Catherine Curtis Spencer died on the 12th of March, 1846, at Indian Creek, near Keosaqua, Iowa territory, at the age of thirty-five years, wanting nine days. In one month from the time of her departure from Illinois to the wilderness, she fell a victim to the cares and hardships of persecution. The youngest daughter of a numerous family, brought up in affluence and nurtured with fondness and peculiar care as the favourite of her father's house; her slender, though healthy frame, could not endure the privation of sleep and rest, and the inclemency of the winter season (the thermometer below Zero for ten days). The change from the warm rooms of brick and plaistered walls, to that of mere canvass ceiling and roof, floored with snow and icy earth, was too much for her fragile form to endure. When, through unforseen hindrances in travelling, there was no place where sleep could visit, or food suited to the demands of nature could be administered to her or her six little children (from the age of thirteen and under), she would cheer her little innocents with the songs of Zion. The melody of her rare voice, like the harmony and confluence of many virtues in her mind, contributed on that memorable epoch of the church, to render her the glory of her husband, and the solace and joy of her children. When asked if she would go to her distant friends that were not in the church, who had proffered comfort and abundance to her and her children, she replied, "no, if they will withhold from me the supplies they readily grant to my other sisters and brothers, because I adhere to the Saints, let them. I would rather abide with the church, in poverty, even in the wilderness, without their aid, than go to my unbelieving father's house, and have all that he possesses." Under the influence of a severe cold, she gradually wasted away, telling her children, from time to time, how she wanted them to live and conduct themselves, when they should become motherless, and pilgrims in a strange land. To her companions she would sometimes say, "I think you will have to give me up and let me go." As her little ones would often inquire at the door of the waggon, "how is ma'? is she any better?" she would turn to her husband, who sat by her side endeavouring to keep the severities of rain and cold from her: "oh, you dear little children, how I do hope you may fall into kind hands when I am gone!" A night or two before she died, she said to her husband, with unwonted animation, "A heavenly messenger has appeared to me to-night, and told me that I had done and suffered enough, and that he had now come to convey me to a mansion of gold." Soon after, she said she wished me to call the children and other friends to her bedside, that she might give them a parting kiss, which being done, she said to her companion, "I loveyoumore than ever, but you must let me go. I only want to live for your sake, and that of our children." When asked if she had anything to say to her father's family, she replied emphatically, "Charge them to obey the gospel."
The rain continued so incessantly for many days and nights, that it was impossible to keep her bedding dry or comfortable; and, for the first time, she uttered the desire to be in a house. The request might have moved a heart of adamant. Immediately, a man of the name of Barnes, living not far from the camp, consented to have her brought to his house, where she died in peace, with a smile upon her countenance, and a cordial pressure of her husband's hand about an hour previous.
Many tributes to her memory, from the Twelve, and other distinguished friends, expressive of her worth and the amiableness of her life, have been communicated to the writer, which conjugal relationship forbidsmeto insert, but which are still a comfort to the bereaved in his pilgrimage through mortality. Though prepossessing in her manners, her confiding and generous mind always made permanent the friendship that she once obtained. Her unceasingly affectionate and dutiful bearing to her husband, and her matronly diligence in infusing the purest and loftiest virtues into the minds of her children, not only exemplified the beautiful order of heaven, but made the domestic circle the greatest paradise of earth. Said a member of the high council, after her death, who had often observed her in the temple of the Lord, where she loved to linger and feast on the joys of that holy place, "I never saw a countenance more inexpressibly serene and heavenly, than hers."
"'O! she was young who won my yielding heart,'No power of genius nor the pencils' artCould half the beauties of her mind portray,E'en when inspired; and how can this my lay?Two eyes that spoke what language ne'er can do,Soft as twin violets moist with early dew.In sylph-like symmetry her form combin'd,To prove the fond endearments of the mind,While on her brow benevolence and loveSat meekly, like to emblems from above,And every thought that had creation there,But made her face still more divinely fair."
"'O! she was young who won my yielding heart,'No power of genius nor the pencils' artCould half the beauties of her mind portray,E'en when inspired; and how can this my lay?Two eyes that spoke what language ne'er can do,Soft as twin violets moist with early dew.In sylph-like symmetry her form combin'd,To prove the fond endearments of the mind,While on her brow benevolence and loveSat meekly, like to emblems from above,And every thought that had creation there,But made her face still more divinely fair."
Her remains were conveyed to the city of Nauvoo, and there, after a few neighbours had wept, and sung, "Come to me; will ye come to the Saints that have died," and expressed their condolence to the deeply afflicted husband, buried, in the solitude of the night, by the side of her youngest child, that had died near six months before.
The writer does not mourn for his dead as those that die without hope, knowing they are taken from many evils to come. He desires to dedicate the above faint sketch to his children, now in the wilderness, for the testimony of Jesus, lest time should obliterate from their young and tender minds the recollection of her person and some of her virtues, and thereby perpetuate the memory of the just, while that of the wicked shall rot. He desires the prayers of all Saints for himself and his children; and may the blessing of Almighty God rest upon all who love our Lord Jesus Christ in sincerity. Amen.
Suggested on reading the Author's first Letter in the Series.
BY MISS E. R. SNOW.
"My heart is fix'd"—I know in whom I trust.'Twas not for wealth—'twas not to gather heapsOf perishable things—'twas not to twineAround my brow a transitory wreath,A garland deck'd with gems of mortal praise,That I forsook the home of childhood; thatI left the lap of ease—the halo rifeWith smiling friendship's soft and mellow tones—Affection's fond caresses, and the cupO'erflowing with the sweets of social life,Where high refinement's richest pearls were strew'd.Ah no! a holier purpose fir'd my soul—A nobler object prompted my pursuit:Eternal prospects open'd to my view,And hope's celestial torch within me burn'd.God, who commanded Abraham to leaveHis native country, and to offer upOn the lone alter, where no eye beheldBut His who never sleeps, an only son,Is still the same; and thousands who have madeA covenant with him by sacrifice.Are bearing witness to the sacred truth.Jehovah speaking? Yes, as heretofore.The proclamation sounded in my ear—It touch'd my heart—I hearken'd to the sound.Counted the cost, and laid my earthly allUpon the altar; and with purpose fix'dUnalterably, while the spirit ofElijah's God within my bosom reigns,Embrac'd the "Everlasting Covenant;"To be a Saint among the faithful onesWhose race is measur'd by their life—whose prizeIs everlasting, and whose happinessIs God's approval, and to whom 'tis moreThan meat and drink to do his righteous will.It is no trifling thing to be a SaintIn very deed. To stand upright, nor bowNor bend beneath the weighty burthen ofOppressiveness.—To stand unscath'd amidThe bellowing thunders and the raging stormOf persecution, when the hostile pow'rsOf darkness stimulate the hearts of menTo warfare: to besiege, assault, and, withThe heavy thunderbolts of Satan, aimTo overthrow the kingdom God has rear'dTo stand unmov'd beneath the with'ring rockOf vile apostacy, when men departFrom the pure principles of righteousness—Those principles requiring man to liveBy ev'ry word proceeding from the mouthOf God.—To stand unwav'ring, undismay'd,And unseduc'd, when the base hypocriteWhose deeds take hold on hell, whose face is garb'dWith saintly looks, drawn out by sacrilegeFrom a profession, but assum'd and thrownAround him for a mantle to encloseThe black corruption of a putrid heart.—To stand on virtue's lofty pinnacleClad in the heav'nly robes of innocence,Amid that worse than every other blast—The blast that strikes at moral character,With floods of falsehood foaming with abuse.—To stand, with nerve and sinew firmly steel'd,When in the trying scale of rapid change,Thrown side by side and face to face with thatFoul hearted spirit, blacker than the soulOf midnight's darkest shade, the traitor,The vile wretch that feeds his sordid selfishnessUpon the peace and blood of innocence—The faithless, rotten-hearted wretch, whose tongueSpeaks words of trust and fond fidelity,While treach'ry, like a viper, coils behindThe smile that dances in his evil eye.To pass the fiery ordeal, and to haveThe heart laid open—all its contents prov'dBefore the bar of strictest scrutiny.To have the finest heart-strings stretch'd untoTheir utmost length to try their texture. ToAbide, with principle unchang'd, the wreckOf cruel, tott'ring circumstances, whichRide forth on revolution's blust'ring gale.But yet, altho'to be a Saint, requiresA noble sacrifice—an arduous toil—A persevering aim; the great rewardAwaiting the grand consummation, willRepay the price however costly; andThe pathway of the saint, the safest pathWill prove, tho' perilous: for 'tis foretold,All things that can be shaken, God will shake:Kingdoms, and Institutes, and Governments,Both civil and religious must be tried—Tried to the core and sounded to the depth.Then let me be a Saint, and be prepar'dFor the approaching day, which like a snareWill soon surprise the hypocrite—exposeThe rottenness of human schemes—shake offOppressive fetters—break the gorgeous reinsUsurpers hold, and lay the pride of man,And glory of the nations low in dust!THE END.
"My heart is fix'd"—I know in whom I trust.'Twas not for wealth—'twas not to gather heapsOf perishable things—'twas not to twineAround my brow a transitory wreath,A garland deck'd with gems of mortal praise,That I forsook the home of childhood; thatI left the lap of ease—the halo rifeWith smiling friendship's soft and mellow tones—Affection's fond caresses, and the cupO'erflowing with the sweets of social life,Where high refinement's richest pearls were strew'd.
Ah no! a holier purpose fir'd my soul—A nobler object prompted my pursuit:Eternal prospects open'd to my view,And hope's celestial torch within me burn'd.God, who commanded Abraham to leaveHis native country, and to offer upOn the lone alter, where no eye beheldBut His who never sleeps, an only son,Is still the same; and thousands who have madeA covenant with him by sacrifice.Are bearing witness to the sacred truth.Jehovah speaking? Yes, as heretofore.
The proclamation sounded in my ear—It touch'd my heart—I hearken'd to the sound.Counted the cost, and laid my earthly allUpon the altar; and with purpose fix'dUnalterably, while the spirit ofElijah's God within my bosom reigns,Embrac'd the "Everlasting Covenant;"To be a Saint among the faithful onesWhose race is measur'd by their life—whose prizeIs everlasting, and whose happinessIs God's approval, and to whom 'tis moreThan meat and drink to do his righteous will.
It is no trifling thing to be a SaintIn very deed. To stand upright, nor bowNor bend beneath the weighty burthen ofOppressiveness.—To stand unscath'd amidThe bellowing thunders and the raging stormOf persecution, when the hostile pow'rsOf darkness stimulate the hearts of menTo warfare: to besiege, assault, and, withThe heavy thunderbolts of Satan, aimTo overthrow the kingdom God has rear'dTo stand unmov'd beneath the with'ring rockOf vile apostacy, when men departFrom the pure principles of righteousness—Those principles requiring man to liveBy ev'ry word proceeding from the mouthOf God.—To stand unwav'ring, undismay'd,And unseduc'd, when the base hypocriteWhose deeds take hold on hell, whose face is garb'dWith saintly looks, drawn out by sacrilegeFrom a profession, but assum'd and thrownAround him for a mantle to encloseThe black corruption of a putrid heart.—To stand on virtue's lofty pinnacleClad in the heav'nly robes of innocence,Amid that worse than every other blast—The blast that strikes at moral character,With floods of falsehood foaming with abuse.—To stand, with nerve and sinew firmly steel'd,When in the trying scale of rapid change,Thrown side by side and face to face with thatFoul hearted spirit, blacker than the soulOf midnight's darkest shade, the traitor,The vile wretch that feeds his sordid selfishnessUpon the peace and blood of innocence—The faithless, rotten-hearted wretch, whose tongueSpeaks words of trust and fond fidelity,While treach'ry, like a viper, coils behindThe smile that dances in his evil eye.To pass the fiery ordeal, and to haveThe heart laid open—all its contents prov'dBefore the bar of strictest scrutiny.To have the finest heart-strings stretch'd untoTheir utmost length to try their texture. ToAbide, with principle unchang'd, the wreckOf cruel, tott'ring circumstances, whichRide forth on revolution's blust'ring gale.
But yet, altho'to be a Saint, requiresA noble sacrifice—an arduous toil—A persevering aim; the great rewardAwaiting the grand consummation, willRepay the price however costly; andThe pathway of the saint, the safest pathWill prove, tho' perilous: for 'tis foretold,All things that can be shaken, God will shake:Kingdoms, and Institutes, and Governments,Both civil and religious must be tried—Tried to the core and sounded to the depth.
Then let me be a Saint, and be prepar'dFor the approaching day, which like a snareWill soon surprise the hypocrite—exposeThe rottenness of human schemes—shake offOppressive fetters—break the gorgeous reinsUsurpers hold, and lay the pride of man,And glory of the nations low in dust!
THE END.
Liverpool: Printed by R. James, 39, South Castle Street.