Chapter II: The New Life in Christ (1)

1840-1841.

I.

A Memorable Experience. Letters to her Cousin. Goes to Richmond as a Teacher. Mr. Persico's School. Letters.

Miss Payson was now in her twenty-first year, a period which she always looked back to as a turning-point in her spiritual history. The domestic influences that encompassed her childhood, her early associations, and the books of devotion which she read, all conspired to imbue her with an earnest sense of divine things, and while yet a young girl, as we have seen, she publicly devoted herself to the service of her God and Saviour. For several years her piety, if marked by no special features, was still regarded by her young friends, and by all who knew her, as of a decided character. But during the general religious interest in the winter of 1837-8, even while absorbed in solicitude for others, she began herself to question its reality. "For some months I had no hope that I was a Christian, and _pride_ made me go on just as if I felt myself perfectly safe. Nothing could at that time have made me willing to have any eye a witness to my daily struggles." And yet she "often longed for the sympathy and assistance of Christian friends," and to her unwillingness to confide in them she afterwards attributed much of the suffering that followed. "I do not know exactly how I passed out of that season, but my school commenced in April, and I became so interested in it that I had less time to think of and to watch myself. The next winter most of my scholars were deeply impressed by divine things, and, of course, I could not look on without having my own heart touched. It was my privilege to spend many delightful weeks in watching the progress of minds earnestly seeking the way of life and early consecrating themselves to their Saviour." [1] But after a while a severe reaction set in and in the course of the summer she became careless in her religious habits, shrank from the Lord's table as a "place of absolute torture," and while spending a fortnight in Boston in the fall, entirely omitted all exercises of private devotion.

She had now reached a crisis which was to decide her course for life. During the winter of 1839-40, she passed through very deep and harrowing exercises of soul. Her spiritual nature was shaken to its foundation, and she could say with the Psalmist, _Out of the depths have I cried unto Thee, O Lord._ For several months she was in a state similar to that which the old divines depict so vividly as being "under conviction." Her sense of sin, and of her own unworthiness in the sight of God, grew more and more intense and oppressive. At times she abandoned all hope, accused herself of having played the hypocrite, and fancied she was given over to hardness of heart. At length she sought counsel of her pastor and confided to him her trouble, but he "did not know exactly what to do with me." In the midst of her distress, and as its effect, no doubt, she was taken ill and confined to her room, where in solitude she passed several weeks seeking rest and finding none. "Sometimes I tried to pray, but this only increased my distress and made me cry out for annihilation to free me from the agony which seemed insupportable." With a single interval of comparative indifference, this state of mind continued for nearly four months. She thus describes it:

It was in vain that I sought the Lord in any of the lofty pathways through which my heart wished to go. At last I found it impossible to carry on the struggle any longer alone. I would gladly have put myself at the feet of a little child, if by so doing I could have found peace. I felt so guilty and the character of God appeared so perfect in its purity and holiness, that I knew not which way to turn. The sin which distressed me most of all was the rejection of the Saviour. This haunted me constantly and made me fly first to one thing and then another, in the hope of finding somewhere the peace which I would not accept from Him. It was at this time that I kept reading over the first twelve chapters of Doddridge's "Rise and Progress,"--the rest of the book I abhorred. So great was my agony that I can only wonder at the goodness of Him who held my life in His hands, and would not permit me in the height of my despair to throw myself away.

It was in this height of despair that thoughts of the infinite grace and love of Christ, which she says she had hitherto repelled, began to irradiate her soul. A sermon on His ability to save "unto the uttermost" deeply affected her. [2] "While listening to it my weary spirit _rested_ itself, and I thought, 'surely it can not be wrong to think of the Saviour, although He is not mine.' With this conclusion I gave myself up to admire, to love and to praise Him, to wonder why I had never done so before, and to hope that all the great congregation around me were joining with me in acknowledging Him to be chief among ten thousand and the One altogether lovely." On going home she could at first scarcely believe in her own identity, the feeling of peace and love to God and to all the world was so unlike the turbulent emotions that had long agitated her soul. "From this time my mind went slowly onward, examining the way step by step, trembling and afraid, yet filled with a calm contentment which made all the dealings of God with me appear just right. I know myself to be perfectly helpless. I can not promise to do or to be anything; but I do want to put everything else aside, and to devote myself entirely to the service of Christ."

Her account of this memorable experience is dated August 28, 1840. "While writing it," she adds, "I have often laid aside my pen, to sit and think over in silent wonder the way in which the Lord has led me."

How in later years she regarded certain features of this experience, is not fully known. The record passed at once out of her hands, and until after her death was never seen by anyone, excepting the friend for whose eye it was written. Many of its details had, probably, faded entirely from her memory. It can not be doubted, however, that she would have judged her previous state much less severely, would hardly have charged it with hypocrisy, or denied that the Saviour had been graciously leading her, and that she had some real love to Him, before as well as after this crisis. So much may be inferred from the record itself and from the narrative in the preceding chapter. Her tender interest in the spiritual welfare of her friends and pupils, the high tone of religious sentiment that marks her early writings, the books she delighted in, her filial devotion, the absolute sincerity of her character, all forbid any other conclusion. [3] The indications, too, are very plain that her morbidly-sensitive, melancholy temperament had much to do with this experience. Her account of it shows, also, that her mind was unhappily affected by certain false notions of the Christian life and ordinances then, and still, more or less prevalent--notions based upon a too narrow and legal conception of the Gospel. Hence, her shrinking from the Lord's table as a place of "torture," instead of regarding it in its true character, as instituted on purpose to feed hungry souls, like her own, with bread from heaven. But for all that, the experience was a blessed reality and, as these pages will attest, wrought a lasting change in her religious life. No doubt the Spirit of God was leading her through all its dark and terrible mazes. It virtually ended a conflict which the intensely proud elements of her nature rendered inevitable, if she was to become a true heroine of faith--the conflict between her Master's will and her own. Her Master conquered, and henceforth to her dying hour His will was the sovereign law of her existence, and its sweetest joy also.

The following extracts from letters to her cousin, George E. Shipman, of New York, now widely known as the founder of a Foundling Home at Chicago, will throw additional light upon her state of mind at this period. Mr. Shipman was the friend to whom the account of her experience already mentioned was addressed. He had just spent several weeks in Portland, and to his Christian sympathy, kindness, and counsels while there and during the two following years, she felt herself very deeply indebted. [4]

PORTLAND, _August 22, 1840._

I am always wondering if any body in the world is the better off for my being in it. And so if I was of any comfort to you, I am very glad of it. I do want, I confess, the privilege of offering you sometimes the wine and oil of consolation, and if I do it in such a way as to cause pain with my unskilful hand, why, you must forgive me.... Mr. ---- talked to me as if he imagined me a blue-stocking. Just because my sister wears spectacles, folks take it for granted that I also am literary.

_Aug. 25th._--You ask if I find it easy to engage in religious meditation, referring in particular to that on our final rest. This is another of my trials. I can not meditate upon anything, except indeed it be something quite the opposite of what I wish to occupy my mind. You know that some Christians are able in their solitary walks and rides to hold, all the time, communion with God. I can very seldom do this. Yesterday I was obliged to take a long walk alone, and it was made very delightful in this way; so that I quite forgot that I was alone.... I am beginning to feel, that I have enough to do without looking out for a great, wide place in which to work, and to appreciate the simple lines:

"The trivial round, the common task,
Would furnish all we ought to ask;
Room to deny ourselves; a road
To bring us daily nearer God."

Those words "daily nearer God" have an inexpressible charm for me. I long for such nearness to Him that all other objects shall fade into comparative insignificance,--so that to have a thought, a wish, a pleasure apart from Him shall be impossible.

_Sept. 12th._--At Sabbath-school this morning, while talking with my scholars about the Lord Jesus, my heart, which is often so cold and so stupid, seemed completely melted within me, with such a view of His wonderful, wonderful love for sinners, that I almost believed I had never felt it till then. Such a blessing is worth toiling and wrestling for a whole life. If a glimpse of our Saviour here upon earth can be so refreshing, so delightful, what will it be in heaven!

_Sept. 17th._--I have been reading to-day some passages from Nevins' "Practical Thoughts." [5] Perhaps you have seen them; if so, do you remember two articles headed, "I must pray more," and "I must pray differently"? They interested me much because in some measure they express my own feelings. I have less and less confidence in _frames_, as they are called. I am glad that you think it better to have a few books and to read them over and over, for my own inclination leads me to that. One gets attached to them as to Christian friends. Do not hesitate to direct me over and over again, to go with difficulties and temptations and sin to the Saviour. I love to be led there and _left_ there. Sometimes when the exceeding "sinfulness of sin" becomes painfully apparent, there is nothing else for the soul to do but to lie in the dust before God, without a word of excuse, and that feeling of abasement in His sight is worth more than all the pleasures in the world.... You will believe me if I own myself tired, when I tell you that I made fourteen calls this afternoon. But even the unpleasant business of call-making has had one comfort. Some of the friends of whom I took leave, spoke so tenderly of Him whose name is so precious to His children that my heart warmed towards them instantly, and I thought it worth while to have parting hours, sad though they may be, if with them came so naturally thoughts of the Saviour. Besides, I have been thinking since I came home, that if I did not love Him, it could not be so refreshing to hear unexpectedly of Him.... I did not know that mother had anything to do with your father's conversion, and when I mentioned it to her she seemed much surprised and said she did not know it herself. Pray tell me more of it, will you? I have felt that if, in the course of my life, I should be the means of leading one soul to the Saviour, it would be worth staying in this world for no matter how many years.

Did you ever read Miss Taylor's "Display"? Sister says the character of Emily there is like mine. I think so myself save in the best point.

We come now to an important change in her outward life. She had accepted an invitation to become a teacher in Mr. Persico's school at Richmond, Virginia. Mr. Persico was an Italian, a brother of the sculptor of that name, a number of whose works are seen at Washington. He early became interested in our institutions, and as soon as he was able, came to this country and settled in Philadelphia as an artist. He married a lady of that city, and afterward on account of her health went to Richmond, where he opened a boarding and day school for girls. There were four separate departments, one of which was under the sole care of Miss Payson. Her letters to her family, written at this time, have all been lost, but a full record of the larger portion of her Richmond life is preserved in letters to her cousin, Mr. Shipman. The following extracts from these letters show with what zeal she devoted herself to her new calling and how absorbed her heart was still in the things of God. They also throw light upon some marked features of her character.

BOSTON, _September 23._

I had, after leaving home, an attack of that terrible pain, of which I have told you, and believed myself very near death. It became a serious question whether, if God should so please, I could feel willing to die there alone, for I was among entire strangers. I never enjoyed more of His presence than that night when, sick and sad and full of pain, I felt it sweet to put myself in His hands to be disposed of in His own way.

The attack referred to in this letter resembled _angina pectoris_, a disease to which for many years she was led to consider herself liable. Whatever it may have been, its effect was excruciating. "Mother was telling me the other day," she wrote to a friend, "that in her long life she had never seen an individual suffer more severe bodily pain than she had often tried to relieve in me. I remember scores of such hours of real agony." In the present instance the attack was doubtless brought on, in part at least, by mental agitation. "No words," she wrote a few months later, "can describe the anguish of my mind the night I left home; it seemed to me that all the agony I had ever passed through was condensed into a small space, and I certainly believe that I should die, if left to a higher degree of such pain."

RICHMOND, _September 30, 1840._

About twelve o'clock, when it was as dark as pitch, we were all ordered to prepare for a short walk. In single file then out we went. It seems that a bridge had been burned lately, and so we were all to go round on foot to another train of cars. There were dozens of bright, crackling bonfires lighted at short intervals all along, and as we wound down narrow, steep and rocky pathways, then up steps which had been rudely cut out in the side of the elevated ground, and as far as we could see before us could watch the long line of moving figures in all varieties of form and color, my spirits rose to the very tiptop of enjoyment. I wished you could have a picture of the whole scene, which, though one of real life, was to me at least exceedingly beautiful. We reached Richmond at one o'clock. Mr. Persico was waiting for us and received us cordially.... When I awoke at eight o'clock, I felt forlorn enough. Imagine, if you can, the room in which I opened my eyes. It is in the attic, is very low and has two windows. My first thought was, "I never can be happy in this miserable hole;" but in a second this wicked feeling took flight, and I reproached myself for my ingratitude to Him who had preserved me through all my journey, had made much of it so delightful and profitable, and who still promised to be with me.

_Oct. 2._--I will try to give you some account of our doings, although we are not fully settled. We have risen at six so far, but intend to be up by five if we can wake. As soon as we are dressed I take my Bible out into the entry, where is a window and a quiet corner, and read and think until Louisa [6] is ready to give me our room and take my place. At nine we go into school, where Miss Lord [7] reads a prayer, and from that hour until twelve we are engaged with our respective classes. At twelve we have a recess of thirty minutes. This over, we return again to school, where we stay until three, when we are to dine. All day Saturday we are free. This time we are to have Monday, too, as a special holiday, because of a great Whig convention which is turning the city upside-down. There is one pleasant thing, pleasant to me at least, of which I want to tell you. As Mr. Persico is not a religious man, I supposed we should have no blessing at the table, and was afraid I should get into the habit of failing to acknowledge God there. But I was much affected when, on going to dine the first day I came, he stood leaning silently and reverentially over his chair, as if to allow all of us time for that quiet lifting up of the heart which is ever acceptable in the sight of God. It is very impressive. Miss Lord reads prayers at night, and when Mrs. Persico comes home we are to have singing....

That passage in the 119th Psalm, of which you speak, is indeed delightful. I will tell you what were some of my meditations on it. I thought to myself that if God continued His faithfulness toward me, I shall have afflictions such as I now know nothing more of than the name, for I need them constantly. I have trembled ever since I came here at the host of new difficulties to which I am exposed. Surely I did again and again ask God to decide the question for me as to whether I should leave home or not, and believed that He _had_ chosen for me. It certainly was against my own inclinations....

_Oct. 12th._--This morning I had a new scholar, a pale, thin little girl who stammers, and when I spoke to her, and she was obliged to answer, the color spread over her face and neck as if she suffered the utmost mortification. I was glad when recess came, to draw her close to my side and to tell her that I had a friend afflicted in the same way, and that consequently, I should know how to understand and pity her. She held my hand fast in hers and the tears came stealing down one after another, as she leaned confidingly upon my shoulder, and I could not help crying too, with mingled feelings of gratitude and sorrow. Certainly it will be delightful to soothe and to console this poor little thing.... You do not like poetry and I have spent the best part of my life in reading or trying to write it. N. P. Willis told me some years ago, that if my husband had a soul, he would love me for the poetical in me, and advised me to save it for him.

_Oct. 27th._--Sometimes when I feel almost sure that the Saviour has accepted and forgiven me and that I _belong to Him_, I can only walk my room repeating over and over again, _How wonderful_! And then when my mind strives to take in this love of Christ, it seems to struggle in vain with its own littleness and falls back weary and exhausted, to _wonder_ again at the heights and depths which surpass its comprehension.... If there is a spark of love in my heart for anybody, it is for this dear brother of mine, and the desire to have his education thorough and complete has grown with my growth. You, who are not a sister, can not understand the feelings with which I regard him, but they are such as to call forth unbounded love and gratitude toward those who show kindness to him.

_Nov. 3d._--I have always felt a peculiar love for the passage that describes the walk to Emmaus. I have tried to analyse the feeling of pleasure which it invariably sheds over my heart when dwelling upon it, especially upon the words, "Jesus Himself drew near and went with them," and these, "He made as though He would go further," but yielded to their urgent, "Abide with us." ... This is one of the comforts of the Christian; God understands him fully whether he can explain his troubles or not. Sometimes I think all of a sudden that I do not love the Saviour at all, and am ready to believe that all my pretended anxiety to serve Him has been but a matter of feeling and not of principle; but of late I have been less disturbed by this imagination, as I find it extends to earthly friends who are dear to me as my own soul. I thought once yesterday that I didn't love anybody in the world and was perfectly wretched in consequence.

_Nov. 12th._--The more I try to understand myself, the more I am puzzled. That I am a mixture of contradictions is the opinion I have long had of myself. I call it a compound of sincerity and reserve. Unless you see just what I mean in your own consciousness, I doubt whether I can explain it in words. With me it is both an open and a shut heart--open when and where and as far as I please, and shut as tight as a vise in the same way. I was probably born with this same mixture of frankness and reserve, having inherited the one from my mother and the other from my father.... I have often thought that, humanly speaking, it would be a strange, and surely a very sad thing if we none of us inherit any of our father's piety; for when he prayed for his children it was, undoubtedly, that we might be very peculiarly the Lord's. H. was to be the missionary; but if he can not go himself, and is prospered in business, I hope he will be able to help send others. I have been frightened, of late, in thinking how little good I am doing in the world. And yet I believe that those who love to do good always find opportunities enough, wherever they are. Whether I shall do any here, I dare not try to guess.

_Dec. 3d._--How I thank you for the interest you take in my Bible class. They are so attentive to every word I say that it makes me deeply feel the importance of seeking each of those words from the Holy Spirit. Many of them had not even a Bible of their own until now, nor were they in the habit of reading it at all. Among others there are two grand-daughters of Patrick Henry. I wish I could give you a picture of them, as they sit on Sabbath evening around the table with their eyes fixed so eagerly on my face, that if I did not feel that the Lord Jesus was present, I should be overwhelmed with confusion at my unworthiness.... Mr. Persico is a queer man. Last Sabbath Miss L. asked him if he had been to church. "Oui, Mlle.," said he; "_vous_ étiez à l'église de l'homme--_moi_, j'étais à l'église de Dieu--dans les bois." There is the bell for prayers; it is an hour since I began to write, but I have spent a great part of it with my eyes shut because I happened to feel more like meditating than writing, if you know what sort of a feeling that is. Oh, that we might be enabled to go onward day by day--and _upward too_.

I have been making violent efforts for years to become meek and lowly in heart. At present I do hope that I am less irritable than I used to be. It was no small comfort to me when sister was home last summer, to learn from her that I had succeeded somewhat in my efforts. But though I have not often the last year been guilty of "harsh speeches," I have felt my pride tugging with all its might to kindle a great fire when some unexpected trial has caught me off my guard. I am persuaded that real meekness dwells deep within the heart and that it is only to be gained by communion with our blessed Saviour, who when He was reviled, reviled not again.

_Sabbath Evening, 8th._--I wanted to write last evening but had a worse pain in my side and left arm than I have had since I came here. While it lasted, which was an hour and a half, I had such pleasant thoughts for companions as would make any pain endurable. I was asking myself if, supposing God should please suddenly to take me away in the midst of life, whether I should feel willing and glad to go, and oh, it did seem _delightful_ to think of it, and to feel sure that, sooner or later, the summons will come. Those pieces which you marked in the "Observer" I have read and like them exceedingly, especially those about growth in grace.... You speak of the goodness of God to me in granting me so much of His presence, while I am here away from all earthly friends. Indeed I want to be able to praise Him as I never yet have done, and I don't know where to begin. I have felt more pain in this separation from home on mother's account than any other, as I feel that she needs me at home to comfort and to love her. Since she lost her best earthly friend I have been her constant companion. I once had a secret desire for a missionary life, if God should see fit to prepare me for it, but when I spoke of it to mother she was so utterly overcome at its bare mention that I instantly promised I would _never_ for any inducement leave or forsake her. I want you to pray for me that if poor mother's right hand is made forever useless, [8] I may after this year be a right hand for her, and be enabled to make up somewhat to her for the loss of it by affection and tenderness and sympathy.... I don't remember feeling any way in particular, when I first began to "write for the press," as you call it. I never could realise that more than half a dozen people would read my pieces. Besides, I have no desire of the sort you express, for fame. I care a great deal too much for the approbation of those I love and respect, but not a fig for that of those I don't like or don't know.

* * * * *

II.

Her Character as a Teacher. Letters. Incidents of School-Life. Religious Struggles, Aims, and Hopes. Oppressive Heat and Weariness.

Miss Payson had been in Richmond but a short time before she became greatly endeared to Mr. and Mrs. Persico, and to the whole school. She had a rare natural gift for teaching. Fond of study herself, she knew how to inspire her pupils with the same feeling. Her method was excellent. It aimed not merely to impart knowledge but to elicit latent powers, and to remove difficulties out of the way. While decided and thorough, it was also very gentle, helpful, and sympathetic. She had a quick perception of mental diversities, saw as by intuition the weak and the strong points of individual character, and was skillful in adapting her influence, as well as her instructions, to the peculiarities of every one under her care. The girls in her own special department almost idolised her. The parents also of some of them, who belonged to Richmond and its vicinity, seeing what she was doing for their daughters, sought her acquaintance and showed her the most grateful affection.

Although her school labors were exacting, she carried on a large correspondence, spent a good deal of time in her favorite religious reading, and together with Miss Susan Lord, the senior teacher and an old Portland friend, pursued a course of study in French and Italian. At the table Mr. Persico spoke French, and in this way she was enabled to perfect herself in the practice of that language. Of her spiritual history and of incidents of her school life during the new year, some extracts from letters to her cousin will give her own account.

RICHMOND, _January 3, 1841._

If I tell you that I am going to take under my especial care and protection one of the family--a little girl of eleven years whom nobody can manage at all, you may wonder why. I found on my plate at dinner a note from Mrs. Persico saying that if I wanted an opportunity of doing good, here was one; that if Nannie could sleep in my room, etc., it might be of great benefit to her. The only reason why I hesitated was the fear that she might be in the way of our best hours. But I have thought all along that I was living too much at my ease, and wanted a place in which to deny myself for the sake of the One who yielded up every comfort for my sake. Nannie has a fine character but has been mismanaged at home, and since coming here. She often comes and puts her arms around me and says, "There is _one_ in this house who loves me, I do _know_." I receive her as a trust from God, with earnest prayer to Him that we may be enabled to be of use to her. From morning to night she is found fault with, and this is spoiling her temper and teaching her to be deceitful.... I have been reading lately the Memoir of Martyn. I have, of course, read it more than once before, but everything appears to me now in such a different light. I rejoice that I have been led to read the book just now. It has put within me new and peculiar desires to live wholly for the glory of God.

_Jan.13th._--I understand the feeling about wishing one's self a dog, or an animal without a soul. I have sat and watched a little kitten frisking about in the sunshine till I could hardly help killing it in my envy--but oh, how different it is now! I have felt lately that perhaps God has something for me to do in the world. I am satisfied, indeed, that in calling me nearer to Himself He has intended to prepare me for His service. Where that is to be is no concern of mine as yet. I only wish to belong to Him and wait for His will, whatever it may be.

_Jan. 14th_.--I used to go through with prayer merely as a duty, but now I look forward to the regular time for it, and hail opportunities for special seasons with such delight as I once knew nothing of. Sometimes my heart feels ready to break for the longing it hath for a nearer approach to the Lord Jesus than I can obtain without the use of words, and there is not a corner of the house which I can have to myself. I think sometimes that I should be thankful for the meanest place in the universe. You ask if I ever dream of seeing the Lord. No--I never did, neither should I think it desirable; but a few days ago, when I woke, I had fresh in my remembrance some precious words which, as I had been dreaming, He had spoken to me. It left an indescribable feeling of love and peace on my mind. I seemed in my dream to be very near Him, and that He was encouraging me to ask of Him all the things of which I felt the need.

_Jan. 17th_.--I did not mean to write so much about myself, for when I took out my letter I was thinking of things and beings far above this world. I was thinking of the hour when the Christian first enters into the joy of his Lord, when the first note of the "new song" is borne to his ear, and the first view of the Lamb of God is granted to his eye. It seems to me as if the bliss of that one minute would fully compensate for all the toils and struggles he must go through here; and then to remember the ages of happiness that begin at that point! Oh, if the unseen presence of Jesus can make the heart to sing for joy in the midst of its sorrow and sin here, what will it be to dwell with Him forever!

My Bible class, which consists now of eighteen, is every week more dear to me. I am glad that you think poor Nannie well off. She has an inquiring mind, and though before coming here she had received no religious instruction and had not even a Bible, she is now constantly asking me questions which prove her to be a first-rate thinker and reasoner. She went to the theatre last night and came home quite disgusted, saying to herself, "I shouldn't like to die in the midst of such gayeties as these." She urged me to tell her if I thought it wrong for her to go, but I would not, because I did not want her to stay away for my sake. I want her to settle the question fairly in her own mind and to be guided by her own conscience rather than mine. She is so grateful and happy that, if the sacrifice had been greater, we should be glad that we had made it. And then if we can do her any good, how much reason we shall have to thank God for having placed her here!

_Feb. 11th._--My thoughts of serious things should, perhaps, be called prayers, rather than anything else. I have constant need of looking up to God for help, so utterly weak and ignorant am I and so dependent upon Him. Sometimes in my walks, especially those of the early morning, I take a verse from the "Daily Food" to think upon; at others, if my mind is where I want it should be, everything seems to speak and suggest thoughts of my Heavenly Father, and when it is otherwise I feel as if that time had been wasted. This is not "keeping the mind on the stretch," and is delightfully refreshing. All I wish is that I were always thus favored. As to a hasty temper, I know that anybody who ever lived with me, until within the last two or three years, could tell you of many instances of outbreaking passion. I am ashamed to say how recently the last real tempest occurred, but I will not spare myself. It was in the spring of 1838, and I did not eat anything for so long that I was ill in bed and barely escaped a fever. Mother nursed me so tenderly that, though she forgave me, I _never_ shall forgive myself. Since then I should not wish you to suppose that I have been perfectly amiable, but for the last year I think I have been enabled in a measure to control my temper, but of that you know more than I do, as you had a fair specimen of what I am when with us last summer. It has often been a source of encouragement to me that everybody said I was gentle and amiable till my father's death, when I was nine years old.... While reading to-night that chapter in Mark, where it speaks of Jesus as walking on the sea, I was interested in thinking how frequently such scenes occur in our spiritual passage over the sea which is finally to land us on the shores of the home for which we long. "While they were toiling in rowing," Jesus went to them upon the water and "would have passed by" till He heard their cries, and then He manifested Himself unto them saying, _"It is I."_ And when He came to them, the wind ceased and they "wondered." Surely we have often found in our toiling that Jesus was passing by and ready at the first trembling fear to speak the word of love and of consolation and to give us the needed help, and then to leave us _wondering_ indeed at the infinite tenderness and kindness so unexpectedly vouchsafed for our relief.

_Feb. 13th_--I do not think we should make our enjoyment of religion the greatest end of our struggle against sin. I never once had such an idea. I think we should fight against sin simply because it is something hateful to God, because it is something so utterly unlike the spirit of Christ, whom it is our privilege to strive to imitate in all things. On all points connected with the love I wish to give my Saviour, and the service I am to render Him, I feel that I want teaching and am glad to obtain assistance from any source. I hardly know how to answer your question. I do not have that constant sense of the Saviour's presence which I had here for a long time, neither do I feel that I love Him as I thought I did, but it is not always best to judge of ourselves by our feelings, but by the general principle and guiding desire of the mind. I do think that my prevailing aim is to do the will of God and to glorify Him in everything. Of this I have thought a great deal of late. I have not a very extensive sphere of action, but I want my conduct, my every word and look and motion, to be fully under the influence of this desire for the honor of God. You can have no idea of the constant observation to which I am exposed here.

_Feb. 21st._--I spent three hours this afternoon in taking care of a little black child (belonging to the house), who is very ill, and as I am not much used to such things, it excited and worried me into a violent nervous headache. I finished Brainerd's Life this afternoon, amid many doubts as to whether I ever loved the Lord at all, so different is my piety from that of this blessed and holy man. The book has been a favorite with me for years, but I never felt the influence of his life as I have while reading it of late.

She alludes repeatedly in her correspondence to the delight which she found on the Sabbath in listening to that eminent preacher and divine, the Rev. Dr. Wm. S. Plumer, who was then settled in Richmond. In a letter to her cousin she writes:

I have become much attached to him; he seems more than half in heaven, and every word is full of solemnity and feeling, as if he had just held near intercourse with God. I wish that you could have listened with me to his sermons to-day. They have been, I think, blessed messages from God to my soul.

All her letters at this time glow with religious fervor. "How wonderful is our divine Master!" she seemed to be always saying to herself. "It has become so delightful to me to speak of His love, of His holiness, of His purity, that when I try to write to those who know Him not, I hardly know what is worthy of even a mention, if He is to be forgotten." And several years afterwards she refers to this period as a time when she "shrank from everything that in the slightest degree interrupted her consciousness of God."

The following letter to a friend, whose name will often recur in these pages, well illustrates her state of mind during the entire winter.

_To Miss Anna S. Prentiss. Richmond, Feb 26, 1841._

Your very welcome letter, my dear Anna, arrived this afternoon, and, as my labors for the week are over, I am glad of a quiet hour in which to thank you for it. I do not thank you simply because you have so soon answered my letter, but because you have told me what no one else could do so well about your own very dear self. When I wrote you I doubted very much whether I might even allude to the subject of religion, although I wished to do so, since that almost exclusively has occupied my mind during the last year. I saw you in the midst of temptations to which I have ever been a stranger, but which I conceived to be decidedly unfavorable to growth in any of the graces which make up Christian character. It was not without hesitation that I ventured to yield to the promptings of my heart, and to refer to the only things which have at present much interest for it. I can not tell you how I do rejoice that you have been led to come out thus upon the Lord's side, and to consecrate yourself to His service. My own views and feelings have within the last year undergone such an entire change, that I have wished I could take now some such stand in the presence of all who have known me in days past, as this which you have taken. My first and only wish is henceforth to live but for Him, who has graciously drawn my wandering affections to Himself.... You speak of the faintness of your heart--but "they who wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength," and I do believe the truth of these precious words; not only because they are those of God, but also because my own experience adds happy witness to them. I have lived many years with only just enough of hope to keep me from actual despair. The least breath was sufficient to scatter it all and to leave me, fearful and afraid, to go over and over again the same ground; thus allowing neither time nor strength for progress in the Christian course. I trust that you will not go through years of such unnecessary darkness and despondency. There is certainly enough in our Saviour, if we only open our eyes that we may see it, to solve every doubt and satisfy every longing of the heart; and He is willing to give it in full measure. When I contemplate the character of the Lord Jesus, I am filled with wonder which I can not express, and with unutterable desires to yield myself and my all to His hand, to be dealt with in His own way; and His way is a blessed one, so that it is delightful to resign body and soul and spirit to Him, without a will opposed to His, without a care but to love Him more, without a sorrow which His love can not sanctify or remove. In following after Him faithfully and steadfastly, the feeblest hopes may be strengthened; and I trust that you will find in your own happy experience that "joy and peace" go hand in hand with love--so that in proportion to your devotion to the Saviour will be the blessedness of your life. When I begin I hardly know where to stop, and now I find myself almost at the end of my sheet before I have begun to say what I wish. This will only assure you that I love you a thousand times better than I did when I did not know that your heart was filled with hopes and affections like my own, and that I earnestly desire, if Providence permits us to enjoy intercourse in this or in any other way, we may never lose sight of the one great truth that we are _not our own._ I pray you sometimes remember me at the throne of grace. The more I see of the Saviour, the more I feel my own weakness and helplessness and my need of His constant presence, and I can not help asking assistance from all those who love Him.... Oh, how sorry I am that I have come to the end! I wish I had any faculty for expressing affection, so that I might tell you how much I love and how often I think of you.

Her cousin having gone abroad, a break in the correspondence with him occurred about this time and continued for several months. In a letter to her friend, Miss Thurston, dated April 21st, she thus refers to her school:

There are six of us teachers, five of them born in Maine--which is rather funny, as that is considered by most of the folks here as the place where the world comes to an end. Although the South lifts up its wings and crows over the North, it is glad enough to get its teachers there, and ministers too, and treats them very well when it gets them, into the bargain. We have in the school about one hundred and twenty-five pupils of all ages. I never knew till I came here the influence which early religious education exerts upon the whole future age. There is such a wonderful difference between most of these young people and those in the North, that you might almost believe them another race of beings. Mrs. Persico is beautiful, intelligent, interesting, and pious. Mr. Persico is just as much like John Neal as difference of education and of circumstances can permit. Mr. N.'s strong sense of justice, his enthusiasm, his fun and wit, his independence and self-esteem, his tastes, too, as far as I know them, all exist in like degree in Mr. Persico.

The early spring, with its profusion of flowers of every hue, so far in advance of the spring in her native State, gave her the utmost pleasure; but as the summer approached, her health began to suffer. The heat was very intense, and hot weather always affected her unhappily. "I feel," she wrote, "as if I were in an oven with hot melted lead poured over my brain." Her old trouble, too--"organic disease of the heart" it was now suspected to be--caused her much discomfort. "While writing," she says in one of her letters, "I am suffering excruciating pain; I can't call it anything else." Her physical condition naturally affected more or less her religious feelings. Under date of July 12th, she writes:

The word _conflict_ expresses better than any other my general state from day to day. I have seemed of late like a straw floating upon the surface of a great ocean, blown hither and thither by every wind, and tossed from wave to wave without the rest of a moment. It was a mistake of mine to imagine that God ever intended man to rest in this world. I see that it is right and wise in Him to appoint it otherwise.... While suffering from my Saviour's absence, nothing interests me. But I was somewhat encouraged by reading in my father's memoir, and in reflecting that he passed through far greater spiritual conflicts than will probably ever be mine.... I see now that it is not always best for us to have the light of God's countenance. Do not spend your time and strength in asking for me that blessing, but this--that I may be transformed into the image of Christ in His own time, in His own way.

Early in August she left Richmond and flew homeward like a bird to its nest.

* * * * *

III.

Extracts from her Richmond Journal.

Were her letters to her cousin the only record of Miss Payson's Richmond life, one might infer that they give a complete picture of it; for they were written in the freedom and confidence of Christian friendship, with no thought that a third eye would ever see them. But it had another and hidden side, of which her letters contain only a partial record. Her early habit of keeping a journal has been already referred to. She kept one at Richmond, and was prevented several years later from destroying it, as she had destroyed others, by the entreaty of the only person who ever saw it. This journal depicts many of her most secret thoughts and feelings, both earthward and heavenward. Some passages in it are of too personal a nature for publication, but the following extracts seem fairly entitled to a place here, as they bring out several features of her character with sunlike clearness, and so will help to a better understanding of the ensuing narrative:

RICHMOND, _October 3, 1840._

How funny it seems here! Everything is so different from home! I foresee that I shan't live nearly a year under these new influences without changing my old self into something else. Heaven forbid that I should grow old because people treat me as if I were grown up! I hate old young folks. Well! whoever should see me and my scholars would be at a loss to know wherein consists the difference between them and me. I am only a little girl after all, and yet folks do treat me as if I were as old and as wise as Methusaleh. And Mr. Persico says, "Oui, Madame." Oh! oh! oh! It makes me feel so ashamed when these tall girls, these damsels whose hearts are developed as mine won't be these half dozen years (to say nothing of their minds), ask me if they may go to bed, if they may walk, if they may go to Mr. So-and-so's, and Miss Such-a-one's to buy--a stick of candy for aught I know. Oh, oh, oh! I shall have to take airs upon myself. I shall have to leave off little words and use big ones. I shall have to leave off sitting curled up on my feet, turkey-fashion. I shall have to make wise speeches (But a word in your ear, Miss--I _won't_).

_Oct. 27th_--This Richmond is a queer sort of a place and I should be as miserable in it as a fish out of water, only there is sunshine enough in my heart to make any old hole bright. In the first place, this dowdy chamber is in one view a perfect den--no carpet, whitewashed walls, loose windows that have the shaking palsy, fire-red hearth, blue paint instead of white, or rather a suspicion that there was once some blue paint here. But what do I care? I'm as merry as a grig from morning till night. The little witches down-stairs love me dearly, everybody is kind, and--and--and--when everybody is locked out and I am locked into this same room, this low attic, there's not a king on the earth so rich, so happy as I! Here is my little pet desk, here are my books, my papers. I can write and read and study and moralise, I don't pretend to say _think_--and then besides, every morning and every night, within these four walls, heaven itself refuses not to enter in and dwell--and I may grow better and better and happier and happier in blessedness with which nothing may intermeddle.