The Life and Letters of Elizabeth Prentiss Part 57

_Dec. 25th._--How plain that all the creations of the ancient mythology are but representations of something in the heart of man!... What is the end of man? Infinite contradictions--all opposites blended into one--a ma.s.s of confused, broken parts, of disjointed fragments--such _is_ he.

The circ.u.mstances that surround him--the events that happen unto him, are no less strange. What shall be the end? Oh then, abyss of futurity, declare it! unfold thy dark depths--let a voice come up from thy cloudy infinite--let a ray penetrate thy unfathomable profound. If we could but _rest_ till the question is decided! if we could but float softly on the current of time till we reach the haven! But no, we must _act_. We must _do_ something. _I_ must do something _now_--WHAT?

_Evening._ But as the morning. In the afternoon I was talking with L.

W. [13] with as much eagerness and vivacity as if I had never known a cloud. This evening I was going to a _dance_ at the _Insane_ Hospital.

For me truly it has been a day of opposites--all the elements of life have met and mingled in it.

_Wednesday, 26th._--The end of man, says Carlyle, is an action, not a thought. This is partly true, though all n.o.ble action has its root in thought. Thought, indeed, in its true and highest sense, _is_ action. It is never lost. If uttered, it may breathe inspiration into a thousand minds and become the impulse to ten thousand good actions. If unuttered, and terminating in no single outward act, it yet has an emanative influence; it impregnates the man and makes itself felt in his life. A man can not do so n.o.ble and G.o.dlike a thing as to think, without being the better for it. Indeed, the distinction between thought and action is not always an accurate one. Many thoughts deserve the name of activities much better than certain movements of the muscles and changes of the outward organization which we denominate actions. In this sense, it is better of the two to think without acting than to act without thinking.

Mrs. Hopkins was the author of the following works, intended mostly for the young. Some of them have had a wide circulation. They are written in an attractive style and breathe the purest spirit of Christian love and wisdom: 1. The Pastor's Daughter. 2. Lessons on the Book of Proverbs. 3.

The Young Christian Encouraged. 4. Henry Langdon; or, What Was I Made For? 5. The Guiding Star; or, The Bible G.o.d's Message; a Sequel to Henry Langdon. 6. The Silent Comforter; a Companion for the Sick-room. A Compilation.

E.

The following is the rhapsody referred to by Mr. Butler: (The words to be used were _Mosquito, Brigadier, Moon, Cathedral, Locomotive, Piano, Mountain, Candle, Lemon, Worsted, Charity_, and _Success_).

A wounded soldier on the ground in helpless languor lay, Unheeding in his weariness the tumult of the day; In vain a pert _mosquito_ buzzed madly in his ear, His thoughts were far away from earth--its sounds he could not hear; Nor noted he the kindly glance with which his _brigadier_ Looked down upon his manly form when chance had brought him near.

It was a glorious autumn night on which the _moon_ looked down, Calmly she looked and her fair face had neither grief nor frown.

Just as she gazed in other lands on some _cathedral_ dim, Whose aisles resounded to the strains of dirges or of hymn.

But now with _locomotive_ speed the soldier's thoughts took wing: Back to his home they bore him, and he heard his sisters sing-- Heard the softest-toned _piano_ touched by hands he used to love.

Was it home or was it heaven? Was that music from above?

Oh, for one place or the other! In his mountain air to die, Once more upon his mother's breast, as in infancy, to lie!

The scene has changed. Where is he now? Not on the cold, damp ground.

Whence came this couch? and who are they who smiling stand around?

What friendly hands have borne him to his own free _mountain_ air?

And father, mother, sisters--every one of them is there.

Now gentle ministries of love may soothe him in his pain; Water to cool his fevered lips he need not ask in vain.

His mother shades the _candle_ when she steals across the room; A face like hers would radiant make a very desert's gloom.

The fragrant _lemon_ cools his thirst, pressed by his sister's hand-- Not one can do enough for him, the hero of their band.

Oh, happy, convalescing days! How full of pleasant pain!

How pleasant to take up the old, the dear old life again!

Now, sitting on the wooden bench before the cottage door, How many times they make him tell the same old story o'er!

How he fought and how he fell; how he longed again to fight; And how he would die fighting yet for the triumph of the right.

His good old mother sits all day so fondly by his side; How can she give him up again--her first-born son, her pride?

His sisters with their _worsted_ his stockings fas.h.i.+on too, In patriotic colors--the red, the white, the blue.

If he should never wear them, a _charity_ 'twill be To give them to some soldier-lad as brave and good as he.

They're dreadful homely stockings; one can not well say less, But whosoever wears 'em--why, may he have _success_!

Here are samples of the charades referred to by Miss Morse:

ON RETURNING A LOST GLOVE TO A FRIEND.

MARCH, 1873.

A hand I am not, yet have fingers five; Alive I am not, yet was once alive.

Am found in every house and by the dozen, And am of flesh and blood a sort of cousin.

Now cut my head off. See what I become!

No longer am I lifeless, dead, and dumb.

I am the very sweetest thing on earth; Royal in power and of royal birth.

I in the palace reign and in the cot-- There is no place where man is and I'm not.

I am too costly to be bought and sold; I can not be enticed by piles of gold.

And yet I am so lowly that a smile Can woo and win me--and so free from guile, That I look forth from many a gentle face In tenderness and truthfulness and grace.

Say, do you know me? Have you known my reign?

My joy, my rapture, and my silent pain?

Beneath your pillow have I roses placed-- Your heart's glad festival have I not graced?

Ah me! To mother, lover, husband, wife I am the oil and I the wine of life.

With you, my dear, I have been hand and _glove_.

Shall I return the first and keep the _Love_?

CHARADE.

My _first_ was born to rule; before him stand The potentates and n.o.bles of the land.

He loves his grandeur--hopes to be more grand.

My second you will find in every la.s.s-- Both in the highest and the lowest cla.s.s, And even in a simple blade of gra.s.s.

But add it to my _first_, and straightway he Becomes my _whole_--loses ident.i.ty; Parts with his manhood and becomes a _She_.

(Prince, _ss.,_ Princess).

F.

Here is another extract from the same letter:

J'ai peine a me mettre a l'oraison, et quelquefois quand j'y suis il me tarde d'en sortir. Je n'y fais, ce me semble, presque rien. Je me trouve meme dans une certaine tiedeur et une tachete pour toutes sortes de biens. Je n'ai aucune peine considerable ni dans mon interieur, ni dans mon exterieur, ainsi je ne saurois dire que je pa.s.se par aucune epreuve.

Il me semble que c'est un songe, ou que je me moque quand je cherche mon etat tant je me trouve hors de tout etat spirituel, dans la voie commune des gens tiedes qui vivent a leur aise. Cependant cette languor universelle jointe a l'abandon qui me fait acceptes tout et qui m'empeche de rien rechercher, ne laisse pas de m'abattre, et je sens que j'ai quelquefois besoin de donner a mes sens quelque amus.e.m.e.nt pour m'egayer. Aussi le fais--je simplement, mais bien mieux quand je suis seul que quand je suis avec mes meilleurs amis. Quand je suis seul, je joue quelquefois comme un pet.i.t enfant, etc., etc.

The letter may be found in Vol. V., pp. 411-12, of Madame Guyon's LETTRES CHReTIENNES ET SPIRITUELLES _sur divers Sujets qui regardent La Vie Interieure, ou L'esprit du vrai Christianisme_--enrichie de la Correspondance secrette de MR. DE FENELON avec l'Auteur. London, 1768.

The whole work is extremely interesting.

G.

[From The Evangelist of May 27, 1875.]

IN MEMORIAM.

Died in Paris, France, May 8, 1875, VIRGINIA S. OSBORN, only daughter of William H. and Virginia S. Osborn, of this city, and granddaughter of the late Jonathan Sturges.

The sudden death of this gifted young girl has overwhelmed with grief a large social and domestic circle. Last February, in perfect health and full of the brightest antic.i.p.ations, she set out, in company with her parents and a young friend, on a brief foreign tour. After pa.s.sing several weeks at Rome and visiting other famous cities of Italy, she had just reached Paris on the way home when a violent fever seized upon her brain, and, in defiance of the tenderest parental care and the best medical skill, hurried her into the unseen world.