INTRODUCTION

More than a year has now passed since Mrs. Margaret Breckinridge, the beloved subject of the following brief notices, was taken from us into the saints' everlasting rest. By that event, the little family of which she was the joy and crown, was dissolved. The surviving parent felt that God had committed to him the interesting but mournful duty of preserving the memory of so inestimable a friend. But it is long after such an event, before the mind is sufficiently tranquil to utter our thoughts and feelings without excess. The peaceable fruits of so dreadful a chastisement succeed, alas! but slowly in our intractable hearts, to the distraction of grief, and the desolation of the grave.

It was in the midst of the deepest of his sorrow, also, that the writer was hastened (by a very kind Providence, as he now sees it to have been) into the active duties of an office which left no rest for body or mind during almost an entire year. So that if his feelings had allowed the attempt at preparing a Memoir, his duty to the Church of God forbade it.

In these trying and peculiar circumstances, he was permitted to call in the aid of those honoured and venerable Friends, from whose hands, in a happier day, he had received the lovely wife of his youth. They of all others knew her best, especially from her birth to her marriage. They had done most, under God, to fit her for life's duties, and its close; and to make her "worthy to be had in everlasting remembrance." And none were judged to be so well qualified to do justice to her memory. To the one we are indebted for the following interesting Sketch, making the first chapter. To the other for the valuable Letters to her surviving children, forming the second part of this memorial.

While all must admire the delicacy and candour with which this sketch is drawn, it is evident to those who knew the deceased, that much remains to be said which ought not to be omitted—especially in regard to that portion of her life, embracing more than fifteen years, which passed between the time of leaving the parental roof, and her lamented death. In attempting to supply this omission, the writer felt the inconvenience—even awkwardness of returning upon a narrative which seemed to have been brought to an appropriate close. But this was thought preferable to leaving the memoir incomplete; or to breaking the thread of the narrative given in the first chapter.

And moreover it was felt that the design of the work which called for the additional chapters, dispensed with form in the manner of furnishing them. It is intended to preserve the memory of the beloved dead for her bereaved children, and her numerous kindred and friends, rather than to unveil her retiring character to the public eye. The work being designed, not so much for general circulation as for family use, is rather printed, than published; and all its imperfections will readily be overlooked by those who will come to these pages, as Mary went to the tomb of Lazarus—"to weep there."

MEMOIR.

CHAPTER I.

A narrative of the life of our departed friends, bears some resemblance to the representation, on canvass, of their persons and features; it serves to restore and collect our scattered thoughts, and revive our affections; and prevents the hand of time from obliterating entirely, their peculiar mental and moral lineaments.

It was in consequence of the necessity of this help to our natural infirmities, that our Lord gave to his people the bread and wine, as a symbol of his body and blood, and said, "Do this in remembrance of me." He knew too well our careless, wandering hearts, to trust the recollections, even of his great and lovely character, to our unfaithful keeping, and established, as a help to his word, the ordinance which was to continue unto the end of the world, "as a memorial of him." And we trust that his people are permitted to endeavour to perpetuate the remembrance of each other by means, which, however they may come greatly short of the significant emblem ordained by himself, will assist in enabling them "to love one another as he also loved them."

In view of this encouragement, given us in the Scriptures of inspiration, we would endeavour to bring together, and exhibit, in the history of the short life of Mrs. Margaret Breckinridge, some of those graces of a Christian character, which lead us to hope that the finger of the Lord had engraven his name on her heart, and that his grace was carrying on the work, notwithstanding much infirmity of flesh and spirit, until the body of sin and death within her was rolled away, and a simple, undivided hold taken on the Rock of ages.

She was born September 29th, 1802, in New York, and educated for several years under the immediate instruction of the sanctuary, in a comparatively pure state of the Church, when the name and influence of a few such venerable and holy men as the Rev. Dr. John Rodgers, had thrown a restraint on the vices of the world around them, as well as on the constantly recurring disorders of the Church, so that the very vagrants of the street felt their presence.[1] Every pastor of a flock of Jesus Christ seemed to feel it his privilege, as well as his duty, to feed the lambs of his flock himself, and did not commit them to the ever-varying, heterogeneous instruction of others. The Scriptures, and the Catechism, it was his own business to inculcate; and the same afternoon in each week, had been for many years, in several of the churches of the city, of various denominations, the season for this instruction.

By these and other means, the Bible had taken a systematic form in Margaret's mind, very early; and whenever she met, even in childhood, with a scriptural scene or subject, she generally knew where to place it, and was particularly animated by it. And this peculiar skill, and taste, continued and increased until childhood passed away, and the pride and enjoyment of life opened a new scene before her.

For a time it seemed as if every vestige of the sensibility arising from religious instruction would be swept away. She had friends who wished to see her enjoying the innocent pleasures of youth; especially as in person and mind there was a promise of peculiar adaptation to them. And there was a will of her own very clearly developing, which wanted more restraint than parents are generally willing to exercise. Many interpositions, however, in providence occurred, which, though sad in the view of her family, proved a real deliverance to her—frequently arresting her first decisive step in folly.

At the age of eleven she was removed with her family to Princeton, in consequence of a call which her father received, to a Professorship in the Theological Seminary in that place. Being thus separated from many snares incident to a city life, she began anew, as it were, to form habits and connexions, which, although in some respects, more dangerous and ensnaring than those which she had left, had not "grown with her growth, and strengthened with her strength;" and were, on that account, more ready to yield, when the follies of youth passed away, and the solemnities of this world, in view of another, opened before her.

The want of a good school in Princeton, induced her parents to send her, at the age of about fourteen years, to Philadelphia, for the purpose of obtaining for her some finish to the education which she had received at home. She remained there nearly a year, residing with an aunt, and attending a daily and well conducted school. Indeed it was her privilege, as well as the privilege of many others, to receive instruction from a teacher, who not only was competent to every branch of polite learning which adorns the mind of a female, but desirous of having all which he taught so sanctified as to reach the heart, and be made the means of communicating spiritual and saving, as well as intellectual instruction.[2]

The immediate effect of this experiment was injurious to Margaret's disposition and deportment. She returned to her parents with more love for the world, and a better opinion of herself; and of consequence was less docile. It was evident that the atmosphere of a city was not the element in which her heart would receive the best influence.

In a revival which took place in Princeton, when she was about eighteen years of age, an interest was excited in some of her pious female friends for her conversion. They concluded to make her the subject of special prayer. Of this she was entirely ignorant, until the evidence appeared in herself of the verity of the promise, as to the result of "fervent, effectual prayer." A sermon of the celebrated President Edwards, read in a small, social meeting, arrested her attention, and brought her to continued, deep, serious thinking, which ended, as she thought, in a new view of everlasting things. With all the sanguine feelings of youth, she judged herself prepared to be united with the Church; but owing to the unwillingness of her parents to risk the possibility of a premature profession of religion, this step was delayed.

In connexion with this period of her life, it seems necessary to relate some circumstances which took place with regard to a much loved sister of hers; not many years younger than herself. They had been so closely educated together, as to make them one in many of their views and feelings.

Elizabeth, in giving an account of the exercises of her own mind on the subject of religion, some time after they took place, said, that she experienced an irresistible feeling of contempt for the concern which Margaret manifested, and concluded that she was indulging a mere hypocritical affectation; in consequence of which she was beginning to make some observations to this effect, when, in a moment, a deep conviction fastened on her conscience, of the danger of resisting what might prove to be the influence of the Holy Spirit. This impression resulted in a real concern for herself, and in views equally solemn with those expressed by Margaret.

They both now made progress together in their inquiries and experience, and were a mutual help, rather than a hinderance to each other. Both soon thought that they had obtained an interest in "Him, whose blood cleanseth from all sin."

It appeared, however, soon after this, as if our fears with regard to Margaret were but too well founded. "Because of manifold temptations," she seemed to be taking a new hold on the world; but a state of things about the same time, began with Elizabeth, which disciplined and humbled her spirit; and she was soon enabled to realize all the insufficiency and uncertainty of this world, as a portion.

Many doubts with regard to the genuineness of the change which Elizabeth trusted had taken place in her heart, increased by the weakness which rapidly declining health had induced, perplexed and troubled her, and made her more and more unwilling to make a profession of religion. She had witnessed some of the extravagances of revivals, and felt the danger of being deceived, and of "having a name to live whilst she was dead."

In January, 1823, Margaret was married to the Rev. John Breckinridge, and returned with him to Kentucky, his native State, in the spring of the same year. In consequence of a call which her husband received, to a church in Kentucky, (which he accepted,) they were soon after this settled in Lexington. Her departure from her early home was her first real trial. For although, through the course of several months, she had taken a prospective view of this arrangement, with much buoyancy of spirits, as the time approached, every circumstance connected with a separation from all the associations of her childhood and youth, seemed to produce a new and deeper impression, and seven or eight hundred miles appeared at length, as almost an interminable space. The sadness which irresistibly overspread her countenance, convinced her friends that when, in view of Mr. Breckinridge's first destination, she had given herself unreservedly to a foreign mission, she, like many others, little knew her own heart, and all the sacrifices which such a destination involved. And when it was seen expedient that this intention should be relinquished by him, for a plan more eligible in the view of his fathers in the ministry, a release from this more enduring trial, formed no small part of the considerations which assisted in making her submissively bow to one so much more lenient. And indeed, she had reason to say, that goodness and mercy had followed her at every step. For this very trial which sobered her countenance, made her heart better, and prepared the way for deeper self-examination, and probably more fervent prayer; and the result was, that with a trembling confidence she united herself with her husband's church in Lexington, a few months after he took charge of it. From her letters, after this event, we learned that her connexion with the church took place at the same time—it is thought on the same day—in which her sister Elizabeth, having been delivered from the many doubts which had clouded her mind, made a profession of religion in the church in Princeton. This co-incidence in providence, having occurred without any mutual intercourse or understanding on the subject, seemed so consistent with the plans of Him who "sees the end from the beginning," and who, from their first serious impressions, appeared to have united the lines of their experience until they ended in one gracious result, that it did much to confirm their friends in the hope, that a good "work was begun in them which should be carried on." They felt constrained to say, "It is the Lord's doings and wonderful in our eyes."

The kind and affectionate family in Kentucky, of which she now made one, assisted much in alleviating the pressure of sorrowful recollections, and in making the resolution which she had formed of "learning in whatsoever state she was, therewith to be content," more practical, and more enduring; and when Mr. Breckinridge was called to Baltimore in 1826, although she was pleased with the prospect of getting nearer to her early home, she felt that a new tie had been formed which could not be broken, even partially, without much pain. It was a source of much grateful recollection to her, that she was not permitted to use any undue influence to lead her husband away from his congregation in Lexington, to which she was indebted in so considerable a degree, for the pleasant circumstances which surrounded her.

Her health was remarkably firm, especially for one of her delicate appearance, for several years after her marriage, and during all the time that her husband had a settled charge. In Baltimore, to which he removed from Lexington, she seemed to realize with much gratitude, the particularly pleasant circumstances in which her family was placed. Situated on the direct way between her husband's relatives, endeared to her by so many pleasant recollections, and the family of her youth, with both of which she could have frequent intercourse, and in the midst of a kind circle of friends, not limited by the bounds of Mr. Breckinridge's congregation, she was literally at home; and when the summons came to call him to another sphere of labour in the Church, she was the last to be persuaded that it was his duty to obey it, and reluctantly yielded to the opinion of those whose judgment she honoured.

From this time she may truly be said to have been a sacrifice to the interests of the Church. The unsettling of her domestic duties and habits, to which her temperament was particularly adapted, was, probably, directly and indirectly at the foundation of those causes, which gradually but too surely undermined her health, and prepared her for a premature grave. Her last change of residence, which placed her in Princeton by the side of her paternal family, and amongst many of her youthful associates, seemed to her to fill up the measure, as it regarded this world, of that providential goodness "which had followed her all the days of her life;" and she said, not long after it took place, with a humility which was in itself an evidence of her gracious state, "I think, in view of all my mercies, there is a thankfulness experienced which is not the natural growth of my own heart." To us who remain it is given to see, that these unusual comforts were mercifully intended to soothe the infirmities of a rapidly dissolving body, and soften the approach of the last and most formidable enemy.

Several attacks of disease in the course of two years, which threatened to be immediately fatal, were, by the aid of skilful medical treatment, happily arrested, but not until their baleful effect had fastened on her feeble body, and each had left her "more a prey for death." And it was a cause of much thankfulness to her friends, that instead of one of those unexpected instant departures, which so frequently occur, and which in her case it was often feared would take place, the approach of death was gradual and mild, so as to involve no pain, and but little surprise.

The simplicity of her character appeared through all her last days, especially after she ascertained that her end was not far off. Her words were few, because she studied to utter none but "the words of truth and soberness;" she seemed to feel that there might be a parade even in dying.

After a short conversation in her room a day or two before she departed, on the subject of the unprofitableness of our best works, which we found had deeply exercised her mind, she remarked with much emotion, a tear starting to her eye, "I feel the truth of these remarks;" but, after a pause, she said, "I have tried to do my duty as a wife and as a mother; I have endeavoured to conduct the affairs of my family with discretion, and to instruct my children in the best things." She evidently clung to this as an evidence of grace, (and not at all as a cause of acceptance with God,) and as affording some hope for her children, when relied on in view of the promises of Him who says, that if this precious seed is sowed, grace shall insure the crop.

Her Sabbath evenings, after the good old way of our puritan fathers, saw her with all her household, over whom she had any authority, gathered around her for the purpose of giving them that instruction which, with the promised blessing, would save them from the paths of sin and folly in this world, and prepare them for enjoying the blessedness of another. And through the distractions of an unsettled life, and the hinderances experienced in a large boarding house, in which several winters were spent with her family, she persevered as far as possible, in the instruction of both children and servants in the week and on the Sabbath, with a determination which both she and her friends thought had shortened her life.

In view of this peculiar faithfulness to her domestic duties, we are the more willing to offer an apology for what appeared to some of her friends, an indifference to various extra means; which in these last times have been esteemed needful for the awakening of a slumbering church.

When her mind began to open to this subject, the glory of our revivals was beginning to be tarnished. "The enemy had begun to sow his tares." The extravagance which so frequently attended them, had produced in her no little disgust for what she thought the mere machinery of religion. In such circumstances, it is difficult to "choose the good, and refuse the evil." The cast of her mind was such, that parade in any thing, and especially in the vital concerns, in which is involved our everlasting destiny, irresistibly revolted her mind. And the errors in principle and in practice, which had been by these means insinuated into, and corrupted the legitimate and professed doctrines and ordinances of the Presbyterian Church, greatly impaired her confidence in what many good people esteemed genuine revivals of religion. Subsequent events have abundantly confirmed the wisdom of her early and deep distrust.

After her constitution had been tried with another violent and unusual attack, in March, 1838, which prostrated nearly all her remaining strength in a few hours, it was evident to many of her friends, that recovery was no longer to be expected. Every means, however, were made use of, that might in any way prove salutary; many of which, as has often occurred, were rather injurious than beneficial. As a last resource, a journey was commenced, for the purpose of trying the Springs of Virginia, so highly recommended to invalids. She was not permitted, however, to go beyond Philadelphia. Her physicians there, judging so long a journey very hazardous, gently arrested it, by proposing a delay of a few days; thus endeavouring to obviate the effects of any disappointment which she might experience. Her own views seemed, spontaneously, to meet theirs, and a quiet acquiescence was every day more manifest. After a consultation of physicians, in which they agreed that an effort might be safely made for her return to Princeton, the sweet complacency with which she said to a very kind friend, who was visiting her, "I am going home to-morrow," encouraged a hope that she had realized her danger; and that her will was gradually moulding to the Divine will, and she preparing for a far better home.

It appeared as if she was permitted to get thus far on her journey, in order to gratify the feelings, and experience the renewed kindness of friends, whom her husband had attached to his family, from his temporary labours amongst them. The attention of these, and indeed many others, whom their interesting circumstances were a means of winning to them, is deeply felt in the family circle, of which she was a beloved member; and which will continue to be felt, as long as her memory shall be cherished amongst them.

It was with difficulty that she was removed to her own residence at Princeton, a few days before she died, fully sensible that her departure was not far off. One of her anxious friends, wishing to be more satisfied of this, said: "You know, my dear Margaret, how ill you are?" A most emphatic "O yes," silenced every remaining doubt.

The day before she died, the conversation leading to the subject of death, she said, "I am only afraid of the article of death: I know that when this is over, I shall be in Jesus' arms." From one, so slow to speak, these were encouraging words.

A few hours after this, she awoke from a light sleep, with that sort of bewildered spirit, which is frequently experienced under circumstances of so much weakness, especially when accompanied with, perhaps, the effects of an opiate, and repealed the name of a person, with which she had been familiar in her childhood. She observed, "what easy words!" Some one present remarked—there are words equally easy. She said, "tell me some." Upon being referred to a Psalm which had been spoken of the day before, she commenced, as having found something exceedingly pleasant—"The Lord is my shepherd"—and continued to the end of this short and interesting portion of the Word of God, in a tone of sweetness and solemnity, which impressed every one present, adding her testimony to the sweetness of the words. It appeared as if, while the world was fast receding, her character was rapidly finishing in the mould of this precious Word.

Reason was continued to her until the last departing moment, when, after a violent but short struggle, which seemed to arrest every mental exercise, except that which led her spirit immediately to "Him who takes away the sting of death," the freshness of former years was restored to her complexion, which had been, for some months, suffused with feverishness, and marked with suffering, and a calm and solemn composure settled on her countenance, appearing full of meaning, which persuaded those who were around her, that she had some communication to make. But her mouth was sealed, and her hand could no longer effect the gentlest pressure. We were left to conclude, that when in her agony she had cried—"Come, Lord Jesus—come quickly;"—"Lord Jesus receive my spirit," "she was heard, in that she asked;" and the freshness of everlasting youth, casting one parting ray upon her mortal countenance, had passed upon her, and "she had gone to be forever with the Lord."

"She being dead yet speaketh," and speaks, especially, to all who yet live of her youthful associates. Many of them are, as she was, called to sustain the character of wife and mother, and their history in its prominent features, most probably resembles hers. Her course was marked with much failure in duty, over which she mourned, and, in view of which she seemed deeply humbled. She once said—many months before she died—"O! if the Lord were to send his bereaving commission into my family, I could never forgive myself for the manner in which I have failed to improve the trust committed to me, and fulfilled the duties to which I have been called." Hear the voice which speaking, says, "My dear companions in sin and infirmity, I leave you a poor example. But I exhort you to become believingly and affectionately acquainted with Him, who has borne me through the dark valley and shadow of death, and 'presented me faultless before his Father, clothed in his righteousness, and washed in his blood.'"

"Ye cannot, though Christian wives and mothers, do the things ye would;" but there is a fountain opened, in which your poorest desires and efforts, though like filthy rags, "may be washed and made white, and made instrumental for much good." Point this out to your children, "talk to them in the house and by the way, in sitting down and rising up," of this only hope of perishing sinners. And lest, after all, they should come short, plead, unceasingly, the promises for them, and take hold by faith of the blessing. O! how will you rejoice if you can say, "Here am I Lord, and the children thou hast given me." In order to sustain your character as wives, aim continually, by prayer, to obtain the gift of a meek and quiet spirit, "which in the sight of God is of great price, that even the unbelieving husband may be won to the knowledge of the truth."

May such exhortations from our departed friends, reach us all, and be sanctified to us—and may we "exhort one another, daily," so that our social intercourse may be made the means of grace, and assist in preparing us for our last great change!

CHAPTER II.

ADDITIONAL ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE LIFE AND CHARACTER OF MRS. MARGARET BRECKINRIDGE.

Whoever has been called, in the midst of life, to part with 'the wife of his youth'—if these pages should chance to meet his eye—will know what the writer has felt. Such a bereavement must be felt, in order to be understood. There is a shock in its coming for which no foresight or submission can fully prepare us. There is a chasm created by it which nothing can fill. It is a new experience, replete with dreadful desolation. It is a wonderful attribute of grace that can make these great afflictions so "work for us an exceeding and eternal weight of glory," that the most weighty and enduring of them all, shall seem, in comparison, to be "light, and but for a moment." Yet "no chastisement," (especially such as this) "for the present seemeth to be joyous, but rather grievous." God intends that we shall be moved by such visitations. The call which they utter is too costly to be lightly felt. The stroke is too deep to be hastily healed. "To faint when we are rebuked of Him," is to reproach the goodness of God, when we ought to "lay hold on his strength." But insensibility to his afflictive dispensations is to "despise" the methods of his grace. And who can fail to feel at such a moment! To find one's self strangely, and after all the warnings mercifully given, suddenly left alone; in the midst of life to be broken in twain; to come to a time when you may no longer pray with her whose presence sweetened devotion itself; no more pray for her who many a year has been the dear burden of all your intercessions; to see your orphan babes left desolate, and enhancing your woe, by being unconscious of their own; yea, "to sorrow most of all" for those dread words, "that you shall see her face no more!" This is sorrow! If it were possible, and being so, were right to ask it for others, we might pray for our readers, that they may be forever ignorant of our experience. But we know that every house is appointed to such a sorrow, sooner or later. They who are yet to pass through these deep waters, if they cannot now fully enter into our trials, may at least be expected to excuse this humble tribute to the dead, as an amiable weakness.

But it is not bleeding affection, merely, which has prompted us to add to the foregoing brief narrative, these imperfect illustrations of the life and character of Mrs. Margaret Breckinridge. The bereaved children having been early called to lose a mother's care, justly claim of surviving friends to preserve her image that they may gaze on it, and her example that they may imitate it, in after life. It is a cruel addition to an orphan's lot, to consign to the tomb even the memory of the dead. We refer not to the indecent and revolting haste with which every memorial of the deceased is swept into oblivion by those who, studious of new relations, are faithful only to forget. Such a spirit is abhorrent to every sentiment of humanity and religion. But it often happens that the disconsolate survivor, for a season careless of all things but of grief, neglects to treasure and record what God gave in peculiar trust to him—for the good of others. That godly example, which it cost the toils and the trials of a life to exhibit, ought not to be permitted to perish from the world. That "death of the saints," which "is precious in the sight of the Lord," and which so gloriously shows forth his praise, is worthy of a monument that time cannot consume. These should live! We should embalm them in the memory of the heart. We should hand them down in the tradition of faithful love. We should record them in a household book, if not publish them to the world—in honour of Jehovah; in memory of the beloved dead; and for the good of those who, even while they were spared to them, were too young to know their value. It is the memory of the wicked alone which God has doomed to rot; or if it live, to stand as a beacon on the brow of death.

There is another consideration of great tenderness and force by which we have been influenced in making these sketches. Woman dwells, to speak so, in the shade of retirement; and not like man, in the blaze of public life. In the household she sits enthroned, the weaker vessel, but the stronger power. Yet the domestic circle, in a great degree, circumscribes her influence; shuts in her character. Her refinement—her patience—her humility—her cheerfulness in trial—her fortitude—her readiness to forgive—her faithful, constant love—her self-devotion to her children—her personal charms—her domestic virtues—her Christian graces—which make her

"The light and music of our happy homes,"

are little known beyond the narrow boundary of her own family, on which they continually rest, "like the dew of Hermon that descended upon the mountains of Zion." It is not less so with her domestic trials—with her perplexing domestic duties, as she meekly toils in "patient continuance" amidst their innumerable detail, and ever returning round. Now while the full disclosure and rewards must be reserved to the great day of final account, it is a special duty, on proper occasions, to bring such excellence to view. Without our care, this never will be done, since the graces that most adorn, are the most retiring. By an affectionate diligence in this service, a thousand pearls might be brought from the recesses of domestic life, and added to the too scanty stock of memorable worthies. At least, we ought not to make oblivion the penalty of domestic virtue. On the other hand, the doing of proper justice to real female merit, would most effectually rebuke that assurance of coarse and fanatic women, who, in the insulted name of God, assume the prerogative, and attempt the offices of the stronger sex—forgetting that the immodesty which is offensive to all men, can never be an offering pleasing to a God of purity and order. By presenting to mankind examples of Christian women revolving in orderly beauty, and shining with mild lustre in their appointed course, we not only preserve the memory of those who rest from their labours, but we diffuse their influence abroad. If we may but do justice to the subject of these notices, she would be herself the only being likely to complain, for she shrunk with instinctive sensibility from every such disclosure of her retiring character.

Without repeating what has been said in the first chapter, we proceed to fill up the narrative given therein, by additional notices, which some one ought to furnish, and which a parent could not.

It was God's peculiar mercy to Margaret (Miller) Breckinridge, that she came into life under parental influence so admirable in all respects, that she may be said to have been born and reared in a family, which, like that of Aquilla and Priscilla, "had a church in the house." She enjoyed, in its happiest form, a domestic Christian education, having the Bible for the basis of knowledge; the Parents for instructors; the family fire-side for the school of manners; and the royal law of love and truth, as the standard and source of all true politeness. Truly it is a goodly spectacle in these days of pretension, and vulgar parade; of shallow learning, and degenerate manners, to behold here and there a mother in Israel, after "the manner of the olden time," training her little flock without the aids of modern parties, fashions, vain accomplishments, and earthly tinsel; waiting with them day by day at the door-posts of that wisdom by which grace is poured into the lips, and mien, as well as heart—where "woman indeed becomes the glory of man;" (1 Cor. xi. 7,) and then to see her lead them forth into life, from these sacred shades, polished after the similitude of a palace.[3] Such a school was well fitted to form the mind, refine the manners, and under God to save the soul of our lamented friend. God had been pleased to endow her with an unusual measure of personal beauty, and great charm of character and mind. So that as soon as she entered into society, which she did with great reserve, she attracted much attention, and was universally admired. These things combined, might have been expected, especially in early life, to draw her into the world; and lead her away from the humbling and self-denying religion of her father's house. But even before she gave her heart to God, there was an inimitable simplicity in her character, manner, and dress, which evinced either a total unconsciousness of her attractions, or a noble superiority to human praise. Her good taste, and the better principles of the Gospel, enabled her in all her after life, notwithstanding the many temptations to which she was exposed, to exhibit the same transparent and lovely example.

HER RELIGIOUS CHARACTER.

The work of the Spirit was early begun in her heart; but it was for some time resisted. Our acquaintance with her began just as she was closing her domestic education, (in her sixteenth year,) and almost before she had looked this evil world in the face. In 1820 she became decidedly serious; and after several months of deep religious impression, expressed a trembling hope of an interest in the Divine Redeemer. At this time she was strongly disposed to make a public profession of religion; but the salutary caution of her parents induced her to postpone it to a future occasion. Subsequently to this, the extreme fear which she ever after cherished, of self-delusion in religious exercises; the high standard of Christian character which she had proposed to herself; and her strong conviction of the frequent and very hurtful inconsistencies of many professors of religion; influenced her, in the end to defer that solemn step to a distant day. That day, as stated in the narrative, did not arrive until after her marriage, her removal to Kentucky, and her settlement as the wife of a pastor. In the mean time, however, it cannot be doubted, that the grace of God had taken possession of her heart. And when finally she did publicly connect herself with the people of God, her tenderness of heart, her self-distrust, her deep humility, her child-like simplicity, and transparency of Christian character, condemned her only for a delayed profession, and left few fears for her sake in any bosom but her own.

She was in a remarkable measure devoted to the Word of God. Her extraordinary memory faithfully stored with its rich treasure in early youth, vividly retained the chief part of it through life. The Psalmody of Dr. Watts, her favourite author in that department, she had almost wholly at her command. And with the Commentary of the inimitable Matthew Henry, a Latin and a French Bible, and a Harmony of the Gospels at her side, she daily and most devoutly searched the Scriptures. Clarke on the Promises, was also a favourite book, especially in her last days; and the Pilgrim's Progress was her companion to the "water's edge," where her real visions of the celestial city enabled her to lay the sweet Dreamer by, as the Parting Pilgrim did his crutches, when on the bank of the river he saw "chariots of fire" to bear him to the Pearly Gates. Her diligence in studying the Bible, without in the least degree neglecting her domestic duties, (and even in the days of her feeblest health,) was truly wonderful. When a subject specially interested her, she compiled and collated all the leading passages of the Bible upon it; often writing them out at great length, and preserving them for reference on future occasions. Indeed, so far did she carry her interested inquiries into the various parts of the Old and New Testament, and especially into the life of Christ, that she drew out a harmony of the Gospels with her own hand; the better to confirm her knowledge of the true order and relation of the events of his history.

She was a most faithful hearer of the preaching of the Gospel. Her luminous face cheered the progress of the herald of the Lord, and marked the deep measure of her personal interest in the message from the skies. Since her decease, we have found numerous briefs of sermons which she had heard at different periods of her life, from those whom she most admired. Some of these were delivered by Dr. James P. Wilson, and some by her father, others by Dr. Green, but chiefly by the venerable and honoured friend whose tribute to her memory is affixed to this Memoir. He was undoubtedly her most esteemed instructor from the sacred desk. His inimitable simplicity, vivacity, richness, and force of truth, always carried her understanding and her affections along with him; and those appeals which were most searching and simple, were most treasured and admired.

To her refined and candid spirit, nothing was more detestable than religious parade. As it is intimated in the former chapter, it sometimes served to repel her from things and people that were good, but savoured of religious cant. She was especially shocked with the numberless and painful examples of female impropriety in this way, which our age has disclosed. But in all the appropriate walks of Christian females, and in every becoming expression of their feelings and influence, though diffident of herself, she promptly took her part. Perhaps her most cherished occupation in the service of others, was that of a Sunday-school teacher. Here she rejoiced in the work of her hands. Here, without indelicacy or pretension, she could use the word of God, in his house, and on his day, to teach the little children, whom like her Lord, she so much loved to take in her arms and bless. She had for this service uncommon adaptation in the vivacity of her mind, in the charm of her manner, and especially in the rich store of her Biblical knowledge. She continued this relation after she became a wife, and a mother; and the tenderness of a Christian mother's love seemed to be transferred to the little commonwealth of the Sabbath-school.

We shall never forget the animation and delight with which she communicated to us, two years before her decease, the account of a visit which had been paid her very recently, by a highly respectable young gentleman, then attached to a learned profession, the son of a distinguished public man, who had been a member of her Sunday-school class in Princeton, fifteen years before!

HER DEDICATION TO THE WORK OF FOREIGN MISSIONS.

It was not long after the first experience (as was hoped) of the grace of God in her heart, that the relation was formed between herself and the writer of these pages, which, by its consummation and close, became in succession the crowning joy and the absorbing sorrow of his life.

While this interesting event, combined with other causes, was made the occasion (from an excess perhaps of delicacy on her part) of retarding her public profession of religion, it led to an early and very decisive trial of her Christian principles in another form. At this time the friend whom she so much honoured by her affection, was devoted to the work of Foreign Missions; and he had solicited her hand with the distinct expression, both to herself and her venerable parents, of such a purpose. This necessarily called her to consider the question of a personal engagement in this work. She met and decided this question with a promptitude and nobleness of Christian resolution which surprised even those who knew her best; and though in the providence of God she was spared the expected trial of separation for life from her family and country, yet the unreserved dedication of herself to the Missionary cause which her Redeemer enabled her to make, gave elevation to her Christian character, and prepared her for the trials scarcely less severe to which she was called in the domestic field. It was on the ground of her having thus dedicated herself, that with so much self-oblivion, and even cheerfulness, she encountered the many difficulties of which we are now to speak.

HER SACRIFICES FOR THE CHURCH OF GOD.

By a train of events over which we had no control, and in the interpretation of which we were permitted to enjoy the direction of the Church, (it would be needless to recite them here,) we were hindered from indulging the desire to "go far hence to the Gentiles." But the principle of dedication for life was settled; and hence it was from the first, understood and acted on at all times, that other things being equal, the field at home in which there was opportunity to do most for the conversion of the heathen, was always to be preferred, if offered by the Lord of the harvest. Her first and second settlements could scarcely be considered as giving occasion to many sacrifices. Lexington, Kentucky, was in the bosom of her husband's native state. There, in the garden of America, surrounded by a great circle of the most affectionate kindred and friends, and in a city remarkable as the Athens of the west for its refinement and general intelligence, and connected with a most kind and worthy congregation, Mrs. B. felt, that even separation from the home of her youth, was a form of trial so softened by her circumstances, that it was converted into a mercy.

In our removal to the interesting and important city of Baltimore, we felt that goodness and mercy followed us, changing our abode, but augmenting the number of our friends, and opening to us new and effectual doors of usefulness. Her attachment was very strong to both cities; she left each with regret; but still referring the decision to others in whose wisdom and affection she confided, she cheerfully obeyed their successive summons to depart. It was in leaving the latter city that her sacrifices for the Church more especially commenced. At this eventful period, (the summer of 1831,) it was found that there were more than one thousand congregations in the Presbyterian Church without a pastor, not to mention the immeasurable destitution of the heathen world. To supply this immense demand required, in addition to the very inadequate means already in use, a greatly enlarged and quickened effort of the entire Church. This necessity was deeply felt by the General Assembly of 1831, and led to the re-organization by that body of its Board of Education. In the solemn providence of God, the writer of these sketches was called to fill the office of Corresponding Secretary and General Agent for that Institution. He found it impossible to resist what appeared to be the voice of God speaking through his Church; though in yielding to it he was constrained to dissolve forever the sacred tie which bound him to a beloved people, and to pass from the endearments of domestic and Pastoral life, to incessant toil and travel in the wide and homeless world. She foresaw, and with keen anticipation felt, all the trouble which such a step must bring upon herself and her little household. But the decision of all her friends, excepting the kind people we were about to leave, was in favour of removal. She remembered her Missionary vows. She saw in it the sweetness as well as the severity of the cross, and without a murmur meekly bowed to the burden of the Lord. In this service, which continued for nearly five years, she shared; and like an angel, soothed the trials of the work. The comforts of domestic life were almost annihilated, either by incessant separations, or the nameless discomforts of a constant absence from home. During one entire year her house was occupied by her but six weeks, the rest being spent in hotels, and boarding houses, and steamboats, and stages, with occasional intervals of repose in the bosom of related or attached families scattered through the wide field of her visits from the Mississippi to the Hudson. Yet never did woman shine with more lovely lustre at home; never was woman more indisposed to step from this, her undisputed and delightful empire, into the confusion and folly of this selfish and evil world. Yet did she give up all, and consent to erect her domestic altar in the wilderness, and gather her little fold on the highway, for Jesus' sake. When weary of a year of travel, undertaken to shun a year of separation, she returned to occupy and order her solitary home. There she was constrained, though both tender and inexperienced, "to guide her house" alone; and to receive her husband only as an occasional visitant. Still, she never murmured; nor would we complain. But faithful history—now that she rests from her labours, requires this narrative; and God permits the record of "those works which follow" such "as die in the Lord." Thus, for five years, were kept up the alternations of these affecting trials. They were relieved, it must devoutly be acknowledged, by the unremitting attentions of those kind and lovely families in Philadelphia, whose virtues bound them to us by better ties than those of earthly kindred—as "Zion's friends, and ours;" whose reward we will not attempt to take out of a Saviour's hands by our poor praises; and whose displeasure we shall only then be sure of incurring, when we attempt to unveil to the public eye, the authors of so much disinterested and untiring goodness. The same reference is due to very many families in the city of New York, in which, for several successive years, she passed the winters with her husband. He who thus imperfectly attempts to record his gratitude, knew her worth so well, that he cannot wonder that such friends should love her; and he feels it his duty here to say, that any portion of success in the work herein referred to, is under God, largely owing, not only to her influence on his labours, but to the charm which she threw upon every circle with which she mingled, and the interest she kindled in all the persons and objects which interested her. When, at the end of two years, he felt overwhelmed with the review of her domestic trials, and was strongly moved to abandon a work which made them inevitable, she earnestly resisted the thought of change; and with generous self-devotion urged her husband forward in a work which, though painful to her feelings, was in her view useful to the Church, and pleasing to its glorious Head. As her impressions were those of all her friends, and apparently of the Church at large, and as the Board itself kindly relaxed some of the severer features of our trials, we were confirmed in the conviction that it was our duty to persevere, lest we should incur the divine displeasure, "by being weary in well-doing."

When, however, the indications of divine Providence in the spring of 1835 seemed plainly to say, that our work for the Board of Education was done, and that we ought to enter the door opened for us at Princeton, she was the last to see the duty of a removal; and though her parental home was there, and though her heart and her wearied nature cried aloud for rest, she would not allow any reasons for the change, to be drawn from her wishes or her sacrifices, and to the last, rather submitted to, than heartily approved of, the new relation.

But how deep are the ways of God! Scarcely had she time to establish herself in her new home at Princeton,[4] when another and loud call to an agency, directly in behalf of Foreign Missions, was pressed upon us. Though at this period her health had become evidently far more delicate, she heard and heeded again the voice of her Saviour; and still recalling the Missionary vow, offered herself again a willing sacrifice on the altar of God. In deciding this momentous question (in the winter of 1838, after having spent but eighteen months in Princeton, nearly half of which was occupied by her husband in active agency in behalf of the funds, library, &c. of the Theological Seminary,) we found ourselves incapable of being instrumental in recalling her still again to the commotion, desertion at home, and incessant cares, of another agency. Three months therefore were given to the important work, and the offer of the office finally declined. Even here however, she persisted in referring the decision to public relations alone, leaving all personal considerations out of view. And though fast approaching her end (what at that time none of us knew) she spontaneously put herself at the disposal of the friends of the Board of Foreign Missions, for her part of any service which might be required of her husband, whether it was in extensive journeys with him, or separation from him, or a winter's sojourn with him and her children in the city of New York. For the first, hoping it might invigorate her health, she was actually furnished; and when that was abandoned for the last, she repaired, with the spirit of her Master in her heart, to meet the trials it induced. It was in the fresh recollection of the parting scene, on her way thither, that the following sentences were addressed to the writer by the Rev. Dr. Alexander.

"I cannot conclude, without a word to dear Mrs. Breckinridge. I admire her ready submission to the calls of Providence. For although she cannot help dropping the silent tear, she makes no complaint, but shuts up her comfortable house, leaves her home and her friends, and as cheerfully as she can, goes to live in a hotel, and among strangers. Well, she shall not lose her reward. For these sacrifices she shall have rich compensation: and our sweetest earthly pleasure is in doing the will of our Heavenly Father." (Dated Princeton, December 17th, 1837.)

At the close of the winter we returned to Princeton, hoping that now God would grant us a little rest in that quiet village and that delightful home, where not "unaware we entertained an angel." But ah! this blessedness was not long intended for us. Having done her work, (though still we did not fear it,) she was soon to be taken to her rest and her reward on high.

HER LAST SICKNESS AND DEATH.

Her last sickness was of a protracted and very interesting character. When she returned from New York, she was delicate and her state of health was mysterious, but not yet alarming even to her physicians. Very soon after this, she had a violent attack, which in a short season prostrated her frame, and, disclosing a peculiar complication of diseases, overwhelmed every mind in the family, but her own, (she was calm,) with the most gloomy apprehensions of her danger.

At the close of the winter term of the Theological Seminary, (May first,) it was our anxious desire to take her to the Red Sulphur Springs in Virginia. But it was too early in the season; and being yet doubtful, whether this or that place would be useful or hurtful, it was agreed by her physicians to indulge her strongly expressed wish to try the waters of Saratoga. Thither therefore we went, pausing only a short time in the city of New York for medical consultation.

At this time, she was a most interesting object to all who saw her. Her debility was so extreme that she was borne from place to place in the arms of her husband, which, from her delicate frame, it was easy to do. The gentleness and patience with which she endured her sickness, the inimitable moral beauty of her countenance, and the general expression of frailty mingled with grace, excited the deepest interest wherever she passed.[5]

At Saratoga we spent a very quiet season of three weeks, (before the great hotels were opened, or the crowds had arrived) at the house of a most kind and deserving Christian woman, Mrs. Taylor, whose unceasing attentions greatly conduced to soothe sufferings which God had pleased should not be arrested. During this visit she used the waters freely, as a beverage, and in the bath, with no apparent injury, except that it evidently disclosed the fatal symptoms of her malady. She was able almost every day, to take gentle rides in the open air, and frequently to mingle with the family. But her chamber was her sanctuary. There she reclined, feeding on the Word of God. She was especially delighted with Clarke on the Promises. During that season of seclusion, she seemed to grow in grace with a progress which surprised (while it delighted) us; for we knew not then how near she was to the perfection of the heavenly rest. But it has since been interpreted to us, by the event, as one of God's peculiar mercies. What made this the more pleasing evidence of grace was, that she did not know her own danger. It was the power of religion poured upon her spirit by Him who was "hastening to make her up among his jewels." At one time, she said—"Oh, yes, pray that the distance between God and me may be taken away." And after uniting, with the most affecting solemnity and tenderness in the prayer which was offered, she at its close expressed aloud her joy in the exercise, (a thing most unusual with her) and her delight in God her Saviour, who draweth nigh. On another occasion, after hearing some of the promises of healing to the body, as collected by Clarke, she seemed for a moment to be musing, she then gently said: "My dear——I am like the poor woman who had spent all her living upon physicians, neither could be healed of any; but rather grew worse. My hope is in the Great Physician!"

Since we have been calm enough to review the various stages of her last sickness in relation to her religious exercises, it has been a subject of deep regret, and of no little self-reproach, that we had not made the attempt at recording, as they were uttered, some of the deeply affecting expressions of her Christian principles and feelings. But the tumultuous hour of hope and fear, and hurried, anxious watching at the bed of death, is not the time for cool calculation. Some of the most affecting parts of such scenes are incapable of being written down, even by one not interested in the sufferer. Nay, more—like the voices which John heard from heaven in Patmos, the Spirit seems to say of them, "write them not." These are "joys with which the stranger intermeddleth not." (Prov. xiv. 10.) It is a sanctuary which no creature can enter. And then our beloved Friend, who was often afraid to whisper her religious joys to her Saviour, lest she should be found offering "strange fire" on his altar, seldom talked of her hopes, (though often of her sins,) to her nearest friends; and never, by writing them down, put it in the power of posthumous publications to expose them to the view of others. We can only, therefore, illustrate her religious character, at the stage which we now approach, by broken fragments of thoughts and feelings, caught from her lips amidst the awful mercies of a dying hour.

She began at length, visibly to sink, when Dr. Freeman, of Balston, whose skilful and kind attentions she enjoyed, (Dr. Steel, of Saratoga, having himself been recently removed by death,) strongly advised a discontinuance of the use of the waters, and an attempt to reach the Red Sulphur Springs. For now the prevailing type of the disease had become distinctly pulmonary; and the skill of physicians, and the healing waters, and all the help of man were vain. Now, for the first time, we began to discern the dread reality of her approaching dissolution; and had some foretaste of the first anguish of such a loss.[6]

With heavy hearts, but hastened steps, we returned to Princeton; whence almost in despair, yet anxious to try any and all means for so great an end, we hastily set out with our meek sufferer for the Virginia Springs: but as the previous narrative has recited, we were arrested at Philadelphia. Here all was done by the assiduity and skill of her physicians,[7] and the most tender and constant attentions of a great number of friends. But her divine Redeemer claimed her for himself. She returned to Princeton, to bless her household, and to die. On the evening of June the 13th, she reached her children, and her earthly home. On the morning of the 16th, a quarter before ten o'clock, with her reason unclouded, in a frame of calm and holy triumph which marked the dawning of heaven on her soul; with a meek prayer for permission to die, and with but a single pang, she bade the world farewell, and ascended to God!

Her remains were attended to the grave by a very large and deeply affected assembly, after the delivery of the impressive funeral discourse affixed to this Memoir; where they rest by the side of her three little children, two daughters and a son, removed by death before. The like number and of the same sex, two daughters and a son, are left to the surviving parent, to mourn her loss, to treasure and imitate her example, and, by the grace of the Saviour, to follow them to the skies, where the "house now left desolate unto them" shall be restored with added bliss; and the little family thus divided in the midst of life, being reunited in pure and perfect love, be received into everlasting habitations.

A neat marble monument points to the spot where her dust reposes.

CHAPTER III.

CLOSING REFLECTIONS.

Thus it has pleased our Heavenly Father to "take away from us the desire of our eyes, with a stroke." The first impression of such a loss is that of amazement—overwhelming and bewildering the soul, and with strange horror, destroying for a time, the power to feel. "Deep calleth unto deep—all thy waves, and billows have gone over me." Such is the abyss of grief! At such a time, our part is "to be still"—sitting, like the Marys, "over against the sepulchre."

When the disciples of John lost their earthly Master, "they came and took the body, and buried it, and went and told Jesus." This ought to be the first act of every mourner, to tell it unto Jesus. With him we shall find both sympathy and support. And more than this: He resolves the death of our friends into his own gracious sovereignty, when he calls it, "the coming of the Son of Man." Death loses its terror when it becomes his act of grace. "The death of his saints is precious in his sight," and is always ordered with a supreme regard to their blessedness, and his glory. So that the feeblest of his dying children may confidently say, "Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him." "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me."

There is a feeling about the death of our friends, which is made up in part of unbelief, and in part of that tender regard which is produced by their dependence on us through life. Those endearing relations which make us their protectors, and supports, send their deep sympathies even into the grave. Who of us that is a husband, or a parent, that does not feel the horror of the separation aggravated by the spectacle of our helpless kindred struggling alone in mortal strife with "the king of terrors"? We, to whom they have always looked for succour, are then as helpless as they, in their extremest need. We cannot even share their agony. It is this which gives a nameless anguish to such a moment.[8]

But it is because we forget that "when father and mother," and all they most depended on in life, "forsake them, then the Lord doth take them up." The Christian is never so little alone as on the verge of heaven. The Lord of life is there. Underneath are the everlasting arms; and through all the terrors of the grave; and above all the tumult of that last hour, the Shepherd's voice is heard, saying—"It is I—be not afraid." While some pass over Jordan on the wing, and some struggle through the waves, yet all safely pass. Not one of them shall perish, but each appear in Zion before God.

It adds tenderness and force to these consoling hopes, that Jesus once "tasted death himself." It moves us, that "Jesus wept." But it gives a new nature to death, that Jesus died! For while the merit of his death takes the sting from ours, his presence in the tomb dispels all its terrors. Therefore, since Jesus died, let us consent to death; and surrender at his call those most dear to us.

It must be sweet to lie in that grave which he has hallowed by his presence among the dead.

One of the considerations which should make us acquiesce in the removal of our beloved friends who die in the Lord, is this—that we are suffering for their sakes; and that they could not be blessed without our sufferings. For their death, (the dread cause of all our grief,) was necessary to their perfect and eternal blessedness. This thought ought to soften every pang. If we really love them, and if our sacrifices for them while they were here below, were the fruit of our love, then we have only to remember that this is one prolonged, supreme sacrifice for their sakes.—This reflection if properly pursued, would often turn our mourning into gladness.[9] And then, if this weight of sorrow that is laid on us may but be duly improved and meekly borne; if it may not only mark the bliss of our friends begun on high, but be made by a wise and good God conducive to our growth in grace—it will have in it the pledge of our everlasting re-union in heaven; and thus be an affliction doubly blessed.

But the silencing, yea, elevating thought of all is, that it is for Jesus' sake, we are called to suffer. "The Master is come and called for her." It is indeed the richest of our earthly treasures. Our own life were a far lighter offering. But for that reason we honour him the more. It is our Isaac that God calls for; and it is then indeed we honour God when we can offer like Abraham. We shall receive the offering back, if not as soon, as certainly—and at no distant day! When, therefore, He who laid down his life for us, asks for our richest gift, let us not call him a hard master, but give without a murmur.

The death of our friends should have the effect of bringing Heaven nearer to us. We ought to cultivate, if we may so speak, domestic views of that blessed world to which we are so much honoured as to have sent up angels from our households. While all superstitious emotions are carefully to be quelled, we are permitted to draw very nigh to them. We may cherish their image in our memories and hearts; we still belong to the same great communion—and all are members of that body of which Jesus is the head. "As death does not separate from the Lord, neither does it divide the saints from one another. Our spirit and theirs daily meet at the one throne—they to praise, we to pray; therefore, in that sense, though we are absent in body, we are present in spirit."

And the distance which lies between them and us is daily growing less. How swiftly we travel, yea, fly, in all the speed of time! It may not be an inappropriate close to these meditations, to insert the family hymn, with which the remnant of a bereaved household often close the day, and comfort each others' hearts, at the hour when we feel most desolate.

And now, in bringing to a close these very imperfect notices of a beloved saint of God, it is proper to say, that much more might truly have been added in reference to many points of her character, that would have been proper, and interesting: as for example, her intellectual endowments; her extensive acquirements; her domestic life; her personal accomplishments. But we fear to indulge our feelings. Nor is it needful. For it was her Christian character mainly which we designed to illustrate. Her love for the Redeemer, and her sacrifices for his sake, were the jewels which adorned her on earth, and which lose not their lustre in death. It was the glory of all those qualities which so eminently fitted her to attract the admiration of this world, that she meekly laid them at the Saviour's feet. There also, we desire to leave this humble tribute to one whose "sun went down while it was yet day," praying that he who thus early fitted her for heaven, may by these poor means prolong her usefulness, and bless her memory on earth.