he
calm peace of a river, whose banks are green with grass, and glad with
flowers.

_To Miss Eliza A. Warner, New York, Oct. 5, 1868_

This is the first moment since we reached home, in which I could write
to you, but I have had you in my heart and in my thoughts as much as
ever. We had a prosperous journey, but the ride to Rupert was fearfully
cold. I never remember being so cold, unless it was the night I reached
Williamstown, when I went to my dear sister's funeral.... I have told
you this long story to try to give you a glimpse of the distracted life
that meets us at our very threshold as we return home. And now I'm going
to trot down to see Miss Lyman, whom I shall just take and hug, for I am
so brimful of love to everybody that I must break somebody's bones, or
burst. John preached _delightfully_ yesterday; I wanted you there to
hear. But all my treasures are in earthen vessels; he seems all used up
by his Sunday and scarcely touched his breakfast. I don't see how his or
my race can be very long, if we live in New York. All the more reason
for running it well. And what a blessed, blessed life it is, at the
worst! "Central peace subsisting at the heart of endless agitation."
Good-bye, dear; consider yourself embraced by a hearty soul that
heartily loves you, and that soul lives in E. P.

On the 25th of October Mr. Charles H. Leonard, an old and highly
esteemed friend, died very suddenly at his summer home in Rochester,
Mass. He was a man of sterling worth, generous, large-hearted, and
endeared to Mrs. Prentiss and her husband by many acts of kindness. He
was one of the founders of the Church of the Covenant and had also aided
liberally in building its pleasant parsonage.

_To Miss Eliza A. Warner, New York, Oct. 26, 1868._

I am reminded as I write my date, that I am fifty years old to-day. My
John says it is no such thing, and that I am only thirty; but I begin to
feel antiquated, dilapidated, and antediluvian, etc., etc.

I write to let you know that we are going to Rochester, Mass., to attend
the funeral of a dear friend there. It seems best for me to risk the
wear and tear of the going and the coming, if I can thereby give even a
little comfort to one who loves me dearly, and who is now left without
a single relative in the world. For twenty-four years these have been
faithful friends, loving us better every year, members of our church
in New Bedford, Mercer street, and then here. They lived at Rochester