HOME again, and with my dear Ernest delighted to see me. Baby is a year old to-day, and, as usual, father, who seems to abhor anything like a merry-making, took himself off to his room. To-morrow he will be all the worse for it, and will be sure to have a theological battle with somebody.
OCTOBER 5.-The somebody was his daughter Katherine, as usual. Baby was asleep in my lap and I reached out for a book which proved to be a volume of Shakespeare which had done long service as an ornament to the table, but which nobody ever read on account of the small print. The battle then began thus:
Father.-"I regret to see that worldly author in your hands, my daughter."
Daughter-a little mischievously.-"Why, were you wanting to talk, father?
"No, I am too feeble to talk to-day. My pulse is very weak."
"Let me read aloud to you, then."
"Not from that profane book."
"It would do you good. You never take any recreation. Do let me read a little."
Father gets nervous.
"Recreation is a snare. I must keep my soul ever fixed on divine things."
"But can you?"
"No, alas, no. It is my grief and shame that I do not."
"But if you would indulge yourself in a little harmless mirth now and then, your mind would get rested and you would return to divine things with fresh zeal. Why should not the mind have its seasons of rest as well as the body?"
"We shall have time to rest in heaven. Our business here on earth is to be sober and vigilant because of our adversary; not to be reading plays."
"I don't make reading plays my business, dear father. I make it my rest and amusement."
"Christians do not need amusement; they find rest, refreshment, all they want, in God."
"Do you, father?"
"Alas, no. He seems a great way off."
"To me He seems very near. So near that He can see every thought of my heart. Dear father, it is your disease that makes everything so unreal to you. God is really so near, really loves us so; is so sorry for us! And it seems hard, when you are so good, and so intent on pleasing Him, that you get no comfort out of Him."
"I am not good, my daughter I am a vile worm of the dust."
"Well, God is good, at any rate, and He would never have sent His Son to die for you if He did not love you." So then I began to sing. Father likes to hear me sing, and the sweet sense I had that all I had been saying was true and more than true, made me sing with joyful heart.
I hope it is not a mere miserable presumption that makes me dare to talk so to poor father. Of course, he is ten times better than I am, and knows ten times as much, but his disease, whatever it is, keeps his mind befogged. I mean to begin now to pray that light may shine into his soul. It would be delightful to see the peace of God shining in that pale, stern face.
MARCH 28.-It is almost six months since I wrote that. About the middle of October father had one of his ill turns one night, and we were all called up. He asked for me particularly, and Ernest came for me at last. He was a good deal agitated, and would not stop to half dress myself, and as I had a slight cold already, I suppose I added to it then. At any rate I was taken very sick, and the worst cough ever had has racked my poor frame almost to pieces. Nearly six months confinement to my room; six months of uselessness during which I have been a mere cumberer of the ground. Poor Ernest! What a hard time he has had! Instead of the cheerful welcome home I was to give him whenever he entered the house, here I have lain exhausted, woe-begone and good for nothing. It is the bitterest disappointment I ever had. My ambition is to be the sweetest, brightest, best of wives; and what with my childish follies, and my sickness, what a weary life my dear husband has had! But how often I have prayed that God would do His will in defiance, if need be, of mine! I have tried to remind myself of that every day. But I am too tired to write any more now.
MARCH 30.-This experience of suffering has filled my mind with new thoughts. At one time I was so sick that Ernest sent for mother. Poor mother, she had to sleep with Martha. It was a great comfort to have her here, but I knew by her coming how sick I was, and then I began to ponder the question whether I was ready to die. Death looked to me as a most solemn, momentous event-but there was something very pleasant in the thought of being no longer a sinner, but a redeemed saint, and of dwelling forever in Christ's presence. Father came to see me when I had just reached this point.
"My dear daughter," he asked, "are you prepared to face the Judge of all the earth?"
"No, dear father," I said, "Christ will do that for me."
"Have you no misgivings?"
I could only smile; I had no strength to talk.
Then I heard Ernest—my dear, calm, self-controlled Ernest—burst out crying and rush out of the room. I looked after him, and how I loved him! But I felt that I loved my Saviour infinitely more, and that if He now let me come home to be with Him I could trust Him to be a thousand-fold more to Ernest than I could ever be, and to take care of my darling baby and my precious mother far better than I could. The very gates of heaven seemed open to let me in. And then they were suddenly shut in my face, and I found myself a poor, weak, tempted creature here upon earth. I, who fancied myself an heir of glory, was nothing but a peevish, human creature-very human indeed, overcome if Martha shook the bed, as she always did, irritated if my food did not come at the right moment, or was not of the right sort, hurt and offended if Ernest put on at one less anxious and tender than he had used when I was very ill, and-in short, my own poor faulty self once more. Oh, what fearful battles I fought for patience, forbearance and unselfishness! What sorrowful tears of shame I shed over hasty, impatient words and fretful tones! No wonder I longed to be gone where weakness should be swallowed up in strength, and sin give place to eternal perfection!
But here I am, and suffering and work lie before me, for which I feel little physical or mental courage. But "blessed be the will of God."
APRIL 5.-I was alone with father last evening, Ernest and Martha both being out, and soon saw by the way he fidgeted in his chair that he had something on his mind. So I laid down the book I was reading, and asked him what it was.
"My daughter," he began, "can you bear a plain word from an old man?"
I felt frightened, for I knew I had been impatient to Martha of late, in spite of all my efforts to the contrary. I am still so miserably unwell.
"I have seen many death-beds," he went on; "but I never saw one where there was not some dread of the King of Terrors exhibited; nor one where there was such absolute certainty of having found favor with God to make the hour of departure entirely free from such doubts and such humility as becomes a guilty sinner about to face his Judge."
"I never saw such a one, either," I replied; "but ere have been many such deaths, and I hardly know of any scene that so honors and magnifies the Lord."
"Yes," he said, slowly; "but they were old, mature, ripenedChristians."
"Not always old, dear father. Let me describe to you a scene Ernest described to me only yesterday."
He waved his hand in token that this would delay his coming to the point he was aiming at.
"To speak plainly," he said, "I feel uneasy about you, my daughter. You are young and in the bloom of life, but when death seemed staring you in the face, you expressed no anxiety, asked for no counsel, showed no alarm. It must be pleasant to possess so comfortable a persuasion of our acceptance with God; but is it safe to rest on such an assurance while we know that the human heart is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked?"
"I thank you for the suggestion;" I said; "and, dear father, do not be afraid to speak still more plainly. You live in the house with me, see all my shortcomings and my faults, and I cannot wonder that you think me a poor, weak Christian. But do you really fear that I am deceived in believing that notwithstanding this I do really love my God and Saviour and am His Child?"
"No," he said, hesitating a little, "I can't say that, exactly—I can't say that."
This hesitation distressed me. At first it seemed to me that my life must have uttered a very uncertain sound if those who saw it could misunderstand its language. But then I reflected that it was, at best, a very faulty life, and that its springs of action were not necessarily seen by lookers-on.
Father saw my distress and perplexity, and seemed touched by them.
Just then Ernest came in with Martha, but seeing that something was amiss, the latter took herself off to her room, which I thought really kind of her.
"What is it, father? What is it, Katy?" asked Ernest; looking from one troubled face to the other.
I tried to explain.
"I think, father, you may safely trust my wife's spiritual interests to me," Ernest said, with warmth. "You do not understand her. I do. Because there is nothing morbid about her, because she has a sweet, cheerful confidence in Christ; you doubt and misjudge her. You may depend upon it that people are individual in their piety as in other things, and cannot all be run in one mould. Katy has a playful way of speaking, I know, and often expresses her strongest feelings with what seems like levity, and is, perhaps, a little reckless about being misunderstood in consequence."
He smiled on me, as he thus took up the cudgels in my defence, and I never felt so grateful to him in my life. The truth is, I hate sentimentalism so cordially, and have besides such an instinct to conceal my deepest, most sacred emotions, that I do not wonder people misunderstand and misjudge me.
"I did not refer to her playfulness," father returned. "Old people must make allowances for the young; they must make allowances. What pains me is that this child, full of life and gayety as she is, sees death approach without that becoming awe and terror which befits mortal man."
Ernest was going to reply, but I broke in eagerly upon his answer:
"It is true that I expressed no anxiety when I believed death to be at hand. I felt none. I had given myself away to Christ, and He had received me and why should I be afraid to take His hand and go where He led me? And it is true that I asked for no counsel. I was too weak to ask questions or to like to have questions asked; but my mind was bright and wide awake while my body was so feeble, and I took counsel of God. Oh, let me read to you two passages from the life of Caroline Fry which will make you understand how a poor sinner looks upon death. The first is an extract from a letter written after learning that her days on earth were numbered.
"As many will hear and will not understand, why I want no time of, preparation, often desired by far holier ones than I, I tell you why, and shall tell others, and so shall you. It is not because I am so holy but because I am so sinful. The peculiar character of my religious experience has always been a deep, an agonizing sense of sin; the sin of yesterday, of to-day, confessed with anguish hard to be endured, and cried for pardon that could not be unheard; each day cleansed anew in Jesus' blood, and each day more and more hateful in my own sight; what can I do in death I have not done in life? What, do in this week, when I am told I cannot live, other than I did last week, when knew it not? Alas, there is but one thing undone, to serve Him better; and the death-bed is no place for that. Therefore I say, if I am not ready now, I shall not be by delay, so far as I have to do with it. If He has more to do in me that is His part. I need not ask Him not to spoil His work by too much haste."
"And these were her dying words, a few days later:
"This is my bridal-day, the beginning of my life. I wish there should be no mistake about the reason of my desire to depart and to be with Christ. I confess myself the vilest, chiefest of sinners, and I desire to go to Him that I may be rid of the burden of sin-the sin of my nature-not the past, repented of every day, but the present, hourly, momentary sin, which I do commit, or may commit-the sense of which at times drives me half mad with grief!"
I shall never forget the expression of father's face, as I finished reading these remarkable words. He rose slowly from his seat, and came and kissed me on the forehead. Then he left the room, but returned with a large volume, and pointing to a blank page, requested me to copy them there. He com plains that I do not write legibly, so I printed them as plainly as I could, with my pen.
JUNE 20.-On the first of May, there came to us, with other spring flowers, our little fair-haired, blue-eyed daughter. How rich I felt when I heard Ernest's voice, as he replied to a question asked at the door, proclaim, "Mother and children all well." To think that we, who thought ourselves rich before are made so much richer now!
But she is not large and vigorous, as little Ernest was, and we cannot rejoice in her without some misgiving. Yet her very frailty makes her precious to us. Little Ernest hangs over her with an almost lover-like pride and devotion, and should she live I can imagine what a protector he will be for her. I have had to give up the care of him to Martha. During my illness I do not know what would have become of him but for her. One of the pleasant events of every day at that time, was her bringing him to me in such exquisite order, his face shining with health and happiness, his hair and dress so beautifully neat and clean. Now that she has the care of him, she has become very fond of him, and he certainly forms one bond of union between us, for we both agree that he is the handsomest, best, most remarkable child that ever lived, or ever will live.
JULY 6.-I have come home to dear mother with both my children. Ernest says our only hope for baby is to keep her out of the city during the summer months.
What a petite wee maiden she is! Where does all the love come from?If I had had her always I do not see how I could be more fond of her.And do people call it living who never had any children?
JULY 10.-If this darling baby lives, I shall always believe it is owing to my mother's prayers.
I find little Ernest has a passionate temper, and a good deal of self-will. But he has fine qualities. I wish he had a better mother. I am so impatient with him when he is wayward and perverse! What he needs is a firm, gentle hand, moved by no caprice, and controlled by the constant fear of God. He never ought to hear an irritable word, or a sharp tone; but he does hear them, I must own with grief and shame. The truth is, it is so long since I really felt strong and well that I am not myself, and can not do him justice, poor child. Next to being a perfect wife I want to be a perfect mother. How mortifying, how dreadful in all things to come short of even one's own standard. What approach, then, does one make to God's standard?
Mother seems very happy to have us here, though we make so much trouble. She encourages me in all my attempts to control myself and to control my dear little boy, and the chapters she gives me out of her own experience are as interesting as a novel, and a good deal more instructive.
AUGUST.-Dear Ernest has come to spend a week with us. He is all tired out, as there has been a great deal of sickness in the city, and father has had quite a serious attack. He brought with him a nurse for baby, as one more desperate effort to strengthen her constitution.
I reproached him for doing it without consulting me, but he said mother bad written to tell him that I was all worn out and not in a state to have the care of the children. It has been a terrible blow to me. One by one I am giving up the sweetest maternal duties. God means that I shall be nothing and do nothing; a mere useless sufferer. But when I tell Ernest so, he says I am everything to him, and that God's children please him just as well when they sit patiently with folded hands, if that is His will, as when they are hard at work. But to be at work, to be useful, to be necessary to my husband and children, is just what I want, and I do find it hard to be set against the wall, as it were, like an old piece of furniture no longer of any service I see now that my first desire has not been to please God, but to please myself, for I am restless under His restraining hand, and find my prison a very narrow one. I would be willing to bear any other trial, if I could only have health and strength for my beloved ones. I pray for patience with bitter tears.
WE are all at home together once more. The parting with mother was very painful. Every year that she lives now increases her loneliness, and makes me long to give her the shelter of my home. But in the midst of these anxieties, how much I have to make me happy! Little Ernest is the life and soul of the house; the sound of his feet pattering about, and all his prattle, are the sweetest music to my ear; and his heart is brimful of love and joy, so that he shines on us all like a sunbeam. Baby is improving every day, and is one of those tender, clinging little things that appeal to everybody's love and sympathy. I never saw a more angelic face than hers. Father sits by the hour looking at her. To-day he said:
"Daughter Katherine, this lovely little one is not meant for this sinful world."
"This world needs to be adorned with lovely little ones," I said."And baby was never so well as she is now."
"Do not set your heart too fondly upon her," he returned. "I feel that she is far too dear to me."
"But, father, we could give her to God if He should ask for herSurely, we love Him better than we love her."
But as I spoke a sharp pang shot through and through my soul, and I held my little fair daughter closely in my arms, as if I could always keep her there. It may be my conceit, but it really does seem as if poor father was getting a little fond of me. Ever since my own sickness I have felt great sympathy for him, and he feels, no doubt, that I give him something that neither Ernest nor Martha can do, since they were never sick one day in their lives. I do wish he could look more at Christ and at what He has done and is doing for us. The way of salvation is to me a wide path, absolutely radiant with the glory of Him who shines upon it; I see my shortcomings; I see my sins, but I feel myself bathed, as it were, in the effulgent glow that proceeds directly from the throne of God and the Lamb. It seems as if I ought to have some misgivings about my salvation, but I can hardly say that I have one. How strange, how mysterious that is! And here is father, so much older, so much better than I am, creeping along in the dark! I spoke to Ernest about it. He says I owe it to my training, in a great measure, and that my mother is fifty years in advance of her age. But it can't be all that. It was only after years of struggle and prayer that God gave me this joy.
NOVEMBER 24.-Ernest asked me yesterday if I knew that Amelia and her husband had come here to live, and that she was very ill.
"I wish you would go to see her, dear," he added. "She is a stranger here, and in great need of a friend." I felt extremely disturbed. I have lost my old affection for her, and the idea of meeting her husband was unpleasant.
"Is she very sick?" I asked.
"Yes. She is completely broken down. I promised her that you should go to see her."
"Are you attending her?"
"Yes; her husband came for me himself."
"I don't want to go," I said. "It will be very disagreeable."
"Yes, dear, I know it. But she needs a friend, as I said before."
I put on my things very reluctantly, and went. I found Amelia in a richly-furnished house, but looking untidy and ill-cared-for. She was lying on a couch in her bedroom; three delicate-looking children were playing about, and their nurse sat sewing at the window.
A terrible fit of coughing made it impossible for her to speak for some moments. At last she recovered herself sufficiently to welcome me, by throwing her arms around me and bursting into tears.
"Oh, Katy!" she cried, "should you have known me if we had met in the street? Don't you find me sadly altered?"
"You are changed," I said, "but so am I."
"Yes, you do not look strong. But then you never did. And you are as pretty as ever, while I—oh, Kate! do you remember what round, white arms I used to have? Look at them now!"
And she drew up her sleeve, poor child. Just then I heard a step in the passage, and her husband sauntered into the room, smoking.
"Do go away, Charles," she said impatiently. "You know how your cigar sets me coughing."
He held out his hand to me with the easy, nonchalant air of one who is accustomed to success and popularity.
I looked at him with an aversion I could not conceal. The few years since we met has changed him so completely that I almost shuddered at the sight of his already bloated face, and at the air that told of a life worse than wasted.
"Do go away, Charles," Amelia repeated.
He threw himself into a chair without paying the least attention to her, and still addressing himself to me again, said:
"Upon my word, you are prettier than ever,"
and—
"I will come to see you at another time, Amelia," I said, putting on all the dignity I could condense in my small frame, and rising to take leave.
"Don't go, Katy!" he cried, starting up, "don't go. I want to have a good talk about old times."
Katy, indeed! How dared he? I came away burning with anger and mortification. Is it possible that I ever loved such a man? That to gratify that love I defied and grieved my dear mother through a whole year! Oh, from what hopeless misery God saved me, when He snatched me out of the depth of my folly!
DECEMBER 1.-Ernest says I can go to see Amelia with safety now, as her husband has sprained his ankle, and keeps to his own room. So I am going. But, I am sure, I shall say something imprudent or unwise, and wish I could think it right to stay away. I hope God will go with me and teach me what words to speak.
DEC. 2.-I found Amelia more unwell than on my first visit, and she received me again with tears.
"How good you are to come so soon," she began. "I did not blame you for running off the other day; Charley's impertinence was shameful. He said, after you left, that he perceived you had not yet lost your quickness to take offence, but I know he felt that you showed a just displeasure, and nothing more."
"No, I was really angry," I replied. "I find the road to perfection lies up-hill, and I slip back so often that sometimes I despair of ever reaching the top."
"What does the doctor say about me?" she asked. "Does he think me very sick?"
"I dare say he will tell you exactly what he thinks," I returned, "if you ask him. This is his rule with all his patients."
"If I could get rid of this cough I should soon be myself again," she said. "Some days I feel quite bright and well. But if it were not for my poor little children, I should not care much how the thing ended. With the life Charley leads me, I haven't much to look forward to."
"You forget that the children's nurse is in the room," I whispered.
"Oh, I don't mind Charlotte. Charlotte knows he neglects me, don't you, Charlotte?"
Charlotte was discreet enough to pretend not to hear this question, and Amelia went on:
"It began very soon after we were married. He would go round with other girls exactly as he did before; then when I spoke about it he would just laugh in his easy, good-natured way, but pay no attention to my wishes. Then when I grew more in earnest he would say, that as long as he let me alone I ought to let him alone. I thought that when our first baby came that would sober him a little, but he wanted a boy and it turned out to be a girl. And my being unhappy and crying so much, made the poor thing fretful; it kept him awake at night, so he took another room. After that I saw him less than ever, though now and then he would have a little love-fit, when he would promise to be at home more and treat me with more consideration. We had two more little girls-twins; and then a boy. Charley seemed quite fond of him, and did certainly seem improved, though he was still out a great deal with a set of idle young men, smoking, drinking wine, and, I don't know what else. His uncle gave him too much money, and he had nothing to do but to spend it."
"You must not tell me any more now," I said. "Wait till you are stronger."
The nurse rose and gave her something which seemed to refresh her. I went to look at the little girls, who were all pretty, pale-faced creatures, very quiet and mature in their ways.
"I am rested now," said Amelia, "and it does me good to talk to you, because I can see that you are sorry for me."
"I am, indeed!" I cried.
"When our little boy was three months old I took this terrible cold and began to cough. Charley at first remonstrated with me for coughing so much; he said it was a habit I had got, and that I ought to cure myself of it. Then the baby began to pine and pine, and the more it wasted the more I wasted. And at last it died."
Here the poor child burst out again, and I wiped away her tears as fast as they fell, thankful that she could cry.
"After that," she went on, after awhile, "Charley seemed to lose his last particle of affection for me; he kept away more than ever, and once when I besought him not to neglect me and my children so, he said he was well paid for not keeping up his engagement with you, that you had some strength of character, and-"
"Amelia," I interrupted, "do not repeat such things. They only pain and mortify me."
"Well," she sighed, wearily, "this is what he has at last brought me to. I am sick and broken-hearted, and care very little what becomes of me."
There was a long silence. I wanted to ask her if, when earthly refuge failed her, she could not find shelter in the love of Christ. But I have what is, I fear, a morbid terror of seeking the confidence of others. I knelt down at last, and kissed the poor faded face.
"Yes, I knew you would feel for me," she said. "The only pleasant thought I had when Charley insisted on coming here to live was, that I should see you."
"Does your uncle live here, too?" I asked.
"Yes, he came first, and it was that that put it into Charley's head to come. He is very kind to me."
"Yes," I said, "and God is kind, too, isn't He?"
"Kind to let me get sick and disgust Charley? Now, Katy, how can you talk so?" I replied by repeating two lines from a hymn of which I am very fond:
'O Saviour, whose mercy severe in its kindness,Hath chastened my wanderings, and guided my way.'
"I don't much care for hymns," she said. "When one is well, and everything goes quite to one's mind, it is nice to go to church and sing with the rest of them. But, sick as I am, it isn't so easy to be religious."
"But isn't this the very time to look to Christ for comfort?"
"What's the use of looking anywhere for comfort?" she said, peevishly. "Wait till you are sick and heart-broken yourself, and you'll see that you won't feel much like doing anything but just groan and cry your life out."
"I have been sick, and I know what sorrow means," I said. "And I am glad that I do. For I have learned Christ in that school, and I know that He can comfort when no one else can."
"You always were an odd creature," she replied. "I never pretended to understand half you said."
I saw that she was tired, and came away. Oh, how I wished that I had been able to make Christ look to her as He did to me all the way home.
DEC. 24.-Father says he does not like Dr. Cabot's preaching. He thinks that it is not doctrinal enough, and that he does not preach enough to sinners. But I can see that it has influenced him already, and that he is beginning to think of God, as manifested in Christ, far more than he used to do. With me he has endless discussions on his and my favorite subjects, and though I can never tell along what path I walked to reach a certain conclusion, the earnestness of my convictions does impress him strangely. I am sure there is a great deal of conceit mixed up with all I say, and then when I compare my life with my own standard of duty, I wonder I ever dare to open my mouth and undertake to help others.
Baby is not at all well. To see a little frail, tender thing really suffering, tears my soul to pieces. I think it would distress me less to give her to God just as she is now, a vital part of my very heart, than to see her live a mere invalid life. But I try to feel, as I know I say, Thy will be done! Little Ernest is the very picture of health and beauty. He has vitality enough for two children. He and his little sister will make very interesting contrasts as they grow older. His ardor and vivacity will rouse her, and her gentleness will soften him.
JAN. 1, 1841.-Every day brings its own duty and its own discipline. How is it that I make such slow progress while this is the case? It is a marvel to me why God allows characters like mine to defile His church. I can only account for it with the thought that if I ever am perfected, I shall be a great honor to His name, for surely worse material for building up a temple of the Holy Ghost was never gathered together before. The time may come when those who know me now, crude, childish, incomplete, will look upon me with amazement, saying, "What hath God wrought!" If I knew such a time would never come, I should want to flee into the holes and caves of the earth.
I have everything to inspire me to devotion. My dear mother's influence is always upon me. To her I owe the habit of flying to God in every emergency, and of believing in prayer. Then I am in close fellowship with a true man and a true Christian. Ernest has none of my fluctuations; he is always calm and self-possessed. This is partly his natural character; but he has studied the Bible more than any other book, his convictions of duty are fixed because they are drawn thence, and his constant contact with the sick and the suffering has revealed life to him just as it is. How he has helped me on! God bless him for it!
Then I have James. To be with him one half hour is an inspiration. He lives in such blessed communion with Christ that he is in perpetual sunshine, and his happiness fertilizes even this disordered household; there is not a soul in it that does not catch somewhat of his joyousness.
And there are my children! My darling, precious children! For their sakes I am continually constrained to seek after an amended, a sanctified life; what I want them to become I must become myself.
So I enter on a new year, not knowing what it will bring forth, but surely with a thousand reasons for thanksgiving, for joy, and for hope.
JAN. 16.-One more desperate effort to make harmony out of the discords of my house, and one more failure. Ernest forgot that it was our wedding-day, which mortified and pained me, especially as he had made an engagement to dine out. I am always expecting something from life that I never get. Is it so with everybody? I am very uneasy, too, about James. He seems to be growing fond of Lucy's society. I am perfectly sure that she could not make him happy. Is it possible that he does not know what a brilliant young man he is, and that he can have whom he pleases? It is easy, in theory, to let God plan our own destiny, and that of our friends. But when it comes to a specific case we fancy we can help His judgments with our poor reason. Well, I must go to Him with this new anxiety, and trust my darling brother's future to Him, if I can.
I shall try to win James' confidence. If it is not Lucy, who or what is it that is making him so thoughtful and serious, yet so wondrously happy?
JAN. 17.-I have been trying to find out whether this is a mere notion of mine about Lucy. James laughs, and evades my questions. But he owns that a very serious matter is occupying his thoughts, of which he does not wish to speak at present. May God bless him in it, whatever it is.
MAY 1.-My delicate little Una's first birthday. Thank God for sparing her to us a year. If He should take her away I should still rejoice that this life was mingled with ours, and has influenced them. Yes, even an unconscious infant is an ever-felt influence in the household; what an amazing thought!
I have given this precious little one away to her Saviour and to mine; living or dying, she is His.
DEC. 13.-Writing journals does not seem to be my mission on earth of late. My busy hands find so much else to do. And sometimes when I have been particularly exasperated and tried by the jarring elements that form my home, I have not dared to indulge myself with recording things that ought to be forgotten.
How I long to live in peace with all men, and how I resent interference in the management of my children! If the time ever comes that I live, a spinster of a certain age, in the family of an elder brother, what a model of forbearance, charity, and sisterly loving-kindness I shall be!
I MEAN to resume my journal, and be more faithful to it this year. How many precious things, said by dear Mrs. Campbell and others, are lost forever, because I did not record them at the time!
I have seen her to-day. At Ernest's suggestion I have let Susan Green provide her with a comfortable chair which enables her to sit up during a part of each day. I found her in it, full of gratitude, her sweet, tranquil face shining, as it always is, with a light reflected from heaven itself. She looks like one who has had her struggle with life and conquered it. During last year I visited her often and gradually learned much of her past history, though she does not love to talk of herself. She has outlived her husband, a houseful of girls and her ill-health is chiefly the result of years of watching by their sick-beds, and grief at their loss.
For she does not pretend not to grieve, but always says, "It is repining that dishonors God, not grief."
I said to her to-day:
"Doesn't it seem hard when you think of the many happy homes there are in the world, that you should be singled out for such bereavement and loneliness?"
She replied, with a smile:
"I am not singled out, dear. There are thousands of God's own dear children, scattered over the world, suffering far more than I do. And I do not think there are many persons in it who are happier than I am. I was bound to my God and Saviour before I knew a sorrow, it is true. But it was by a chain of many links; and every link that dropped away, brought me to Him, till at last, having nothing left, I was shut up to Him, and learned fully, what I had only learned partially, how soul-satisfying He is."
"You think, then," I said, while my heart died within me, "that husband and children are obstacles in our way, and hinder our getting near to Christ."
"Oh, no!" she cried. "God never gives us hindrances. On the contrary, He means, in making us wives and mothers, to put us into the very conditions of holy living. But if we abuse His gifts by letting them take His place in our hearts, it is an act of love on His part to take them away, or to destroy our pleasure in them. It is delightful," she added, after a pause, "to know that there are some generous souls on earth, who love their dear ones with all their hearts, yet give those hearts unreservedly to Christ. Mine was not one of them."
I had some little service to render her which interrupted our conversation. The offices I have had to have rendered me in my own long days of sickness have taught me to be less fastidious about waiting upon others. I am thankful that God has at last made me willing to do anything in a sick-room that must be done. She thanked me, as she always does, and then I said:
"I have a great many little trials, but they don't do me a bit of good. Or, at least, I don't see that they do."
"No, we never see plants growing," she said.
"And do you really think then, that perhaps I am growing, though unconsciously?"
"I know you are, dear child. There can't be life without growth."
This comforted me. I came home, praying all the way, and striving to commit myself entirely to Him in whose school I sit as learner. Oh, that I were a better scholar. But I do not half learn my lessons, I am heedless and inattentive, and I forget what is taught. Perhaps this is the reason that weighty truths float before my mind's eye at times, but do not fix themselves there.
MARCH 20.-I have been much impressed by Dr. Cabot's sermons to-day. while I am listening to his voice and hear him speak of the beauty and desirableness of the Christian life, I feel as he feels, that I am waiting to count all things but dross that I may win Christ. But when I come home to my worldly cares, I get completely absorbed in them, it is only by a painful wrench that I force my soul back to God. Sometimes I almost envy Lucy her calm nature, which gives her so little trouble. Why need I throw my whole soul into whatever I do? Why can't I make so much as an apron for little Ernest without the ardor and eagerness of a soldier marching to battle? I wonder if people of my temperament ever get toned down, and learn to take life coolly?
JUNE 10.-My dear little Una has had a long and very severe illness. It seems wonderful that she could survive such sufferings. And it is almost as wonderful that I could look upon them, week after week, without losing my senses.
At first Ernest paid little attention to my repeated entreaties that he would prescribe for her, and some precious time was thus lost. But the moment he was fully aroused to see her danger, there was something beautiful in his devotion. He often walked the room with her by the hour together, and it was touching to see her lying like a pale; crushed lily in his strong arms. One morning she seemed almost gone, and we knelt around her with bursting hearts, to commend her parting soul to Him in whose arms we were about to place her. But it seemed as if all He asked of us was to come to that point, for then He gave her back to us, and she is still ours, only seven-fold dearer. I was so thankful to see dear Ernest's faith triumphing over his heart, and making him so ready to give up even this little lamb without a word. Yes, we will give our children to Him if he asks for them. He shall never have to snatch them from us by force.
OCT. 4.-We have had a quiet summer in the country, that is, I have with my darling little ones. This is the fourth birthday of our son and heir, and he has been full of health and vivacity, enjoying everything with all his heart. How he lights up our sombre household ! Father has been fasting to-day, and is so worn out and so nervous in consequence, that he could not bear the sound of the children's voices. I wish, if he must fast, he would do it moderately, and do it all the time. Now he goes without food until he is ready to sink, and now he eats quantities of improper food. If Martha could only see how mischievous all this is for him. After the children had been hustled out of the way, and I had got them both off to bed, he said in his most doleful manner, "I hope, my daughter, that you are faithful to your son. He has now reached the age of four years, and is a remarkably intelligent child. I hope you teach him that he is a sinner, and that he is in a state of condemnation."
"Now, father, don't," I said. "You are all tired out, and do not know what you are saying. I would not have little Ernest hear you for the world."
Poor father! He fairly groaned.
"You are responsible for that child's soul;" he said; "you have more influence over him than all the world beside."
"I know it," I said, "and sometimes I feel ready to sink when I think of the great work God has intrusted to me. But my poor child will learn that he is a sinner only too soon, and before that dreadful day arrives I want to fortify his soul with the only antidote against the misery that knowledge will give him. I want him to see his Redeemer in all His love, and all His beauty, and to love Him with all his heart and soul, and mind and strength. Dear father, pray for him, and pray for me, too."
"I do, I will," he said, solemnly. And then followed the inevitable long fit of silent musing, when I often wonder what is passing in that suffering soul. For a sufferer he certainly is who sees a great and good and terrible God who cannot look upon iniquity, and does not see His risen Son, who has paid the debt we owe, and lives to intercede for us before the throne of the Father.
JAN. 1, 1842.-James came to me yesterday with a letter he had been writing to mother.
"I want you to read this before it goes," he said, "for you ought to know my plans as soon as mother does."
I did not get time to read it till after tea. Then I came up here to my room, and sat down curious to know what was coming.
Well, I thought I loved him as much as one human being could love another, already, but now my heart embraced him with a fervor and delight that made me so happy that I could not speak a word when I knelt down to tell my Saviour all about it.
He said that he had been led, within a few months, to make a new consecration of himself to Christ and to Christ's cause on earth, and that this had resulted in his choosing the life of a missionary, instead of settling down, as he had intended to do, as a city physician. Such expressions of personal love to Christ, and delight in the thought of serving Him, I never read. I could only marvel at what God had wrought in his soul. For me to live to Christ seems natural enough, for I have been driven to Him not only by sorrow but by sin. Every outbreak of my hasty temper sends me weeping and penitent to the foot of the cross, and I love much because I have been forgiven much. But James, as far as I know, has never had a sorrow, except my father's death, and that had no apparent religious effect. And his natural character is perfectly beautiful. He is as warm-hearted and loving and simple and guileless as a child, and has nothing of my intemperance, hastiness and quick temper. I have often thought that she would be a rare woman who could win and wear such a heart as his. Life has done little but smile upon him; he is handsome and talented and attractive; everybody is fascinated by him, everybody caresses him; and yet he has turned his back on the world that has dealt so kindly with him, and given himself, as Edwards says, "clean away to Christ!" Oh, how thankful I am! And yet to let him go! My only brother-mother's Son! But I know what she will say; she will him God-speed!
Ernest came upstairs, looking tired and jaded. I read the letter to him. It impressed him strangely: but he only said,
"This is what we might expect, who knew James, dear fellow!"
But when we knelt down to pray together, I saw how he was touched, and how his soul kindled within him in harmony with that consecrated, devoted spirit. Dear James! it must be mother's prayers that have done for him this wondrous work that is usually the slow growth of years; and this is the mother who prays for you, Katy! So take courage!
JAN. 2.-James means to study theology as well as medicine, it seems. That will keep him with us for some years. Oh, is it selfish to take this view of it? Alas, the spirit is willing to have him go, but the flesh is weak, and cries out.
OCT. 22.-Amelia came to see me to-day. She has been traveling, for her health, and certainly looks much improved.
"Charley and I are quite good friends again," she began. "We have jaunted about everywhere, and have a delightful time. What a snug little box of a house you have!"
"It is inconveniently small," I said, "for our family is large and the doctor needs more office room."
"Does he receive patients here? How horrid! Don't you hate to have people with all sorts of ills and aches in the house? It must depress your spirits."
"I dare say it would if I saw them; but I never do."
"I should like to see your children. Your husband says you are perfectly devoted to them."
"As I suppose all mothers are," I replied, laughing.
"As to that," she returned, "people differ."
The children were brought down. She admired little Ernest, as everybody does, but only glanced at the baby.
"What a sickly-looking little thing!" she said. "But this boy is a splendid fellow! Ah, if mine had lived he would have been just such a child! But some people have all the trouble and others all the comfort. I am, sure I don't know what I have done that I should have to lose my only boy, and have nothing left but girls. To be sure, I can afford to dress them elegantly, and as soon as they get old enough I mean to have them taught all sorts of accomplishments. You can't imagine what a relief it is to have plenty of money!"
"Indeed I can't!" I said; "it is quite beyond the reach of my imagination."
"My uncle—that is to say Charley's uncle-has just given me a carriage and horses for my own use. In fact, he heaps everything upon me. Where do you go to church?"
I told her, reminding her that Dr. Cabot was its pastor.
"Oh, I forgot! Poor Dr. Cabot! Is he as old-fashioned as ever?"
"I don't know what you mean," I cried. "He is as good as ever, if not better. His health is very delicate, and that one thing seems to be a blessing to him."
"A blessing! Why, Kate Mortimer! Kate Elliott, I mean. It is a blessing I, for one, am very willing to dispense with. But you always did say queer things. Well, I dare say Dr. Cabot is very good and all that, but his church is not a fashionable one, and Charley and I go to Dr. Bellamy's. That is, I go once a day, pretty regularly, and Charley goes when he feels like it. Good-by. I must go now; I have all my fall shopping to do. Have you done yours? Suppose you jump into the carriage and go with me? You can't imagine how it passes away the morning to drive from shop to shop looking over the new goods."
"There seem to be a number of things I can't imagine," I replied, dryly. "You must excuse me this morning."
She took her leave.. I looked at her rich dress as she gathered it about her and swept away, and recalled all her empty, frivolous talk with contempt.
She and Ch—-, her husband, I mean, are well matched. They need their money, and their palaces and their fine clothes and handsome equipages, for they have nothing else. How thankful I am that I am as unlike them as ex—-
OCTOBER 30.-I'm sure I don't know what I was going to say when I was interrupted just then. Something in the way of self-glorification, most likely. I remember the contempt with which I looked after Amelia as she left our house, and the pinnacle on which I sat perched for some days, when I compared my life with hers. Alas, it was my view of life of which I was lost in admiration, for I am sure that if I ever come under the complete dominion of Christ's gospel I shall not know the Sentiment of disdain. I feel truly ashamed and sorry that I am still so far from being penetrated with that spirit.
My pride has had a terrible fall. As I sat on my throne, looking down on all the Amelias in the world, I felt a profound pity at their delight in petty trifles, their love of position, of mere worldly show and passing vanities.
"They are all alike," I said to myself. "They are incapable of understanding a character like mine, or the exalted, ennobling principles that govern me. They crave the applause of this world, they are satisfied with fine clothes, fine houses, fine equipages. They think and talk of nothing else; I have not one idea in common with them. I see the emptiness and hollowness of these things. I am absolutely unworldly; my ambition is to attain whatever they, in their blind folly and ignorance, absolutely despise."
Thus communing with myself, I was not a little pleased to hear Dr. Cabot and his wife announced. I hastened to meet them and to display to them the virtues I so admired in myself. They had hardly a chance to utter a word. I spoke eloquently of my contempt for worldly vanities, and of my enthusiastic longings for a higher life. I even went into particulars about the foibles of some of my acquaintances, though faint misgivings as to the propriety of such remarks on the absent made me half repent the words I still kept uttering. When they took leave I rushed to my room with my heart beating, my cheeks all in a glow, and caught up and caressed the children in a way that seemed to astonish them. Then I took my work and sat down to sew. What a horrible reaction now took place! I saw my refined, subtle, disgusting pride, just as I suppose Dr. and Mrs. Cabot saw it! I sat covered with confusion, shocked at myself, shocked at the weakness of human nature. Oh, to get back the good opinion of my friends! To recover my own self-respect! But this was impossible. I threw down my work and walked about my room. There was a terrible struggle in my soul. I saw that instead of brooding over the display I had made of myself to Dr. Cabot I ought to be thinking solely of my appearance in the sight of God, who could see far more plainly than any earthly eye could all my miserable pride and self-conceit. But I could not do that, and chafed about till I was worn out, body and soul. At last I sent the children away, and knelt down and told the whole story to Him who knew what I was when He had compassion on me, called me by my name, and made me His own child. And here, I found a certain peace. Christian, on his way to the celestial city, met and fought his Apollyons and his giants, too; but he got there at last!
THIS morning Ernest received an early summons to Amelia. I got out of all manner of patience with him because he would take his bath and eat his breakfast before he went, and should have driven any one else distracted by my hurry and flurry.
"She has had a hemorrhage!" I cried. "Do, Ernest, make haste."
"Of course," he returned, "that would come, sooner or later."
"You don't mean," I said, "that she has been in danger of this all along?"
"I certainly do."
"Then it was very unkind in you not to tell me so."
"I told you at the outset that her lungs were diseased."
"No, you told me no such thing. Oh, Ernest, is she going to die?"
"I did not know you were so fond of her," he said, apologetically.
"It is not that," I cried. "I am distressed at the thought of the worldly life she has been living-at my never trying to influence her for her good. If she is in danger, you will tell her so? Promise me that."
"I must see her before I make such a promise," he said, and went out.
I flew up to my room and threw myself on my knees, sorrowful, self-condemned. I had thrown away my last opportunity of speaking a word to her in season, though I had seen how much she needed one, and now she was going to die! Oh, I hope God will forgive me, and hear the prayers I have offered her!
EVENING.-Ernest says he had a most distressing scene at Amelia's this morning. She insisted on knowing what he thought of her, and then burst out bitter complaints and lamentations, charging it to husband that she had this disease, declaring that she could not, and would not die, and insisting that he must prevent it. Her uncle urged for a consultation of physicians, to which Ernest consented, of course, though he says no mortal power can save her now. I asked him how her husband appeared, to which he made the evasive answer that he appeared just as one would expect him to do.
DECEMBER.-Amelia was so determined to see me that Ernest thought it best for me to go. I found her looking very feeble.
"Oh, Katy," she began at once, "do make the doctor say that I shall get well!"
"I wish he could say so with truth," I answered. "Dear Amelia, try to think how happy God's own children are when they are with Him."
"I can't think," she replied. "I do not want to think. I want to forget all about it. If it were not for this terrible cough I could forget it, for I am really a great deal better than I was a month ago."
I did not know what to say or what to do.
"May I read a hymn or a few verses from the Bible?" I asked, at last.
"Just as you like," she said, indifferently.
I read a verse now and then, but she looked tired, and I prepared to go.
"Don't go," she cried. "I do not dare to be alone. Oh, what a terrible, terrible thing it is to die! To leave this bright, beautiful world, and be nailed in a coffin and buried up in a cold, dark grave."
"Nay," I said, "to leave this poor sick body there, and to fly to a world ten thousand times brighter, more beautiful than this."
"I had just got to feeling nearly well," she said, "and I had everything I wanted, and Charley was quite good to me, and I kept my little girls looking like fairies, just from fairy-land. Everybody said they wore the most picturesque costumes when they were dressed according to my taste. And I have got to go and leave them, and Charley will be marrying somebody else, and saying to her all the nice things he has said to me."
"I really must go now," I said. "You are wearing yourself all out."
"I declare you are crying," she exclaimed. "You do pity me after all."
"Indeed I do," I said, and came away, heartsick.
Ernest says there is nothing I can do for her now but to pray for her, since she does not really believe herself in danger, and has a vague feeling that if she can once convince him how much she wants to live, he will use some vigorous measures to restore her. Martha is to watch with her to-night. Ernest will not let me.
JAN. 18, 1843.-Our wedding-day has passed unobserved. Amelia's suffering condition absorbs us all. Martha spends much time with her, and prepares almost all the food she eats.
JAN. 20.-I have seen poor Amelia once more, and perhaps for the last time. She has failed rapidly of late, and Ernest says may drop away at almost any time.
When I went in she took me by the hand, and with great difficulty, and at intervals said something like this:
"I have made up my mind to it, and I know it must come. I want to see Dr. Cabot. Do you think he would be willing to visit me after my neglecting him so?"
"I am sure he would," I cried.
"I want to ask him if he thinks I was a Christian at that time-you know when. If I was, then I need not be so afraid to die."
"But, dear Amelia, what he thinks is very little to the purpose. The question is not whether you ever gave yourself to God, but whether you are His now. But I ought not to talk to you. Dr. Cabot will know just what to say."
"No, but I want to know what you thought about it."
I felt distressed, as I looked at her wasted dying figure, to be called on to help decide such a question. But I knew what I ought to say, and said it:
"Don't look back to the past; it is useless. Give yourself to Christ now."
She shook her head.
"I don't know how," she said. "Oh, Katy, pray to God to let me live long enough to get ready to die. I have led a worldly life. I shudder at the bare thought of dying; I must have time."
"Don't wait for time," I said, with tears, "get ready now, this minute. A thousand years would not make you more fit to die."
So I came away, weary and heavy-laden, and on the way home stopped to tell Dr. Cabot all about it, and by this time he is with her.
MARCH 1.-Poor Amelia's short race on earth is over. Dr. Cabot saw her every few days and says he hopes she did depart in Christian faith, though without Christian joy. I have not seen her since that last interview. That excited me so that Ernest would not let me go again.
Martha has been there nearly the whole time for three or four weeks, and I really think it has done her good. She seems less absorbed in mere outside things, and more lenient toward me and my failings.
I do not know what is to become of those motherless little girls. I wish I could take them into my own home, but, of course, that is not even to be thought at this juncture. Ernest says their father seemed nearly distracted when Amelia died, and that his uncle is going to send him off to Europe immediately.
I have been talking with Ernest about Amelia.
"What do you think," I asked, "about her last days on earth? Was there really any preparation for death?"
"These scenes are very painful," he returned. "Of course there is but one real preparation for Christian dying, and that is Christian living."
"But the sick-room often does what a prosperous life never did!"
"Not often. Sick persons delude themselves, or are deluded by their friends; they do not believe they are really about to die. Besides, they are bewildered and exhausted by disease, and what mental strength they have is occupied with studying symptoms, watching for the doctor, and the like. I do not now recall a single instance where a worldly Christian died a happy, joyful death, in all my practice."
"Well, in one sense it makes no difference whether they die happily or not. The question is do they die in the Lord?"
"It may make no vital difference to them, but we must not forget that God is honored or dishonored by the way a Christian dies, as well as by the way in which he lives. There is great significance in the description given in the Bible of the death by which John should 'Glorify God'; to my mind it implies that to die well is to live well."
"But how many thousands die suddenly, or of such exhausting disease that they cannot honor God by even one feeble word."
"Of course, I do not, refer to such cases. All I ask is that those whose minds are clear, who are able to attend to all other final details, should let it be seen what the gospel of Christ can do for poor sinners in the great exigency of life, giving Him the glory. I can tell you, my darling, that standing, as I so often do, by dying beds, this whole subject has become one of great magnitude to my mind. And it gives me positive personal pain to see heirs of the eternal kingdom, made such by the ignominious death of their Lord, go shrinking and weeping to the full possession of their inheritance."
Ernest is right, I am sure, but how shall the world, even the Christian world, be convinced that it may have blessed fortastes of heaven while yet plodding upon earth, and faith to go thither joyfully, for the simple asking?
Poor Amelia! But she understands it all now. It is a blessed thing to have this great faith, and it is a blessed thing to have a Saviour who accepts it when it is but a mere grain of mustard-seed!
MAY 24.-I celebrated my little Una's third birthday by presenting her with a new brother. Both the children welcomed him with delight that was itself compensation enough for all it cost me to get up such a celebration. Martha takes a most prosaic view of this proceeding, in which she detects malice prepense on my part. She says I shall now have one mouth the more to fill, and two feet the more to shoe; more disturbed nights, more laborious days, and less leisure for visiting, reading, music, and drawing.
Well! this is one side of the story, to be sure, but I look at the other. Here is a sweet, fragrant mouth to kiss; here are two more feet to make music with their pattering about my nursery. Here is a soul to train for God, and the body in which it dwells is worthy all it will cost, since it is the abode of a kingly tenant. I may see less of friends, but I have gained one dearer than them all, to whom, while I minister in Christ's name, I make a willing sacrifice of what little leisure for my own recreation my other darlings had left me. Yes, my precious baby, you are welcome to your mother's heart, welcome to her time, her strength, her health, her tenderest cares, to her life-long prayers! Oh, how rich I am, how truly, how wondrously blest!
JUNE 5.-We begin to be woefully crowded. We need a larger house, or a smaller household. I am afraid I secretly, down at the bottom of my heart, wish Martha and her father could give place to my little ones. May God forgive me if this is so! It is a poor time for such emotions when He has just given me another darling child, for whom I have as rich and ample a love as if I had spent no affection on the other twain. I have made myself especially kind to poor father and to Martha lest they should perceive how inconvenient it is to have them here, and be pained by it. I would not for the world despoil them of what little satisfaction they may derive from living with us. But, oh! I am so selfish, and it is so hard to practice the very law of love I preach to my children! Yet I want this law to rule and reign in my home, that it may be a little heaven below, and I will not, no, I will not, cease praying that it may be such, no matter what it costs me. Poor father! poor old man! I will try to make your home so sweet and home-like to you that when you change it for heaven it shall be but a transition from one bliss to a higher!
EVENING.-Soon after writing that I went down to see father, whom I have had to neglect of late, baby has so used up both time and strength.. I found him and Martha engaged in what seemed to be an exciting debate, as Martha had a fiery little red spot on each cheek, and was knitting furiously. I was about to retreat, when she got up in a flurried way and went off, saying, as she went:
"You tell her, father; I can't."
I went up to him tenderly and took his hand. Ah, how gentle and loving we are when we have just been speaking to God!
"What is it, dear father?" I asked; "is anything troubling you?"
"She is going to be married," he replied.
"Oh, father!" I cried, "how n-" nice, I was going to say, but stopped just in time.
All my abominable selfishness that I thought I had left at my Master's feet ten minutes before now came trooping back in full force.
"She's going to be married; she'll go away, and will take her father to live with her! I can have room for my children, and room for mother! Every element of discord will now leave my home, and Ernest will see what I really am!"
These were the thoughts that rushed through my mind, and that illuminated my face.
"Does Ernest know?" I asked.
"Yes, Ernest has known it for some weeks."
Then I felt injured and inwardly accused Ernest of unkindness in keeping so important a fact a secret. But when I went back to my children, vexation with him took flight at once. The coming of each new child strengthens and deepens my desire to be what I would have it become; makes my faults more odious in my eyes, and elevates my whole character. What a blessed discipline of joy and of pain my married life has been; how thankful I am to reap its fruits even while pricked by its thorns!
JUNE 21.-It seems that the happy man who has wooed Martha and won her is no less a personage than old Mr. Underhill. His ideal of a woman is one who has no nerves, no sentiment, no backaches, no headaches, who will see that the wheels of his household machinery are kept well oiled, so that he need never hear them creak, and who, in addition to her other accomplishments, believes in him and will be kind enough to live forever for his private accommodation. This expose of his sentiments he has made to me in a loud, cheerful, pompous way, and he has also favored me with a description of his first wife, who lacked all these qualifications, and was obliging enough to depart in peace at an early stage of their married life, meekly preferring thus to make way for a worthier successor. Mr. Underhill with all his foibles, however, is on the whole a good man. He intends to take Amelia's little girls into his own home, and be a father, as Martha will be a mother, to them. For this reason he hurries on the marriage, after which they will all go at once to his country-seat, which is easy of access, and which he says he is sure father will enjoy. Poor old father I hope he will, but when the subject is alluded to he maintains a sombre silence, and it seems to me he never spent so many days alone in his room, brooding over his misery, as he has of late. Oh, that I could comfort him.
JULY 12.-The marriage was appointed for the first of the month, as old Mr. Underhill wanted to get out of town before the Fourth. As the time drew near, Martha began to pack father's trunk as well as her own, and brush in and out of his room till he had no rest for the sole of his foot, and seemed as forlorn as a pelican in the wilderness.
I know no more striking picture of desolation than that presented by one of these quaint birds, standing upon a single leg, feeling as the story has it, "den Jammer und das Elend der Welt."
On the last evening in June we all sat together on the piazza, enjoying, each in our own way, a refreshing breeze that had sprung up after a sultry day. Father was quieter than usual, and seemed very languid. Ernest who, out of regard to Martha's last evening at home, had joined our little circle, observed this, and said, cheerfully:
"You will feel better as soon as you are once more out of the city, father."
Father made no reply for some minutes, and when he did speak we were all startled to find that his voice trembled as if he were shedding tears. We could not understand what he said. I went to him and made him lean his head upon me as he often did when it ached. He took my hand in both his.