A Cathedral Pilgrimage.—Visit to a French Country House.—Madame Blanc.—Cathedrals of Rheims, Chartres, Rouen, Beauvais, Amiens.—English Hospitality.—Visit to Florence Nightingale.

IN the summer of 1902 my husband was badly out of health. It was decided that we should try a trip to Europe in the hope that the complete change of thought and scene would be beneficial to him. I had been on the point of going abroad with the family in 1867, and again toward the end of the century, when it was planned that I should bring my mother back from Rome. This was the first time, however, that I was to cross the ocean “in the flesh.” To me, Europe had always seemed a fairy-land of romance. I was delighted at the mere thought of going there. My husband, on the contrary, was quite indifferent about it. This was perhaps owing to his state of health. The task of parting him from his business proved extremely difficult. Like many conscientious persons, he felt that he simply could not leave the matters to which no one else could, in his opinion, properly attend. Fortunately, our daughter Caroline was going with us. With her help we managed to get off, but the final wrench was terrific! No sooner had the good ship Zeeland sailed than a complete change came over the spirit of his dreams. He enjoyed every moment of our trip; indeed, we both did. “Darby and Joan on their travels” were like two middle-aged but very happy children.

To our delight, Mr. and Mrs. Larz Anderson, the latter an old friend of my daughter, proved to be among the passengers. We all sat at a table together, Miss Susie Dalton making the sixth of a merry party. I suspect that the Andersons ordered special cakes and ale, for the table had the most delightfully decorative appearance. They certainly treated us to champagne, which is well known to be a preventive of seasickness.

The only drawback to our joy in Antwerp was the constant striking of the cathedral chimes. Every rose has its thorns and every cathedral has its bells, but all do not keep up their music through the live-long night. We consoled ourselves by the remembrance that Thackeray also suffered!

The old houses especially charmed us wherever we went. The quaint Flemish dwellings with the rope and pulley at the top explained to us why the French attics are called greniers or granaries.

A visit to the house of Mrs. George R. Fearing at Fontainebleau gave us a delightful glimpse of French country life. Even the name of the street where she lived, “rue de l’Arbre Sec,” had a promise of romance. Here we found “modern conveniences” and charming hospitality combined with the setting and atmosphere of a French country house. This kind friend had lived so long in France as to become thoroughly acclimated. Indeed, she did not return to America until the sound of the cannon at her gates in the battle of the Marne drove her from her beloved France.

The family came together at twelve o’clock, for an excellent luncheon, followed by coffee in the garden. Here the lofty walls gave us a delightful feeling of privacy, even though we were living in the midst of a small town. The European use of the garden as an annex to the house is so eminently reasonable that one can hardly understand why its introduction has been so fiercely fought in our own country.

In our friend’s garden, as everywhere in France, the combination of beauty with economy delighted us. Who but the French would think of using spinach as a border to the flower-beds?

At three o’clock came the daily drive into the wonderful forest, with a visit to some spot of interest. Our thoughtful hostess always provided a goÛter of bread and chocolate, our funny old driver taking his at a little distance apart. When we visited quaint Barbizon, we munched our goÛter under the shadow of the monument to its great artists. On our return we dined at seven, and so the pleasant day ended.

Among the villages on the borders of the forest, Moret, with its ancient, turreted gates and factory of beautiful chinaware, is especially charming. The dear old church, fast falling into decay, wrung our hearts. “Darby” was a zealous Protestant, but he felt it right to drop something in the “tronc pour la restauration de l’Église.” Alas! one does not like to think of the decay that must, during the present war, have overtaken many of these beautiful old wayside churches.

As the lovely Palace of Fontainebleau was almost at our door we had excellent opportunities of becoming acquainted with it. It is especially satisfactory to the tourist, because the rooms still retain the old artistic furniture. When wandering through them you seem to catch a glimpse of the vanished past with its grandeur.

When the time came for us to leave Fontainebleau and start on our pilgrimage, we felt very much like elderly Babes in the Wood, for Caroline was to stay behind with Mrs. Fearing. She had fortified us, however, with much advice. We were especially cautioned to observe her instructions as to the proper amount of the pourboire, in order that the hack-drivers might perceive us to be, not perhaps exactly natives, but persons of knowledge who could not be easily imposed upon.

We each brought certain modest talents to our combined stock as a company of adventure. Darby had the splendid quality of enthusiasm and an intense love of the beautiful. He had also a power of orientation most surprising to his partner. He always knew east from west; with guide-book and map in hand, he could perform the most marvelous feats of going about in strange places. Joan felt it to be an unnecessary fatigue to bother your head about direction when you could take an omnibus marked with the name of the place you wanted to visit. If there wasn’t any omnibus you could hire a cab, and the driver always knew where to go!

She contributed to the common stock a knowledge of French that enabled her to understand the spoken word and to speak it herself—with some pauses. Being of a hopeful disposition, she had a sublime confidence that everything would go right, in spite of appearances. This proved to be a good traveling companion, although it did give us some anxious moments in the matter of catching trains. For your optimist is apt to cut her time allowance short. Darby, who went abroad for nerves, felt positive we never could catch that train, but we always did!

It was our great delight to go about on the top of an omnibus. Darby would carry all his worldly goods with him, so that it was necessary for Joan to sit always on his right or pocketbook side. His agony was great when a suspicious-looking character sat down next to the pocketbook. We did see a few ferocious-looking men who reminded us of the French Revolution.

Darby’s indifference toward the Old World changed rapidly into a chronic state of enthusiasm. We were indifferent to shops, and the season was late for theater-going. Our great pleasure lay in looking up old houses and monuments of the past, as well as in visiting the many museums, picture-galleries, and churches which make Paris the most wonderful city in the world.

A visit to Madame Henri Blanc (ThÉrÈse de Solms Bentzon), well known for her writings in the Revue des Deux Mondes, was among the pleasures of my stay in Paris. Either I was a little early in arriving at her apartment or my hostess was a trifle late. She soon came in, however, and entertained me with afternoon tea, the adorable little French cakes, and her own interesting conversation. After a little preliminary maneuvering for position, we settled down into the French language, Madame Blanc assuring me, with true Gallic politeness, that my French was better than her English.

I was very glad to have an opportunity to hear her express her opinions unhampered by a foreign language.

Madame Blanc had much to say on the subject of flirtations, of which she greatly disapproved. It was evident to me that, using the word in a graver sense than we do, she somewhat misjudged our American flirtations. Yet how difficult it is to explain to a foreigner our lenient view of what appears to her a dangerous pastime! She doubtless thought of these as a careless trifling with affairs of the heart on the part of married women. A Frenchwoman cannot fully understand the meaning of the half-playful, usually quite harmless, flirtations of our young girls, because their position and freedom of action are incomprehensible to her. Yet, as Madame Blanc was the translator of American romances and as she had paid especial attention to our life and manners, her opinions deserve careful consideration.

When I saw her in 1902 Madame Blanc was of fair complexion, gray-haired, and rather stout. She was dressed in black, with no pretensions to coquetry. In fact, she was frankly a middle-aged Frenchwoman.

My husband had certain rooted prejudices in the dietary line which were not easily overcome. Thus to rabbit he bitterly objected.

Caroline and I one day found him in the midst of an animated altercation with the waiter. The latter had, he suspected, brought him the odious lapin, which he wished instantly exchanged for something else. The waiter vainly tried to point out that of the two “meats” he was entitled only to one. He had not only chosen lapin, but, like Proserpine, he had tasted of the fatal dish. The waiter doubtless considered the complaint to be of the lapin as lapin. That it was a perfectly good rabbit he stoutly maintained. It was an intense international moment! Caroline deftly straightened out the tangle and soothed the injured feelings of the waiter.

We were so fortunate as to see Mounet-Sully in “oedipus.” The formalism of the play, the archaic device of having the story related by the chorus, caused Darby to sniff during the first part of the performance. Darby was extremely fond of the theater, especially of Shakespeare’s plays. When the climax of “oedipus” was reached in the last act, his Puritan self-control gave way. In his enthusiasm he shouted, “Bravo! bravo!” This sudden flaming forth of American admiration for the great actor surprised the quiet French people—strangers to us—who had seats in our box.

In Antwerp we had admired the cathedral, in spite of the somewhat hybrid character of its architecture. Within, the stalls for the clergy and choir—forests of lovely carved wood—were a perfect revelation to us. In Paris the Cathedral of Notre Dame especially delighted us. Henceforth our trip, while it had many interesting side features, became in truth a cathedral pilgrimage. We became perfectly infatuated with the beauty and the grandeur of these wonderful dreams in stone, the finest buildings in the world erected since the days of the Parthenon.

The height of the French cathedrals is astounding. As we stood in the matchless nave of Amiens and looked up one hundred and forty clear feet to the vaulting far above our heads, we could hardly believe that it was made of stone. How could such a weight be sustained?

We had such faith in its stability, however, that here and in other cathedrals we walked about in a sort of vast attic between this stone vaulting and the outer roof. The young French girl who guided us was as nimble as a goat. She seemed to have no fear of falling in places where I stepped with fear and trembling.

It was a slight shock to find that the famous spires of Chartres are not alike, having been built at different periods, yet they are held to be unsurpassed in France. The older one is much simpler than its younger brother. We had been delighted with the stained glass of Notre Dame in Paris, and we had enjoyed—with some reservations—that of the Sainte-Chapelle. But the windows at Chartres were a revelation. They were like gleaming jewels on an enormous scale, wonderful, wonderful to behold. The deep-blue tones I especially remember. The windows in the clearstory of the nave are very beautiful, the superior height of the French cathedrals making these much larger and more beautiful than the corresponding windows in the English minsters. In the latter the choir is often fenced off from the nave by an ugly jube, or rood screen, surmounted by an organ, instead of being left open, as in France. The reason of this difference is that the French churches were built by the people, in an almost literal sense, for they not only gave money, but in some instances actually hauled the great blocks of stone in their pious zeal. Hence the French people rightly felt that these splendid buildings belonged to them.

At Chartres it makes one’s heart ache to see that the exquisite lacework in stone of the choir screen is broken in a number of places, though still most beautiful. The great triple porches, with their portals fairly crowded with sculptured figures, delighted us. Even the layman can see that the quaint, exaggerated elongation of the statues serves a definite architectural purpose.

At Beauvais we visited the famous tapestry-works and saw the workmen carrying on their craft. Each held a little mirror in his lap, showing the right side of the texture, the wrong, on which he wrought, being turned toward him. Their hands looked white and soft like a woman’s. Beauvais has its heroine, who seems to be little known outside the limits of the town. When Charles the Bold of Burgundy attacked the place the inhabitants defended it successfully, the women helping. In the market-place stands a statue of Jeanne LainÉ, or Hachette, the heroine of the fight. The banner which she captured with her own hands is still preserved.

It seems fitting that the boldest and highest flight of Gothic architecture should have been attempted in a place with such traditions. Alas! The result proved that it is best not to be overbold. The Cathedral of St. Pierre was and is a magnificent fragment, for it was never finished. When the noble and beautiful spire fell, five years after its completion, on Ascension Day, 1573, it was said that with it fell the pointed style in France.

We reached the Cathedral of Beauvais in time to witness a procession in honor of the Virgin’s Assumption. It was pleasant to see the townspeople thus making active use of their “enormous, though ill-proportioned and yet magnificent, church.”

We entered by the south transept, which is most beautiful and impressive. Standing before it, one does not see that the nave is wanting; one only admires a vast structure, richly carved. We found the choir made beautifully light and bright by its three lofty stories of stained glass. The building gives one no sense of repose, for in the desire to realize the vast height the eye constantly follows the course of the colossal piers as they rise up, up, up in the air. Alas! various scaffoldings erected in the interior to strengthen weak parts give one a feeling of insecurity.

From certain points of view, the Cathedral of Beauvais looks like a stranded monster of the past. Its vast height is exaggerated by the lack of a nave, making it appear high-shouldered and out of proportion. Yet other views of it are so beautiful and so impressive that we felt well repaid for our trip.

Before the year 1914 we thought of Rheims Cathedral as the most beautiful of the great sister churches of France. Now we think of her as of a loved one no longer living. We cannot speak her name without sorrow, for the crown of martyrdom has been added to her other glories.

We were so anxious to see as much as possible of the cathedral that we took rooms in the hotel opposite it. From our windows we looked directly out at the wonderful faÇade. There was one terrible drawback, however, to our proximity to the cathedral. We were awakened at about five in the morning by a loud and persistent ringing of the bells of the great church. The repetition of the same tone over and over again, several hundred times, drove Darby almost to distraction. Later we learned that it had been the custom to ring this tocsin at this time for four or five hundred years! What a comment on the industry of the place, and indeed of the French people generally!

We viewed the building from many points, noting the wonderful way in which the beautiful features of the structure echo from one part to another till they reach the highest pinnacle and vanish into the heavens, as the great church itself has now vanished, all but a few ruins. Perhaps it has again taken shape there. May we not hope to see its image, etherealized, in the Celestial City?

As to the faÇade, in these stirring days of the twentieth century it is splendid to think of it as the unsurpassed and unsurpassable triumph of democracy! For it was owing to the popular ownership of these buildings in France that the faÇade, or people’s end, became so wonderfully developed. For the same reason the French cathedrals stand in the streets of the town, always readily accessible to the people. Whereas the great English churches are shut away in closes, indicating the more aristocratic and exclusive rule of the clergy.

Darby irreverently observed that the English clergy in the cathedrals seemed as snug as mice in a cheese!

We saw many beautiful doorways in France, both in cathedrals and in smaller churches, but none can compare with those of Rheims. Their shape is of very great and peculiar beauty. These vast arched portals curve inward and downward almost like a cup.

I had some talk with the workmen engaged in making the restorations. These are imperative, as without them the cathedrals would go to decay. Rheims is built of a beautiful yellowish-brown material, but the stone is too soft to wear well. The repairs were made in a spirit of reverence. The method we found surprising. In reconstructing a pinnacle they build it up into the form of a single block of stone, and then carve it as a sculptor carves a statue out of a block of marble.

Late one August afternoon we stood before the lofty portals. I fancied the great figures near their base—the rows of saints—grew more lifelike in the twilight, as if preparing to step down from their niches. As evening fell the army of figures carved in stone seemed to give the cathedral a human look. They were almost alive in the twilight. What tales of the centuries were they prepared to tell us, these dumb witnesses of many a grand pageant and of the coronation of the kings of France for more than six hundred years! Did they feel a glow of national pride when the Maid of OrlÉans brought the recreant Charles VII hither to be crowned and achieved her greatest triumph under that vast roof?

The summit of our pilgrimage of joy had now been reached; after this there was a gentle descent to glories still great, but lesser than the five supreme examples of Gothic art we had already seen. To be sure, the Abbey Church of St. Ouen at Rouen is thought the most beautiful thing of its kind in Europe. We should have been only too happy to enjoy it as it stood, without criticism, save for one sad fault. The western facade—the glory of our other cathedrals—is very disappointing, for it is modern, and looks so! Indeed, it seems cheap and commonplace. It was built by Viollet-le-Duc, who did not adhere to the original plans, which still exist!

We admired greatly the faÇade of the Cathedral of Rouen, with its wonderful decoration. Monet has made a series of lovely paintings of it. We realized, however, that there was a distinct descent from the earlier, nobler, and more reserved monuments of Gothic art. It lacks the tremendous sincerity of these.

Ascending the towers of the various cathedrals we found a mystic and sometimes an alarming task. If a guide went with us, well and good, but often he trustingly left us to our own devices. Evidently we could not run away with the tower. A sacristan, however pious, is, after all, human, especially as to his legs. No matter how aspiring his soul, his frame cannot endure an infinite number of ascensions in the company of successive squads of tourists. So he often pressed a lighted taper into the hands of Darby, receiving in return a franc or so. Round and round the dark spiral staircase we wound our way, stepping always on the damp stones worn by the feet of countless pilgrims of the centuries. We could see but a short way before us. Suppose pickpockets or cutthroats were lurking around the next turn of the winding stairway, what could we do? Fortunately, we never met any one more alarming than tourists like ourselves, who passed us without hostile demonstrations.

Our stay in France had been a period of enchantment. When we reached Le Havre and embarked for England we began once more to touch the ground of real life. When every one about you speaks your language there is an end of the wonderful mystery that seems to encompass the traveler on foreign soil.

Things in England were not like things in America, but both were prose, whereas in France all had been poetry. The universal provisions against rain of course amused us—the reversible seats on the tops of the omnibuses, the rubber trousers which the policemen calmly folded up and laid, when not in use, at the feet of the lions of Trafalgar.

The cathedrals were beautiful, but we missed the soaring height of their French sisters. The English cathedrals are not true Gothic, like those of northern France, neither do they possess the wonderful wealth and variety of ornamentation of the latter.

At Plymouth we had the great pleasure of staying in an English country house, our hosts being Colonel and Mrs. Dudley Mills. Here we found the true British hospitality which is so delightful. The fact that some one—either your host or his myrmidons—is constantly thinking of your comfort is certainly pleasant. Cans of hot water, brought constantly to your door, are not so convenient, in reality, as faucets, but they add a personal and human touch, like the open-grate fires which some one must constantly tend!

The Devonshire clotted cream we especially liked. Also, after our continental experience, it was refreshing to see church floors actually washed!

To have Devonshire designated in the newspapers as the “West” of England seemed very funny. It had not occurred to us that the country was large enough to have any “West”!

Nothing in England impressed me more than the sculptures from the Parthenon in the British Museum. Not even the incongruity of their surroundings, in a bare, stuffy room, can mar their wonderful beauty. The grace of the recumbent figures in their marvelous drapery, the heads of the horses of the setting sun, the pageant of the Panathenaic procession, all the figures so stately, yet so graceful—truly the ruins of Greece are more glorious than any sculpture the modern world can show!

People said that it would be impossible for me to see Florence Nightingale, then a confirmed invalid living in extreme retirement.

But I felt confident that for the sake of her old friends, my parents, as well as for my own, she would receive her goddaughter if her health permitted. It was more than fifty years since she had written, “I shall hope to see my little Florence before long in this world,” and the time was growing short.

She had said, too, she trusted a tie had been formed between us which should continue in eternity: “If she is like you I shall know her again there without her body on, perhaps the better for not having known her here with it.”

With the extraordinary promptness characteristic of the London post, a reply to my letter came from Miss Nightingale’s secretary, appointing a time for me to call.

Our landlady tried to impress upon me the greatness of the privilege thus granted. Like all her countrywomen, she greatly admired Florence Nightingale, although, with the curious British reserve, the expression of her admiration was to be mortuary only.

“When she dies I shall send her a funeral wreath!” quoth Miss X. She also specified that the price was to be five dollars, if I remember aright.

Miss Nightingale’s house at 10 South Street, Park Lane, was in Mayfair, the aristocratic quarter of London. There was nothing especially striking about the quiet and commodious dwelling, with its air of dignified simplicity and retirement so well befitting the quiet tastes of its noble-hearted mistress. Florence Nightingale’s dislike of ostentation is well known. To serve her fellow-men and to relieve suffering was the ruling passion of her life, but she always shunned publicity, save as it might be necessary for the accomplishment of her work.

Upon my arrival I was met by a young lady, Miss Cochrane, who was, I presume, the secretary. She told me that Miss Nightingale had been interested in my letter and would enjoy seeing me. But she warned me not to stay long and to leave if my hostess seemed tired. Presently the nurse called me, and we ascended some flights of stairs till we reached a large pleasant room where I was ushered into the presence of Florence Nightingale. She was reclining in bed, propped up by pillows. A soft woolen shawl was around her shoulders. Her gray hair, still thick and not so white as that of most persons of her age (eighty-two), was parted in the middle and brushed smoothly down on each side beneath a plain cap. Her features were strong, the nose slightly aquiline, the eyes bright, apparently gray. She reminded me of Ralph Waldo Emerson in a certain shrewd and kindly look which seemed to betoken a strong sense of humor. Her complexion was good, her color also, with something of the English ruddiness. Her voice was strong and full, an unusual thing in a person of her age. A pad and pencil lay beside her, with which she made some notes in the course of our talk.

“What a dear old lady!” I said to myself as I looked at her. I had been warned that I must myself do the greater part of the talking, as it would not do to fatigue my distinguished hostess. In her Notes on Nursing she gives these vigorous and sensible hints for just such a visit as I was making.

Do you who are about the sick or who visit the sick, try and give them pleasure, remember to tell them what will do so. How often in such visits the sick person has to do the whole conversation.... A sick person does so enjoy hearing good news—for instance, of a love and courtship while in progress, to a good ending.

(How glad I am to think that I had the sense to tell her two of my sons had taken wives unto themselves. “I am glad they are married,” said the dear lady.)

A sick person also intensely enjoys hearing of any material good, any positive or practical success of the right. He has so much of books and fiction, of principles and precepts and theories; do, instead of advising him with advice he has heard at least fifty times before, tell him of one benevolent act which has really succeeded practically—it is like a day’s health to him.

Instead of repining at her enforced inactivity and grieving over her sufferings, like the usual egotistical invalid, this glorious soul found its health and strength in hearing of the good works of others! What wonder that her presence was like a benediction! People said to me afterward:

“Is she alone in her old age?”

“Whom has she with her?”

It was evident that she was shielded and tended with thoughtful care and kindness. One could not associate the idea of loneliness with her, although she had survived most of her contemporaries and near relatives. Perhaps a glorious but invisible company made that quiet room so bright and cheerful!

It need scarcely be said that I would have much preferred to have her take the lead in conversation, but, since this could not well be, I endeavored to tell her things she would like to hear. Miss Nightingale was up to date and interested in the questions of the day. We talked of many things and she was a most sympathetic listener. The questions she asked showed what close attention she paid to the conversation. They showed also her sound and practical common sense. She had, be it said, that most important gift, a strong sense of humor. Thus she was decidedly amused at my quixotic views with regard to the Elgin marbles in the British Museum. Knowing her interest in Greece (which she visited in her young days), I ventured to tell her my real thought—namely, that these ought to be returned to the Acropolis.

“Why do not you suggest this to Parliament?” Miss Nightingale asked.

She wished to know if my husband and I had been long in England, and we spoke of the various attractions of London.

When I descanted on the horrors of the Tower, with its great display of weapons for men to kill one another with, she said she, too, thought it horrible. I expressed the hope that when women had more to say there would not be so much war. That in my opinion men were afraid to give us more power, because, although they pretended to think us less clever, they really thought us more so than themselves and were afraid we would get the upper hand. Miss Nightingale asked whether I thought the men considered themselves more clever, and, with a spice of roguishness, inquired whether I would like to have the upper hand!

She had a way of making a little semi-humorous gesture with her hand, drawing it back slightly and then bringing it forward again. The fact that women already had the suffrage in four states of the Union interested her, and she asked which those were. On hearing that women voted for President in Colorado, Wyoming, Utah, and Idaho, she asked the practical question:

“Have you voted for President?”

I was obliged to confess that I had not.

Miss Nightingale said that women in America have more authority than they do in England.

She was pleased to hear about the Woman’s Journal, giving news of women all over the world. She asked for the address of the paper and wrote it down on the tablet lying beside her.

It was a pleasure to tell this dear lady of the health and vigor of her old friend and contemporary, my mother—that Mrs. Howe read Greek every morning.

That the blind had arranged and successfully carried out a celebration of the centennial of their benefactor and the friend of her youth, Doctor Howe, appealed to her, and she expressed a desire to have a copy of the monograph describing the occasion.

Miss Nightingale’s sense of hospitality would not permit me to leave without partaking of some refreshment. As we sat chatting together, afternoon tea with the usual accompaniments—toast, etc.—was brought for my delectation, all with the immaculate neatness and daintiness so characteristic of the author of Notes on Nursing. Miss Nightingale herself took no tea, but a goblet with what appeared like lemonade was brought to her.

So I had the honor of taking tea with one of the world’s greatest heroines! One would never have guessed this from her bearing, however. It was characterized by perfect simplicity and an entire absence of self-assertion. In a word, she had the manners of a true English gentlewoman of high breeding.

She more than once expressed regret that we had so little time for England, owing to a prolonged stay in France. This evidently impressed her, as she recurred to it. She seemed really sorry that we were obliged to leave England so soon, and said we must come back again.

I was indeed reluctant to leave her serene and beautiful presence, but, remembering the caution of the secretary and feeling upon honor, as I had been left alone with my distinguished hostess, I arose in due season to take my leave. I shall not soon forget the sweetness and fullness of the voice in which the dear lady bade me farewell I seem to hear that “Good-by” still ringing in my ears and repeated more than once as a sort of benediction: “Good-by! Good-by!” Her voice was like my mother’s. No sign of age was in its full, rounded tones, wonderful in a woman more than eighty years old.

Thus a beautiful old age, serene and tranquil, fitly crowned her life of most beneficent activity.

“The Lady with the Lamp” who watched over the sick soldiers, flitting from room to room when all others slept, lived to see her work multiplied a thousandfold and spread all over the earth. What wonder that the evening of her days was serene and happy in the thought of so much suffering saved, so much blessing gained to the children of men!