IBO^I?II]G 
 
 ^OB IxIFE^
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES

 
 
 Ottft Kjrts LiiK ?j*i sbutjh
 
 In The 
 
 Morning of Life. 
 
 m ^rilnttc. 
 
 DEDICATED TO 
 
 Jl^ose wljom pffie j^oved. 
 
 1879. 
 
 
 • > » ' 
 ) J > ' 
 
 
 ' J > J J >
 
 PRINTED BY 
 
 VJ. G. JOHNSTON Sl CO. 
 
 PITTSBURGH. PA.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 </> 
 
 Page. 
 
 In Memoriam, - . . . . . . ] i 
 
 Launched, - . . . oi 
 
 ►>t Outward Bound, - - - . . -i^ 
 
 Fair Winds, 45 
 
 esl 
 
 ^ Sea Murmurs, ------- 55 
 
 CM 
 
 § DuiFTWoon, ----... (53 
 
 Becalmed, - - . . . . . -81 
 
 o Anchored, g^ 
 
 o ,, 
 
 O Heyumi the Tide, - - . . . - 109 
 
 ixS 
 
 S Flowers from the Wayside. - - 11^ 
 
 "* Flowers from Memory, 
 
 449623 
 
 127
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Dear Friends: 
 
 When one dear to ns has passed 
 into the Bright Beyond, we grope abont in Aain 
 search for something yet to be done, which shall 
 bring to our spirits a sense of duty performed. 
 But after every doing, there comes back to the 
 desolated heart a response which is as the reverber- 
 ation of a soulless echo. 
 
 Such, in so far as they come from my own 
 pen, seem the annals contained in these pages; but 
 you will kindly accept, as the last offering which 
 love can bring, this tribute to the memory of one, 
 whose appreciation of the devotion of her friends 
 was only equaled by her appreciation of the respon- 
 sibilities made hers by such devotion. 
 
 The flowers were sent me from loving hands. 
 I have essayed to combine them into an harmoni-
 
 Vlll INTRODUCTION. 
 
 ons fluster. Miid now I place them in ycur hands 
 trnstingly — ho):)efully. May their grateful fragrance 
 awaken associations Avhich shall call l)ack through 
 Memory's halls words, acts and scenes, from the life 
 passed from us into the realms of tlie spiritual, 
 which shall be an inspiration through all the dav« 
 to come, 
 
 C. M. 
 
 AvoNDALE Home, 
 
 Martin's Ferry, 
 
 Ohio. 
 
 Augud 16th, 1879.

 
 j[n (TUemonam* 
 
 Died — In Sau Antonio, on the evening of the 
 25th of February, 1879, Effle McMillaiv, niece and 
 adopted daughter of J. C. McMillan, Esq., of Xenia, 
 Ohio. 
 
 |EALOUS of earth's bright possessions, 
 an envious heaven has claimed the 
 ^m^' better and immortal part of Effie 
 McMillan. At this separation of clay and 
 spirit, a brave, pure soul winged its way to 
 its God. In condoling with the tearful 
 friends who mourn, w^e can offer only, by 
 way of consolation, the remembrance of a 
 life's duty quietly and simply but fully 
 done.
 
 12 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 About the iirst of last December, Miss 
 McMillan came to Texas, hoping to recuper- 
 ate her fast-feiling health. For a while, 
 the high hopes which were based on the 
 vitalizing powers of the genial sunland, bid 
 fair to be realized ; but with the unusually 
 severe weather of the Christmas holidays, 
 there came an appalling change for the 
 worse, and thereafter the most sanguine 
 friends could speak no words of hope. With 
 the setting of Tuesday's sun. the struggle 
 was over, and her soul, tried in much phy- 
 sical torture, was at peace in the bosom of 
 its Saviour. It will gratify her absent friends 
 to know that she died not as among stran- 
 gers. The last vigils were kept by friendly 
 eyes, and the last struggles, so far as pos- 
 sible, alleviated bv friendlv hands.* 
 
 *Mr. L. Slaydeu, in San Antonio Daily Express 
 of February 26tli, 1879.
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 13 
 
 M( MiLLAN. — Feljruury 25, 1879, in San Antonio, 
 Texas, Efiie McMillan, niece and adopted daughter 
 of J. C. McMillan. Esq., of Xenia. Ohio. 
 
 "■^jf^iEATH loves a shining mark." Effie 
 "A^i McMillan's gifts, both natural and 
 ^^¥^ acquired, were of a high order. Her 
 foster-father afforded her every opportunity 
 to secure a thorough education. A gradu- 
 ate, with the honors of her class (1876), of 
 the Pennsylvania Female College, she devoted 
 herself to teaching with the ardor which so 
 often characterizes cultivated and earnest 
 young souls. She overtasked her energies 
 while laboring in the Female Seminary at 
 Hollidaysburg, Pa. Her health gave way ; 
 the fatal consumption, to escape which she 
 fled to San Antonio, fastened upon her sys- 
 tem, and neither skill nor affectionate care 
 could dislodge it.
 
 14 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 A Christian and a lady, a worker and a 
 believer, her short life was beautiful in its 
 womanliness; her death, peaceful and happy. 
 When so feeble as to be scarcely able to 
 speak, she whispered, when near the end, 
 that she was going to the heavenly home. 
 Pointing upward with her finger, and fixing 
 her eyes upon that which is not seen, she 
 " endured as seeing Him who is invisible."* 
 
 * Rev. W. T. Morehead, D. D., in The United 
 Presbyterian of March 19th, 1819.
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 15. 
 
 
 Miss Effie McMillan. 
 
 ^^<i^>ROM the sunny clime, where the 
 I spring flowers bloom, and nature 
 symbolizes the spring time of immor- 
 tal life, comes the sad intelligence: 
 
 Pied — In Sail Antonio, on the evening of the 
 25th of Febrnaiy, 1879, Efiie McMillan, niece and 
 adopted dangliter of J. C. McMillan, Esq., of Xenia, 
 Ohio. 
 
 In the dawn of womanhood, our de- 
 ceased friend has passed away to the 
 realms of endless peace and glory; but 
 in the short space of her earthly life, 
 she quickly and fully finished the mission 
 which was allotted to her by her Covenant 
 God. She developed a character refined in 
 nature, harmonious in all its blendings, and 
 withal, beautified by a spirit pure, noble.
 
 16 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 and elevated. Difficulties and trials were 
 surmounted by the exercise of a heroic 
 faith, which knew nothing of failure. As 
 a student, she garnered rich fruits of intel- 
 lectual stores. Few at her age have 
 acquired such breadth of knowledge, quick- 
 ness of perception, and accuracy of reason- 
 ing, as marked her educational course, which 
 gave promise of a high standard of culture 
 and thoroughness of scholarship. With her, 
 the real and true constituted the goal, and 
 not the fanciful and superficial. There was 
 a dignity in her mien which, because of 
 its naturalness, won for her the esteem and 
 love of all with whom she associated. As 
 illustrative of this, I will quote a paragraph 
 from the Daily Express, of San .Antonio : 
 " It will gratify her absent friends to know 
 that she died not as among strangers. The 
 last vigils were kept by friendly eyes, and 
 the last struggles, so far as possible, alle- 
 viated by friendly hands."
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 17 
 
 Her spiritual life was characterized by 
 deep conviction of the truth as it is in 
 Jesus ; frankness of confession, strength of 
 faith, and elevated consecration ; with her 
 religion was neither a form nor a dogma, 
 but a "soul-life," the realities of which were 
 manifested in the walk and beautiful con- 
 sistencies of Christian life; and as she 
 lived, so has she triumphed in the closing 
 scene. 
 
 This young life has not always been 
 bright — shadows, and even clouds, have at 
 times darkened her pathway and saddened 
 her heart ; but even when the night shade 
 lowered, the beaming smile of a trusting 
 heart would illumine the clouds, and the 
 morrow would find her wrestling with new 
 energy in her life-work. 
 
 Such a life — pure in its nature, honest in 
 its purpose, cultured in its bearing, and, to 
 crown all, sanctified by grace, speaks from 
 " the beyond," and by its silent testimony
 
 Ig IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 presents to our youth an example worthy 
 to be treasured in memory, revered for its 
 consistency, and lovingly followed. 
 
 " From this unanchored world, 
 Whose morrow none can tell. 
 From all things restless here, 
 Pass over to thy rest, 
 The rest of God."* 
 
 *Rev. Thomas C. Strong, D. D., in Pittsburgh Evek- 
 
 iNG Telegraph, March 5th. 1870'.
 
 BauncPeb*
 
 LAUNCHED 
 
 -Two angels, one of Life and one of Death. 
 Passed o'er our viUage as the morning broke.'' 
 
 .. How shall it be with her, the tender stranger, 
 Fair-faced and gentle-eyed. 
 Before whose unstained feet the world's rude 
 
 highway 
 
 Stretches so fair and wide?" 
 
 f^WEXTY-TWO years ago. into a humble 
 home hi Central Ohio, there came a 
 %i^ tiny mite o\' humanity, ^vhose exist- 
 ence, in the midst of desolation and sorrow, 
 was scaiL-ely recognized. The entire house- 
 hold wa< prostrated with a fearful type of 
 fever, and this frail bit of humanity seemed 
 stranded upon an unknown shore, and but 
 awaiting a returning wave to carry it back 
 to the Eternity from which it had so re- 
 centlv been wafted.
 
 22 LAUNCHED. 
 
 Thus this home was found by a relative, 
 who had come to it in the hour of need. 
 Having arranged for the tending of the sick 
 ones who had already an established claim 
 upon life, she gave her attention to the 
 little stranger. The spark of life was faint, 
 but the good woman determined that it 
 should be carefully fanned, and if it should 
 go out in darkness, her own loving hands 
 should lay the little sleeper to rest. So, 
 carefully wrapped and placed on a pillow 
 of smallest size, the infant was carried to 
 a new home in Southern Ohio. In this 
 home no voice of infancy for many years 
 had sounded, and many curious, sympathetic 
 friends came daily to have a look at " Mrs. 
 McMillan's baby." Motherly eyes filled with 
 tears as they rested on the features so per- 
 fect in their diminutiveness, thinking, doubt- 
 less, of the uncertain future awaiting the 
 little stranger left motherless — fatherless — thus 
 early on life's journey.
 
 LAUNCHED. 23 
 
 The child was called Effie for an aunt, 
 who wished, in future months, to adopt lier 
 as her own. Meanwhile the little Effie 
 assumed signs of life, began to put on the 
 innocent graces of babyhood, and to look 
 wonderingly into the eyes of her foster- 
 parents ; so that, when the aunt came to 
 claim her child, after a night spent in dis- 
 cussion, they refused to let it go. And 
 she, with her husband, went back to her 
 home, lonely and disappointed, but assured 
 that the sacrifice was for the future well- 
 being of the tender little one, who thence- 
 forth became Effie McMillan. 
 
 Thus, in loving care and solicitude, dawned 
 this young life. For six brief years the 
 child was the constant care and delight of 
 hearts that grew daily in affectionate devo- 
 tion. But a change came. . . . Disease had 
 for years been making stealthy inroads in 
 the gifted mind of the devoted mother. 
 Even the "windows of the soul" were dark-
 
 24 LAUNCHED. 
 
 en 
 
 ed by its touch. The large, dark eyes, 
 always full of strong intelligence and feel- 
 ino- rolled eagerly in their sockets in search 
 of famiUar objects of vision. Many means 
 were tried to restore health to the feeble 
 body — consequent vigor to the mind — and 
 vision to the eyes, from which the light had 
 o-one out, but to no avail — till death came 
 in the guise of deep sleep — and the little 
 Effie was a second time, in a life so brief, 
 left motherless. 
 
 The revolving circuit of life's changes 
 brought to this saddened home, in less than 
 two years, a gentle spirit whose sway proved 
 a blessing and a happiness to all. She 
 came with such loving, quiet grace, with 
 such rare judgment, that all hearts were 
 won. Though gentle, she was strong in 
 the right, and the hearts of her friends 
 safely relied on her. 
 
 Our little Effie grew in childish grace 
 and in stature. She was carefully guarded
 
 LAUNCHED. 25 
 
 from evil, and instructed in wisdom's ways. 
 The successive comins^ of two little daug-h- 
 ters brought no diminution of care and love 
 for the thoughtful-eyed child — no injustice 
 — no prophesy of future ill. 
 
 These were vears of blessins:. the care- 
 free child-life passing into happy school-girl 
 days, in which began to be evolved the 
 elements of future character. She evinced, 
 in early life, a love for music of the sacred 
 order — deep, soul-stirring, or of triumphant 
 strain. 
 
 Her selections for poetic recitation were 
 such as Absalom, Prisoner of Chillon, The 
 Celestial Country, or some sweet, pathetic 
 waif, which minds thereto inclined can 
 always bring forth from hidden stores. Se- 
 lections such as these, given in her undu- 
 lating, sympathetic tones, ever touched a 
 responsive chord in the hearts of listeners. 
 She evinced an aptitude for writing, also, 
 which was a promise of much future ability.
 
 26 LAUNCHED. 
 
 But the pathetic and sympathetic phase of 
 our Effie's character thus early developed, 
 was only one of its many distinctions. She 
 had the keenest appreciation of the ludic- 
 rous, and was a leading spirit in the school- 
 room's happy throng. In consequence, even- 
 ing after evening, as the boys and girls 
 were dismissed, Miss McMillan was requested 
 to remain for a few minutes' conversation 
 with the good Professor. She had no dread 
 of these interviews, for she knew, from fre- 
 quent experience, their import. With utmost 
 good nature, she would walk to the seat 
 of the threatened inquisition. After a 
 smiling reproof for inability to control her 
 risibles, the inquisitor would launch into a 
 discourse upon the responsibilities of those 
 possessed of superior mental endowments, 
 and would close his ostensible lecture with 
 encouraging narrations concerning those who 
 had risen to heights of mental power and 
 culture through many trials and deprivations.
 
 LAUNCHED. 
 
 27 
 
 All this was quietly accepted by the young 
 school-girl as a not unpleasant, but scarcely 
 intelligible, part of her daily discipline. But 
 in after years, when fired with the ambition 
 to make the most of her noble mind, and 
 to create for herself a place among men 
 and women of intellect, it returned to 
 her as a pleasant remembrance and encour- 
 agement. 
 
 Such was Effie McMillan, the school-girl 
 of fourteen — at home, dutiful, patient, pleas- 
 ant of temper, unselfish, and trusted — when 
 a second time a heavy cloud of grief hung 
 suspended over this oft-visited household. 
 The noble, gentle-voiced mother, who had 
 for vears been in delicate health — much of 
 the time away from home for medical aid 
 — had returned with the brightness of hope 
 in her eye, and apparent bloom of health 
 upon her cheek; but in two short weeks 
 the Death Angel had feithfuUy completed 
 his mission. The spirit had gone to the
 
 28 LAUNCHED. 
 
 Beautiful Home for which it was so abund- 
 antly prepared. She had been for these 
 years as a guardian angel — as " sunshine in 
 a shady place." The angel had tied to its 
 native home — the shadows had deepened into 
 
 night. 
 
 The father was now an old man. He 
 had feithfully loved and cared for the little 
 Effie in his childless days, and now, with 
 her deeply affectionate nature, she endeared 
 herself to his heart yet more. With tlie 
 orphaned little ones, who " now, in softened 
 mood," became his constant companions, she 
 was ever the object of his kindly care and 
 solicitude. 
 
 In other days, and in her tender years, 
 there had also been adopted into this num- 
 ber a sister of the Effie so well-beloved, 
 who remained there during the vicissitudes of 
 passing years, save for a short period after 
 her graduation, during which time she was 
 engaged in an educational institution in
 
 LAUNCHED. 29 
 
 Southern Ohio. Now, therefore, having but 
 partially emerged from a long indisposition 
 and deep mental gloom, the thought of the 
 sweet devotion and helpfulness to each 
 which might yet grow out of their sister- 
 hood, came to her like a revelation. And 
 the two hearts — one young and hopeful, the 
 other tried in the furnace till hope had 
 almost fled — became as one in motive, in 
 aspiration, and endeavor for future good. 
 At home, pleasant books were read aloud ; 
 piano and organ, carefully attuned to one 
 pitch, mingled their tones to make evening 
 harmonious, and the sweet voices of the 
 children lent a charm to the songs. 
 
 Pleasant, cultured people came and went. 
 
 The quiet street, in summer arched with 
 beautiful maples, seemed an avenue in 
 which, shut oft' from the vain world, each 
 minded first his own aft'airs, then sought 
 the good and happiness of his neighbor. 
 In winter, bright firesides and brighter eyes
 
 30 LAUNCHED. 
 
 held always in store a warm welcome for 
 the social neighbor. 
 
 The trait most strongly marked in our 
 dear Effie's character, during this little era 
 of less than two years duration, was a deep 
 sympathy for every phase of discomfort and 
 sorrow which came under her notice. She 
 would say, in most appealing tones, "Come, 
 let us go down and see poor Mrs. N. 
 Think of her, all alone with those bad 
 children." Or, " Let us go and see poor Mrs. 
 D. She never goes out, and never gets to 
 see any one." Or, "Poor Mrs. A. is so 
 lonely; let us go over and talk to her." 
 This trait was so manifest, that familiar 
 friends often rallied the dear child upon 
 her desire to assume the woes and take the 
 cares of the entire community on her young 
 shoulders. 
 
 Thus early, too, her religious impressions 
 became deep and fixed. In a little, quiet 
 retreat of her native town, called the Third
 
 LAUNCHED. 31 
 
 Church, she enrolled her name, and took 
 for the first time the Holy Communion. 
 She took her seat, also, among the singers, 
 who there rendered the quaint old " Psalms 
 of David " " without harp, or psaltery, or 
 stringed instrument." 
 
 Time passed away, and brought another 
 of life's lessons. 
 
 As blessings come oft to us in the guise 
 of deep misfortunes, and curses in angelic 
 srarb, so there came into the life and into 
 the home of the young girl something 
 promising joy and good, but which brought 
 in its train an experience so dark that 
 we would fain draw a vail of impenetrable 
 fold over its scenes, and shut them from 
 memory's view forever. From the fiery 
 ordeal our Effie emerged with wasted form 
 and languid step — face, from which the smile 
 had faded — eyes, from which the spirit-light 
 seemed to have died out.
 
 ©u^xtjatb (^ounb+
 
 OUTWARD BOUND. 
 
 "And all fancies yearn to cover 
 The hard earth whereon she passes, 
 With the thymy-scented grasses." 
 
 " Visions of childhood I Stay. O stay ! 
 Ye were so sweet and mild I 
 And distant voices seem to say, 
 ' It cannot be I They pass away I 
 Other themes demand th}' laj* ; 
 Thon art no more a child.' " 
 
 M^HE autumn of 1S74 found our Effie 
 olSpl established at Mt. Auburn Institute, 
 ^>^ situated on the beautiful suburban 
 heishth bearino: that name, overlooking the 
 city of Cincinnati. She was but seventeen, 
 and thenceforth virtually homeless. But 
 here, under encoura£:ing influences, life again 
 became to the young mind a thing of
 
 36 OUTWARD BOUND. 
 
 beauty and a joy. In three months from 
 her entrance into this school, her most 
 familiar friends would not have recognized, 
 in the young girl with beaming countenance 
 and ringing laugh, the pale, sad-eyed Effie 
 of weeks before. 
 
 The school was small, but with teachers 
 of the first ability. Beloved of its noble 
 president and the many friends she found 
 here, as in every place of sojourn, Effie's 
 character began to unfold into a singularly 
 marked individuality. 
 
 Thus passed a year of quiet study and 
 progress. Strong attachments were here 
 formed, which had much influence over her 
 future life. And the gift of sprightly 
 narration and forcible description, with which 
 she so often delighted her friends, became a 
 decided trait of mental development. 
 
 Early in this year Professor Newall, the 
 able and gifted President of Mt. Auburn 
 Institute, died suddenly, leaving all con-
 
 OUTWARD BOUND. 37 
 
 cerned with it in deepest uncertainty. The 
 school was continued, however, under tlie 
 care of a former president, through the 
 year ; but at its close, teachers and pupils 
 went forth to seek new homes and other 
 halls of study. Effie — child _ of circum- 
 stances — joined her sister, and together they 
 spent the sweet summer days in the neigh- 
 borhood of the pretty town of Oxford, in 
 Southern Ohio. Here mutual relationships 
 brought her into a charmed circle, of 
 which Professor Swing was the centre, and 
 the holiday hours glided by in a succession 
 of rural delights. But they were gone as 
 a pleasant dream, and the young girl re- 
 turned for a few weeks to Xenia, to prepare 
 for a coming year's work. 
 
 The letter here introduced, from her friend, 
 is full of beauty, and expressive of that 
 interest so often shown by those who read 
 her character in the quiet manifestations of 
 its depth and fullness : 
 
 449623
 
 38 OUTWARD BOUND. 
 
 Dear Effie : 
 
 Such a quiet hour has. come that I must 
 talk with mj' new friend, and thus make the silence 
 full of society. It is a Sunday night, without a 
 cloud and with a sky full of stars. The lake is 
 roaring from the effects of the storm that has 
 been blowing all da^y. You, whose mind is so full 
 of sensitiveness in presence of Nature, would greatly 
 enjoy the scene from our windows, where skj^ and 
 lake offer two pictures — the one of heaven's peace 
 the other of earth's tumult. 
 
 Friends, who have been in the parlor all evening, 
 have all gone, and have left me free to follow fancv 
 or memory. In this hour, Memory comes in the more 
 pleasing gai'b. To me she is more beautiful than 
 Hope. What has been is ours. It is in the soul. 
 What maj^ be is uncertain. And then there is a 
 pensiveness in memory ; a solemn thought that all 
 has fled, a feeling that life is like fading roses, that 
 delights the soul with sadness. Tears are often a 
 joy. 
 
 I promised to tell you what defect there is in 
 the love of Nature. The defect is this: Nature 
 will never speak any kind word to us. The hills
 
 OUTWARD BOUND. 89 
 
 and vales, into which 3'ou love to gaze b}' the 
 hour, will never speak tenderlj- to you, nor will 
 the}' be moved to shed a tear when you pass 
 away from earth. Nothing in the magnificent ex- 
 ternal world will ever come to vou and saj^, 
 "Effle?" The human spirit is, therefore, the best 
 earthly shrine at which we can worship ; and 
 always, alwa3's shall I prefer to look upon a human 
 forehead, and into a friend's face, than gaze at the 
 grandest mountain or deepest sea. 
 
 But we need not turn away from Nature. The 
 human friend onlj' helps us enjo}' the world the 
 more; but the friend is the real, grand world, 
 most worthy of aflection. In memory, the scenes 
 along that stream will stand in sweet lines forever, 
 but sweeter alwa3^s will be the memory of the 
 friend that was beside me, for the heart of the 
 innocent and gentle is something higher than the 
 verdure of the woods or the murmur of waters. 
 
 Do not be astonished when friends love you. 
 You should expect the utmost kindness from all, 
 for your face is full of youth and affection, and if 
 we dare not love you, wh}^ should we love any 
 thing, or possess that power in the spirit ? Is my 
 soul to love the trees onl}' ?
 
 40 OUTWARD BOUND. 
 
 One more year of study, you say. Do not care 
 for courses of study, nor appoint a time to end it. 
 Read and talk. Memorize prose and poetry, that 
 your soul may thus acquire wings, by which it may 
 fly out into the wide world and be free. The 
 chief task to be performed, is to break the bars of 
 iron that imprison ns and to be free. Yours is 
 an infinite Christ. He loves all, sing they hymn 
 or psalm. Thus may you escape all the forms of 
 bondage ; the bondage of self-depreciation, of dis- 
 trust, of indiflference, of repose, and move out into 
 the open fields of life and joy. 
 
 A gifted, beautiful so\il, half imprisoned. You 
 thought kind words must be oul}' in jest, that none 
 could love you deeply ! And then you felt that to 
 conceal friendship was a first duty ! Had I con- 
 cealed my friendship for you and your loved sister, 
 we would never have been such friends. Now are 
 we not joined in lifelong ties ? 
 
 If your heart so incline, you must spend a 
 year here in some school. But if your heart looks 
 eastward, then you must go eastward ; for no one 
 but you can read the longings of your own heart. 
 Should you come here, my familj^ will all help you 
 toward the feeling that home is near by. Should
 
 OUTWARD BOUND. 41 
 
 you go eastward, then 3'ou must visit us sometime 
 while your beautiful girliiood is so easily made 
 happy. 
 
 I am very sorry that, upon ray return this week, 
 you will no longer lie within the reach of our 
 large carriage. I shall cherish the hope that you 
 will, when the time of study returns, cast your eyes 
 up northward and westward, and in your heart 
 long to be near us all who have added to old ties 
 of relationship new ties of special love. 
 
 The same Creator made us all, and in His beau- 
 tiful impartiality did not fill your heart with sin- 
 cerity and mine with coldness and form, but 
 made us all ready to hear and to speak kind 
 words out of the heart's depths. No doubt this 
 is the only long letter you will ever receive from 
 me. You already have a large business to transact 
 in the letter line, and hence I shall not expect you 
 to write to me. Again I express the hope that 
 the affection which so many bestow upon you will 
 only cheer 3-011 along the paths of culture, and will 
 make you feel not only how sweet is life, but how 
 full of responsibility are its fleeting days. 
 Ever your own friend, 
 
 David Swing. 
 Chicago, August 1st.
 
 fait TDinbe.
 
 FAIR WINDS. 
 
 " Have hope ! Though clouds en\'iron round 
 And gladness hides her face in scorn. 
 Put thou the shadow from thv brow. 
 
 iN"© night but hath its morn. 
 
 Have faith I "U'here e'er thy bark is driven, 
 The calm's disport, the tempest's mirth, 
 Know this, God rules the hosts of heaven, 
 The inhabitants of earth." 
 
 ^j^l^OME lives are like the smooth, un- 
 pII*! broken surface of a quiet woodland 
 '^^^ lake ; others like the restless flow of 
 ocean current, and chansreful as its heaAdns; bil- 
 lows. So was it ever through the years with 
 — Effie. The Pennsylvania College, at East 
 End, Pittsburgh, beautiful for situation, and 
 comfortable, even elegant, in all its appoint- 
 ments, deserves a name of more sio-nificance.
 
 46 FAIR WINDS. 
 
 Here, with the return of autumn, under the 
 able care of Dr. Strong and Miss Helen E. 
 Pelletreau, the young student found a fa- 
 vored spot, and study became a pleasure. 
 
 A year passed on in the trials and tri- 
 umphs incident to life in a young ladies' 
 boarding school, and at its close Effie stood 
 an acknowledged leader. Of her position 
 none were envious — her sway was disputed by 
 none ; for, as always, respect, love and honor, 
 had followed her steps. Of the fourteen 
 lovely young girls who looked out through the 
 rosy mists of " Commencement Day " upon 
 what seemed to them a new and glorious 
 world, there was not one to whom it 
 seemed to offer more than to Effie McMil- 
 lan. Life seemed spread out before her in 
 long, bright vista, for she had within herself 
 capabilities equal to any demand, while 
 health lightened her step and brightened 
 her eye, and gave a sweet power to her 
 presence.
 
 FAIR WINDS. 
 
 47 
 
 It was within those months that, in a 
 letter received from a gifted friend, there 
 occurred this passage—" Effie is a great ship, 
 sailing near Heaven. You and I are hut 
 little boats, beaten about upon the shores 
 of Time." Words lightly written, doubt- 
 less, by the author, but they lodged in the 
 heart of a fond sister, and remained there 
 as an oft-recurring propliesy. Who could 
 have guessed that the "great ship," with 
 sails full and beautiful, should so soon glide 
 peacefully into the Heavenly port, whilst 
 the little boats afar, still tempest tossed and 
 beaten, drift along the shores of Time. 
 
 She tarried within the college walls for 
 a time, to recover from the excitement and 
 fatigue attendant upon the closing scenes of 
 the school year, and then returned to the 
 quiet town which had been the home of 
 her childhood. Many friends greeted the re- 
 turn of the young girl, grown so stately 
 and mature in a few brief years. They
 
 48 FAIR ^INDS. 
 
 could scarcely recognize in her the gentle, 
 pleasant child that, in days not far gone 
 hy, had o-Uded in and out of their homes. 
 Motherly hearts welcomed her return with 
 generous affection. Freedom from the daily 
 routine of study, for a time, seemed very 
 pleasant, but with the return of physical 
 and mental vigor, induced by rest, her active 
 mind demanded an active fie-ld. A little 
 visit was planned to the northward. Whilst 
 with the friends, proud and happy at her 
 unexpected coming — her busy brain did not 
 rest from constant devising of ways which 
 should satisfy her determination — it occurred 
 to her to write to a relative unknown to 
 her in the past save by reputation and a 
 mere casual meeting. A response to her 
 note of inquiry came quick and decisive by 
 telegram — " Can you come and teach a little 
 school in Mt. Pleasant I " The young girl 
 questioned, " Shall I go on a message so 
 vague?" and her brave heart and judgment
 
 FAIR WINDS. 49 
 
 responded, - Yes." A letter followed the 
 decision, saying, '• I will come ;" and in the 
 midst of cold and storm, she started out 
 OATr unfamiliar roads to a new experience 
 in life. 
 
 Out of darkness, and cold and rain, into 
 the warmth and brightness of the cheerful 
 parsonage parlor at Mt. Pleasant, Pa., a 
 graceful welcome made right all the strange- 
 ness and discomfort of two wearv davs. 
 
 The following morning, in the little studv 
 of her uncle's handsome church, she was 
 confronted by eight young ladies and several 
 gentlemen, who had come to see the yoimg 
 strano-er about to assume the mental ijuard- 
 ianship of their daughters, whom they were 
 yet unwilling to send away from the re- 
 straints of home influence. It was a brisfht 
 and happy six months which the beautiful- 
 minded Effie spent in charge of these 
 young girls in the quiet mountain village. 
 It was a happy season, for was it not a
 
 50 FAIR WINDS. 
 
 starting point from which, with energies 
 newly roused, with conscious ability within 
 herself, and with purpose of heart, she 
 should climb higher and higher, and make 
 for herself a place and position which none 
 miojht ofainsav. 
 
 Study and travel had brought into the 
 parsonage much from the outside world, and 
 people of culture and refinement from all 
 parts of the land found within its walls a 
 hospitality most graceful and charming. And 
 this new life, with its daily routine, with 
 nothing to offer from the outside world, 
 instead of being narrowing in its tendencies 
 was notably the reverse. ' 
 
 Frequent little trips to the city were 
 planned for the young teacher by her new 
 friend, the kind " Mistress of the Manse." 
 From these — having gathered courage and 
 inspiration from the faces of loved friends, 
 and busied herself with the execution of 
 many commissions, she would return com-
 
 FAIR WINDS. 51 
 
 pletely renewed in spirit, to walk quietly on 
 in the humble path of duty. 
 
 To her, Nature spoke a language needing 
 no interpreter. The shifting shadows of 
 the mountain side were to her a continual 
 panorama of beauty, and, knowing her love 
 for them, the young people brought her 
 generous offerings of beautiful things from 
 mountain and meadow. Excursions over the 
 steep, rocky roads to some fine point were 
 a favorite Saturday pastime for the little 
 school, with additions from their young 
 friends of the village. How the young girl 
 enjoyed them ! She drank in with intense 
 delight every beauty of earth and sky, and 
 more than all, the light-hearted glee and en- 
 joyment of the young spirits about her. 
 These were gala days. She left Mt. Pleasant, 
 and the sweet home she had there found, 
 endeared to all hearts. 
 
 Once more, and for the last time, a sum- 
 mer of rest came. Hastening to the city.
 
 52 FAIR WINDS. 
 
 she sent for the sister to whom her devo- 
 tion had become as a guiding star, having 
 arranged that they should spend a summer 
 of happiness together. The College at the 
 East End had ever been a favorite spot. 
 A few days later, within its ample walls 
 and quiet shadows, were the sisters. All 
 had dispersed to their scattered homes, save 
 a few choice friends who were to remain 
 through the coming months. And never 
 while life endures shall fade from memory's 
 walls the sweet pictures of that happy time. 
 The days were not an idle dream, but a 
 constant activity, in which lived, and loved, 
 and planned, and wrote, these friends. INo 
 shadow of selfishness, no clashing of inter- 
 ests, none of the moods ' or ills to which 
 flesh is heir, entered the charmed precinct 
 during all the beautiful days ; and it seemed 
 almost as a special season, granted to cast 
 a grateful lio-lit over darker recollections 
 which the unrevealed future held in store.
 
 ^ea (piurmura^
 
 SEA MURMURS. 
 
 " Once more uj^On the waves : yet once more ! 
 And the waA^es bound beneath me as a steed 
 That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar ! 
 Swift be their guidance whereso'er it lead ! 
 Tho' the strained mast should quiver as a reed, 
 And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, 
 Still must I on." 
 
 IN the old town of HoUiclavsbum, 
 nestled among the mountains, rise the 
 [^' great stone walls of a young ladies' 
 seminary. Very grand looked the structure 
 outlined against its mountain back ground, 
 as the eyes of our Effie rested upon it for 
 the first time. The cold gray walls had 
 caught something of warmth and beauty 
 from their draperies of American Ivy, already 
 tinted by the autumnal sunshine. So,
 
 5(3 SEA MURMUKS. 
 
 to the young girl called thither as instruct- 
 ress, it seemed a fitting place in which to 
 pursue the leadings of her ideal destiny. 
 And when within, she had entered upon a 
 new line of literary duties, entirely suited to 
 her mental tastes, the prospect seemed bright 
 indeed. But of the opening year, with its 
 developments, thus writes one who gathered 
 her story from the lips of the young ladies 
 themselves, as, from time to time, they gave 
 it her: 
 
 '' Picture a young girl statel}' of mien, with 
 form of perfect outline — her shapel}^ head crowned 
 with a mass of sunbrown hair; broad, smooth tem- 
 ples, with arching brow, and long, dark lashes 
 shadowing the changeful eyes beneath. Eyes such 
 as those of which a gifted one writes—' They are 
 deep and reach back to the spirit : eyes full of 
 deep, tender and earnest feeling : they are eyes 
 which, looked on once, you long to look on again: 
 eyes which lie before you in your future like stars 
 
 in the mariner's heaven : they are 
 
 meek and quiet, but full as a spring that gushes in
 
 SEA MURMURS. 57 
 
 flood.' She was not beautiful of feature in the 
 accepted significance of tlie woid, but beautiful 
 wherein lies true loveliness. The i)urity of her 
 soul was written upon hei countenance, where each 
 passing though* showed forth in the ever-varying 
 expression. Her natural grace and dignity com- 
 manded respect, while her animated conversation 
 attracted all. 
 
 " Such was Miss McMillan when she came into 
 the midst of a school of girls eager to criticise 
 and ready to repel all advances. To this noble 
 woman we were instinctively drawn, though our 
 school-girl natures for a time rebelled. Respect 
 soon ripened into ardent admiration and love for 
 her as a friend. 
 
 " Her willingness to oblige and render assistance, 
 together with her ready smile and kindly encour- 
 agement, made us all eager to seek her counsel, 
 whenever cause gave opportunity or excuse. Not- 
 withstanding her conscientious fulfillment of a 
 teacher's duties, our devotion remained constant, 
 and all she did was considered good and just. 
 Nor was earnest concern for our welfare manifest 
 in matters pertaining to school alone. When the 
 Bible classes were formed for the year, a number 
 
 5
 
 58 SEA MURMURS. 
 
 of oirls who loved Miss McMillan and loved each 
 other, requested tliat they might have her for their 
 teacher. Never can we forget the lessons taught 
 so sweetly on those Sabbath afternoons. Nor were 
 we content to close the lessons wheA our time was 
 spent but following her whose example was before us, 
 we learned daily lessons of love and charity, and, at 
 her suogestion, marked the many passages to which 
 we frequently referred, that we might, in after 
 days, recall these Bible talks. 
 
 " Miss McMillan's intense lo^ e for flowers was 
 soon observed by her devoted followers, and her 
 little sunless room was brightened and adorned by 
 sweet floral tributes from those who appreciated her 
 passion. All were eager that the dainty rosebud 
 at her throat, the one ornament that she willingly 
 wore, should never be found Avanting. 
 
 "At times, in her own room, when the merry 
 school-girl propensities could no longer be restrained 
 by their unnatural bonds, a sprightly, jesting con- 
 versation with a few chosen friends, followed by a 
 general romp, seemed to relieve her of care and 
 to refresh her for coming duties. 
 
 " ' In the social hour,' at eventide, when groups 
 of lively girls were scattered about in chapel, hall
 
 SEA MURMURS. 59 
 
 and library, she was always a centre of animation 
 and happiness. Quietly seated about her, we lis- 
 tened to her stories and fancies with untiring pleas- 
 ure. We loved to draw out her opinions upon all 
 subjects which troubled our minds, for she expressed 
 them in such a quaint and decided way that we 
 were entertained and instructed, at the same time 
 started upon new lines of thought. But more 
 than all, we loved those frequent occasions when, 
 in a kind of half reverie — half address — she would 
 wander far out into the realms of the ' spiritual ' 
 — so far, that we might not clearly follow her 
 leading; yet always we retired from such interviews 
 with the stirring of nobler thoughts and aspirations. 
 " When we parted at the holiday's, she was 
 cheerful and beautiful, and apparently in perfect 
 health. After her return, however, new responsibili- 
 ties and cares became hers, and under the burden, 
 too severe for her sensitive nature to endure, her 
 health gave way, and her sunny temperament, in- 
 fluenced by her physical condition, became morbid 
 and distressed. Our anxious concern and earnest 
 inquiries were answered by her own bright smile, 
 and the plea that rest would soon conquer her 
 cough, purely nervous in its nature. Though weak-
 
 60 SEA MURMURS. 
 
 ened by sickness, and wearied by her arduous 
 duties, regardless of her own longings for rest, she 
 worked on to the end, always brave, always patient, 
 always kind. 
 
 "As retiring president of its Alumni Association, 
 it was her duty to read an address before that 
 association at Pennsylvania College, June 19th, 
 1878. Glad of an excuse which promised release 
 and rest, only a little sooner than it should other- 
 wise come, she completed her literary duties at 
 the seminary with eager haste, and went from 
 among us at the earliest moment possible. A 
 sweet hope of rest in her favorite retreat, with 
 companionship of beloved friends, lured her from us 
 with a promise to return in the time when we 
 should again assemble for the opening year."
 
 <S)xift^ooi.
 
 DRIFTWOOD 
 
 i^l#FFIE wrote few letters of mere friend- 
 
 P 
 
 m ship or sentiment, but many with 
 
 ISv"^ the hope of gaining some good thing 
 for others than herself She kept no diary 
 either — that form of private record, in which 
 morbid minds are wont to reveal their 
 fancied workings. She preferred rather to 
 look " outward " to the needs of other minds, 
 and " upward " for the inspiration which 
 comes from contemplation of the Great 
 Source of all life and thought. Conse- 
 quently there were few papers from which 
 to gather a page which would reveal the 
 peculiar mode of thought of her whose pen 
 w^as so ready to serve another, or so slow
 
 64 DRIFTWOOD. 
 
 in what pertained to self. Just as they 
 were gathered from a few chance letters, 
 these brief extracts are presented : 
 
 "Fair Haven, July 2d. 1875. 
 
 "Dear L.: I think this summer has been one 
 of the pleasantest in my existence. It has had its 
 little trials, too, but yet they have brought their 
 little lessons and warninos. thus showins; their 
 srood. I am so 2:lad I have bu*^ one more year at 
 school ; I think it would be impossible to leave 
 my sister to fight her battles alone for another 
 year." 
 
 ''July 17th. 
 
 •' You know we must do right. ' for right's di- 
 vine sake,' and not for anv credit we mav 2:et for 
 doing it. Do not look at your own faults too 
 much, but rather at the Perfect One, and strive 
 to imitate His example more and more."' 
 
 •• Pennsylvania Female College, 
 "November 4ffi, 1875. 
 " The foregoing is pretty plain talk, is it not ? 
 But we need plain talk these days ; and if it cuts, 
 it is only a sign of its truthfulness. If it flies
 
 DRIFTWOOD. Go 
 
 bark with equal force, what would you infer from 
 Pr. Shephard's reasoning last winter? Write me 
 a plain letter, too, please." 
 
 ^'-January 4th. 1876. 
 " Does your heart fail you once in a while, 
 when you stop to think of the many little thino-s 
 necessary to housekeeping, but not the proper things 
 for your dear head, little woman? Remember, 
 there is for you, in your universe, a bright star 
 ahead, and I sincerely hope it may not be lonor 
 before it burst on you in all its magnificent bril- 
 liancy. Keep good heart, little woman : take all 
 your burdens to the great Burden-bearer, and all 
 will be well." 
 
 •• Mount Pleasant, February 6th, 1877. 
 " I am having a good time from the fact that I 
 am so busy. I have no time for '^Jlay. It is all 
 earnest work, and I think that is the best thinor 
 for me under the circimistances — I mean, with my 
 peculiar disposition. I care little for the gayeties 
 of life. I would rather feel that I was influencing 
 some one for good by a quiet life. Socrates said, 
 ' Our friends value us for the use they can make 
 of us,' and I believe it. I would much rather be 
 valued for my usefulness than for anvthins else."
 
 6(^ DRIFTWOOD. 
 
 ''March 20th. 
 '• How sadl}' we all fail in doing our duty in 
 this life! Every day is a struggle — a failure — and 
 yet in some sense a victory; but it is all the 
 different strands twisted together that make up the 
 thread of life. 
 
 " Better confide and be deceived, 
 
 A thousand times by traitorous foes, 
 Than once accuse the innocent, 
 Or let suspicion mar repose. 
 
 Then gently scan thy bi-otber man. 
 
 Still gentliei', sister woman, 
 Though both may gang a kinnie wrang ; 
 
 To step aside is human.-' 
 
 " Mount Pleasant, June 6th, 1877. 
 " I have seen yonv friend at a distance, but 
 never to speak to her. I know that remark sounds 
 to you perfectly insipid ; as though j'ou cared 
 whether I had seen her at a distance or close by. 
 You are too much of that opinion in regard to 
 many things. You take too little interest in the 
 common things. You forget that these little things, 
 which seem to you such nonsense, are the things 
 that make up the whole lives of one class of
 
 DRIFTWOOD. 
 
 67 
 
 people; and in order to reach that class, we must 
 sympathize with them, to some extent, in all their 
 interests. Paul found it necessarj^ to make himself 
 'all things to all men,' in order to accomplish his 
 mission. Please think about this seriously." 
 
 " HOLLIDAYSBURG FeMALE SeMIXARY, 
 
 "il/ay 28th, 1878. 
 "I wish I could send aou a message on the 
 breezes to-day, instead of writing; but I cannot — 
 so here is your message. I wonder if it is as 
 beautiful down where 3'ou are as it is here ? A 
 moment since, while talking with one of the young 
 ladies, who was expressing sorrow at having to bid 
 farewell to a brother going South for his health, 
 this thought came to me. Tell me wliat you think 
 of it. We, of necessity, must do what is placed 
 before us to do. We all have our likes and even 
 loves, and want to gratify them to the utmost. 
 We And, at all times, the satisfying of this want 
 is not judicious. Xow, the question is, would it 
 not be better to do only that which is judicious? 
 I imagine what a part of your reply will be. I 
 have been learning some valuable lessons this school 
 year. One of them is, that I must watch more
 
 68 DRIFTWOOD. 
 
 carefully that little member which a good man once 
 called 'unruly.' Another is a sad one — that they 
 who can be trusted are few and ftir between. The 
 latter was a much needed lesson with me. I 
 thought all who were pleasant, and seemed to be 
 true from their sayiugs, might be trusted. That 
 has all been dispelled. I grant that just now I 
 feel hardened toward all humanity, and am ready 
 to suspect ; but I recognize this as an evil, and am 
 trjdng to overcome it." 
 
 '-March 18th. 
 "Again, the old question, ' Is there any life 
 which is not hard ?' Also, ' Is there any pathway 
 down here which has not roses and sunshine scat- 
 tered along, if we will only think so ? ' You ask me 
 for my idea of life. A very short definition would 
 be, to obey the Grolden Rule. I think, if one will 
 do with all his might what he has to do in this 
 world, accepting what may come as all right and 
 good, he will have fulfilled his mission. I think it 
 is the bounden duty of ever3^ one, to do all the 
 good possible in this world, no matter with what sac- 
 rifice to himself. Then the rest may be covered 
 by the two great words of the New Testament — 
 Ijove and Charity."
 
 DRIFTWOOD. 69 
 
 "■Ajoril 2d. 
 "• I like your idea of making obstacles that ap- 
 pear in the pathway of life, to aid us in working 
 out its great problems. I had not thought of it 
 so before. This life is a constant warfare with 
 ourselves, and, of course, the greater the obstacles 
 overcome, the greater the succeeding joy — ' To him 
 that overcometh will I give a crowu of life.' " 
 
 ^'-February 19th. 
 " 1 do not know what I think. Whether sin 
 committed in ignorance is sin or no, leads me out 
 into such a mazy, hazy region of calm unknown, 
 that I am afraid ever to venture there, for fear I 
 will not be able to get on to terra firma again. I 
 think there are some things in this world (of 
 course, things that we do not understand) that we 
 had better trust to an All-wise God to take care 
 of. And yet, if we make no effort to undei'stand, 
 what then 't If we make an effort, and by so 
 doing lose what we have, what then?" 
 
 '"''January 23d. 
 " I am A-ery much obliged for both the paper 
 and book. I had read the sermon in the latter, on 
 ' Theatres,' before the receipt of your note, but had
 
 ■•^0 DRIFTWOOD. 
 
 concluded, from subjects and appearances, that the 
 others might remain untouched till I could read 
 them and give them some time. However, the 
 view of theatre-going I ratiier like. I entirely 
 agree with the author in this— that we are apt to 
 accept things as traditions from the elders, and to 
 stand off from them with dread, not knowing what 
 we fear; while it is our duty to march boldly up 
 to the popular society evils of the day, and find 
 out what is bad and what good in them. Half 
 the people who denounce theatres, card playing, 
 dancing, billiards, etc., know nothing of what these 
 things are, but because they have been told they 
 are wicked, that is all-sufficient to settle what is 
 their Christian duty." 
 
 ''May 7th. 
 " Only six weeks to-morrow till our regular 
 school-work for this year ends. I am sorry the 
 work will be done, but not sorry to get away. I 
 do not think it good for people to stay too long in 
 one place. I know Ruskin regards that as a fearful 
 weakness. I am sorry it abounds so largely in my 
 make up. Yet, if I should return to this place 
 ill the fall, I will be just as glad to return. All 
 I want now is a change for a little."
 
 DRIFTWOOD. 71 
 
 ''May 27th. 
 " This afternoon, delicious balm}^ breezes are fan- 
 ning us on all sides, and beautiful, little fleecy 
 clouds in the sky cast their shadows in such a way 
 as to carry one into the land of dreams. Do 3^ou 
 not think there is something intoxicating in the 
 spring and fall months? I mean something that 
 causes the hands to lie idly in the lap, and 
 phantoms of beautiful things to flit across the 
 brain. I have been learning one or two of life's 
 lessons in the last few weeks. Oh, what a teacher 
 experience is ! Our lessons are put before us in a 
 way that almost seems cruel — and it may be, 
 hardens us; but Time shows us things diflerently, 
 and we wonder at our foi'mer feelings. I have 
 always trusted people too entirely, forgetting that 
 they might sa}^ one thing and do another. It is 
 hard either to have to say or think that we cannot 
 trust our fellow-men. I am much afraid that just 
 now I am inclined to be very harsh and severe on 
 ever}'^ one. I think at times I hardly have charity 
 for the common weaknesses of humanity. Now it 
 will be a struggle to overcome this. Oh, for a 
 power to guard the tongue in a boarding school, 
 or anywhere else for that matter.
 
 72 DRIFTWOOD. 
 
 "I read a chapter yesterday in 'Words, their 
 Use and Abuse.' It was on 'Morality of Words.' 
 I enjoyed the whole chapter very much. I do not 
 know whether I altogether agree with the idea 
 that 'a man's language is a part of his character; 
 that the words he uses are an index to his mind 
 and heart.' I think we more frequently than reveal, 
 conceal what is in our hearts, by the words we 
 use. I think it is a life-study with most peoi^le 
 to make their words express just the opposite of 
 what they feel. I agree with him, however, that 
 it is in the idioms of a people that its distinctive 
 genius is most striliingl}'^ seen. Now do you think 
 I am inconsistent? I believe genius expresses itself 
 in plain terms, but genius is not confined to the 
 heart. So that the usual words used by a class 
 may determine the bent of that class, but it is 
 the words of a single individual that ni}^ former 
 words were of. 
 
 " I think Mathews always ends his chapters beau- 
 tifully. He seems to reserve his best expressions 
 till the last, and then to group them all at the 
 
 end.
 
 -tMLMIIDMM^^t-^ 
 
 READ BEFORE THE 
 
 ^lumni of Pennsylvania pollege, 
 
 June 19th, 1878. 
 
 Friends : For your kindness in trusting to me 
 this office during the year just past, I now, as I 
 leave it, thank you most heartil3\ We are scattered 
 far and wide, and it is only in our annual meetings 
 of this kind, that we have a common sympath}'-. 
 Yet to all, the strange and known alike, I would 
 tender my thanks, and wish my successor the same 
 kind welcome I received on coming to this chair. 
 Pardon me, if I say a few words aside from the 
 formal address. 
 
 John Tyndall says, "existence is a great key- 
 board, with black and white keys, and it is ours to 
 study this keyboard." John Tyndall looks through 
 the narrow medium of one science — ^Philosophy. Let
 
 74 DRIFTWOOD. 
 
 us take this same figure and view it through that 
 broader medium which embraces all sciences. Ex- 
 istence is a keyboard placed before us, from which 
 we are to bring forth the great symphony of life. 
 Some of us have only a few notes at our com- 
 mand, but these few, if used well, may send music 
 through the ages, carrying comfort to many a sad 
 heart. Others have nearly the whole keyboard. 
 One note is struck here, and another there. One 
 moment, the deep bass notes send forth their 
 sounds; at another, the high treble notes. Now 
 they ■ are mingled together. By striking one note 
 at a time, sound alone is produced. Using them 
 together, they form a harmony. Ah! how like life. 
 Now clouds cover the sky, and the deep, dark 
 troubles of life surround us. Almost lost in this 
 sea of darkness, we notice not the small rift in 
 the clouds yonder. Suddenl}^ we are surrounded 
 by the glorious sunshine, and light treble notes of 
 pleasure greet us. We wonder, in our sudden joy, 
 at the despondency just past. But, lo! in time, 
 we see our joy must be as brief as our sorrow. 
 In childhood, we have the notes mingled in quick 
 succession. A little trouble, probablj' imaginary, 
 the next moment a joy. As years go on, we realize
 
 DRIFTWOOD. 75 
 
 the bass notes to be pvolonging their sounds, as 
 they teach the deep truths of life; and joj^s, too, 
 which follow, are of longer duration. 
 
 Time goes on thus till the finale comes ; then 
 we realize, in its fullest extent, the glory of this 
 great symphony of life. We see how the deep 
 notes of life trials and the treble notes of life 
 pleasures have been mingled together to form one 
 beautiful harmony. While either the one or the 
 other was sounding, we saw not the beauty. Now, 
 when we hear them mingled, the grandeur shines 
 forth. Permit me here to quote some sentences 
 from one whom, in the last three years, we have 
 learned to love: 
 
 "Standing on the threshold of life, what more 
 ennobling thought can I suggest as the theme of 
 your devotion, than the beautiful prayer of the 
 sweet Psalmist, which you have often sung: 
 
 '"O God of grace, 
 Henceforth to Thee, 
 My life shall be 
 A hymn of praise.' 
 
 Let the soul, purified by the power of atoning 
 blood, and attuned to the praise of divine grace, be
 
 76 DRIFTWOOD. 
 
 brought to feel the bliss of true devotion, and then 
 it shall become the orchestra of the Divine Spirit, 
 where all the faculties and affections of the soul 
 shall unite in the chorus of 'Holiness to the Lord.'" 
 Our duty, then, as individuals, plainly, is to 
 make the life such that, in the end, the symphony 
 may go up as one grand hymn of praise to Him 
 who has given us opportunity to make our lives 
 grand, if we will. We know there is no perfec- 
 tion here, but some of us possess capabilities to 
 overcome all obstacles so much better than others. 
 If one strike a wrong key, it is our work to show 
 him his mistake, and lead him to the right again. 
 Ah I that is one of the secrets of life. B}^ helping 
 others, we leani ourselves. This world is beautiful, 
 if we will only see it so. Flowers and sunshine 
 are all around. If the clouds surroimd you, the 
 sun is shining for some one else, and whj^ not try 
 to get near enough to this sunshine to feel its 
 warm rays, and then the coldness of our own 
 hearts will be dispelled. Gather these flowers by 
 the way-side. If they are too many for you, it 
 will not be hard to find some one who has not 
 been so blessed, and who will bless you for your 
 gift.
 
 DRIFTWOOD. 77 
 
 To 3^ou, my young friends, I would extend a 
 
 word of welcome before closing. We know not 
 
 how long we may be a band, but so long as you 
 
 remain with us, be assured of our hearty friendship, 
 
 and it will attend you wherever you are. We know 
 
 you go forth with kindest remembrances of your 
 
 Alma Mater, and those who have helped you while 
 
 here to be able to discern better between the rouo-h 
 
 and smooth places on life's road. Pay good heed 
 
 to what they have said. If not now, you will 
 
 some day realize that they have been over the road 
 
 before you, and know the way the best. Our 
 
 motto I ask you to remember— " t-m trita^ via 
 
 tuta:'> Again we welcome you, and wish you good 
 
 cheer, both here and far away. 
 
 May this College long prosper, and be a blessing 
 to all who come within its walls, is my most heart- 
 felt wish, and no doubt it is but an echo of what 
 is in the hearts of all of you.
 
 (^ecafmel)+
 
 BECALMED. 
 
 "A WOMAN, tall and as fresh as a lil.y which 
 has just sprung out of the wave. She is at once 
 passionate and innocent, strong and delicate. Her 
 manners grow on her like leaves upon a tree. 
 They are beautiful, and thej^ are her own. Her 
 smiles and her frowns, her laughter and her tears, 
 have all long roots. They live down in the depth 
 of her heart. She is tender, yet she can resist 
 unto death. Night and morning meet in her hair 
 and in her eyes; you would never know, till you 
 had listened to her, how many tones a sweet voice 
 can possess, yet be always sweet. She is simple 
 but proud ; and, while you would confidently demand 
 of her any charitable service, you would never 
 venture to touch her hand unless she first ottered 
 it to you. Neither would she offer it lightly. She 
 does not assume to be intellectual, yet her clear
 
 82 BECALMED. 
 
 thought would find and select truth amid a cloud 
 of surrounding errors. A perfect woman, in short, 
 who knows that the ideal of the Creator must be 
 fairer than the ideal of fashion, and that she can- 
 not gain by imitating any artificial perfection." 
 
 ^§^RUE of her were the Avords, as if 
 
 
 Effie herself had sat for the picture. 
 ^H^'®' She seemed so wonderfully prepared 
 to live, and if " the gate that leads out of 
 this life be but the gate that leads up to 
 the real and true, for which immortal spirits 
 are created," then was she wonderfully pre- 
 pared for a better life than this. 
 
 Low ran the tide of life ; but hope and 
 pleasure quickened its flow. When joined by 
 her sister, they proceeded to the home in 
 Allegheny, which open doors and hearts had 
 made a place of refuge for each — a meeting 
 place and a place of rest in the late years. 
 There was much to be done — friends to be 
 looked after, writing and planning with refer-
 
 IJECALMED. 83 
 
 encc to the future. The days were of intense 
 heat, but Effie plead not this excuse, and 
 her feet dragged wearily as she persistently 
 went from day to day, under the sun's 
 scorching rays, on what she deemed her 
 errands of duty. Nature at length enforced 
 her claims. Up through the lips the red 
 tide forced itself — once — twice — thrice — ten 
 times, then ebbed, and the physical pros- 
 tration which followed was utter and com- 
 plete. 
 
 Friends from a distance were summoned 
 by telegraph, and the sick one lay so white 
 and listless, so regardless of her surround- 
 ings, that she seemed very far from earth 
 and very near the spirit land. 
 
 Three weeks passed, and she had regained 
 feebly her hold upon life. During these 
 weeks, all things spoke a beautiful language 
 to the invalid's heart. The flowers, which 
 she so loved, were brought daily to her 
 bedside ; choicest china brightened the tray
 
 84 BECALMED. 
 
 whicli carried her dainty meals ; books, let- 
 ters, kind remembrances from friends, brought 
 to her daily evidence of love and thought 
 — a reminder of that greater love which 
 brings to earth " peace, good-will to men." 
 
 Another week, and Effie sat a while in 
 her chair each day, at length assumed her 
 clothing, with all its nicety of detail, and 
 again appeared below. Her return to the 
 ways of life was like the breaking forth of 
 the sun after a, terrible storm, and it seemed 
 that the storm had carried from her every 
 .weight and depression — so happy and light 
 of heart she seemed. Yet with what jealous 
 care we watched her every step, lest she 
 should overreach her small stock of strength. 
 
 In another week, it was deemed safe to 
 remove her to the home of a friend high 
 up on the Allegheny hills, free from the 
 noise and dust of the city. Here, too, 
 she found that loving, thoughtful care, so 
 grateful to the helpless. Her strength did
 
 BECALMED. 85 
 
 not increase, however, and she had frequent 
 attacks of extreme suffering. 
 
 The lovely autumn came. She sat some- 
 times on the piazza in the soft sunlight, or 
 in the little parlor, where the firelight 
 gleamed and glistened, instead of the sun- 
 shine. Her weak voice took its part in 
 the evening song, while her fingers played 
 a soft accompaniment. Her cheerful words 
 and story had their place in the daily con- 
 verse of her sprightly friends. 
 
 The sky grew heavy with the autumn 
 mists, the leaves ripened and fell, yet in 
 the invalid we saw no evidence > of change 
 for the better from day to day ; she grew 
 restless, longing, as she did, through the 
 uncertain days, for activity and progress. 
 The effect of change was tried in a few 
 days' sojourn with a school-friend and class- 
 mate living at the East End. The change 
 availed not — a slight cold, taken unavoida- 
 bly, added strength to the wearing cough,
 
 86 BECALMED. 
 
 and fuel to the slow fever which burned 
 within. Sad news came, too, to the young 
 ladies of the house : beautiful Mary Brown, 
 a classmate, gifted, brilliant, whose life had 
 been one bright holiday, after a short 
 week's illness, had gone to her long home. 
 They might not keep the fact from Effie, 
 so they told her gently, and the words 
 went to her heart like a barbed arrow. 
 " Mary dead ! Her to whom length of life 
 had seemed so sure. Why not Effie? Why 
 should she linger through months, perhaps 
 years, of uncertainty ?" 
 
 We carried her back to the home on the 
 hill, and soon after to pleasant quarters in 
 the city below, where she should be ready 
 of access to friends and physician through 
 the trying winter months now approaching. 
 For some time after her removal, she was 
 wont to go down to one meal daily, that 
 the sight of pleasant faces, and that the 
 variety thus afforded, might help to cheer
 
 BECALMED. 87 
 
 her ; but the feeble hmbs refused longer to 
 carry her weight up the stairway, and her 
 world, thus narrowed to the outlook of two 
 east windows, promised little for the in- 
 validism now inevitable. There remained 
 but one hope : 
 
 The genial climate of Western Texas, 
 making life in the open air there a possi- 
 bility and a delight, had brought to many 
 wan health seekers in the past, healing and 
 restoration. It was deemed possible that 
 its pure, dry air and warm sunshine might 
 also act as a restorer in the present case ; 
 and so, after careful consultation of physi- 
 cians and friends, it was decided that the 
 feeble Effie should be carried to San 
 Antonio. No wonder that hope rekindled 
 in her eye, and determination again assumed 
 sway in the discouraged heart. 
 
 The twenty-fifth day of November, her 
 twenty-second birthday, was to our Efiie a 
 day of high expectation. During the day a
 
 gg BECALMED. 
 
 number of beautiful remembrances, from 
 friends who had not forgotten the anniversary, 
 made her heart glad. In the evening there 
 came a box of pure white rosebuds. With 
 trembling fingers, she arranged them in tiny 
 bouquets, and sent one to each lady in the 
 household, as a farewell token, requesting that 
 there should be no formal adieus. During 
 that last evening in Allegheny, her eyes grew 
 brilliant and her cheeks flushed as, with an 
 animation unknown for weeks, she chatted 
 its hours away. 
 
 It passed, and we — three in number — were 
 started on the long way to the southland. 
 The invalid slept that night, the quiet, 
 almost death-like sleep coming of beautiful 
 hope, mingled with utter physical exhaus- 
 tion. While it was yet dark, at Columbus, 
 Ohio, whither, being apprised of her coming, 
 he had repaired, the father of her childhood 
 boarded the train with eager haste, that he 
 might once more look into the face of a
 
 BECALMED. 89 
 
 loved child, the promise of whose future 
 had been to Iiim as the bow in the cloud. 
 A few hurried moments, in which to hold 
 the fevered hands, press the sweet lips, and 
 breathe the fervent blessing, were all the 
 brief stoppage of the train permitted, and 
 with heart and eyes overflowing, the kind 
 old man left the car. 
 
 A weary day's ride found us, at its close, 
 in the midst of darkness and rain, at St. 
 Louis; but kind friends were in waiting 
 with every comfort for the sick one. Borne 
 in strong arms to the carriage, she knew 
 nothing of the storm till safely housed 
 amid light, and warmth, and pleasant faces. 
 A night's rest brought fresh hope, and 
 visions of the promised land. Morning started 
 us afresh on the Iron Mountain Railroad. 
 Travel in a palace car, with pleasant com- 
 pany and ready attendants, is scarcely less 
 comfortable than resting in one's quiet 
 drawing room at home ; yet riding hours
 
 90 BECALMED. 
 
 and days through a country stretching aAvay 
 into unending miles of dreariness and same- 
 ness, the end seemed afar. But the grate- 
 ful green of the pines as they appeared — 
 at first as a low undergrowth, then as tall, 
 continuous forests — gave a pleasant greeting 
 to our weary eyes, and their sweet breath, 
 wafted through the open windows, whispered 
 of nearing spring-time. Glad were we then, 
 when, on the evening of the fourth day, 
 Texas was announced. 
 
 Some time before this pleasant announce- 
 ment, one of our number had stated to a 
 friend, who had been of the party from St. 
 Louis, that her niece would prefer a rosebud 
 to a new silk dress. With ready polite- 
 ness, he declared her preference should be 
 gratified the moment we crossed the border. 
 At Texarkana, where three States meet — the 
 car awaiting transfer to another road — he 
 disappeared, returning soon, laden with fra- 
 grant treasures — rosebuds, on whose petals
 
 BECALMED. 91 
 
 the night dew lay yet fresh and sparkling; 
 violets — spring violets in November — pure 
 white buds there were, creamy yellow, orange 
 tinted, dainty sea-shell pink, buds with sun- 
 set hues, and crimson in different degrees 
 of depth — such hues as northern sunlight 
 never painted, and northern eyes never 
 looked upon before. 
 
 What happiness the sweet flowers brought 
 with them ! The sick girl held them long 
 in her lap, as she lay on her pillowed couch. 
 She thrust her slender finger tips into their 
 hearts, to find what new depths of color 
 and fragrance might lie there hidden. She 
 counted them over and over, guarding each 
 with jealous care. Finally the miscellaneous 
 glasses of the lunch basket were called into 
 requisition, to keep fresh and beautiful these 
 fair buds, and their beauty called many 
 smiles of pleasure to the weary faces of 
 fellow-travelers.
 
 92 BECALMED. 
 
 Another day, through stretches of pine, 
 through country wild and primitive, few 
 traces of inhabitants save at the strange- 
 looking villages, and the evening brought 
 to view Houston, our resting place for the 
 night. Morning dawned brightly, and 
 brought with it to the hotel our friend in 
 need of the previous evening, a tall 
 Englishman, who came with his offering of 
 beautiful flowers, plucked fresh from his own 
 garden, for the invalid. 
 
 Houston, with its low, white houses, 
 embowered in trees and gorgeous flower 
 gardens, formed a pretty, passing picture, as 
 we drove through its streets and were once 
 more started on the Sun-Set Route. It 
 was the last change. Only two hundred 
 miles to the end — to our waiting hearts a 
 land of rest and promise. Soon the great, 
 glorious plains of Texas were spread out to 
 our view. No fences or trace of man's small
 
 BECALMED. 93 
 
 handiwork marred the scene. Immense herds 
 of wild cattle grazed here and there. 
 Clumps of the live oak, with its vivid 
 green, relieved the vast expanse. Far 
 beyond, dark forests outlined against the 
 sky, which, to unaccustomed eyes, seemed 
 immeasurably removed. 
 
 Every mile of the day's journey had been 
 enjoyed by the sick girl. The bearded 
 trees were a novel sight. At one point, 
 a quantity of the trailing moss was dis- 
 lodged and passed through the open car 
 window, where, with ready fingers, it was 
 draped and festooned. Night approaching, 
 the drawing room car was lighted, and 
 made to appear like a pleasant sitting room, 
 its occupants drawn together by the inci- 
 dents of the past day. 
 
 At length the journey was accomplished, 
 and with our weary invalid, we rested in 
 the quaint old Spanish town of San Antonio.
 
 @nc^orel)»
 
 ANCHORED 
 
 'A tone like the dream of a song we once heard, 
 And she whispered, ' This way is not Heaven's. 
 For the river that runs bj^ the realms of the blest 
 Has no song on its ripple, no star on its breast; 
 Oh ! That river is nothino- like this, 
 
 O 7 
 
 For it glides on in shadow beyond the world's west, 
 Till it breaks into beauty and bliss,' " 
 
 NEW world ! A new spring-time ! 
 Air which it was a delight to 
 - #^^^ breathe, and skies of intensest blue, 
 undimmed by smoke or cloud. The sun 
 does not " set " in San Antonio. It " goes 
 down " like a flash, omitting the soft, gray 
 gloaming of our northern twilight, and 
 leaving you to wonder — Avhile from the 
 great bank of light — purple, and golden,
 
 98 ANCHORED. 
 
 and pink — encircling the horizon, there 
 
 ascends a faint rosy mist, spreading itself 
 
 like a filmy vail over all the blue concave. 
 Then — 
 
 " Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of 
 Heaven, 
 BlossoTBcd the lovel}' stars, the foi-get-me-uots of 
 the angels," — 
 
 and you are enraptured with the southern 
 sky in its star-lit • glory. 
 
 Change is a wonderful renewer of mental 
 and physical powers. It throws the mind 
 into new elements, causing it to forget its 
 accustomed broodings. The eye is filled 
 with new sights, the ear witli new sounds, 
 and the attention follows new lines of 
 thought suggested by the same. 
 
 The ancient town offered all these to the 
 young stranger. She was revived — walked 
 feebly out into the yard to breathe in the 
 healing air — was driven out to the park,
 
 ANCHORED. 99 
 
 and to the beautiful private grounds where 
 spring the headwaters of the river San 
 Antonio. How bright were her eyes, how 
 quaint her spoken fancies, and how full of 
 promise the many plans she made for the 
 time when she should be better and return to 
 the northland. It seemed that she might 
 yet tread firmly the highway of life, and 
 busy her waiting hands and brain with its 
 noble duties. 
 
 They tell us humanity is depraved. In 
 the light of the sacred declaration, and 
 from its own frequent developments, we are 
 compelled so to believe. But in the light 
 of experience, we cling to the belief that, 
 in the heart of mankind, there lingers a 
 latent germ of the divine nature which was 
 his in Paradise. We were strangers in a 
 distant city. There were those in the 
 house from all parts, in search of pleasure, 
 health or profit. There was no tie draw- 
 ing them to the newly arrived, save that
 
 100 ANCHORED. 
 
 of a common humanity. But looking into 
 the pale face and soul-lit eyes of the young 
 stranger, and listening to her words, their 
 hearts were won. And through all the 
 weary days of our sojourn, we found them 
 ever the same. With willing feet and 
 ready hands, they awaited. . Words of cheer 
 were on their lips. We shall love to 
 remember those gentle, loving women, and 
 brave, tender-hearted men. They shall be 
 clothed with a mantle of ideal beauty and 
 perfection, and, with remembrance, will come 
 the thought of a divine nature, underlying 
 the human, which shall cause us to think 
 better of our kind. 
 
 Dear Effie's love for the sweet flowers 
 was soon understood, and her room was 
 thenceforth fragrant with the breath of the 
 violets, first messengers of spring. 
 
 On the day preceding Christmas, she was 
 driven out for the last time over the smooth, 
 open prairie, where she found such delight
 
 ANCHORED. 101 
 
 in gazing into the sky and over tli(^ plain. 
 No landmark, no trace of habitation broke 
 the wide stretch of country gently rising to 
 meet the great concave above, and the view 
 seemed to bring to her weary mind a sense 
 of freedom, and rest, and infinity. 
 
 They had told her — these new friends — of 
 a time when the land should wear a carpet 
 of flowers, the air be laden with rich per- 
 fume, the city a wilderness of roses — fair 
 as a garden of the Lord. And now their 
 promises began to be realized — but the 
 invalid was unable to leave her couch. 
 Her eyes thus never looked upon the 
 glorious spring-time out in nature., but each 
 morning brought to her room sweet offerings 
 from the outside world. The first pale peach 
 blossoms bloomed in her window, and flowers 
 were everywhere, that the eyes of the sick 
 girl might rest upon them. But the roses 
 bloomed not yet. Twice we wheeled her 
 light bed through the open doors, out upon
 
 2Q2 ANCHORED. 
 
 the wide, sunny gallery; but she saw only 
 the springing grass and the weeping willows, 
 first of the trees to assume the tender 
 o-reen. Her eyes beheld the green of the 
 
 to 
 
 willows—the emblem was fitting. They saw 
 not the bloom of the roses, w^hich said to 
 other eyes, "In the fair garden above, 
 blooms the transplanted earth-flower, never 
 
 more to fade." 
 
 We need not repeat the old, old story. 
 Sooner or later, the furnace of life burns 
 out, so there remains naught now but to 
 endure and to wait. As waned the earthly, 
 robbed of all its interest, stronger grew the 
 spirit life and light within. Not a request 
 — not a word for self — but a request, by 
 sign, that her daily offering of flowers might 
 be bestowed upon her attendants — a whis- 
 pered word for the comfort of each one of 
 those surrounding her. A loving voice in- 
 quired, " Do you want anything now, 
 dearie f The eyes quickly turned upward.
 
 ANCHORED. 103 
 
 and the uplifted finger pointed above. Then 
 the hands were gently folded — the sun went 
 down — and the spirit of Effie McMillan had 
 returned to God who gave it. 
 
 ******** 
 
 Very bright and beautiful was the great, 
 quiet room in which remained the body of 
 our Effie for one short week. The ministry 
 of lovino- hands did not cease with the 
 closing scene. Removing all that could 
 suffs-est the late reisrn of disease and suffer- 
 ing, they hung upon the walls bright pictures, 
 in addition to those already hanging; these 
 they draped with soft, gray traiUng moss, 
 while windows and doorways were curtained 
 with lace hangings. A few easy chairs sat 
 invitingly about, and many small tables 
 and stands stood as flower receptacles. No 
 dark vail obscured the brightness of the 
 mirrors. Little Major, the pretty canary, 
 in his gilded cage, hung in his accustomed 
 window — and the place blossomed with roses
 
 104 ANCHORED. 
 
 and sweet flowers, as though a southern 
 garden, in all its luxuriance, had been trans- 
 planted from gay sunshine without to 
 shadowing walls within. Thus Eflie would 
 have had it, had she taken thought. Sweet 
 and beautiful, suggesting life and happiness 
 — not death and desolation. 
 
 There, in her closed casket, with its 
 crystal lid, we came many times a day and 
 looked upon the still face within, with smile 
 of life upon it, — 
 
 "Hushed were her lips iu death! but still their pure 
 And beautiful expression seem'd to melt 
 With love that could not die !" — 
 
 and there seemed to rest upon the liouse 
 a quiet spell that held its inmates very 
 near, for a time, to the better world. 
 
 On Wednesday, in this upper room, the 
 friends who had known our Eflie were 
 assembled. In life, she had often been
 
 ANCHORED. 105 
 
 visited by two faithful servants of one com- 
 mon Master, one Presbyterian, the other 
 Episcopal, in faith. For her the service 
 of prayer and consolation were ended, but 
 there was yet a lesson and a prayer for the 
 living. The lesson was ably set forth — the 
 petitions uttered — sweet hymns chanted — and 
 all retired to their homes. 
 
 In days gone by, while Effie held her 
 place among the living, and her young 
 heart was full of hope, there had been 
 bestowed upon her the deeply mature affec- 
 tion of one worthy and noble, and on the 
 marble finger of the dead girl lay, loosely, 
 a glittering circlet, placed there by his own 
 hand, the symbol of their plighted fiiitli. 
 
 On Friday night he came, after four 
 weary days and nights of travel, to find, 
 at the end, that the spirit of the loved 
 one had alreadv wing-ed its way to the 
 " beautiful land." Briefly the last days 
 were recounted to him, and at midnight his
 
 106 ANCHORED. 
 
 heavy steps were guided to the sacred 
 chamber; unlocking the door, the light 
 shone from within — he entered — they closed 
 the door, and left him with his dead.
 
 (0egonb t^t ^iU,
 
 BEYOND THE TIDE. 
 
 "Ah, what a gap is made in the world b}' 
 the death of those we love I It is no lonoer whole, 
 but a poor half world, that swings uneasj' on its 
 axis, and makes 3^011 dizz}- with the clatter of yonr 
 wreck !" — Ik. Marvel. 
 
 " As a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, 
 Clothed with celestial grace ; 
 And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 
 Shall we behold her face." — Longfellow. 
 
 i^^^HE morning of March -tth rose on 
 s^B ^^^^ Antonio fair, cloudless, beautiful, 
 ^^m^ and balmy as a day in early June. 
 For the bright spirit Effie, there was no 
 longer need that we should take thought; 
 but it seemed fitting that the dear body
 
 110 BEYOND THE TIDE. 
 
 should have its resting place in far-off 
 Pittsburgh. There, happy and homelike, had 
 been the associations of her later years. 
 Back over the long, weary road, to the 
 places once so familiar to her feet — to the 
 home in which she had found friends so 
 tender and true — into the corner of the 
 quiet parlor, where, from among her pillows, 
 but a few months since, she had listened 
 to the kind words and cheering voices of 
 her friends — to this place they carried her. 
 Durinsr the Sabbath and IMondav which 
 intervened, friends, tried and true, came and 
 looked, not upon Effie, but upon a pale 
 shadow, cold and still, nestled among soft 
 draperies. Service and interment, previously 
 announced as private, occurred on Monday, 
 March Uth. 
 
 A psalm, an invocation, a touching retro- 
 spect, an appeal — then they carried that 
 which had been Effie to its resting place 
 in the beautiful Allegheny Cemetery. As
 
 BEYOND THE TIDE. HI 
 
 if mindful of tlie woe of human hearts, 
 and of the summer land from which had 
 but just returned the hving with the dead, 
 bleak March abated, for a time, his severity, 
 and on this day the sun shone out in 
 brightness and beauty, and it was a rare 
 day in the calendar. 
 
 In hours of deepest sadness. Nature some- 
 times gives greeting— even sympathy. Some- 
 times she comes to us as the voice of 
 God himself, speaking to us in tones un- 
 mistakable. The casket had been carefully 
 placed within. At the door of the vault 
 stood the minister. In clear, distinct tones, 
 he uttered the words of the last prayer. 
 Each sentence was perfect in itself, and 
 each ended with a word of power, "Christ 
 —Redeemed— Rest— Life Immortal." And 
 back from the walls within came the echo, 
 in tones as clear and distinct, "Christ — 
 Redeemed— Rest— Life Immortal." To those 
 who heard, it seemed an assurance sent
 
 112 BEYOND THE TIDE. 
 
 back from the shores of Heaven — the voice 
 of the Master, in audible response to the 
 voice of his servant, saying, " It is well," 
 
 Thus, " In the Morning of Life," to 
 peaceful rest they consigned the body of 
 Effie McMillan, whilst upon her spirit, dis- 
 enthralled, already dawned the morning of 
 the Life Immortal.
 
 J^foxoete ftrom t^t IXfa^BxUi
 
 FLOWERS FROM THE WAYSIDE. 
 
 I 
 
 ^i^HERE seems to exist, deep down be- 
 
 r I ^ 
 sMft neath the ordinary current of life, a 
 
 ?§^^ 
 
 '^^^ " telegraphic system of the universe," 
 
 by which hearts, widely apart in point of 
 
 space, converse wdth each other in their 
 
 joys and griefs. This to the annihilation 
 
 of time and space, and after a while follow 
 
 the written words, assuring of that which 
 
 has been already felt and fully understood. 
 
 A sweet young life is breathed out in 
 
 San Antonio — expectant friends, in places 
 
 hundreds of miles removed, have felt the 
 
 fact, but they await its announcement — then 
 
 fall the tear-drops, and written words carry
 
 116 FLOWERS FROM THE WAYSIDE. 
 
 back the true heart language. In her pure, 
 sweet Friend's dialect, breathes such a heart 
 through the following pages : 
 
 " Xenta, February 26th,, 1879. 
 
 " This day comes the sad intelligence of onr 
 dear Effle's death — how hard to realize ! I can 
 not do so. O, how I wish I conld speak some 
 word that wonld lighten this heav}- stroke on' thy 
 breaking heart, but I know it is a vain wish. 
 How sensibly I feel that human language is but an 
 enipt}^ sound in such cases — it is only the whisper- 
 ings of the sweet and Holy Spirit that can bring 
 solace, and heal or soothe the wound. 
 
 " M}^ dear child, God only knows how my heart 
 bleeds for thee, and how I yearn to fold thee to 
 my heart. Words utterly fail to express my sym- 
 pathy, and we feel so anxious about thy health — 
 and thee so far awa}'. 
 
 "Has thee thought strange of me that I did 
 not write ? I was afraid to, lest dear Effie might 
 be called on to read my letters ; for I could not 
 write hopefully about her, and would not have her 
 see other than hopeful words, lest it might harm 
 her. Dear girl ! I see her so plainly, as she
 
 FLOWERS FROM THE WAYSIDE. 117 
 
 stood in her youth and beauty, with iier hand in 
 mine, previous to her going East. So many times 
 have I wished that I could have been permitted to 
 minister to her, for w^ell I know she was, to the 
 last, lovely in all she did and said, and I have 
 no doubt that her sweet spirit is amid perpetual 
 joys in her home prepared by her Lord. 0, bliss- 
 ful thought ! No sorrow, no tears, no cold repulses, 
 no stinging words — all of love and joy is hers, 
 and how fitting it seems that the beautiful casket 
 that held this lovely and priceless gem should 
 rest amid the flowers of the South. 
 
 " Xow, dear friend, I am anxious to hear from 
 thee, both on account of dear Eftie's sickness and 
 of thy own health, and be assured that all that 
 pei'tains to thee will greatly interest us. It is 
 almost needless for me to say that our hearts and 
 homes are open to receive thee with the old love. 
 When thee is able, and feels thee caji, write to me. 
 May God take thee into His great and mighty arms 
 of love, and shield thee from the rude blasts of 
 this world, is the earnest prayer of 
 
 " Thy loving friend, 
 
 "V. H."
 
 118 FLOWERS FROxM THE WAYSIDE. 
 
 Though detained far away by imperative 
 duty, thus earnestly writes one so faithful 
 and true to the last: 
 
 "Laporte. February 26th, 1879. 
 '' I know that she has been taken home, and 
 you are left behind — 3^et not alone oi- comfortless. 
 The darling child I I covild not bear to write as 
 though I knew she must soon go hence, and yet I 
 knew it full well — but 0, not .•^o soon ! How long- 
 suffering and nncomplaining she was ! Our great 
 comfort is, we did all we could, if not all we 
 wished. I wish you would ask somebod}' to write 
 to me — somebod^r that saw all — knew all. Did she 
 say a word toward the last for me ? Anj'^ love ? 
 She could not know how hard I tried to serve her 
 — gratify her in every thing. It is all over now. 
 
 "L. W. M." 
 
 From the Pacific coast words of pleasant 
 retrospection tell of days agone. Words of 
 hope speak to those for whom death is not 
 a terror, but a passing out from darkness 
 into light :
 
 FLOWERS FROM THE WAYSIDE. 119 
 
 "San Francisco, llarch 11th, 1879. 
 " The sad news reached us ou Saturday, that 
 your fears were soon realized, and that, on the 
 evening of the daj' yovw last letter was written, our 
 dear Effle went home from the midst of loving 
 friends. I felt almost glad to find, bj^ the Xenia 
 papers, that j-ou would remain, for a little time at 
 least, among those to whom you must be tenderly 
 attached, and to whom the last months of Effie's 
 life are so real. I was trying to recall, this morn- 
 ing, what I could of dear Effie's life. She was a 
 little bab}^ when I saw her first. I remember ver}^ 
 well the day she was baptized. When I had been 
 away from Xenia for a long time and returned, 
 after her pa, she was the first to meet me, 
 and while I was at Mr. McMillan's, she was 
 almost constantly m}' companion. I used to think 
 that she felt that I was lonely and homesick, and 
 she tried all she could to make me happy. Of 
 course, since then, I have seen her many times, but 
 only the last can I recall vividly — when she was 
 attending school at Mount Auburn. I remember just 
 where she sat, and how she looked. I think this 
 was the last time. Lately, I have seen her through
 
 120 FLOWERS FROM THE WAYSIDE. 
 
 you. I would like so much to have seen the 
 woman Effie. 
 
 " What a glorious hope ours is ! Our friends 
 never die to us. The very worst that Death can 
 do, to those whom Christ claims, is to make them 
 free and introduce them into glorj-. And for us 
 who are left behind, another sting is taken from 
 death, and another joy is added to Heaven. It is 
 but a little while. May God give us grace to 
 live it to His honor and glor3^ L. W." 
 
 Yet again the heart of a true friend 
 repeats the praises of the one so earnestly 
 beloved : 
 
 ^'February 27th. 
 " I shall always remember how she planned and 
 planned to do nice things for you. She seemed 
 always to be thinking of you the summer she was 
 with me. Always loving — always patient — always 
 kind. Everybody that comes in, my dear old 
 father tells about her — how healthy she was — how 
 lovely and beautiful she was, when he and ma saw 
 her at our house in Mount Pleasant. I do believe 
 Effie was universally beloved. She was ever thought-
 
 FLOAVERS FROM THE "WAYSIDE. 121 
 
 fill, kind, and good to me — better to me than I 
 can ever tell, with her tender, affectionate sympath3\ 
 
 "L. W. M." 
 
 Only those who have known deep sorrow 
 can confidently approach a wounded spirit, 
 speaking to it acceptable words. But one 
 who speaks from the heart's depths finds 
 ready admittance : 
 
 "Cherry Fork, Ilarch, 1879. 
 
 " The same hand which beckoned to Effle to 
 come np higher, the same loving arms which bore 
 her from earth to Heaven, are extended to all His 
 children. Ah, we know so little of Grod^s ways, 
 we fail to comprehend why one so yonng, beantiful 
 and useful, should be suddenly snatched awav, just 
 as she was entering upon an ennobliiig career. 
 But our Father understands it thoroughly. She 
 was His own, and He saw fit to trans})lant the 
 immortal flower which had just opened to that 
 ' blessed land ' where it is ' one bright siinimei' 
 alway.' 
 
 " I wish that I could have known her aftei' she 
 arrived at womanhood. Fragrant is the n)emory of
 
 122 FLOWERS FROM THE WAYSIDE. 
 
 her childhood days to me. I came across a little 
 token of sympathy among some old letters this 
 week, which she sent me npon hearing of our dear 
 S.'s death. It is very sweet. I shall preserve it. 
 
 "M. E. R." 
 
 Grateful is the remembrance that contains 
 
 a record so bright as that of the following 
 
 words : 
 
 "Clifton, March lOlh, 1879. ^ 
 "My orief is, that I am never to see our pre- 
 cious Effle again in the flesh. I cannot remember 
 one thing EfRe ever did that was not true and 
 noble. I can say Ihu of few others. 
 
 •' L. W. M." 
 
 The friend between whom and herself 
 existed the strongest attachment, thus briefly 
 recounts her early schooldays: 
 
 " Cincinnati, June^ 1879. 
 " 1 have just returned home, after a brief absence 
 from the city ; and find your letter, to which I 
 hasten to reply. I was greatl3' pained when I
 
 FLOWERS FROM THE WAYSIDE. 123 
 
 learned of the death of your dear sister Effie, for 
 during the year's intimate acquaintance of school 
 life which I enjoyed with her at the Mount Auburn 
 Institute, I had formed a high estimate of her .as 
 a scholar, as a lady, and as a Christian. 
 
 " She was faithful and successful in the discharge 
 of every school duty, and her example and influence 
 ui^on the other scholars was very marked. Her 
 ladjMike deportment endeared her to every one 
 and she seemed always actuated by Christian prin- 
 ciples in the conduct of her daily life. 
 
 "Though it was not my good fortune to hear 
 from her during her last illness, I feel sure that 
 her trust in her Heavenly Father and her love for 
 His Word, must have given her every support and 
 happiness, they are so calculated to afford the 
 Christian. 
 
 " Her love and thoughtfulness for you was a 
 strong characteristic of Effie's daily life. I cannot 
 doubt she will ever be a ministering spirit while 
 she is waiting and watching for your coming to 
 the Heavenly home. 
 
 " Yours, very sincerely, 
 
 "H. Thane Miller. 
 " Mount Auburn, Cincinnati, 0."
 
 J'foijoer^ from Qtlemotg.
 
 FLOWERS FROM MEMORY. 
 
 
 pglftEAUTIFUL to us and sacred, are the 
 loving tributes of friends to the 
 memory of our departed ones, whilst 
 that memory yet absorbs the entire mental 
 being. Such are those which follow: 
 
 "I have, for weeks, been wishing to write to 
 you, and to send yon words of sympathy. I felt 
 that no words could be of much value to you, 
 but yet I have wished to relieve a part of my 
 own sorrow, by giving it some expression. Until 
 now I had not learned in what city or town you 
 are making your temporary home. The word 
 ' home ' must seem emptied of meaning since the 
 departure of Effie from all these earthly places, 
 where friends meet and flowers grow. With my 
 sorrow in reading your deeply touching letter, came 
 a feeling of gladness that the friendship cherished 
 by so many for your loved sister, is to be 
 expressed in a little volume. There are flowers
 
 128 FLOWERS FROM MEMORY. 
 
 enough for a rich bouquet. Eflie swaye<:l a sceptre 
 of fi'iendship, and, for so young a girl, ruled cpiite 
 an empire. What a peaceful and beautiful govern- 
 ment it was! I shall await with impatience this 
 little private memoir, for I shall be glad to find 
 others expressing my own feelings — singing a song, 
 all the notes of which are, to me, so sweet and 
 familiar. Eflfie first came adown m}' path when we 
 were both enjoying a vacation, and were spending 
 a few weeks where the external world was rich as 
 the tropics, and where our hours were idle as to 
 the toils of the year, and were bus}- onlj- in the 
 study of wood, and field, and sky, and the beauti- 
 ful in humanity. Her lieart was abounding in youth 
 and its romance, and poured forth a poetry of 
 which we toil-worn men knew little; and her glad- 
 ness and youth fell upon the heavier soul like a 
 music that had been once loved but forgotten. At 
 her touch, the old woods all blossomed. 
 
 " In that, my onl}^ summer near her, slie was 
 nearing the end of her schooldays, and was fearful 
 lest, once away from lier masters, she might cast 
 aside all study, and become satisfied with having 
 touched her lips to a spring, to drink deeply of 
 which is the oidy good, and which deep drinking
 
 FLOWERS FROM MEMORY. 129 
 
 asks for a lifetime. I attempted to teach her 
 that she must join together the words ' stud}' ' and 
 ' forever ; ' that even immortality itself were a con- 
 tinuation of a high industry, I advised her always 
 to be in love with some poem, or essay, or volume, 
 and to distrust those days when she could not feel 
 the longings of such a passion. We must be 
 always in love with some book or work. 
 
 " In those days, she committed to memory some 
 fugitive poems which seemed to me to possess the 
 marks of greatness, and one of them, ' Times Go 
 by Turns,' she often recited to me, as a kind of 
 matin or vesper, in the woods— the first temples of 
 God. She memorized also, a part of Coleridge's 
 ' Hymn in Chamouni.' 
 
 " And have all that youth and beauty passed away 
 from earth, and from us all? Can we never meet 
 her in any city, or in any summer time? Did that 
 girl gasp and die, and must those who loved her, 
 only weep ? 
 
 " A thoughtful and delicately-strung writer said, 
 years ago, that immortality is not to -be inferred 
 from the nature of man at large, but from the 
 quality of those highest souls that pass into the 
 tomb. Oblivion, annihilation, might be a possible
 
 130 FLOWERS FROM MEMORY. 
 
 fate of some ; but when the noble ones die, those 
 who have mental and moral beauty, then the sec- 
 ond world can no longer conceal itself; the immense 
 worth passing from these shores, seems to compel 
 the shores of Heaven to disclose their realit}^, and 
 to fling open their pearly gates. It is the hurry- 
 ing away from us of the young, of our little 
 children, of our gifted sisters, of the beautiful, and 
 the great, and the mighty, that makes immortality 
 such a powerful necessity. Over a fallen sparrow 
 or a faded leaf, we may say 'This is dust;' but 
 over the silent Ettie, we must look up to God and 
 say, ' This is life.' The beautiful, the. young, the 
 gifted, the loAcd, are called away to help frame the 
 argument which leads mankind to God. We part 
 with Effie to let her be a sacrifice on the altar to 
 take away our unbelief. Through such sacred offer- 
 ings, our hearts are lifted up, and we see more 
 clearly the eternal hills. 
 
 " Be patient, and resigned — many friends are 
 around you, and God is nearer and better than all 
 we mortals, be our hearts ever so tender. 
 " Ever ^'our friend, 
 
 " David Swing. 
 "Chicago, June, 1819."
 
 FLOWERS FROM MEMORY. 131 
 
 Another, from the standpoint of daily 
 association, writes : 
 
 " Some of those good angels that used to attend 
 your dear Eilie while she was here on earth, must 
 have put it into your heart to ask a few of her 
 friends to write you briefly some of their impres- 
 sions of her character, that you might have them 
 to keep for yourself and for her dearest friends, 
 now that she is gone. As flowers perfume the 
 night when day is over, so may sweet memories 
 come to 3'ou from the dear girl's tomb. 
 
 " It was a short school year that she spent at 
 our house in Mount Pleasant. I imagine she was 
 never happier anywhere than there— and she cer- 
 tainly made the best of impressions on the minds 
 and hearts of a most interesting: class of oirls in 
 that place — impressions which, I believe, will con- 
 tinue through their lives, and be more blessed to 
 them in consequence of their teacher, whom they so 
 fondly loved, being so soon taken awa3^ I was 
 especially impressed with this fact — that while her 
 influence for good was always positive and marked 
 in school, and out of school, and everywhere, she
 
 132 FLOWERS FROM MEMORY. 
 
 seemed unconscious that she was capable of winning 
 hearts to herself, and moulding, with her plastic 
 touch, the minds and lives of those who were prov- 
 identially committed to her care. The 3^oung people 
 who went to Miss Effie's school in Mount Pleasant, 
 will never let her memory die while they live. 
 
 " I shall always think pleasanth^ of her as a 
 welcome guest in m}^ famil}'. Some have enter- 
 tained angels unawares. Doubtless, so did we 
 while Effie dwelt with us. Those beautiful and 
 always suggestive bouquets, which she made with 
 rare taste for my pulpit, every Saturday evening, 
 were helpful to me and my people every Lord's 
 day — always varying, as they did, with the seasons 
 and occasions that prompted her to arrange them. 
 The prophesy of the last one she made, and put so 
 appropriately in its place, was probably not fully 
 understood by any of us at the time, maj^be not 
 by herself, when she gathered, in the harvest-field, 
 the stocks of ripening wheat and bound them ar- 
 tistically into a sheaf to preach, as it did, like a 
 sermon, with forcible eloquence, from the pulpit, on 
 that last Sabbath she worshiped with us in our 
 sanctuary. Sooner than any of her friends upon 
 earth could have wished, Effie herself was gathered,
 
 FLOWERS FROM MEMORY. 133 
 
 like ripe wlieat, and borne away by angel reapers 
 for safe keei)ing in the Heavenl}^ g-rannry of Jesus' 
 preparing. 
 
 " If it be true that no one ever errs who sac- 
 rifices self for the good of others, she did not err 
 therein. Her young, lovely life, as I saw it, was 
 
 one of self-sacrifice. Her work on earth is done 
 
 and well done. She died early — but not prematurely. 
 I do not praise her, but T would praise the Grace 
 of God in her. 
 
 " Very truly, and with truest sympathy, 
 " Yours, 
 
 "John McMillan. 
 "1623 Chestnut .Street, Philadelphia, 
 ''June 18th, 1879:' 
 
 Yet another — a friend from childhood, and 
 in whose home were spent the hours of 
 her serious ilhiess before her flio-ht to the 
 South — writes : 
 
 " M3' first acquaintance with Etfie was during 
 her chihlhood, while I served a short i)astorate in 
 the church wheie slic was reared. We meet some- 
 times with natures Avhich seem almost to have
 
 134 FLOWERS FROM MEMORY. 
 
 escaped the universal blight of sin ; free, apparently, 
 from that innate depravity which, until touched by 
 the Divine Eestorer, develops the fruit of unright- 
 eousness — natures such as that which our Lord 
 once looked upon lovingly and said — ' Thou art not 
 far from the Kingdom of God.' Such was Effie 
 in the sweetness and bloom of her girlhood. From 
 the very beginning, she bore the likeness of one of 
 Heaven's nobility. Her goodness was not merelj^ 
 negative, such as those who are completely described 
 by saying — ' The}^ are not bad ' — who are too weak 
 to be wicked. Her heart throbbed with strong 
 impulses ; her mind possessed great breadth and 
 strength of grasp ; and her pronounced personality 
 gave promise of being one of the large factors in 
 the forces of life. 
 
 "It is one of the bright days in my memories 
 of pastoral work, when I first spoke to Effie of 
 Jesus, and asked her to take her place among his 
 followers. No frivolous indifference to the claims of 
 her Redeemer, and no stubborii^ unwillingness to 
 take uj) her cross and follow Him. was exhibited, 
 but a quick and tender responsiveness, a clear per- 
 ception of duty, and a jo3'ous willingness to yield 
 implicitly to its call. On the 14th day of January,
 
 FLOWERS FROM MEMORY. 135 
 
 18*71, this leal and loving soul first joined with the 
 people of God in bearing witness for Christ, and 
 allying herself to His cause, which she ever aided 
 and adorned until the day of lier release, when 
 the Master came and spoke tenderly to her drooping 
 spirit, weary of weakness and pain, ' Well done, 
 good and faithful servant, enter thou into the joy 
 of th}^ Lord.' 
 
 " When next I knew EfRe, it was in full woman- 
 hood. In the interval, advancing years and educa- 
 tion had wrought out wondrously the prophesies of 
 her childhood. Mind and heart had grown with 
 €qual force. Her broad comprehension of the sober 
 realities of life, her thorough understanding of 
 what the 3^oung are so prone to overlook — that the 
 harvest always follows the sowing — her resolve to 
 discard all pett^' ends, and grapple only with pur- 
 poses reaching to things useful and great, and her 
 mind scorning frivolities and delighting itself onlj^ 
 in the great themes of science and philosophy, and 
 in the solutions of the great problems of the 
 world's life — all revealed a noble and queenly soul. 
 
 " In her religious life, Effie walked with anointed 
 eyes through the world, seeing Him who is invisible, 
 and looking upon the things unseen and eternal.
 
 136 FLOWERS FROM MEMORY. 
 
 Her fellowship was with the Father and with His 
 Son, Jesus Christ. She bowed reverently to the 
 will of her Master, and trusted lovingly in His 
 care. Such was her development of mind and heart 
 that the middle-aged, and the old, and those of 
 large mental and spiritual attainments, delighted in 
 her companionship, because she was able to follow 
 them along any intricate path of thought or into 
 any mystery of personal experience, whither they 
 might choose to lead her. Xo side of her nature 
 was dwarfed or deformed. Alike in taste, in moral 
 principle, in mental power, and in spirituality, she 
 was rapidl}^ developed into the character of a true 
 woman. 
 
 " When disease came, contracted while at the 
 post of duty, she bore it with a patience and 
 courage worthy of such a character. Painful days 
 and wearisome nights were appointed unto her; but 
 she passed through all with bright cheerfulness, 
 which made her, in her days of sickness, even more 
 lovable than before. Medical skill and tender care 
 were alike unable to avert the destroyer's march ; 
 inch by inch, the foundations of life were under- 
 mined, but as the body languished, the soul m()unte<l 
 up on the path of the just, shining more and more
 
 FLOWERS FROM MEMORY. 137 
 
 uiito the perfect day. A short, but noble and 
 beautiful, life has ended, and with sad heart we 
 offer this tribute to her memory. 
 
 "W. H. McMillan. 
 "Allegheny, July, 1879.'^ 
 
 A lady of Boston, herself an exile for 
 the sake of health, occupied, in the San 
 Antonio boarding-house, a little room whose 
 walls were covered from floor to ceiling 
 with bright pictures of her own creation. 
 Thus she writes of the days in which she 
 found a higher interpretation of life, to her 
 so unexpected, in a land of strangers: 
 
 " Dear Friend ; Yesterday, a pictured face was 
 laid in my hand, and, as it chanced, I sat in the 
 little square room where, so often, in the earlier 
 days of her illness, your sister came to nie, in the 
 late afternoon hours, for rest and change. That it 
 was her face, I at once saw, but younger than I 
 had known it, less grown, less spii-itual — a hand- 
 some, strong face, bearing promise of a noble 
 womanhood. This was conveyed in the portrait, 
 but in herself, even in the first da^'s of our meet- 
 
 10
 
 138 FLOWERS FROM MEMORY, 
 
 ing, was the awakening life which the pictured 
 semblance held but faintly, and rather as an innate 
 promise than an immanent presence. 
 
 " How clearl}^ I recall those early days under 
 the arch of the wonderful southern sky, days lumi- 
 nous with light, interpenetrated with sun, wherein 
 Nature seemed to promise fair amends for her 
 northern rigor. We all associated ' the sick lad^^,' 
 as the children lovingh' called her, with sun, air, 
 and all sweetness and beaut}' ; for to these she 
 belonged as they to her — and to all these was her 
 door ever swung wide. Her room held the treasure 
 trove of our household of sojourners. What did we 
 not bring her? Along with the waifs of waj^side 
 and prairie, the joys and griefs of the house grav- 
 itated to her heart-whole s^anpathy. 
 
 " Reviewing certain quiet hours spent together, I 
 am strongly impelled to send you the shadow of 
 their fullness. 1 say the shadow, for I find the 
 vital essence so real to me, tliat words can hardly 
 be other than shadowy over against its clear com- 
 pleteness. But to 3'Ou I leave the interpretation of 
 spirit beyond the letter. Claiming a personal 
 acquaintance of short weeks onl}', yet am I so 
 assured of having met a Reality of Soul, that I
 
 FLOWERS FROM MEMORY. 139 
 
 speak with less hesitancy' than otherwise must be, 
 and in my revei'ent recognition of that Reality, 
 you must find justification of these words, not in 
 memory of what your sister was, more than in 
 witness of what she is. The centres of her life 
 lay beyond mutations of earth, and significant of that 
 was the keynote of all her longer talks with me. 
 A yearning desire to do right, and to become right 
 in thought, feeling, and life, a restless impatience 
 with the self that slie felt so slow to become un- 
 selfed — these were her strongest aspirations, and to 
 this becoming and being she steadfastly set herself. 
 " One day, driving in the open country beyond 
 the city limits, she said, after a long silence, ' It just 
 comes to me that this is God's country I' and in 
 reply to a look of inquiry from me, ' You don't 
 know how I hated to come here. Nobody knew. 
 I have rebelled against everything, but to-day I 
 have a new sight of things ; these free, open spaces 
 bring me rest and peace ;' and she added, with a 
 naive nod of child-like earnestness, ' I will try and 
 get well here, and not trouble sister b}^ making 
 her feel that I am disappointed in things.' Hand 
 in hand, were always found the two motives — for 
 right's sake, for love's sake. With pathetic intona- 
 tion, she said, one day, as we were speaking of
 
 140 FLOWERS FROM MEMORY. 
 
 the inevitable trials and hardnesses in life, 'If I 
 felt God's love as I feel my sister's, if I were as 
 sure, I could bear things!' 
 
 "As days and weeks went on, the sureness grew 
 and deepened, and the bearing of things under the 
 terrible stress of bodily weakness, was her patient 
 endeavor. Along with her brightest longings, a 
 part of her truest life was the trustful clinging 
 love for that elder sister, who was to her, shelter 
 and refuge, counselor and comforter. This love, 
 and her restful faith in it, was her stronghold on 
 the oiitei- of life, and was to her the sweet in- 
 terpreter through which that other love of the 
 Spirit revealed itself 
 
 "Watching me at my work, as she sat in my 
 room one of the ' tired afternoons,' she said, with 
 tearful eyes, ' It is so hard, so hard, to do 
 nothing ! If the Lord only lets me get well, I 
 shall work for Him so ! Why, I thought I tried, 
 before I was sick ; but now I know more what it 
 means, and if He only lets me get well, I shall 
 work, ! so hard — so much better.' Dear child ! 
 She had hard work then on her hands : the burden 
 of lajnng down the apparent goods of life, and 
 taking up the real. And was this nothing to 
 do ? I remember our talk led up to this question,
 
 FLOWERS FROM MEMORY. 1-il 
 
 and the fact of there being so uianj^ kinds of 
 work, and so many ways of working, even though 
 one lies enthrall to bodily- weakness. It is not 
 easy to get at the significance of Life all at once. 
 This is one of those pearls bought with a price. 
 Doing is so involved with Being in our minds, and 
 so closel}^ allied to it, in truth, that when the door 
 suddenly shuts on the one, and we are thrust un- 
 prepared on the stern solution of pure Being alone, 
 we stand chilled and isolated in hopeless bewilder- 
 ment, till at last the apartness resolves itself into 
 undreamed of nearness. I well recall iier thought- 
 ful face as we spoke of these things, and of the 
 inner meaning which Life must hold, soon or late, 
 for every soul coming to its own consciousness — 
 coming to itself; and of the rightness of the way, 
 whereby this meaning should be revealed to us — 
 even though it lay through the vallej- of the 
 shadow of death. The shadow — verily — and no 
 more. 
 
 " Your sister did not speak to me directly of 
 her own going, but I am confident that was in 
 her mind, when, again and again, she turned to 
 these subjects of deeper import. One of her last 
 good nights to me, she prefaced by whispering, 
 ^ Things look difterently from what the}' used, and
 
 142 FLOWERS FROM MEMORY. 
 
 T try to be patient, and wait, and feel it must all 
 be right.' 
 
 "Earth's pain and weariness grew apace; our 
 talks became more and more infrequent: the time 
 for words went by : a smile — a handclasp — and all 
 was said, as ever clear and more clear was the 
 breaking dawn of her coming birthday. And there, 
 at the gate of the New Life, we leave her— more 
 alive, more herself, than we are yet ready to ap- 
 prehend, through the vailed vision of our mortality: 
 
 " ' And, O beloved voices, upon which 
 Ours passionately call, because ere long 
 Ye break off in the middle of that song 
 We sang together softly, to enrich 
 The poor world with the sense of love, and witch 
 The heart out of things evil,— I am strong, 
 Knowing ye are not lost for aye among 
 The hills with last year's thrush. God keeps a niche 
 In Heaven to hold our idols : and albeit 
 He break them to our faces, and denied 
 That our close kisses should impair their white, 
 I know we shall behold them raised, complete, 
 The dust swept from their beauty — glorified — 
 New Memnons singing in the great God-light.' 
 
 " San Antonio, Texas, August 4th, 1879."
 
 ^imt (Boe0 6g Z^utm.
 
 The following poem, quaint and old, was a 
 chosen favorite with her, the little storj^ of whose 
 life threads the preceding pages. To her, this 
 poem was wreathed about with happy associations. 
 Often she quoted from it ; often she co|)ied it 
 among selections for her friends. Breathing a 
 spirit of quiet, subtle philosophy, it expressed, like 
 an inspiration, the leadings of a mind ideal and 
 poetic in its tendencies, j^et to whose earnest nature 
 the ideal served onl}?^ as a model by which to 
 frame the real life. This poem is eminently one 
 of the life which is ; such was it to her when life 
 seemed long, and eternitj^ the distant ocean, whose 
 low, faint murmur scarcely reached her ears. 
 
 TIME GOES BY TURNS. 
 
 This rare old poem was written by Robert Southwell, 
 who was born at Horscliam, St. Faith's, Norfolk, England, 
 A. D. 1560. He was thrown into the Tower, July, 1592, 
 on an accusation of complicity in a plot against Queen 
 Elizabeth ; was ten times subjected to torture, but made 
 no confession beyond that of being a Jesuit, and having 
 exercised his priest's office ; was condemned to death for 
 constructive treason, in refusing to take the oath of su- 
 premacy, February 20th, 1595, and on the following day, 
 was hanged, drawn and quartered at Tyburn, meeting his 
 fate with firmness and composure.
 
 146 TIME GOES BY TURNS. 
 
 The lopped tree in time nia^' grow again. 
 
 Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower. 
 The sorriest wight may find release from pain ; 
 
 The driest soil sucks in some moistening shower; 
 Times go by turns, and chances change by course, 
 From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. 
 
 The sea of Fortune doth not overflow ; 
 
 She draws her favors to the lowest ebb ; 
 Her tides have equal times to come and go ; 
 
 Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web. 
 No joy so great but runneth to an end. 
 No hap so hard but may in time amend. 
 
 Not always full of leaf, nor ever spring; 
 
 Not endless night, nor yet eternal day. 
 The saddest bird a season finds to sing ; 
 
 The roughest storm a calm may soon alia}' ; 
 Thus, with succeeding turns, God tempereth all, 
 That man may hope to rise but fear to fall. 
 
 A chance may win what b}^ mischance was lost ; 
 
 The net that holds no great, takes little fish ; 
 In some things, all ; in all things, none are crossed. 
 
 Few all they need, but none have all they wish. 
 Unmingled joys, here, to no man befall : 
 Who least, hath some, who most, hath never all.
 
 ^omdimtB^
 
 SOMETIMES. 
 
 In striking contrast to the foregoing is the following 
 poem, many times read and repeated by Effie, the weary- 
 waiting invalid. Viewed from the other side of the plain, 
 life was as the fading fancies of a dream, or as a tale 
 that had been told, and needed no philosophy. Another 
 life lay just beyond, and of that life must be the song. 
 Among her sacred papers, in the afterward, was foiuid a 
 faintly penciled copy of these lines, doubtless placed there 
 as a parting message to those she loved. 
 
 Some time, when all life's lessons have been learned, 
 
 And sun and stars forever more have set. 
 The things which our weak judgments here have 
 spurned ; 
 
 The things o'er which we grieved with lashes wet. 
 Will flash before us out of life's dark night. 
 
 As stars shine most in deepest tints of blue. 
 And we shall see how all God's plans were right, 
 
 And how what seemed reproof was love most true.
 
 150 SOMETIMES. 
 
 And we shall see how, while we frown and sigh, 
 
 God's plans go on as best for you and me. 
 How, when we called, He heeded not our cry. 
 
 Because His wisdom to the end could see ; 
 And e'en as prudent parents disallow 
 
 To much of sweet to craving babyhood. 
 So God, perhaps, is keeping from us now. 
 
 Life's sweetest things, because it seemeth good. 
 
 And if, sometimes, commingled with life's wine. 
 
 We find the wormwood, and rebel and shrink. 
 Be sure a wiser hand than yours or mine 
 
 Pours out this potion for our lips to drink. 
 And if some friend we love is lying low. 
 
 Where human kisses cannot reach his face. 
 Oh, do not blame the loving Father so, 
 
 But wear your sorrows with obedient grace. 
 
 And you shall shortly know, that lengthened breath 
 Is not the sweetest gift God sends His friends. 
 
 And sometimes the sable pall of death 
 
 Conceals the fairest boon His love can send. 
 
 If we could push aside the gates of life. 
 
 And stand within, and all God's workings see,
 
 SOMETIMES. 151 
 
 We could interpret all this doubt and strife, 
 And for each raj'ster^- could find a key. 
 
 But not to-da}-. Tlien be content, i)oor heart, 
 
 Grod's plans, like lilies pure and white,, unfold ; 
 We must not tear the close shut leaves apart ; 
 
 Time will reveal the calyxes of gold. 
 And if, through patient toil, we reach tlie land 
 
 Where tired feet, with sandals loosed, may rest ; 
 When we shall clearl}- know and understand, 
 
 I think that we will say, " God knew the best." 
 
 " I have loved thee with an everlasting love, 
 therefore with loving kindness have I drawn thee."
 
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