we need ; but \nChrist, who formed, has penetrated the \ndepths of the mother\'s heart. He pours in \nthe wine and the oil that no human hand \npossesses, and "as one whom his mother \ncomforteth, so will He comfort you." \n\nYou know, perhaps, that I once had a \nlittle Eddy ; three months after his death \nmy Bessie went ; then came the far greater \npain of seeing my poor M. a constant inva- \nlid for seven years. Wave after wave ; and \nyet I have lived to thank God for it all, and \nto see that He never was so good to me as \nwhen He seemed most severe. Thus I \ntrust and believe it will be with you and \nyour husband. Meanwhile, while the peace- \nable fruits are growing and ripening, may \n\n\n\n172 \n\nGod help you through the grievous time \nthat must pass ; a grievous time, in which \nyou have my warm sympathy; I know, \nonly too well, all about it. \n\n" I know my griefs, but then my consolations, \nMy joys, and my immortal hopes I know " \xe2\x80\x94 \n\njoys unknown to the prosperous, hopes \nthat spring from seed long buried in the \ndust. \n\nI shall read your books with great inter- \nest, I am sure, and who knows how God \nmeans to prepare you for future usefulness \nalong the path of pain ? \n\n" Every branch that beareth fruit, He \npurgeth it, that it may bring forth more \nfruit." \n\nWith kindest regards to Mr. F., \nI am affectionately yours, \n\nE. Prentiss. \n\nWhat an epitaph your boy\'s own words \nwould be, " It is beautiful to be dead ! " \n\n\n\n173 \n\n\n\nTo the same. \nNew York, November 30, 1870. \nMy DEAR Mrs. F. :\xe2\x80\x94 I thank you so \nmuch for your letter about your precious \nchildren. I remember them well, all three, \nand do not wonder that the death of your \nfirst-born, coming upon the very footsteps \nof sorrow, has so nearly crushed you. 1 \nBut what beautiful consolations God gave \nyou by his dying bed \xe2\x80\x94 " All safe at God\'s \nright hand." What more can the fondest \nmother\'s heart ask than such safety as \nthis ? I am sure that there will come to \nyou, sooner or later, the sense of Christ\'s \nlove in these repeated sorrows, that in your \npresent bewildered, amazed state you can \nhardly realize. Let me tell you that I have \ntried His heart in a long storm, not so very \n\n\n\n1 Edward S. died October 14, 1870, aged eight \nyears; Amy Gertrude died November 5, aged one \nyear; Alfred B. died November 12, aged thirteen \nyears. \n\n\n\n1/4 \n\ndifferent from yours, and that I know some- \nthing of its depths. I will enclose some \nlines that may give you a moment\'s light ; \nplease not to let them go out of your hands, \nfor no one, not even my husband, has ever \nseen them. \n\nTo go back again to the subject of \nChrist\'s love for us, of which I never tire, \nI want to make you feel that His sufferers \nare His happiest, most favored disciples. \nWhat they learn about Him, His pitiful- \nness, His unwillingness to hurt us, His \nhaste to bind up the very wounds He. has \ninflicted, endear Him so, that at last they \nburst out into songs of thanksgiving that \nHis " donation of bliss " included in it such \ndonation of pain. Perhaps I have already \nsaid to you, for I am fond of saying it, \n\n"The love of Jesus, what it is \nOnly His sufferers know." \n\n\n\nYou ask if your heart will ever be light- \nsome again ? Never again with the light- \n\n\n\n175 \n\nsomeness that had never known sorrow ; \nbut light even to gaiety with the new and \nhigher love born of tribulation. Just as \nfar as a heavenly is superior to even ma- \nternal love, will be the elevation and beauty \nof your new joy \xe2\x80\x94 a joy worth all it costs. \nI know what sorrow means ; I know it \nwell ; but I know, too, what it is to pass \nout of that prison-house into a peace that \npasses all understanding; and thousands \ncan say the same. So, my dear, suffering \nsister, look on and look up ; lay hold on \nChrist with both your poor, empty hands ; \nlet Him do with you what seemeth Him \ngood ; though He slay you, still trust in \nHim, and I dare, in His name, to promise \nyou a sweeter, better life than you could \nhave known had He left you to drink of \nthe full, dangerous cups of unmingled pros- \nperity. I feel such real and living sym- \npathy with you that I would love to spend \nweeks by your side trying to bind up your \nbroken heart. But for the gospel of Christ, \n\n\n\n176 \n\nto hear of such bereavements as yours \nwould appall, would madden one. Yet \nwhat a halo surrounds that word " but" / \nEver affectionately yours, \n\nE. Prentiss. \n\n\n\nTo the same. \nNew York, January 8, 1871. \nIf I need make any apology for writing \nyou so often, it must be this \xe2\x80\x94 I can not \nhelp it. Having dwelt long in an obscure, \noftentimes dark valley, and then passed \nout into a bright plane of life, I am full of \ntender yearnings over other souls, and \nwould gladly spend my whole time and \nstrength for them. I long especially to \nsee your feet established on the immovable \nRock. It seems to me that God is prepar- \ning you for great usefulness by the fiery \ntrial of your faith \xe2\x80\x94 " They learn in suffering \nwhat they teach in song." Oh, how true \nthis is. Who is so fitted to sing praises to \n\n\n\n* 177 * \n\nChrist as he who has learned Him in hours \nof bereavement, disappointment, and de- \nspair ? \n\nWhat you want is to let your intellect \ngo overboard, if need be, and to take what \nGod gives just as a little child takes it, \nwithout money and without price. Faith \nis His, unbelief ours. No process of reason- \ning can soothe a mother\'s empty, aching \nheart, or bring Christ into it to fill up all \nthat great waste room. But faith can ; \nand faith is His gift ; a gift to be won by \nprayer \xe2\x80\x94 prayer persistent, patient, deter- \nmined ; prayer that will take no denial ; \nprayer that if it goes away one day unsatis- \nfied, keeps on saying, " Well, there\'s to-mor- \nrow and to-morrow and to-morrow ; God \nmay wait to be gracious, and I can wait to \nreceive, but receive I must and will." This \nis what the Bible means when it says, " The \nkingdom of heaven suffereth violence, and \nthe violent take it by force." It does not \nsay the eager, the impatient take it by \n4 \xe2\x99\xa6 \n\n\n\ni 7 8 \n\n\n\nforce, but the violent \xe2\x80\x94 they who declare, \n" I will not let Thee go except Thou bless \nme." This is all heart, not head work. Do \nI know what I am talking about ? Yes, I do ; \nbut my intellect is of no use to me when \nmy heart is breaking. I must get down on \nmy knees and own that I am less than \nnothing ; seek God, not joy ; consent to \nsuffer, not cry for relief. And how tran- \nscendency good He is when He brings me \ndown to that low place and there shows \nme that that self-renouncing, self-despairing \nspot is just the one where He will stoop to \nmeet me ! \n\nMy dear friend., don\'t let this great \ntragedy of sorrow fail to do everything for \nyou. It is a dreadful thing to lose chil- \ndren ; but a lost sorrow is the most fearful \nexperience life can bring. I feel this so \nstrongly that I could go on writing all day. \nIt has been said that the intent of sorrow \nis to " toss us on to God\'s promises." Alas, \nthese waves too often toss us away out to \n\n\n\n1/9 \n\nsea, where neither sun nor stars appear for \nmany days. I pray earnestly that it may \nnot be so with you. \n\n\n\nTo Mrs. F. G. \n\nDorset, August i, 1872. \nMy DEAR Mrs. G. : \xe2\x80\x94 We learn from the \npapers how sorely you are afflicted, and \nsympathize with you most truly in this \nirreparable loss. I told Mr. Prentiss I was \ngoing to write you, and he cut out your \naddress and put it in my " Daily Food " \nthis morning, in the midst of the hurry of \nstarting off on a journey. As I took up \nthe little book, where for thirty-seven years \nI have been wont to resort for consolation, \nI was struck with the selection for July 27 \n\xe2\x80\x94 a day that to you will always be memo- \nrable, but not always one of unmixed sor- \nrow. I can not forbear quoting them : \n\n" God is our refuge and strength, a very present \nhelp in trouble." \xe2\x80\x94 Psalm xlvi. 1. \n\n\n\nT 1 80 T \n\nIn the darkest dispensations, \nDoth my faithful Lord appear \n\nWith His richest consolations, \nTo reanimate and cheer ; \n\nSweet affliction, sweet affliction, \nThus to bring my Saviour near. \n\n" Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be \nremoved, and though the mountains be carried into \nthe midst of the sea." \xe2\x80\x94 PSALM xlvi. 2. \n\nTo us mothers the loss of a child is in- \ndeed like the earth being moved, and I \nknow how you must be suffering. But \nsuch a sorrow as this is better than to be \npassed by and left to unbroken earthly joy, \nand I believe you will kiss the Father\'s \nrod, hurt though it does, and find the only \nconsolation there is in saying, "Thy will be \ndone ! " I know no other, but it is a con- \nsolation, a soul-satisfying one. I wish I \nhad seen your dear baby ; but if I had, it \nwould not deepen my sympathy, which \nsprings rather from what I know the poor \nhuman heart to be, than from my knowl- \nedge that he was so fine a child. This sum- \n\n\n\nmer has been one of slaughter of the inno- \ncents ; many and many a heart is bleeding \nlike yours, but has none of the precious \npromises to sustain and cheer it, as you \nhave. \n\nMr. P. left messages of love and sympa- \nthy for you and your husband. \n\nAffectionately yours, \n\nE. P. \n\n\n\nTo Mrs. P. S. \n\nDorset, August 25, 1870. \nMy DEAR Mrs. S. :\xe2\x80\x94 I know how little \nwords can do for such a sorrow as yours, \nyet can not help expressing my most heart- \nfelt sympathy with you in it. You are in- \ndeed sorely smitten in having that beautiful \nboy snatched from you without warning ; \nso sorely, that those who love you must \nshare in your sufferings. May God \xe2\x80\x94 who \nonly, of those who love you, could have \ndared visit you with so wholly unexpected, \nso terrible a blow \xe2\x80\x94 make your darling \n\n\n\n* \n\n\n\n182 \n\nboy such a minister of heavenly grace and \nbenediction to your soul, as to become as- \nsociated with a joy with which no stranger \nmay intermeddle. That He can do this I \nhave not the shadow of a doubt. Mean- \nwhile, thousands of prayers are ascending \nfor you and for your husband that will help \nyou through the overwhelming days and \nnights that must come : otherwise, how \ncould your often-bereaved hearts bear on \nand not utterly sink beneath the waves? \n" The way to peace," says one who knows \nthe way, " lies through a greater, a warmer, \na more tender, a more personal love to \nGod "; this is surely a sweet way to peace, \nand it has been traversed by many lacerated \nfeet that have come back to tell the story, \nand to testify, that when the very founda- \ntions of the earth seemed giving way, He \nremained whom no accident could snatch \naway, no chance ever change. Your dear \nboy reached heaven by a very short and \neasy path. I remember hearing your hus- \n\n\n\n183 \n\nband say once, " From home to heaven," \nand it is beautiful to think how near they \nare to each other, and how a child\'s little \nfootsteps can pass out of the one, only to \npass right into the genial heart of the \nother. 1 \n\nBut I feel that I am intruding on a grief \nthat can bear little ; forgive me if I have \nin any way jarred upon you, and believe in \nthe deep sympathy of \n\nYours warmly and truly, \n\nE. Prentiss. \n\n1 The \' beautiful boy \' was nine years old. His \nsudden death is referred to on p. 354 of the memoir \nof Mrs. Prentiss. A touching - account of him is \ngiven in a little volume by Dr. SchafF, entitled Our \nChildren in Heaven. \n\n\n\n8 4 \n\n\n\nTHE MOTHER. \n\nI. \n\nAs I have seen a mother bend \n\nWith aching, bleeding heart, \nO\'er lifeless limbs and lifeless face \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSo have I had to part \n\nII. \n\nWith the sweet prattler at my knee. \n\nThe baby from my breast, \nAnd on the lips so cold in death, \n\nSuch farewell kisses prest. \n\nIII. \nIf I should live a thousand years \n\nTime\'s hand can not efface \nThe features painted on my heart \n\nOf each beloved face. \n\nIV. \n\nIf I should bathe in endless seas \n\nThey could not wash away \nThe memory of these children\'s forms ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHow fresh it is to-day. \n\nV. \n\nAh, how my grief has taught my heart \n\nTo feel another\'s woe ! \nWith what a sympathetic pang \n\nI watch the tear-drops flow ! \n\n\n\ni8s \n\n\n\nVI. \n\n\n\nDear Jesus ! must Thou take our lambs. \n\nOur cherished lambs away ? \nThou hast so many, we so few \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nCanst Thou not let them stay ? \n\nVII. \n\nMust the round limbs we love so well. \nGrow stiff and cold in death ? \n\nMust all our loveliest flowerets fall \nBefore his icy breath ? \n\nVIII. \n\nNay, Lord, but it is hard, is hard \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOh give us faith to see \nThat grief, not joy, is best for us \n\nSince it is sent by Thee. \n\nIX. \n\nAnd oh, by all our mortal pangs \nHear Thou the mother\'s plea \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBe gracious to the darling ones \nWe\'ve given back to Thee. \n\nx. \n\nLet them not miss the mother\'s love, \n\nThe mother\'s fond caress ; \nGather them to Thy gentle breast \n\nIn faithful tenderness. \n\n\n\n1 86 \n\n\n\nXI. \n\nOh, lead them into pastures green, \n\nAnd unto living springs ; \nGather them in Thine arms, and shield \n\nBeneath Thy blessed wings. \n\nXII. \n\nAh, little reck they that we weep, \nAnd wring our empty hands ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBlessed, thrice blessed are infant feet \nThat walk Immanuel\'s lands ! \n\nXIII. \n\nBlessed the souls that ne\'er shall know \n\nOf sin the mortal taint, \nThe hearts that ne\'er shall swell with grief \n\nOr utter a complaint ! \n\nXIV. \n\nBrief pangs for us, long joy for them ! \n\nThy holy Name we bless, \nWe could not give them up to Thee, \n\nLord, if we loved them less ! \n\n\n\n"IS IT WELL WITH THE CHILD?" \n\nYes, it is well ! For he has gone from me, \nFrom my poor care, my human fallacy, \n\n\n\ni87 \n\n\n\nStraight to the Master\'s school, the Shepherd\'s love \n\nBlessed are they whose training is above ! \n\nHe will grow up in heaven, will never know \n\nThe conflicts that attend our life below. \n\nHe from his earliest consciousness shall walk \n\nWith Christ Himself in glory ; he shall talk \n\nWith sinless little children, and his ear \n\nNo sound discordant, no harsh word shall hear. \n\nNay, but I have no words with which to tell \n\nHow well it is with him \xe2\x80\x94 how well, how well ! \n\n\n\n"IS IT WELL WITH THEE?" \n\nYes, it is well ! For while with " anguish wild " \nI gave to God, who asked him, my child, \nHe gave to me strong faith, and peace and joy ; \nGave me these blessings when He took my boy. \nHe gave Himself to me ; in boundless grace \nWithin my deepest depths He took His place ; \nMade heaven look home-like, made my bleeding heart \nIn all the grief of other hearts take part ; \nBrought down my pride, burnt up my hidden dross, \nMade me fling down the world and clasp the cross ; \nAh, how my inmost soul doth in me swell, \nWhen I declare that all with me is well ! \n\n\n\n'