a writer not miraculously inspired. I read it once as a
theologian--and let me assure you, there is great theological acumen in
the work--once with devotional feelings, and once as a poet. I could
not have believed beforehand that Calvinism could be painted in such
exquisitely delightful colors."--COLERIDGE.

[4] The allusion is to Thekla's song in Part I., Act iii., sc. 7 of
Schiller's Wallenstein.

Du Heilige, rufe dein Kind zurueck!
Ich habe genossen das irdische Glueck,
_Ich habe gelebt und gelibet._

[5] The hymn referred to is Paul Gerhardt's, beginning:

Wir singen dir, Immanuel, Du Lebensfuerst und Gnadenquell.

It was one of her favorite German hymns. The lines she quotes belong to
the tenth stanza; "Ich kann nicht sagen Der Will ist da," are the words
pencilled in the margin.

[6] Hartley Coleridge's Poems. Vol. II., p. 139.

[7] But greatly to Mrs. Prentiss' annoyance, with the title changed to
_Ever Heavenward_--as if to make it appear to be a sequel to Stepping
Heavenward.

[8] Wife of the late Rev. Horatio Brinsmade, D.D., of Newark, N. J.

[9] "Polly" was particularly happy; six years old, I should say, shabby,
though evidently washed up for the occasion, and very pretty and all
pink with excitement. "Polly, I _knowed_ you'd get a prize," I heard a
young woman, tired out with carrying her own big baby, say. And then she
came upon her own geranium with three blossoms on it and marked "Second
Prize," and said, "I _can't_ believe it," when they told her that that
meant six shillings. But the plant which my companion and myself both
cried over, was a little bit of a weedy marigold, the one poor little
flower on it carefully fastened about with a paper ring, such as high
and mighty greenhouse men sometimes put round a choice rose in bud. That
was all; just this one common, very single little flower, with "Lizzie"
Something's name attached and the name of her street. All the streets
were put upon the tickets and added greatly to the pathetic effect;
just the poorest lanes and alleys in London. Nobody seemed to claim
the marigold. Perhaps it was the great treasure of some sick child who
couldn't come to look at it. It was certain not to get a prize, but
the child has found something by this time tucked down in the pot and
carefully covered over by F., when no one was looking, with a pinch of
earth taken from a more prosperous plant alongside.

[10] Miss W. showed me a very pleasant letter of