University of Virginia Library

CONGRATULATE us, dear mother; we have had
a success! Our first evening was all one could
hope! Everybody came that we wanted, and, what is
quite as good in such cases, everybody staid away that
we didn't want. You know how it is; when you
intend to produce real acquaintance, that shall ripen
into intimacy, it is necessary that there should be no
non-conductors to break the circle. There are people
that shed around them coldness and constraint, as if they
were made of ice, and it is a mercy when such people
don't come to your parties. As it is, I have had the
happiness to see our godly rector on most conversable
terms with our heretic doctor, and each thinking better
of the other. Oh! and, what was a greater triumph yet,
I managed to introduce a Quaker preacheress to Mr. St.
John, and had the satisfaction to see that he was completely
charmed by her, as well he may be. The way it
came about, you must know, is this:—

Little Ruth Baxter, our next door neighbor, has
received this Sibyl Selwyn at her house, and is going
with her soon on one of her preaching expeditions. I
find it is a custom of their sect for the preachers to associate
with themselves one or more lay sisters, who travel
with them, and for a certain time devote themselves to
works of charity and mercy under their superintendence.
They visit prisons and penitentiaries; they go to houses
of vice and misery, where one would think a woman
would scarcely dare to go; they reprove sin, yet carry

always messages of hope and mercy. Little Ruth is now
preparing to go with Sibyl on such a mission, and I am
much interested in the stories she tells me of the
strange unworldly experiences of this woman. It is true
that these missions are temporary; they seem to be only
like what we could suppose the visits of angels might
be—something to arouse and to stimulate, but not to
exert a continuous influence. What feeling they excite,
what good purposes and resolutions spring up under
their influence, they refer to the organized charities of
Christian churches of whatever name. If Sibyl's penitents
are Romanists, she carries them to the Romish
Sisters; and so with Methodist, Baptist, or Ritualist,
wherever they can find shelter and care. She seems to
regard her mission as like that of the brave Sisters of
Charity who go upon the field of battle amid belching
cannon and bursting shells, to bring away the wounded.
She leaves them in this or that hospital, and is off again
for more.

This she has been doing many years, as the spirit
within leads her, both in England and in this country.
I wish you could see her—I know how you would love
her. As for me, I look up to her with a kind of awe;
yet she has such a pretty, simple-hearted innocence
about her. I felt a little afraid of her at first, and
thought all my pins and rings and little bows and
fixtures would seem so many sins in her sight; but I
found she could admire a bracelet or a gem as much as
I did, and seemed to enjoy all my pretty things for me.
She says so prettily, “If thee acts up to thy light, Eva,
thee can do no more.” I only wish that I were as sure
as she is that I do. It is quite sweet of her, and puts me
at ease in her presence. They are going to be gone all
this week on some mission. I don't know yet exactly
where, but I can't help feeling as if I wished some angel

woman like Sibyl would take me off with her, and let me
do a little something in this great and never finished
work of helping and healing. I have always had a longing
to do a little at it, and perhaps, with some one to
inspire and guide me, even I might do some good.

This reminds me of a strange incident. The other
night, as I was crossing the street, I saw a weird-looking
young woman, very haggard and miserable, who seemed
to be in a kind of uncertain way, hanging about our
house. There was something about her face and eyes
that affected me quite painfully, but I thought nothing
of it at the time. But, the evening after our reception,
as Harry and Bolton were walking about a square
beyond our house, this creature came suddenly upon
them and took Harry's arm. He threw her off with a
sudden impulse, and then Bolton, like a good man, as he
always is, and with that sort of quiet self-possession he
always has, spoke to her and asked where her mother
was. That word was enough, and the poor thing began
sobbing and crying, and then he took her and led her
away to the St. Barnabas, a refuge for homeless people
which is kept by some of our church Sisters, and there he
left her; and Harry says he will tell Mr. St. John about
it, so that he may find out what can be done for her, if
anything.

When I think of meeting any such case personally, I
feel how utterly weak and inexperienced I am, and how
utterly unfit to guide or help, though I wish with my whole
heart I could do something to help all poor desolate
people. I feel a sort of self-reproach for being so very
happy as I am while any are miserable. To take
another subject,—I have been lately more and more
intimate with Bolton. You know I sent you Caroline's
letter about him. Well, really it seemed to me such a
pity that two who are entirely devoted to each other

should be living without the least comfort of intercommunion,
that I could not help just trying the least
little bit to bring them together. Harry rather warned
me not to do it. These men are so prudent; their
counsels seem rather cold to our hearts—is it not so,
mother? Harry advised me not to name the subject to
Bolton, and said he would not dare do it for the world.
Well, that's just because he's a man; he does not know
how differently men receive the approaches of a woman.
In fact, I soon found that there was no subject on which
Bolton was so all alive and eager to hear. When I
had once mentioned Caroline, he kept recurring to the
subject, evidently longing to hear more from her; and
so, one way and another, in firelight talks and moonlight
walks, and times and places when words slip out
before one thinks, the whole of what is to be known of
Caroline's feelings went into his mind, and all that might
be known of his to her passed into mine. I, in short,
became a medium. And do you think I was going to
let her fret her heart out in ignorance of anything I
could tell her? Not if I know myself; in fact, I have
been writing volumes to Caroline, for I am determined
that no people made for each other shall go wandering
up and down this labyrinth of life, missing their way at
every turn, for want of what could be told them by some
friendly good fairy who has the clue.

Say now, mother, am I imprudent? If I am, I can't
help it; the thing is done. Bolton has broken the
silence and written to Caroline; and once letter-writing
is begun, you see, the rest follows. Does it not?

Now the thing is done, Harry is rather glad of it, as
he usually is with the results of my conduct when I go
against his advice and the thing turns out all right; and,
what's of Harry better than that, when I get into a scrape
by going against his counsels, he never says, “I told you

so,” but helps me out, and comforts me in the loveliest
manner. Mother, dear, he does you credit, for you had
the making of him! He never would have been the husband
he is, if you had not been the mother you are.

You say you are interested in my old ladies across the
way.

Yes, I really flatter myself that our coming into this
neighborhood is quite a godsend to them. I don't know
any that seemed to enjoy the evening more than they two.
It was so long since they had been in any society, and their
society power had grown cramped, stiff by disuse; but
the light and brightness of our fireside, and the general
friendly cheerfulness, seemed to wake them up. My sisters
are admirable assistants. They are society girls in
the best sense, and my dear little mamma is never so
much herself as when she is devoting herself to entertaining
others. Miss Dorcas told me, this morning, that she
was thankful on her sister's account to have this prospect
of a weekly diversion opened to her; for that she
had so many sorrows and suffered so much, it was
all she could do at times to keep her from sinking in
utter despondency. What her troubles could have been
Miss Dorcas did not say; but I know that her marriage
was unhappy, and that she has lost all her children.
But, at any rate, this acknowledgement from her that we
have been a comfort and help to them gratifies me. It
shows me that we were right in thinking that we need
not run beyond our own neighborhood to find society
full of interest and do our little part in the kindly
work of humanity. Oh, don't let me forget to tell you
that that lovely, ridiculous Jack of theirs, that they make
such a pet of, insisted on coming to the party to look
after them; waylaid the door, and got in, and presented
himself in a striking attitude on an ottoman in the midst
of the company, to Miss Dorcas's profound horror and

our great amusement. Jack has now become the “dog
of the regiment,” and we think of issuing a season ticket
in his behalf: for everybody pets him; he helps to make
fun and conversation.

After all, my dear mother, I must say a grateful word
in praise of my Mary. I pass for a first-rate housekeeper,
and receive constant compliments for my lovely
house, its charming arrangements, the ease with which I
receive and entertain company, the smoothness and completeness
with which everything goes on; and all the
while, in my own conscience, I feel that almost all the
credit is due to Mary. The taste in combination and
arrangement is mine, to be sure—and I flatter myself on
having some nice domestic theories; but after all, Mary's
knowledge, and Mary's strength, and Mary's neatness
and order, are the foundation on which all the structure
is built. Of what use would be taste and beauty and
refinement, if I had to do my own washing, or cook my
own meals, or submit to the inroads of a tribe of untaught
barbarians, such as come from the intelligence
offices? How soon would they break my pretty teacups,
and overwhelm my lovely bijouterie with a second Goth
and Vandal irruption! So, with you, dear mother, you
see I do justice to Mary, strong and kind, whom nobody
thinks of and nobody praises, and yet who enables me
to do all that I do. I believe she truly loves me with
all the warmth of an Irish heart, and I love her in return;
and I give her this credit with you, to absolve my own
conscience for taking so much more than is due to myself
in the world. But what a long letter I am writing!
Writing to you is talking, and you know what a chatterbox
I am; but you won't be tired of hearing all this
from us.