To Miss E. A. Warner, New York, March 27, 1870.

You ask if I revel in the Pilgrim’s Progress.  Yes, I do.  I think it an amazing book.  It seems to me almost as much an inspiration as the Bible itself. [3] I am glad you liked that hymn.  I write in verse whenever I am deeply stirred, because, though as full of tears as other people, I can not shed them.  But I never showed any of these verses to any one, not even my husband, till this winter.  But if I were more with you no doubt I should venture to let you run over some of them, at least those my dear husband has seen and likes.  I have felt about hymns just as you say you do, as if I loved them more than the Bible.  But I have got over that; I prayed myself out of it, not loving hymns the less, but the Bible more.  I wonder if you sing; I can’t remember; if you do, I will send you, sometime, a hymn to sing for my sake, called “More love to Thee, O Christ.”  Only to think, our silver wedding comes next month, and A. and the Smiths away!

I have been interrupted by callers, and must have been in the parlor several hours.  You can’t think what a sweet, peaceful winter this has been, nor how good the children are.  My cup has just run over, and at times I am too happy to be comfortable, if you know what that means; not having a strong body, I suppose you do.  Mrs. B. has been in a very critical state of late, but she is rallying, and I may, perhaps, have the privilege of seeing her again.  I have had some precious times with her in her sick-room; last Friday, a week ago, she prayed with me in the sweetest temper of mind, and came with me when I took leave, to the head of the stairs, full of love and smiles.

To a Young Friend, April 5, 1870.

I wish that hymn for the sick-room were mine, but it is not.  I will enclose one that is, which my dear husband has kindly had printed; perhaps you will like to sing it to the tune of “Nearer, my God, to Thee.”  There is not much in it, but you can put everything into it as you make it your prayer.  I can’t help feeling that every soul I meet, of whom I can ask, What think you of Christ? and get the glad answer, “He is the chiefest among ten thousand, the One altogether lovely”—­is a blessing as well as a comfort to mine; and whenever you can and do say it, you will become more dear to me.  Your God and Saviour won you as an easy victory, but He had to fight for me.  It seems to me now that He ought to have all there is of me—­which, to be sure, isn’t much—­and I hope He is taking it.  His ways with me have been perfectly beautiful and infinite in long-suffering and patience.