Nineteen beautiful years; or, Sketches of a girl's life

Front matter

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WELCOMING FRANCES WILLARD,

Preface To This Edition

I.— AN INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER 17

H.— THE CHILD 27

III.— THE SCHOOL-GIRL 45

IV.— THE YOUNG LADY 81

V. -THE INVALID 195

VI.— ENTRANCE UPON UNCONDITIONED LIFE. .. 217

VH.— CONCLUDING PARAGRAPHS 229

VIII.— WHERE? A POEM. By Luella Clark 237

IX. -TWENTY YEARS LATER 246

X.— BLUDGEON CRITICISM. By Gail Hamilton.... 251

APPENDIX.— A New Profession for Women 263

ILLUSTRATIONS.— Mary E. Willard, Frontispiece.

Miss Willard and her Mother.... 245 introduction to 5\vst (Edifiofy

BY BISHOP RANDOLPH S. FOSTER.

TF the gentle reader whose eye may chance to linger on this line should be about to peruse the following pages, we do not ask her to stop a single moment here; she may, without discourtesy, turn at once to page nineteen, and proceed. But is she hesitating ? We must then beg for a moment's parley — just long enough to say, Do no such thing. But I am busy — I have calls — I can not read every thing: — I k&ve the last Atlantic, Harper's, Thackeray's best — I am not in the mood. Agreed : w r e comprehend you perfectly. Still, be persuaded. An hour will suffice, and you w T ill be the richer forever. We have some things more to say, but you are impatient. Drop us — turn to Chapter One ; the friends you want to know are there waiting for you. We are prosy ; you will find them genial and entertaining, and they have words to speak to you that will dwell in your heart, a joy through many a

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dark day. Would you know more of them before you form the acquaintance? — Read on, then.

Nestling amidst the profuse foliage and deep shadows of an old oak-forest on the sunset shore of Lake Michigan is one of the loveliest villages any where to be found away from the hills of New England. The spot was selected as the sheltered, restful location of a cluster of Literary Institutions. Nature had indicated it as classic ground. The public buildings and tasteful homes have grown up amidst grand old trees, almost without marring them of a single limb. There is no hum of business — not even the occasional sound of a hammer; no flaunting of signs; no loaded trucks or drays — scarcely a remembrancer of the Mammonizing world. A Sabbath quiet rests upon the scene, interrupted only by the remittent swell of music from homes embowered amidst this aboriginal forest. Along the unpaved side- walks and off by the shore are companies of youth hastening to the summons of recitationbell, or leisurely returning home after the duties of the hour.

It was the privilege of the writer of this brief Introduction to spend three delightful years in

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this favored spot. Mid-way between his home and the lake-shore, and lending charm to a favorite ramble, rooted amidst thick -set hedges of young evergreens and many-tinted flowers, rose an unostentatious but inviting home. The perfect taste without prophesied the grace and refinement within. It w r as a staid, safe, restfullooking place.

Five were the inmates — the father and mother, one son, and two daughters. The fact that the parents had settled here for no other object than the education of their children, sufficiently explains their fibre — the stuff and make of them.

The son was already a graduate, with honors, of one of the first colleges of the country, and now pursuing a course of theological study; the two daughters, just blooming into womanhood, occupied a front rank in the classes of the excellent institution of which they were pupils.

Daily, as I sat in my study, I saw them pass and repass with books in hand — books of metaphysics, literature, and science ; both delicate of build, the younger tall and slight. The pallor of much thought and earnest effort had fixed its unmistakable impress upon them. Even in youth the inward fire of love of learning was

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consuming them. Thus I saw them for the years, toiiing lovingly together up the rugged steeps to the summit where Knowledge holds his seat. Sabbath morning found them regularly in the Lecture-hall, most attentive, most thoughtful among the listeners. Above their years they were appreciative. When the discussions were profound their faces glowed with the sympathetic inspirations of genius. When the utterances were tender or beautiful, their hearts trembled with emotion and their eyes glistened with tears.

" Death loves a shining mark." He passes by the hovel of the poor, the couch of the decrep it, and the weary path of the dusty and wayworn pilgrim, that he may flesh his arrow in the bloom of youth and beauty. Sad it is to see the young and hopeful and helpful die; the maiden turn aside from her companions, to seek the covert of a silent chamber, that she may shut out of her sight the world to which she must soon bid a long adieu ! Who can explain the mystery that the brave, the gifted, the beautiful, the good, should die ? — that hearts attuned to love, and sensibilities transportingly awake to the joy of life, should be frozen and neutralized for the

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grave ? If the world must have a sepulchre, why should it not be as the final resting-place of weary, worn-out age, or the gloomy prison of hideousness and crime ?

Infinite love solves the otherwise inscrutable problem. There is an immortality beyond. The young and beautiful die but to live again ; close their eves upon earth that they may open them in heaven; relinquish the perishing loves of the earth-born that they may enter upon the rapturous friendships of the unperishing and eternal.

Beautiful as the earth is, it is not the home for immortals. Beyond the azure depths, where Arcturus leads his sons and Orion bathes in his sea of tinted light, the All-Father has spread the flowery fields and planted the fragrant groves amidst whose innocence and love they shall ascend the eternities.

Gentle and sheltered as was the path along which Mary traveled, her feet soon became weary. One day — it was one of the long, sunny days of her nineteenth summer — she came in, and, laying her head on her mother's bosom, said, "I am so tired !" It was her dying pillow. Loving, tender hands took up the faded form she had be* ri To the Reader.

queathed to earth, and laid it softly down under the sods of " Rose Hill," to sleep until the angel's trumpet shall waken it to life.

"Nineteen Beautiful Years" is the sisterly tribute which Frank, in tears and loneliness, brings to lay on Mary's grave — a tribute as full of fragrance and touching beauty as the life whose memory it seeks to perpetuate was full of sweetness and innocence. It is more than a tribute ; it is the fulfillment of a solemn commission breathed from the lips of the dying — a commission that might have adorned the lips of Jesus in the hour of his agony : " Tell every body to be good." In this way the one whom she most loved — if a sister's can exceed a mother's love — the one to whom she was most dear, seeks to discharge the dying trust. How faithfully, how transcendently she has performed this duty, you have only to read to ascertain.

It is with no ordinary pleasure that I accept the invitation of the publishers to introduce, in a few pages, this most interesting little volume. The compliance is enforced no more by love than by the conviction I have that, so far as I may contribute to the wider reading of the following pages, I shall be conferring a real benefit on the

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minds influenced, and, through them, upon society at large.

The book is the joint production of two minds, consisting mainly of excerpta from the private journal of the gifted girl, who was unconsciously penning her own biography; culled and collated with great good taste by her sister, with added reflections and reminiscences of her own. There is every where a freshness and sparkle which rarely adorn the pages of the oest writers. While the story is exquisite and racy throughout, undoubtedly the extracts from the private journal lend the chief charm to the volume. These are the more entertaining and surprising that they are but stray jottings intended for no eye but that of the writer. We are led into the inner chambers of a many-sided soul by an unconscious guide, and its wealthiest treasures are undesignedly spread out for our gaze. We are all the time startled at finding a child reciting to us the profoundest philosophy — transmuting the commonest things into sermons of the deepest wisdom — eliciting a poem from the pebble, the snow-flake, the falling acorn. Now we are amused with a quaint imagination, which must have made the writer smile when it dropped vni To the Reader.

from her curious, versatile pen ; next we are shaken with such pathos as can only have birth in a soul stirred with the profoundest passion. We know of no such collection of gems from a single source in the same space. As a whole it is the secret history, naively recited to itself, of a wonderful soul, struggling up through the weaknesses and bewilderments that encompass this earthly life, to the pure, calm, and unclouded brightness of eternal day. We are let in to its doubts and fears, its questionings and disquietudes, its longings and hopes, until it emerges into the repose of faith and the bliss of pardon— the sunlight of infinite love. In a word, it is the most entrancing of all histories — the history of an inner life — the genesis and growth of a redeemed soul. To the cultivated and appreciative reader of every age, sex, and sect, there is spread out here a rare and rich feast, from the enjoyment of which he must arise a purer, stronger, and better nature.

preface.

THE impression made upon me by the perusal of the first edition of this little book has not been weakened by the lapse of time. It seems to me now, as it did then, a very sweet and tender record of the exceptionally beautiful life of a young woman whose rare natural gifts and graces were sanctified by a deep, but cheerful and healthful religious experience, free from cant, affectation or bigotry. It is an attractive picture of the " sweet reasonableness ' ' of Christian development — a lovely human character flowering into the beauty of holiness. The story is told by her sister, Frances E. Willard, so widely known and honored for her work of Christian philanthropy. It is a charming piece of biography, and it would be well if it could take the place of many well-meant but unwholesome tracts and memoirs now in circulation, the tendency of which is to depress rather than to encourage and strengthen the seeker after a better life.

Amesbury, 4th month 4, i88j.

JEin$0

Written by Dr. M. S. Terry, of the Garrett Biblical Institute, Evanston, 111., on reading "Nineteen Beautiful Years."

I read the memoir of those nineteen years,

And lo, it seemed as if a radiant soul

Had spoken to me from the pole — A spirit conversant with mortal fears But risen to the supernatural spheres, Where love divine has wiped away all tears.

"Not a biography of common mold Are these stray lines, nor flitting dreams of night, But souvenirs of a Vildered seraph's flight,

Who, for a season, left the gates of gold, And lingered timidly, full long, in sight Of human griefs, then, " turning to the right," Went home, but left a trail of heavenly light

More lasting than the meteors of this world.

MARY'S BIRTHPLACE.

I

B u ^FVELL every body to be good !" These -*- simple, earnest words — among the last ever spoken by the gentle girl whose story we have written — form at once the index to its purpose and our apology for its presentation.

The delineation of a character, and the portrayal of a life like hers — although the one was in its earliest blossoming, and the other had measured less than a score of years — will give her message to the world in a manner more fitting and significant than it could be expressed in sermon or in song.

And yet, when we contemplated preparing this biography, our surface-thought was that it did not seem probable that we could interest those who had never seen the pleasant face of her who is our heroine; who had never smiled at her quaint words, nor felt a pang of sorrow for her in their lives.

But reflection proves our error. One of our Great-hearts of the pen has said what every reader's highest nature must tell him is the truth :

" There is an imperishable nature of man, ever and every where the same, of which each particular man is a testimony and representation. At a certain depth all bosoms communicate, all hearts are one."

So your grief, Humanity ! is mine, and mine is yours, by an irrevocable and blessed law. Thus, in some sense, our interests are the same. If, then, we are of one family, with one universal heart, why may we not talk in love and sympathy even across the seas? for your eye glistens on that side, and mine on this, with the same emotion ; since, as a generous soul has said, " I am human, and whatever touches humanity touches me/'

Kind friends ! y$u would read of and discuss a fictitious character with relish, and surely you will be as much interested in this one, which is real, which is still in conscious life, and though unknown to you here, will greet you in the glorious, mystical land — perchance ere very long.

An Introductory Chapter. 21

You are not bidden to the contemplation of an ascetic's character, nor to one of an abnormal growth and a too early ripeness. A pure-hearted, kindly girl is introduced to you — one whose character, though not rounded into symmetry, gave promise of a noble womanhood ; one who loved life as well as you do, who studied diligently to prepare herself for the beautiful years which she believed were stretching out before her ; who felt it was

<; A thing to be beloved, And honored holily, and bravely borne ;"

yet who, notwithstanding her deep sense of its duties, and her earnest wish to merit its rewards, was known among her young friends as the merriest of them all.

The writer has thought — and this opinion has been confirmed by consultations with those well qualified to judge — that this portraiture of a character so sweet and so pleasant would not fail to be of interest to the young, for whom it is more especially intended, and could hardly fail to make them better.

This life of Mary has been written lovingly, for the hand which has traced its lines is the same that all through childhood held her chubby little hand as two sisters took their woodland rambles, or went along the shady path to school. And the story is of how she lived among us with love and cheeriness ; how she was eager to grow wise ; how she tried to be of use, and to make it a happy thing for others that she lived; how she grew very spiritual, very " meet for angels' company;" how Christ came for her one beautiful June morning, and she went away with Him,

If some rare plant should grow within your garden, with fragile stem, delicate leaf, and pure white blossom; if it should elaborate from the material common to all the garden — from the moisture, air, and sunshine that pure corolla, those fairy stamens, that faint, delicious fragrance, would you not wish that others might see your treasure and inhale the perfume which it bore?

This gentle girl was such a flower, blooming in the garden of life. From elements beyond the reach of none she elaborated a character genial and beautiful. Its roots were firmly planted in the truth ; the air it breathed was love toward God and toward all that He has made. The dews of gentleness and charity fell

An Introductory Chapter. 23

upon it and were absorbed ; it expanded in the sunshine of faith, and the perfume of humility filled all the air around it.

It can but cheer and strengthen those who, like her, are young — who would gather within their hearts all sw r eet and kindly qualities— to contemplate one who, though not faultless, wrought vigorously during the brief years allotted to her, believing that

" Sculptors of life are we, With our souls uncarved before us;"

and who, in that strength which was never yet denied to the earnest supplicant, overcame all, "even the last enemy, which is Death."

Her outside life was not eventful, but her intellect and heart-history can not fail to prove rich and beautiful, if pictured even dimly. And we all know w T ell enough that aw r ay down in the heart, where it is still, is the place in which all true living is done. As one thinketh in his heart, so is he; and what my sister thought in hers I know quite well, for we kept nothing from each other — a broad statement, indeed, yet one which is strictly true.

Books of the same general scope as this are frequently consigned by the consolatory critic.

without farther comment, to "the circle of relatives for whom they were no doubt intended, and who will find a mournful pleasure in their perusal/' Lest some such mistake should be made in the present instance, the statement may be permitted that this book, however signally it may fail of fulfilling its design, is not intended merely as a receptacle in which the memory of a departed friend may be preserved — however sweet and hallowed that memory — for the gratification of relatives. Its use is meant to be a wider one, and its author is not without hope that many a bright-eyed youth and maiden may rise from its perusal with braver hearts to do that which is right — with firmer faith in the unseen powers that work for those who seek the truth, and a confirmed resolve to be more gentle and helpful — more diligent to win from life its truest joys.

Mourners throng our streets; the sable garments of the bereaved are seen on every hand ; the union and liberties of our native land are being won by untold heartaches. If to some who sorrow for

"The unreturning brave"

this little book might bring new suggestions

Ait Introductory Chapter. 25

of the Helper who was never so near to them as now ; or if to any of the noble band who fight our battles it might come as a lovingvoice from loftier regions, urging them on to victory in the war against a foe more wily than any ever vanquished by carnal weapons, a double purpose would be served.

Now is Mary's story left to the criticisms of strangers. She was always sheltered from the keen edge of rebuke ; she never knew the lack of sympathy. Dear friends who read about her,. may she find loving hearts in yours!

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"Here at the portal thou dost stand. And with thy little hand Thou openest the mysterious gate Into the future's undiscovered land."

Longfellow

"Tis strange how childhood's simple word* Interpret Nature's mystic book — How it will listen to the birds, Or ponder on the running brook^ As if its spirit fed.

Willis.

TTTHEN the character and life of a private * * individual are portrayed, the question with the reader is not, Who was he? but that other and more important one, What was he? To what influences was he subjected?

So, in this simple narrative, we shall have little to do with names and dates, but shall concern ourselves with something more intrinsic, more vital than these.

Omitting then, as unimportant, the time and place of Mary's birth, we introduce to you a chubby, fair-faced child in simple frock and snowy apron, with sun-bonnet dangling by one string from her hand, with a firm, steady step, and a voice full of falling inflections. The force of a strong will compresses her cherry lips ; the love of a warm heart sparkles in her eyes ; the prophecy of a fine intellect is on her broad, smooth brow. A sweet and pleasant child, you would say at the first glance.

Country life has set carnations blooming in her cheeks, broadened her chest, and given to her that sense of freedom and expansion in which a noble nature has its healthiest growth. Was it likely that she, as a woman, should be dwarfed and intolerant, who, when a child, saw always the river flowing so broad and so free; trees throwing out their branches thrifty and long, whither they would ; prairies stretching away mile after mile until the eye ached with following their track? Surely, if one is reared in sight of any grand scene of nature, he should, in his hours of thanksgiving, make mention of the fact! We can not in a few pages give a more truthful idea of this child's life than by inserting the following sketch written for a friend's amusement, some time ago:

You ask for my memories of those young years. Were I a poet I might sing of them so that vistas in the woods, the murmur of streams, the odor of moss and violets, and the taste of nuts and berries should come to your imagination as you heard me. O Nature! glorious mirror of Divinity ! What constant students were we of thy myriad forms and mysteries all through those years of childhood !

As I write, separated by hundreds of miles from the dear old home, past scenes rise before me, sounds once familiar are in my ears. Away in the pasture the cow-bell's mellow tinkle is heard, bringing suggestions of cool and shady places, of odors moist and sweet. The drow r sy, dreamy feeling comes again, the same which the music of the bells brought with it long ago. Again the wind is making that endless, breathing sound among the treetops ; again the liquid notes of the blackbirds join in chorus, in the poplar grove down by the river ; again the complaint of the mourning dove, sweetest and saddest of songs, comes from the lonely depths of the woods. And so the spell is upon me, and I will picture a few scenes from the Past.

A queer old cottage with rambling roof, gables, dormer-windows, and little porches, crannies, and out-of-the-way nooks, scattered here and there, was our home. The bluffs, so characteristic of Wisconsin, rose about it on the right and left. The beautiful Eock Eiver flowed at the west side : to the east a prairie stretched a^ay to meet the horizon, yellow iT'ih grain in summer, fleecy with snow in the winter of the year. Groves of oak and hickory are on either hand ; a miniature forest of evergreens almost conceals the cottage from the view of passers-by; a vine — the Virginia creeper — twines at will around the pillars of the piazza and over the parlor windows, while its rival, the Michigan rose, clambers over trellis and balustrade to the roof. The air is laden with the perfume of flowers. Through the thick and luxuriant growth of shrubbery paths stray off aimlessly, tempting the feet of the curious down their mysterious aisles. Following one of these in the afternoon of a summer day, you will come to a fine old oak, on which you will be quite likely to notice a board with these words printed upon it, in large letters :

THE EAGLE'S NEST.— BEWARE !

Looking away up among the branches you will see, perhaps, sitting on a rough seat fastened among them, a blue-eyed, brown-haired little girl, engaged in drawing, or in making a fancy fan out of blue jays' and orioles' feathers, or perhaps in fashioning a fine white turnip into a drinking-cup. If you are not quite a stranger she will look at you in an ingenuous way, and reply to any questions you may ask with simplicity and freedom. The honesty of her face and the fearlessness of her manner may induce you to prolong the conversation. If you speak admiringly of the flowers which bloom in rich profusion on every side, she will instantly offer to gather some of them for you ; and, descending with graceful agility from her lofty seat, she will cull the choicest blossoms, and arrange them with an ease and delicacy which can not fail to surprise you. The nicety of discrimination shown in the grouping of colors — the quick, critical glance at the effect — the immediate discovery of a violation of the laws of taste — will strike you as unusual in a child of eight or nine years old. If you suggest a ramble through the garden, she will cordially take your offered hand, and lead you to her favorite places, making many quaint remarks in explanation of the various points of interest.

Once, when acting in this capacity of guide, she completed the round by bringing her friends to "her ant-mound," as she called it, in a remote part of the grounds. She was fond of sitting here to watch the labors of the in-

C dustrious little insects, which she had taken under her especial care.

11 1 wonder if we don't seem as small and as ignorant to God as those ants do to us!" she said, meditatively, as they all stood around the hill ; and added, not speaking to any one, but " thinking aloud:"

" Oh no ! That can't be true ; for it is natural that God should care for us, since we are in his image, and since his Son gave up his life to save us."

Some one began to stir up the nest; " wishing to see what the little creatures kept in it," he said to Mary, by way of an apology. She caught his hand, and, looking up imploringly, exclaimed:

" Please don't ! Think how you would like to have your house torn down by some great ugly giant, and yourself turned out of doors!"

The " Grave-yard of the Pets" was a favorite place of resort. Here many tiny hillocks, carefully sodded, were scattered about, the glistening white shingles at the head of each giving an intimation of what lay beneath. Among the inscriptions I can remember this :

" Hush the light laugh and merry jest as you approacn the grave of Yorick — well beloved !"

No canary ever had a sweeter song than the yellow -breasted warbler which had this epitaph. Another one read thus :

" Beauty and Brighty, Our Pet Rabbits : We loved them, but they died."

On another of these simple monuments to departed worth, surrounded by elaborate carvings, are the words :

4 'Mary's White Kitten."

Every pet that died at Forest Home was certain to receive a decent burial, and to be sincerely mourned. Mary was very active upon these occasions ; and whether it was her work to line the little grave with leaves and flowers, or to sing,

"Alas! poor pet, and did it die? How dismal this must be!"

she performed it with great earnestness and gravity.

Her love of the beautiful was early developed, and was almost the ruling passion of her life. Sometimes — especially in later years — it may have been mistaken for a resemblance to personal vanity, though this could have been the case only among those who had but a slight acquaintance with her, or who possessed but a small power of discrimination. To one whose love of beauty is so intense a tasteful toilet is an essential ; and this not with the thought, u I will adorn myself — I will seek to compel admiration ;" but with this thought, or rather with this instinct — purer and more worthy — " It is fitting, it is beautiful, to be appropriately and tastefully dressed ; to present, so far as is consistent, a fine personal appearance. For this reason I will try to do so." Once, in her journal, I remember, she speaks of wishing that she could have a velvet dress of a color that she admired. To those familiar with her character this was simply an aspiration toward the beautiful for its own, not for her sake.

These aesthetic tendencies so early manifested led to the organization of an Artist's Club, consisting of Mary and myself, when she way about ten years old, which was a source of much pleasure and profit to us both. From conversations to which we had listened, and from books that we had read, we obtained the idea, and we worked it out in this wise. At a meeting held in our little room one summer evening, which was characterized by a decorum and energy seldom surpassed even in graver deliberations, we drafted a set of Resolutions which, as subsequently copied into a book obtained for that purpose, lie before me now. They set forth our conviction that concert of effort is conducive to success in any undertaking, and that this being true we, " the parties of the first and second part," did here* by " promise to pay 77 particular attention to the Fine Arts, and would organize a society for that purpose. The Resolutions proceed with many a " whereas,' 7 " therefore," etc., to state more definitely the plan for executing our design, and form an amusing medley of all the legal phrases we could recollect having known gentlemen to employ in business documents or conversations. It seems rather strange that two who were almost constantly associated, and who for many years had no society besides each other's, should thus formally unite in a new enterprise. But this was the invariable mode of procedure. We found variety and amusement in these business- meetings, and omitted no formality during their progress which could add to the dignitv which we attached to ourselves in our official capacity.