A.D. 1877
DISAPPOINTMENTS AND DELAYS
The year 1877 dawned full of work and full of hope, in Batala. Fresh openings were appearing on all sides; and to the four Zenanas which at first could alone be entered, others had been already added. Then suddenly came a check. Miss Tucker’s hard-working companion, who had all through suffered much from the Panjab climate, broke down, and was ordered off to England. For Miss Tucker to remain alone at Batala, without a single European companion, could not be thought of; and so many Missionaries had been invalided during the past unhealthy year, that no one else could possibly be spared. She had perforce to return to Amritsar.
The great disappointment—and very great it was—she took patiently, even cheerily. Some considered a few months more at Amritsar no bad thing for her or for her future work. She had freedom from responsibility, and more leisure in consequence for study and for writing. Many a short story went forth from her busy pen that winter for India’s millions. But her eyes were still bent longingly upon Batala; and her whole desire and prayer were that she might soon return there again.
Nor had she to wait long before the granting of her wish. Mr. and Mrs. Beutel, then resident at Amritsar, were appointed C.M.S. Missionaries at Batala; and when[254] they went she could go also. Mr. Beutel describes as follows the course of events:—
‘One day—it was early in 1877—after returning from a preaching-place in the city (Amritsar), I met Miss Tucker on my way home. She was glad to see me, and then told me of her intention of going to settle at Batala, provided that my wife and I were willing and prepared to go with her. After a while this was sanctioned, and consequently we left Amritsar for Batala in April, and settled in the old house ... which is still used for the Christian Boarding School. It then looked like a haunted house, inhabited by owls,—which regularly had a dance in the loft almost every night!—bats and wasps, etc. Miss Tucker occupied the one wing of the upper story, and we the other. The centre-hall served as a dining-room. She was our daily boarder.
‘As a rule she rose very early in the morning. After her morning walk, service, and breakfast, she regularly went out into the city, to see and teach some women in their houses, occasionally accompanied by my wife. Now and then she also paid visits, like myself, to the villages in the neighbourhood. As a rule the afternoons were filled up by her with the study of the language, reading and writing, etc.
‘But, alas! not quite two months had passed, when both Miss Tucker and my wife were laid up with fever. The chief cause of this, as the Doctor afterwards explained, seemed to be the stagnant water almost all around the house; and he ordered them both away as quickly as possible. Consequently we all returned to Amritsar by the end of May 1877, and settled again in our old quarters.
‘As soon as the hot season was over, we all went back to Batala, a second time. The condition of the house was as bad as before; but Miss Tucker immediately offered her help, and I set about fifty people to work. The ground near the house was soon raised about two feet or more; and consequently the place became more healthy, so that this time we could stay there all the winter, doing our work as before.’
After a few months, however, came a renewed check. Mr. Beutel was required for work in Amritsar; and when he and his wife left Batala, Miss Tucker had to leave also. Once more she was obliged to settle down for a term of patient waiting and study at Amritsar.
Not till the spring of 1878 was any really permanent arrangement made. Then a school of Panjabi boys was[255] removed from Amritsar to the old palace, under the presidency of the Rev. Francis Baring; and Miss Tucker went to live under the same roof, to carry on the work among women of Batala. Thenceforward her home was at Batala to the end. Throughout the year 1877 she had much of doubt and disappointment to endure; but her brave trustfulness never broke down under the strain. Charlotte Tucker was a thoroughly loyal soldier of the Cross,—willing to go, or willing to stay, as her Master might dictate. Her heart’s desire was to live and toil in Batala; but a yet deeper desire of her whole being was to carry out His Will, whatever that Will might be. The Centurion’s words, ‘I am a man under authority,’ may be cited as peculiarly applicable to her. If God’s Will for her were Amritsar, not Batala, she would be content.
For a short time, seemingly, things were so; but not for long. Fresh plans in 1878 would make all clear. Meanwhile some months of change and uncertainty did no harm. They were but part of the polishing of the golden staff of her Will,—to revert to her own allegory of earlier days.
The history of these months, beginning with the time when she was first at Batala with Miss Swainson, will best be told by occasional extracts from the abundance of letters remaining.
TO MISS ‘LEILA’ HAMILTON.
‘Batala, Jan. 4, 1877.
‘Here we are in a regular “fix,” as the boys would say,—no bread nor butter in the house, and with the probability of a grand lady, a Commissioner’s wife, coming to-day, perhaps to stop the night. Pity the sorrows of—of ladies twenty miles from civilised life. I’m not housekeeper, so I can laugh; but poor dear Florrie!! You can feel for her. This is how we got into the fix.
[256]
‘We settled on to-day, Thursday, for a general giving of prizes in the six City schools. Several pounds have been spent on prizes, and Florrie and I were for hours yesterday ticketing and preparing them. The prize-giving is of real importance; for we give prizes instead of money, as the Government gives. To throw éclat on the affair, we asked Mrs. T. to give the prizes away, which she kindly consented to do. A note was sent to her on Tuesday morning by a kahar,[59] to tell her the day, and the kahar was to bring back bread and butter, which we have always to get from Amritsar, twenty-four miles off.
‘Thursday morning, the grand morning, has arrived,—nay, it is nearly eleven o’clock, and the children of six schools, their teachers and their mothers, and perhaps scores of women besides, will be on the tiptoe of expectation,—and our kahar has never returned!!! We don’t know whether Mrs. T. is coming; we don’t know whether she is sticking half-way on the road, waiting for the horse which we offered to send twelve miles, if she required it! Like the famous little pig, we have eaten all the bread and butter; and if the grand lady arrives—without that faithless kahar—what shall we give her to eat? I urged Florrie at least to send to the city for meat; but she fears that in the absence of the cook the guest may arrive.
‘O dear! O dear! Why did we trust that sust[60] kahar,—or eat up all the bread? O how shall the bari Bibi ever be fed? I must go and try to cheer up poor Florrie, who suffers from her head, in addition to being in this “fix.” I must tell you how the matter ends afterwards.
‘Don’t fancy we’re starving! Oh, nothing like it! We had a famous breakfast, chapatties,[61] eggs, etc. We don’t starve!
‘Later.—No one has appeared. No tidings either of lady or kahar; but Florrie has sent for meat. She told me that the poor children had said that they would be ready at 7 A.M. If so, they must be rather tired by this time, nearly 11? A.M. ...
‘Later.—The kahar came at last, and brought the provisions, and a note from Mrs. T. to say that she is coming to-morrow.
‘Jan. 6.—I was rather glad when yesterday’s grand affair was over. As we had two dulis for three ladies, we had to manage by Florrie always going first,—i.e. she proceeded to School 2, while we lingered at No. 1—to School 3, while we stopped at 2, etc. I had to try to amuse and show off the children to Mrs. T. during the waiting[257] time, which sometimes seemed rather long, especially where the girls would not sing. In vain I started even a bhajan[62] in one of the schools.
TO MR. AND MRS. CHARLES TUCKER.
‘Batala, Jan. 6, 1877.
‘How well I can fancy you in your home, with the wide blue expanse of Ontario stretching in front. I suppose the world looks very white with you just now; with us it is pretty green. We have no garden, but our large house stands in the country, without any enclosure. Herds of goats or strings of camels could pass near to our mansion. There is certainly not much noise of carriages. Here the sight of a dak-gari is somewhat rare; and in the city I have never seen any wheel vehicle, except bullock-carts in the wider streets. We can sometimes hardly get through the narrow streets in our duli; and I am not aware that there are any other dulis in Batala except that of the Catechist’s wife.
‘Very funny things we hear of ourselves; and I dare say many funny things are said that we do not hear. In one place which my companion visited, in company with E., the Catechist’s wife, she overheard the remark that she—-Miss Swainson—was the husband, and E. her bibi. I think that I excite more curiosity than my companion on account of my age. On account, I suppose, of an Englishwoman with any silver hair being a rarity in India, I seem to be sometimes considered wonderfully old. Florrie told me that she had heard the women talking as they might have done had I been a hundred years old.
‘One day I wore brown kid gloves. My hands were looked at with surprise. I suppose that the women wondered why I should have brown hands and a white face. I pulled off my gloves, and this seemed a new cause for surprise. Natives are very curious. One ... young man of good family acts as my Munshi. He told me to-day that his aunt wished to know whether I have any salary. How astonished we should be if French or drawing masters asked such questions in England! I have been asked what salary my nephew receives. My being unmarried makes me doubly an object of curiosity to the Hindu women.
‘A poor woman came the other day to see us, and brought us some common yellow flowers. I did not at all admire them, but I thought it only courteous to accept so small a present graciously. Miss Swainson did not like to accept the flowers—I did not know why....[258] She told me afterwards that she was afraid they were brought as religious offerings,—flowers are what are used for such offerings,—and she had heard repeatedly that we are ‘devi.’[63] What gross, fearful ignorance! I heard on good authority that in one place in India, not the Panjab, offerings are actually made to a dead European, who was a special object of dread to the Natives, and whom they therefore wish to propitiate as a kind of demon! Do not the poor, deluded creatures want teachers? I find the women in general very gentle and courteous, and quite willing to listen when they are spoken to on the subject of religion. With the men—except of course the servants—we have little to do.’
TO MRS. HAMILTON.
‘Batala, Jan. 9.
‘Florrie and I hired four extra kahars, took earlier breakfast, and started this morning for O——, the village in which, as you may remember, I encamped for two or three days with my Margaret, about ten or twelve months ago.
‘We started on foot, as it was not at all too hot for a walk; and though we never walk in the city, we have no objection to doing so in the country. Our dulis, white and red, with eight kahars, followed us. When we had walked about a mile, whom should we meet but the postman, with the English letters! I popped the rest of the things into the duli, but read my Laura’s despatch as I walked along the dusty lane. Very many thanks both to you and to dearest Leila. The bonnet has not yet arrived,—I dare say it will be very elegant,—and yet, as well as the bag, owe its chief value to the love sewn up in it. Your lovely tidies ornament my Batala home.
‘When F. and I returned from the village, being rather tired of going about twelve miles in a canvas box,—of course there is no seat in it; one sits half-Oriental style on a kind of coarse carpet,—I got out to walk the last mile home.’
‘Amritsar, Jan. 13.—My note to dear Leila will tell you of the change which now a good deal engrosses my mind. You did not like my going to Batala; and as far as we can see, our Heavenly Father does not intend us to remain there. He is Wisdom; and what to us seems mysterious and trying must in the end be seen to be right....
‘Ah, well, it is doubtless good to have the branches shaken, on which we perch; and happily I have built no elaborate nest.’
[259]
TO MISS ‘LEILA’ HAMILTON.
‘Batala, Jan. 20.
‘I am writing in such a dismantled room, making a table of a chair, and sitting on the floor. My luggage went off yesterday—such a quantity! My big boxes and little boxes, chairs, tables, almira, sofa, etc. I do not intend to unpack more than I can help, for I rather hope to have another move before long,—a move back to dear Batala....
‘I have been round to the six schools and three Zenanas, explaining the sad cause of our sudden departure. I have found sympathy and kindness. On three faces at least there were tears. Facts are often more eloquent than words! The Batala people have seen B—n suffering keen anguish for Christ’s sake; they see that the property which was ——‘s is his no more, for Christ’s sake. They have seen two ladies going fearlessly, trustingly, amongst them, one of them old, and the other so ill that she has fairly broken down in her work—for Christ’s sake! These things may tell more even than preaching.... With God’s blessing Batala will yet be ours.
‘Strange to say, the Mission has just bought a house in the midst of the City; not hired, but bought it out and out. I went over it yesterday.... There is room on that ground to build a church on. And, please God, we shall have a church there some day. Nil desperandum.’
To another she wrote on the same day: ‘It seems very sad, when there had been such a promising beginning; a new and interesting Zenana opened to me only yesterday; and I must quit Batala to-day, for one lady cannot stay by herself. But I am not in the least discouraged. I believe that the Almighty will not suffer the Mission to be permanently broken up. He will send some one to take poor Florrie’s place; and then I am ready, at twenty-four hours’ notice, to return to my post. I hear that the women are very sorry for our going. I have myself seen tears on brown faces.’ Her confident hope was soon to come true.
‘Mission Bungalow, Jan. 29.—Here I am, back again in my nice large room. My nieces would have it so, and made all arrangements during my absence.... I must tell dear Leila what C. H. said one day, absurd as it sounds; but it was a compliment to her work, therefore I repeat it. “How bonny the Auntie looks in her[260] new bonnet!” There is a bit of flattery, spoken for once by one who is particularly plain-spoken! But it was the bonnet that was bonny, not your loving old sister.’
TO MISS ‘LEILA’ HAMILTON.
‘March 5, 1877.
‘Many thanks to you and your sweet Mother for your loving notes and the Illustrated. I am glad that I have not been sent Froggy’s Brother. Not only am I afraid of shedding one useless tear; but I seem to have scarcely any time for reading what is unconnected with my work. I have begun the Koran, which will be rather a tedious task,—only in English,—but I think it well to read it, and a few books of manners and customs. Then I have two Munshis; and with my imperfect memory, I must be perpetually going over and over what I learn, so as not to lose it. Then I ought to write, whenever I can, and visit Natives a little; and we have so many interruptions. The day passes so fast; and perhaps at the end one feels—“What has been done?—how little!” But as for sitting down to amuse oneself with an English story-book,—how can that be done by your attached old Missionary Auntie?’
TO W. F. T. HAMILTON.
‘March 9, 1877.
‘I am about a very tedious work, reading through the Koran in English. I think that it may be very desirable for me to be able to say—“I have read your Koran right through.” But, oh, how sleepy one gets over the book! It is so full of repetitions; the same ideas and stories over and over again. I am perfectly well, and the weather is now charming,—such a comfort to get rid of the cold!—but I believe that I twice this forenoon went to sleep, simply from reading the Koran. I read and read, then leant back in my comfortable chair, and took a nap!
‘The poor Muhammadans must get a painful idea of the Almighty from their book. It seems almost a mockery to head almost every “Sura” with “In the Name of God the Compassionate, the Merciful.” One is so perpetually reading of the torments of unbelievers, the fires of Gehenna, etc.! Our Lord is written of with great respect, and His Birth regarded as quite miraculous; but the Muhammadans will not believe Him to be the “Son of God.” There is a great deal about Abraham, Moses, Joseph, etc., in the Koran; Old Testament stories altered and enlarged upon, to suit Muhammadan tastes. I have met with no reference to the Blood of Atonement; in the account of the[261] Exodus, given over and over, there is no allusion to the Paschal Lamb; Muhammadanism appears as a religion of works.
‘It would seem to me to be a dreary kind of religion, and well suited to make men hard and stern. Of the three religions in the Panjab, I think Sikhism by far the best; but then the race of those who profess it in purity seems to be dying away.... The Enemy would not leave poor Man even the scraps of Truth bequeathed by the noble Guru Nanak. It is a sad pity. Hearts which had only known pure Sikhism might have formed a rich soil to receive the seed of the Gospel.’
Early in March it was arranged, to her great joy, that before the close of the month she might expect to be back in Batala again, living there with Mr. and Mrs. Beutel. When the time came, the roads being especially bad with the heavy rains, Miss Tucker performed her journey from Amritsar to Batala in what she called ‘a most luxurious conveyance,—the big, heavy Government dak gari,[64] in which one can recline at ease, as if in a bed.’ The twenty-four miles’ drive proved, however, to be not altogether luxurious; for on the worst and roughest part of the road the whole gari went over on its side,—‘one big wheel aloft, another big wheel below.’ Miss Tucker being entirely unhurt, thought mainly of the safety of her desks and of her ‘dear travelling clock.’ She found them, to her great relief, ‘quite serene,’ as serene as she was herself in her ‘funny position,’—the clock ticking placidly on, undisturbed by the jar. Describing the scene afterwards, she continued:
‘A number of men came to the aid of our forlorn conveyance, down in the mud. The horses were of course released from the traces. Many hands make light work; so, with a good deal of pushing and shouting and tamasha, the carriage was set up again on its wheels. I got out, thinking that I should have to trudge through the mud on foot, carrying my clock in my hand. But I was not obliged to make my entry into my palace in so humble a fashion. I was able to re-enter the gari. Of course, I presented the natives with a reward.’
[262]
‘April 14, 1877.—I wrote to our Commissioner to ask his permission for fish to be caught in the large tank, close to which our mansion is built. He politely replied that we were welcome to fish with hook and line, but that a net is prohibited. I am rather amused to find that our dear, kind-hearted Germans cannot bear to give to the fish the suffering which a hook would inflict. I think that we shall do without fish.
‘Such stormy—oh, such stormy weather as we have had, night after night! There have been such thunder and lightning, and rushing blast, and banging of doors and windows, as if in this great echoing house there were pistol practice.... Those Indian unmanageable doors and windows are the worst of it, particularly if any inmate of the house has headache or fever. One wanders about in the dark,—perhaps helped by the lightning,—to find the region of a door that is the chief offender. The one which I managed to shut in the night, for the first time since my coming chose to shut itself in the morning, so that neither I nor my Ayah could open it. Some one had to go round by another route to lift the latch, which had gone down without being touched.’
In the same letter, speaking of a young Indian, who had eagerly said to her that ‘the Bible is the light of our eyes, and the root of our faith,’ she sadly remarked that it was ‘almost sickening’ to think what the young Muhammadan ‘would have to endure, did he openly confess Christ,’—even while earnestly hoping that he would be constrained ‘by the cords of love’ to leave all and come forward.
TO MISS LAURA V. TUCKER.
‘May 2, 1877.
‘Thanks many, darling Laura, for your dear, sweet letter. You speak of the flowers. Ah, if I could but give you a sight of the glorious pink water-lilies or lotuses out of our nice tank! I am not sure, however, whether I would not change them for—cabbages; certainly I would for cauliflowers. It is not very easy to get our vegetables, twenty miles away from an English garden. However, V. brought two cucumbers to-day,—a welcome sight,—and a Native presented us with some kelas,[65]—more welcome still. My experience is that fruit and vegetables are particularly conducive to health in India.
[263]
‘You may rejoice to hear that we have got rid of our very wicked cook.... But it is funny to have no cook at all!! Mrs. Beutel’s old mother does all the cooking; perhaps Mrs. Beutel helps a little; and it puts her quite into spirits. If we were not likely to go into Amritsar in ten or eleven days, I think that we should be obliged to procure a cook. It is a most unusual thing for Europeans to cook in a Panjab May; every day likely to get warmer and warmer! And if Mrs. J. fell ill, as she did last year—her daughter is constantly off and on with fever—where should we be? In a laughable dilemma, I should say; for I don’t think that Mr. Beutel could cook; and I am sure that I can’t! I forget—“can’t” is not a Missionary word! But I really don’t see what I could do, except boil eggs; we have plenty of them. You know that Fairy Frisket did not fancy a kitchen!
‘We have bread brought in regularly; for I did not think the heavy, solid German home-made bread suitable for India. The bread we get is so beautifully light. I do not know exactly where it comes from,—I fancy from Gurdaspur or Amritsar. I am not housekeeper.
‘What a greedy letter this seems! so much about eatables! But it may help you to picture to yourself life at Batala. I am very happy here.’
The end of May found her back again in Amritsar, but by no means downhearted. The fresh check was evidently regarded by Miss Tucker as only temporary.
‘May 30.—It does my heart good to see Emily walking off to her work, perhaps at 6 A.M., so brave and bright, with firm, elastic tread.... Sweet Margaret has been very unwell. She looks too much like the statue of an angel in white marble. But she is better again; and if we can coax her back to her old quarters here, and pet her to any extent—her medicine—I think that she may weather the hot weather well.
‘As I have little need of a separate kahar here, I was advised to part with V. I tried to do so, but I really could not. The poor fellow pleaded,—it was so hard to get work,—and I remember how miserable he looked when out of situation before. Then he is a married man, and such an intelligent, faithful creature.[66] So I gave in! It seems to me very hard to cast off good servants, just because the perpetual changing about makes one rather a supernumerary.[264] V. is invaluable to me at Batala; and I hope to return to Batala. I was rather pleased at C.’s pleading for his companion. He seemed quite eloquent; but I confess that I did not understand much of his eloquence; only he evidently did not want poor V. to be cut adrift. I would at any time, if troubles arose, trust my life either to C. or V. I get quite interested in some of the servants, and they seem to be really affectionate. They are much like children.’
‘Amritsar, June 11, 1877.—Emily said quietly to me yesterday, “You certainly have wonderful health.” Not that I was well during my last trying time at Batala; but I have surprised my friends by getting all right again so very rapidly. The heat is very moderate as yet. I have only once this year had the thermometer in my sleeping room up to 90°. It seldom rises above 85° or 86°, which is nothing.’
‘June 22.—The banyan-tree has dropped its brown leaves at last. Fancy a tree waiting till May or June before it will put off its old dress! It waits till all its new leaves are well out; and in midsummer throws off the withered ones. It is a grand tree; the one here is a fine one, but not to be compared to the one at Batala.
‘The quite new school at Batala, the first Boys’ School in which Christianity is taught, has already risen to 175 pupils. The house is too small, and I. D.[67] is going to give up his for it, and take another. The religious instruction has been given by three natives.’
‘June 30.—Dear Emily is done up. She actually asked me for an amusing book, feeling evidently fit for little but to lie on the sofa and read. She overworks, and the season tells on her. When dear Leila happens to be writing to Bella Frances, would she kindly ask her to send me by post “Fairy Know-a-bit,” and “Fairy Frisket,” and “Pride and his Prisoners,” my funniest tales. We have three trying months at least to come; and I want to keep my ladies as cheerful as I can. They have not much time for reading, except when poorly, and then a laugh is medicine.’
‘July 2.—The work is going on at Batala, love, though we are absent. The Bible-woman, lately sent, who was here to-day, has access into nearly double the number of zenanas that Florrie and I had. There is also daily bazaar-preaching; and I. D. tells me that he has great hopes from the new Batala Boys’ School, where the little lads listen readily to daily religious instruction. The women, I hear, want me back; but I do not see my way to returning[265] till the rains are over. It would not do to dwell in a house which might be surrounded by water.’
‘July 14.—It was so nice last Wednesday welcoming my dharm-nephew[68] back to Amritsar. Dharm is a good word to distinguish my Missionary relatives from my relatives by birth. A Godmother is a Dharm-mai. The Natives themselves have put me up to adopting the distinction. One of them asked Emily after me as her “dharm-poti,” (religion-aunt). My dharm-nephew was only two days in Amritsar; he is off to Dhamsala, to be out of the heat of the plains. He looked better than I had hoped to see him, and just his own bright self.’
TO —— ——
‘July 20, 1877.
‘Mr. Clark told us the other evening that he had had an hour’s interview with a Brahmin, who has come from beyond Benares. This man’s views remind one of the Brahmo Somaj; but God grant that this Hindu may find more light than those Hindu Unitarians ever found. He is a man of great courage; he has flung aside the prejudices of his caste; he vehemently opposes idol-worship, and will readily eat with Christians. One of his special difficulties in regard to our faith is, I believe, the difficulty of reconciling God’s justice with the punishment of the Innocent. The Brahmin is a gifted, eloquent man, and many go to hear him.
‘Margaret and I were taking a moonlight drive after the heat of the day, with lightning flickering in the sky, when we passed a house in which I knew that the Brahmin has taken up his abode. It is some little way out of the city, and is a European bungalow. I pointed out to Margaret a little crowd in the compound, in the picturesque white Oriental costume, and told her that it was formed of those who were listening to the preacher.
‘Margaret stopped the carriage, and we tried to catch the words which could reach us at the distance. They were, however, few; so we got out of the carriage, and without going near the crowd drew a little nearer and nearer to the place where the Brahmin was addressing his audience. We were still too far off to hear much, and there was too much of Hindi mixed with his Urdu to make his language clear; but we could see the man’s eloquent, animated gestures, and hear the rich tones of his voice.
‘It was a very picturesque scene; the mingled torchlight, moonlight, and heat-lightning,—the quaint, white-robed crowd,—the man[266] who has dared to break through so much, who calls himself a Luther, telling idolaters of the folly of idol-worship. I should think that it would be wise to place in communication with this remarkable man some of our most talented converts from Hinduism—not Muhammadanism.’
TO MRS. HAMILTON.
‘Aug. 11, 1877.—I missed a grand opportunity the other day of killing a centipede. It lay so quiet, as if to invite me to make myself illustrious. But I hate crunching creatures, so called out for some one to kill my centipede.... It is not fear of being bitten, but dislike of killing. The ladies think that it would not do for me to keep house, for that I should spoil the servants. I did give C. a decided rebuke the other day for beating his wife. He promised me to be kind in future.’
‘Aug. 13.—I have this morning received my precious Laura’s letter, with a request for a certain prayer—which I shall certainly remember. If a feeling of fear comes over my Laura, it must surely be as regards the act of departure, not what follows; for there is “no condemnation” to Christ’s people, no death in the real sense of the word.
‘But why, love, should we fear the act of departing? How many, many, pass Jordan, as it were, dry-shod? Remember how peacefully sweet Fanny sank to rest,—dearest Mother,—how my Letitia’s face was lighted up with a smile,—how our Bible-woman at Batala sang aloud a happy hymn within a few hours of her going! To me it seems such a simple thing for the—I had almost said imprisoned soul, to leave its “cottage of clay,”—for the bird, as soon as fledged, to spread its wings! We are winged creatures, and it seems a humiliation to be creeping on earth so long. Only think what the first sight of the Lord will be! I am not sure whether some departing ones do not see Him before the last breath is drawn.’