Chapter I

LICE B. WHITALL was the youngest of three children — all daughters — and was born in Philadelphia on the nth of 6th mo., 1839. When she was six years of age, her parents removed to MUlville, New Jersey, where her father was managing partner of the glass-works. Here we can imagine the little blue-eyed and flaxenhaired Alice, her wee hand clasped tightly in that of her father, watching the making and packing of the many-sized glass bottles, or playing on the portico with her little dog Carlo or favourite pussy, and now and then employing her busy little fingers in dressing her canary’s cage with green and chickweed.

Alice was about ten years of age when her parents removed to reside again in Philadelphia, where they lived, spending several summers at a country residence near Norristown, until she was fourteen years

A old, when her father’s business required their removal to New York.

From her earliest infancy Alice had always been delicate, and could never be kept at school for more than a few months at a time, on account of distressing’ headaches, which often entirely unfitted her for study. In after years she spoke of her childhood as being fai from the happiest period of her life. Of a highly nervous temperament, she was continually haunted by thoughts of death, and at night fearful dreams would often be followed by long seasons of wakefulness. She said years after, in reference to this time, “No one can know what I suffered during those long nights, nor how I dreaded going to bed. I don’t think I ever felt entirely safe or comfortable unless mother would let me curl up myself to sleep in her arms. My first ideas of the joys of heaven were connected with ‘There shall be no night there.’”

On reading the life of Charlotte Bronte, she remarked that the account of her childhood was the only thing she had ever read which at all corresponded with her own. She said, “At night I was troubled by bad dreams, and even in the daytime the thought of death followed me like a spectre. How often have I stopped in a game of blind man’s buff, or some other childish sport, saying to myself, ‘Well it is of no use, we shall all have to die and be buried in the ground.’”

She was very sensitive and loving, and very imaginative. Many years afterward she confessed that dreaming day-dreams was one of her chief occupations when a child.

Naturally conscientious, she early acquired a habit of self-examination by taking her little rocking-chair and sitting down by her mother before bedtime, to think over her words and actions of the past day. Even when in her teens, and almost ashamed of anything so childish, she could not compose herself to sleep until she had received an answer to the question, “Have I been a good girl to-day?” She thus refers to this habit in a letter to her mother, written when on a visit to Millville, in 1857: —

“It is getting near bedtime, and I seem to need some one to kiss, and ask, ‘Have I been a good girl to-day?’ How those old times come back to me, when thou and I used to sit here in this very room together, just at twilight, and ‘think over.’ I am afraid I am not half as dutiful a daughter now, though if all the stories I hear about myself are true, I could not have been anything very wonderful then.”

On the first page of her journal, begun when she was fifteen years old, she thus states her reason for keeping it: —

“New York, 2d mo. 2d, 1855. My purpose in commencing a journal is to put down every day, or as often as I can, all my little sins as soon as committed, so that at the end of the week I can look back, and, by the aid of this little book, remember more distinctly how I have spent the time.

“It seems so hard for me to bridle my tongue, and still harder to control my feelings. Oh, that I might be worthy of myself; the longing is intense within me. But I can do nothing of myself; I am very weak, not worthy even to creep upon the dust; yet how conceited I am; how I rest in my own strength! Oh, to be able to do something, to make some sacrifice! But this is vain; I ought to be contented in performing those little everyday duties, which are so difficult because they are so small.”

The following extracts are from the pages of this journal: —

“2d mo. 4th. At times I have felt an humbling sense of my own unworthiness, and seen very clearly how wrong I am in many of my feelings and desires. That I may some day be enabled to serve God better, and love Him more, is my humble prayer. To-morrow is meeting-day, and I am so glad, for to go to meeting is, I think, my greatest pleasure; but I fear I do not always make the best use of my time there. I am too fond of just sitting still and feeling that quiet happiness, without thinking of my sins and transgressions.”

After mentioning some impatient words spoken to one of the family on the previous day, she says: —

“2d mo. 6th.... After tea H — — came with

C. T, and we spent quite a pleasant evening; but

I secretly felt very unhappy, for I had been doing wrong, and I knew it....

“This morning, when I arose, the sun was shining brightly;’ all nature seemed to praise God, but I could not; so I went about in that hardened indifference that is so terrible, not feeling exactly comfortable, still not feeling sorry. About ten o’clock I went with Carrie to Gurney’s to get her picture, and when we returned I lay down, not feeling very well. After dinner I went about feeling very unhappy, not actually sinning in word or action, still sinning greatly in my heart all the time.

“Since tea I have been looking out the window.

It is clear moonlight, and the stars are shining brightly; they seem to speak right to my heart, and make me feel worse than ever. So now I have finished!

“Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I cannot pray. What shall I do? It seems wrong for me even to write that little word, /ray.”

Thus was her young heart groping in darkness for that rest and peace which came not until four years after, when she found the Lord Jesus Christ, who satisfied the desire of her soul.

At this time the happy trio of sisters was broken in upon by the marriage of the eldest, and her removal to Salem, Mass. Alice thus refers to it in her- journal: —

“4th mo. 12th, 1855. The wedding is over. Dear Annie is married and gone. How many thoughts and feelings, both painful and pleasant, crowd upon me as I write these words! They tell me that one dear sister has gone far from us, leaving an empty seat by our fireside, and a desolate feeling in our hearts. But I must not complain j it is all for the best, I do not doubt. I would not have my sisters remain single, yet it is hard to part.

“The world is full of sadness, and I cannot expect to escape from some portion of sorrow. Heretofore my life has been very tranquil — too much so, I sometimes think, to last; I cannot expect to pass through this world and meet nothing but sunshine.”...

“Oct. 8th. It has been a long time since I last took up my pen to write in this little book.... Yes, I am now sixteen, I am forced to confess it, and I am afraid not much better, if any j but I still con-ON THE ROCK: jet. iG.

tinue to hope that, through our blessed Redeemer, I may take courage....

“Jan. 1856. Again a whole month has passed since I have written in this journal, and yet I am still alive, and what the world would call happy; but I feel that I never can be happy until this hard and sinful heart is changed, and I can feel that I am regenerated, and that I am living for God alone.

‘* Oh, it is the earnest prayer of my heart at times, that I may learn to give up my will to Him in all things, and have no other desire than to follow Him in the narrow path that leadeth unto life eternal. But, oh, the wickedness of the human heart! How it clings to the world, and how impossible it would be, if it were not for the never-failing mercy of our Lord and Master, for us ever to rise above earthly things!”

“Aug. 31st, 1856. *.. I can scarcely believe that I am really seventeen; no longer a child, but standing, as it were, on the threshold of womanhood, with the future stretching out before me, overshadowed with so much mystery, and, in my hours of despondency, with so much dread; but I feel sure that it is wrong to despond, for if we constantly seek strength where no poor repentant sinner ever looked in vain, we shall be able to rise above the tempestuous billows that everywhere beset us, and at the end of life’s stormy day rest in the assurance of acceptance in that happy land where perfect rest and peace and joy abound.”

“Dec. 28th, 1856.... May God be pleased to take the whole of this wicked heart to Himself! It is, indeed, very unworthy of acceptance, and oh, I do so fear that I shall stray entirely away, and become worldly, and that God will be angry, and never strive with me any more.

“Oh, I am altogether so wicked, I don’t know what will ever become of me? God, I know, is good, and if I would only strive with all my strength, and pray with all my heart, He would give me more strength, and a warmer heart; but I don’t, and it seems to me as though I cannot, I am so utterly vile. When I think of all the innumerable blessings and mercies which my Heavenly Father has showered upon me ever since I was born, I look in wonder at my stony heart, that it does not overflow with thankfulness.”

• •••••

Dear Alice’s desires after salvation were much stimulated by her intercourse with her eldest sister, who, after many weary months of deep conviction for sin, was led, shortly after her marriage, to see that in Christ was her only hope of redemption. It was not until years after that she came out into the full light of the Redeemer’s love; but, though clinging to Christ with a trembling faith, she still felt that her trust in her Saviour was worth all the wealth of all the worlds, for it was her only hope of eternal life; and she longed that her sisters might relinquish what she could not but see were their vain efforts to build up a righteousness of their own, and trust in that Saviour, who was daily becoming more precious to her. Her prayers for them were unceasing, and she often spoke to them of Christ as the Saviour of sinners.

Alice was much moved by the entreaties of this

JET. 17.

dear sister, and confessed some years after that the first glimpse she had of the truth as it is in Jesus came to her through some words spoken by Annie in the Lord’s strength. She said that during her visits to this sister, when Annie would read todier from the Bible, and pray for and with her, she would be almost persuaded to trust simply to Christ for salvation, but that on her return home the combined influence of some very dear friends of Unitarian tendencies was too much for her feeble, fluctuating: faith; and although calling Christ her Saviour, she came to look upon Him in the light of a “helper” and great “exemplar,” and, in the effort to make her life like His, forgot and practically ignored the blood of cleansing.

The following letter, which shows the depth and earnestness of her feeling, was written in the spring of this year, and is in reply to one from this sister, who ceased not her efforts until Alice became a decided Christian: —

“New York, 3d mo., 1S57.
“My Dearest Sister, —

“Thy letter came to me to-day, thou cannot tell how acceptably. It made me cry so that I did not finish it for at least fifteen minutes after I commenced to read it; and now I can scarcely write, my tears fall so fast j for, O Annie! I have been so unfaithful, so miserable!

“I have gradually this winter become more interested in dress, and the opinion of others, until my devotional duties have become — how can I say it? — a task, my prayers hurried, and sometimes almost omitted, and yet, canst thou believe it, I was scarcelyaware of it until- 1 read thy letter. Yes; I must have known it, but I was not willing to think about it, and now I am so afraid this is but a fleeting knowledge of my sin.

“Oh, how I wish that my whole life had been spent in earnestly trying to glorify Him. I know we can do nothing of ourselves; but God loves us when we try to please Him. Oh, to think of His anger! May He have mercy upon me, or soon it will be too late. I have been so sinful! but by God’s grace I will look for redemption through Christ; although it seems scarcely possible that He will give such a sinful wretch as I His Spirit to comfort and guide me. .Oh, that God would change my heart, and make me love Him. I do want to do right, but it seems as if I cannot even want to do right long at a time.

“I intend to write to thee always and tell thee just how I get along, and how hard I find it. Do write me letters of advice, and keep me in mind of all I ought to do....

“If my blessings could do thee any good, they would not cease to fall upon thee day and night; but God will bless thee for all thy help to me. Good night.- Alice.”

While dear Alice’s inner life was thus full of conflict, and she was wearily seeking strength to fight the battle of life, and failing, because she sought it not through the blood of the Atonement, her outward life was also full of interest, and called forth much fee line:.

Her only remaining sister was married in the 4th to ON THE ROCK: X.T. 17.

1110. of this year — 1857 — and Alice, while giving out her sympathies to their fullest extent, in the prospect of happiness opening to her sister, and bearing her own burden of loneliness at the separation, was, through all, learning more and more of the sinfulness of her own heart, and longing more anxiously to find peace to her soul.

She was also at this time much occupied in arrangements for the removal of the family to a country residence, near Norristown. Though anticipating much enjoyment in her new home, it was still a trial for Alice to leave New York. She had made warm friends there, and was, beside, much attached to the house itself, particularly to a little sitting-room in the third story, with its open-grate fire, and deep windowseats filled with her own choice plants. She used sometimes to say laughingly that she was like a cat in her attachment to localities, and she thought no room, however elegant, could ever be like this little sitting-room, where she had spent so many delightful hours with her sister, sewing and reading, or sitting before their bright fire conversing, often until a late hour at night.

Shortly after the marriage of this sister, Alice bade a last farewell to her New York home, and went with the bride and groom to visit their sister Annie, who some time before had removed to reside in St John, N. B. Alice’s letters speak of her joy at again embracing this dear sister, and for the first time seeing her new nephew, Charley, “who,” she adds, “is as fine a little fellow as ever owned an Aunt Alice.”

After a short but delightful visit, the party returned, leaving Alice at her new country home, near Philadelphia, where her parents had already preceded her.

This home was, for the remainder of Alice’s life, the one spot on earth where her interests and affections centred. Natural beauty had always a great charm for her, and this place, commanding a fine view of the Schuylkill valley, and the blue hills rising in the distance, was well calculated to satisfy her love for the beautiful. The prospect from the room which her father had built especially for Alice was truly lovely. It gave her great enjoyment to sit in the recess of her large bay window, and, while engaged in reading or writing, to view the varied landscape — sometimes watching the mists roll off the opposite hills, or the shadows of the clouds as they chased each other over the sunny slopes.

This place in Alice’s room might also be called her Bethel. Here she resorted for reading and prayer, and sometimes, after all the family had retired for the night, she would sit for hours in the calm moonlight, enjoying these seasons of meditation and communion much more than she could those taken from the hurry and bustle of the day.

She was much interested in the naming of this place, and “Tswedelle,” which was finally settled upon by her father, recalled many pleasant associations to Alice’s mind. It was the sound of the note of a favourite bird, which, during her childhood at Millville, came regularly every day in winter, and perched himself upon a certain woodpile near the house, and sang his morning song “Tswedelle, tswedelle, tswedelle, tswee,” to the great delight of his little friend, who would often try to imitate his clear melodious note.

To the many friends who were entertained by her here, the name “Tswedelle” instantly recalls Alice, as, in health and happiness, she graced this beautiful home, as well as when during her lingering illness, by her cheerful faith and resignation, she shed a hallowed lustre upon all the scene.

In the planning and laying out of the grounds her taste was much consulted, and one walk leading to the woods which skirted the south corner of the lawn was entirely of her own devising, and was always called Alice’s walk. It was her delight to search here early in the spring for the first delicate wild-flowers.

She selected the spot and chose the design for a lovely rustic summer-house, which also bears her name, from which is a beautiful view down the hillside to the hollow, named by her father “The Dimple,” and off through the vista of trees to the valley below, and the blue hills beyond. The groups of flowering shrubs which conceal it from view, and the vines which twine over its rustic sides, all speak of her taste and energy. Indeed there is not a spot about the place which is not associated with memories of Alice, for a tree or shrub could not be planted without her judgment, and the designing and arrangement of the beds of flowers were left entirely to her.

Her conservatory was also a source of much enjoyment, and in these pure and simple pleasures she maintained her interest throughout her life, although after her conversion they became subservient to her work for her Master.

She was truly the sunshine of the whole place. Her “bright way,” as one of her sisters termed it, was peculiarly her own. Her light step and sweet voice, as she went round the house singing like a bird, gladdened every heart, and although, at the time of their removal to Tswedelle — as has been manifested in her letters — feeling the innate corruption of her nature, and realising the necessity of a change of heart, she was to the observer the thoughtful, affectionate daughter, the unselfish sister, and the true and sympathising friend.

From this time it does not appear that Alice wrote anything in her journal, and her letters during the first year of their residence at Tswedelle seldom refer to her inner life; something of it, however, is revealed in the following extract from a letter written to an intimate friend, in the latter part of 1858, and is full of interest, as expressing her earnest desires afcer righteousness and her increasing dissatisfaction with her own vain efforts at self-improvement.

She was in the habit, in writing as well as in speaking, of using the pronouns “thee” and “thou” to her own family, and to those of her correspondents who belonged to the Society of Friends, of which she was a member, and it has been thought that it would seem more natural and like herself to give the letters just as they were written.

To A. U. C.

“Tswedelle, Sept. 1S58.

... “Allow7 me to tell thee, dear A ,that thy

last letter just suits me. I would not give a fig for a letter that tells me about everybody else and nothing of the dear one who writes it: so do please be egotistical, if the only effect is to make thee speak of thyself and thy own feelings. To speak of myself, I do not know what is to become of me. When I look back and remember the dawn of my fifteenth birthday, how very bright it was, and as I watched the sun rise in the east, how full my soul was of hopes and aspirations; how determined I felt then, on the very threshold of youth, to take a stand for the right, to live from that time for duty and not for pleasure, — yes, when I look back I am almost disheartened, for in the four years which have passed since then I have nothing to look upon but resolutions forgotten, intentions unfulfilled, and at best but a weak groping after light that came not.... But in this time when the grace of God seems so bountifully poured out upon our land, I dare to hope that He will extend His mercy unto me and take my heart, for I am utterly unable even to give it to Him. I don’t know how I came to write this to thee, darling; I had no intention of doing so when I commenced, but it seemed impossible to help it; in fact, for months past this subject has been much in my mind.”

The following letter was written from Millville, the home of her childhood, where her sister “Carrie” resided for some years after her marriage. It is in reply to one from her eldest sister, begging her to write more freely of spiritual things: —

“Millville, Dec. 1858.
” My Dearest Sister Annie, —

“As Carrie is occupied, I embrace this opportunity to tell thee how much obliged I am for thy dear little note. It is very nice to have thee take such’ a deep interest in me.

“I feel, indeed, that I have no merit of my own, and I have no hope but in a redeeming Saviour, who has promised to aid all that come to Him, however weak or wicked. I do, indeed, desire to have no other wish than to serve Him, no other aim than to perform the work He requires at my hand, no other love to compare with my love for Him, and no other hope but the hope of receiving mercy at His hand. I am, indeed, very far from this; but He never requires anything that He will not give us the strength to perform; all we have to do is to live as near as we can to what we see to be right, and to trust all the rest to the working of His Holy Spirit in our hearts.”

Such was the state of her soul in the latter part of the year 1858. The great foundation truth that we must be born again in order to enter into the kingdom of God, and that this new birth must take place before the soul can know the indwelli?ig and guidance of the Holy Spirit, wmich is the gift of God to those who believe in Jesus, was not yet comprehended by her. The sentiment expressed in the last letter, that we must do the best we can and leave the rest to the Holy Spirit, is the natural feeling of many unconverted hearts, and very often, as was the case with Alice, lulls the awakened sinner for a time into a false peace.