Sunday evening.
My very dear Abiah.
I love to sit here alone, writing a letter to you, and whether your joy in reading will amount to as much or more, or even less than mine in penning it to you, becomes to me just now a very important problem - and I will tax each power to solve the same for me; if as happy, indeed, I have every occasion for gratitude - more so, my absent friend, I may not hope to make you, but I do hope most earnestly it may not give you less. Oh I do know it will not, if school day hearts are warm and school day memories precious! As I told you, it is Sunday today, so I find myself quite curtailed in the selection of subjects, being myself quite vain, and naturally adverting to many worldly things which would doubtless grieve and distress you; much more will I be restrained by the fact that such stormy Sundays I always remain at home, and have not those opportunities for hoarding up great truths which I would have otherwise. In view of these things Abiah, your kind heart will be lenient, forgiving all empty words and unsatisfying feelings on the Sabbath day ground which we have just alluded to.
I rejoice in one theme appropriate to every place and time - indeed it cannot intrude in the hour most unseemly for every other thought and every other feeling; and sure I am today, how e'er it may be holy, I shall not break or reproach by speaking of the links which bind us to each other, and make the very thought of you, and time when I last saw you, a sacred thing to me. And I have many memories, and many thoughts beside, which by some strange entwining, circle you round and round; if you please, a vine of fancies, towards which dear Abiah sustains the part of oak, and as up each sturdy branch there climbs a little tendril so full of faith and confidence and the most holy trust, so let the hearts do also, of the dear "Estray"; then the farther we may be from home and from each other, the nearer by that faith which "overcometh all things" and bringeth us to itself.
Amherst and Philadelphia, separate indeed, and yet how near, bridged by a thousand trusts and a "thousand times ten thousand" the travellers who cross, whom you and I may not see, nor hear the trip of their feet, yet faith tells us they are there, ever crossing and re-crossing. Very likely, Abiah, you fancy me at home in my own little chamber, writing you a letter, but you are greatly mistaken. I am on the blue Susquehanna paddling down to you; I am not much of a sailor, so I get along rather slowly, and I am not much of a mermaid, tho' I verily think I will be, if the tide overtakes me at my present jog. Hard hearted girl! I dont believe you care, if you did you would come quickly and help me out of this sea, but if I drown, Abiah, and go down to dwell in the seaweed forever and forever, I will not forget your name, nor all the wrong you did me!
Why did you go away and not come to see me? I felt so sure you would come, because you promised me, that I watched and waited for you, and bestowed a tear or two opon my absentee. How very sad it is to have a confiding nature, one's hopes and feelings are quite at the mercy of all who come along; and how very desirable to be a stolid individual, whose hopes and aspirations are safe in one's waistcoat pocket, and that a pocket indeed, and one not to be picked!
Notwithstanding your faithlessness I should have come to see you, but for that furious snow storm; I did attempt in spite of it, but it conquered in spite of me, and I doffed my hood and shawl, and felt very crestfallen the remainder of the day. I did want one more kiss, one sweet and sad goodbye, before you had flown away; perhaps, my dear Abiah, it is well that I go without it, it might have added anguish to our long separation, or made the miles still longer which keep a friend away. I always try to think in any disappointment that had I been gratified, it had been sadder still, and I weave from such supposition at times, considerable consolation; consolation upside down as I am pleased to call it. I saw very little of you - I am sure should you come again it would be otherwise, but my dear child, you know that I do not feel well at sometimes, and when my feelings come, I permit them to overcome me when perhaps I ought not - yet at the time submission seems almost inevitable. I will try to get stout and well before you come again, and who says the past shall not be forgiven by the day to come? I say she shall be, and that the deeper the crimson, the purer and more like snow the heart repentant, when penitence can come.
Dear Abiah, I left you here and went down to prepare the tea; I thought to return to you so soon as tea was done, but father asked for some music, and I could not deny him; and then Vinnie had the headache and would be so much more comfortable in her chamber than downstairs, and I knew Vinnie was timid and would rather not go alone, so I disappointed myself, and I cant help hoping that I disappointed you; think back, my dear Abiah, and tell me if "brotherly love" was quite so brotherly a day or two ago! Speaking of Vinnie, reminds me of her "penchant" for you - really you're not aware of the interest you've awakened in her young mind and heart; I cant help laughing at Vinnie for the very remarkable views she has formed of your character, and the almost awe with which you have inspired her. When we are sewing silently, Vinnie will drop her work, and say in much perplexity "I dont know what to make of Abiah." "Why Vinnie," I say, "Abiah seemed to me very comprehensible - why do you think her so - I find no changes in her?" Well, Vinnie "dont know, but she somehow feels afraid of you, and she never did before, and she feels so small besides;" she thinks you growing "Opera" - growing more like the world. Are you, dear friend of mine, and yet these watchful eyes failed to discover it? Grow like the world? Oh, no - not so, my sweet Abiah, unless it be more near to the one we have not seen! I bring much love from Vinnie - that is, as much as may be, considering her fright.
Shall I have a letter soon - Oh, may I very soon, for "some days are dark and dreary, and the wind is never weary." Emily E.
My very dear Abiah.
I love to sit here alone, writing a letter to you, and whether your joy in reading will amount to as much or more, or even less than mine in penning it to you, becomes to me just now a very important problem - and I will tax each power to solve the same for me; if as happy, indeed, I have every occasion for gratitude - more so, my absent friend, I may not hope to make you, but I do hope most earnestly it may not give you less. Oh I do know it will not, if school day hearts are warm and school day memories precious! As I told you, it is Sunday today, so I find myself quite curtailed in the selection of subjects, being myself quite vain, and naturally adverting to many worldly things which would doubtless grieve and distress you; much more will I be restrained by the fact that such stormy Sundays I always remain at home, and have not those opportunities for hoarding up great truths which I would have otherwise. In view of these things Abiah, your kind heart will be lenient, forgiving all empty words and unsatisfying feelings on the Sabbath day ground which we have just alluded to.
I rejoice in one theme appropriate to every place and time - indeed it cannot intrude in the hour most unseemly for every other thought and every other feeling; and sure I am today, how e'er it may be holy, I shall not break or reproach by speaking of the links which bind us to each other, and make the very thought of you, and time when I last saw you, a sacred thing to me. And I have many memories, and many thoughts beside, which by some strange entwining, circle you round and round; if you please, a vine of fancies, towards which dear Abiah sustains the part of oak, and as up each sturdy branch there climbs a little tendril so full of faith and confidence and the most holy trust, so let the hearts do also, of the dear "Estray"; then the farther we may be from home and from each other, the nearer by that faith which "overcometh all things" and bringeth us to itself.
Amherst and Philadelphia, separate indeed, and yet how near, bridged by a thousand trusts and a "thousand times ten thousand" the travellers who cross, whom you and I may not see, nor hear the trip of their feet, yet faith tells us they are there, ever crossing and re-crossing. Very likely, Abiah, you fancy me at home in my own little chamber, writing you a letter, but you are greatly mistaken. I am on the blue Susquehanna paddling down to you; I am not much of a sailor, so I get along rather slowly, and I am not much of a mermaid, tho' I verily think I will be, if the tide overtakes me at my present jog. Hard hearted girl! I dont believe you care, if you did you would come quickly and help me out of this sea, but if I drown, Abiah, and go down to dwell in the seaweed forever and forever, I will not forget your name, nor all the wrong you did me!
Why did you go away and not come to see me? I felt so sure you would come, because you promised me, that I watched and waited for you, and bestowed a tear or two opon my absentee. How very sad it is to have a confiding nature, one's hopes and feelings are quite at the mercy of all who come along; and how very desirable to be a stolid individual, whose hopes and aspirations are safe in one's waistcoat pocket, and that a pocket indeed, and one not to be picked!
Notwithstanding your faithlessness I should have come to see you, but for that furious snow storm; I did attempt in spite of it, but it conquered in spite of me, and I doffed my hood and shawl, and felt very crestfallen the remainder of the day. I did want one more kiss, one sweet and sad goodbye, before you had flown away; perhaps, my dear Abiah, it is well that I go without it, it might have added anguish to our long separation, or made the miles still longer which keep a friend away. I always try to think in any disappointment that had I been gratified, it had been sadder still, and I weave from such supposition at times, considerable consolation; consolation upside down as I am pleased to call it. I saw very little of you - I am sure should you come again it would be otherwise, but my dear child, you know that I do not feel well at sometimes, and when my feelings come, I permit them to overcome me when perhaps I ought not - yet at the time submission seems almost inevitable. I will try to get stout and well before you come again, and who says the past shall not be forgiven by the day to come? I say she shall be, and that the deeper the crimson, the purer and more like snow the heart repentant, when penitence can come.
Dear Abiah, I left you here and went down to prepare the tea; I thought to return to you so soon as tea was done, but father asked for some music, and I could not deny him; and then Vinnie had the headache and would be so much more comfortable in her chamber than downstairs, and I knew Vinnie was timid and would rather not go alone, so I disappointed myself, and I cant help hoping that I disappointed you; think back, my dear Abiah, and tell me if "brotherly love" was quite so brotherly a day or two ago! Speaking of Vinnie, reminds me of her "penchant" for you - really you're not aware of the interest you've awakened in her young mind and heart; I cant help laughing at Vinnie for the very remarkable views she has formed of your character, and the almost awe with which you have inspired her. When we are sewing silently, Vinnie will drop her work, and say in much perplexity "I dont know what to make of Abiah." "Why Vinnie," I say, "Abiah seemed to me very comprehensible - why do you think her so - I find no changes in her?" Well, Vinnie "dont know, but she somehow feels afraid of you, and she never did before, and she feels so small besides;" she thinks you growing "Opera" - growing more like the world. Are you, dear friend of mine, and yet these watchful eyes failed to discover it? Grow like the world? Oh, no - not so, my sweet Abiah, unless it be more near to the one we have not seen! I bring much love from Vinnie - that is, as much as may be, considering her fright.
Shall I have a letter soon - Oh, may I very soon, for "some days are dark and dreary, and the wind is never weary." Emily E.
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