LETTERS
RELATING TO THE AUTHOR.
Salem, Mass., April 10th, 1833.
Dear Brother,
Agreeably to your request I have drawn up a brief account of the visit we made, in the spring of 1832, to the home and graves of our forefathers, and of an incident which then occurred.
Wearied with the noise and bustle of a Rhode Island Election, we determined to make our escape from Newport, to the quiet scenes, in the midst of which we had passed together many happy and tranquil hours. We intended to cross from the Island to the town of Little Compton; but, as might have been anticipated, the ferryman was enjoying the Election holyday at Newport. Observing a small house on the hill, I went to it for the purpose of procuring some provisions for our party. When I reached the fence, I observed, in the little yard before the house, an old man, who seemed to be occupied about some household duties, and who did not at first notice my presence. As soon however as I spoke to him (Mr. Taggart), he came toward me; and, on my making known our wants, a conversation ensued, in which, to show that his will lo serve us was greater than his ability, he spoke of the afflictions of his family. Still, he said, we were welcome to all that his house could afford us. Returning to the subject of his family, he said, with deep feeling, "I suppose. Sir, that I have the most afflicted family on this Island. I have one daughter who has been lying on her bed in that house, more than eleven years, and the physicians can do nothing for her. Her sister has worn herself out in watching over her, and now she is a cripple, and has to be moved about the house. Another daughter is deranged, and my wife is old and feeble, and troubled with a bad cough. She does all she can, Sir; but I cannot work as I used to do: and I have had very heavy doctors' bills to pay. It is but a little while since I paid more than four hundred dollars. I have been obliged to mortgage my little farm; and it is almost all gone. I hope it will be enough to carry us through this world to a better. It is all right. I know that the Supreme Ruler of the Universe does what is best for us."
I informed him that I had left you waiting for the ferry-boat, and he seemed highly pleased to learn that you were a Christian minister.[1] Your own words, after the interview, that "we were as much interested in this scene, as in almost any other that we ever witnessed together," show that I was not wrong in my anticipations when I requested you to visit the family.
They spoke of the manner in which their daughter Cynthia passed the time; and the verses which she had written were shown to us. I do not suppose the poems would have affected me so deeply as they did, had I met with them, as those who will read this description will meet with them, in a printed book. But I must confess, that, when I considered the place, the seclusion from almost all the world, in which the family have lived, the few advantages, even of a common school education, which their daughter had enjoyed, and then remembered the manner in which it has pleased God to wound her spirit, and to bow down her soul, I could not but consider them as remarkable productions. Probably the verses may be liable to criticism; but one thing is certain,—they are a faithful picture of deep sorrow and suffering. The sufferer had lain, for nearly half her life, where we saw her. Through how many weary, restless days and nights had she passed! Is it not strange that we, who are blessed with health and strength, should ever murmur at the allotments of Providence, when, compared with such sorrows as these, our afflictions seem trifling and momentary?
When you conversed with her, she expressed her resignation to the will of God; but, though patient under her sufferings, her heart seemed almost broken with hope deferred. She had passed most of this long period of affliction in the expectation that she should one day be raised again to health and strength; and this disappointment had imparted a deep melancholy to her thoughts. Her views of herself were most humble; and she seemed unwilling by her answers to lead you to suppose, that she was more at peace with herself and her Maker, than was really the case.
*****
Brooklyn, N. Y., Dec. 1833.
Dear Sir,
The request that I would give you some account of the writer of the Poems about to be published, is cheerfully granted.
For some years past, I have spent a few weeks in autumn, on the southeastern extremity of Rhode Island.
While there in the autumn of 1832, I heard of an afflicted family in the neighbourhood; and, learning that a visit of condolence would be very acceptable, I determined to make one. I was directed to a small house, far from any road, on the side of a hill descending precipitately to an arm of the sea, which separates this Island from the adjoining State. The first person I saw, on approaching the house, was a young woman at the door, who, as soon as she perceived me, uttered some incoherent words and disappeared. I knocked, was admitted, and soon introduced to the family.
It was composed of a venerable old man, his wife, and three daughters. Here I found sickness, distress, and poverty, in conflict with religion, peace, and purity; and I rejoice to say the latter appeared to triumph.
The old man was feeble, and broken in constitution and health. His "hoary head," however, was "a crown of glory," for it was found in "the way of righteousness."
He had been an officer in the Revolutionary war, and his last days were made anxious by endeavours to obtain a pension. He succeeded about a year since; but has now gone to serve a more generous Master.
His wife was a confirmed invalid, and could with the greatest difficulty discharge her domestic duties.
The three daughters were the principal sufferers. One was deprived of reason: the other two were emaciated by disease, and had been confined to their beds, one for two, and the other for seven years. Medical attendance, medicines, and loss of time in nursing his children, had consumed all the property of the good old man, except the small tenement which he occupied, and which ere long he expected to exchange for a still narrower one. But, for the credit of religion, and for the comfort of all who may be called to pass through "the fire" of such trials, I can say, that this veteran soldier of Christ and his family seemed supported by the consolations of the Gospel. On these I conversed at large, and with each member of the family; and I endeavoured to lighten, by every means in my power, the heavy burdens of these poor pilgrims.
The father, the mother, and one of the daughters appeared cheerful and resigned; but the other daughter seemed greatly depressed. She had been now seven years on a bed of exquisite pain. Her hair had turned gray by the unmitigated anguish of her head. Sleep had long deserted her, and she seemed to have been in the act of martyrdom for years. Confined for so long a time to her bed, incapable of occupation or amusement, at times, even of devotion, she struggled hard to say, "Thy will be done." She however appeared to confide in God, but was destitute of spiritual consolation.
In this state, and in this place, she composed, from time to time, the Poems which are about to be published. They are like the Lamentations of Jeremiah, or, more truly, like the complainings of Job; and may serve to make both the prosperous and the afflicted more grateful, and submissive to the allotments of Divine Providence.
The Poems were composed and committed to memory, chiefly in the night; and were committed to writing by the father and others, at their leisure.
A little garden before her window, the sun which rose and set, the winds of heaven which shook her cottage, and the ocean, whose "billowy anthem" was ever chanting at the foot of the hill, afforded the only variety to her thoughts. From these and from her bodily sufferings she draws subjects and illustrations for her Muse. She remains to this day sunk in a bed of anguish, calm and patient. The blessed Saviour, I trust, sits beside her as a "refiner and purifier of silver;" and when he perceives the work to be completed, he will doubtless withdraw the fire. I am glad that her Poems are to be published, for it is always a relief to make known our griefs; and I cannot but hope, whether the number of her admirers be great or small, that she will by these Poems secure to herself a few sympathizing friends. One I am sure she has already made; who remains, dear Sir,
Always yours.
B. C . Cutler.
(dictated.)
October 28th, 1833.
Dear Madam,
I have not strength at present to comply with your request respecting an account of the nature and progress of my protracted diseases, and of my feelings under them, which have been any thing rather than what I could wish; though at all times, in my greatest extremities, I have assuredly believed that the Judge of all the earth will do right, and that it is in mercy and compassion He afflicts; and have desired to be enabled to say, "It is the Lord; let him do as seemeth to him good." If ever I am favored with strength and composure sufficient, I will, with the utmost readiness and alacrity, gratify your wishes. My dear father is very ill, and to appearance fast approaching the bounds of mortality,—but with prospects full of immortality and life. His faith is strong, and his soul sustained, in the midst of his bodily distresses, with heavenly consolations, and peace that passeth understanding; which is a great encouragement and support to our minds, in the pain and anguish of being separated from a kind and precious parent. But it is our humble hope and earnest prayer that the separation may not be final; and that we may be again united in those blessed abodes, where there is no more pain, sin, nor sorrow, and where the Lord shall wipe away all tears from all eyes: and it is a consoling reflection that this will be the happy lot of all those that love and obey the Saviour.
With great esteem and cordial regard,
Your friend,
Cynthia Taggart.
Monday, Dec. 30th, 1833.
My dear Madam,
I went on Saturday to fufill my promise and visit the lady, in whom you have taken so kind an interest.
Watchfulness and pain had so reduced her strength that she was able to converse but little. But, in that little, was manifested a mind superior to the circumstances in which she had always been placed. She spoke of the glooms which disease will sometimes bring over the hopes and prospects of the future; and, though her confidence in the truths and promises of religion, was too firm to be shaken, she seemed to be the victim of fears and doubts and those gloomy apprehensions, with which a diseased body so often afflicts the mind. With a clearness of expression, such as experience alone can give, she alluded to the influence of the body upon the spirit, withdrawing it from its appropriate range, either to prey upon its own existence, or to fret itself against the walls of its prison-house,—to the difficulty of pursuing continuous thought, and of catching more than occasional glimpses of that region where the mind finds its proper aliment, and objects worthy of its attention. She spoke of the kindness of the friends who had visited her afflicted family, and expressed her gratitude for the letters which she had received. Her conversation was characterized by clearness and appropriateness of expression, by correctness of remark, and sometimes by superior intelligence. She had recently been so ill, that after a few minutes' conversation I took my leave, regretting that I could stay no longer. I left their dwelling, having witnessed a scene of domestic suffering, and a form of domestic piety, which none can contemplate without being made better. The impression of it will never be effaced from my recollection. Amidst the discontents and repinings of society, I shall often recall the spectacle of this suffering family, and think of the value of that religion which has been their support. I am, &c.
W. Gabimell.
- ↑ Mr. J. C. Richmond was not at that time admitted to the ministry.