The beginning of the academic year in the autumn of 1848 found our trio of students back in their chosen places. Doris and Keren were to be graduated from Mt. Holyoke, at the close of the year, and Mark from A---. And then? Life looked fair, and their hearts were undaunted by apprehension of evil or of sorrow. They would teach; in homes of their own, they would fill to the full life's cup of joy; and through the vista of the coming years they saw awaiting them only light and happiness. The pile of letters, signed always "semper fides," filled Doris's treasure-box, and, carefully tied with a white ribbon, were deposited in a corner of her trunk, while a new collection gathered in place of the old. Mark had ground his teeth in wrath as he brought them from the post-office during vacation.
"She is so sweet and reasonable about most things," he had said to his mother, as Doris carried her letter to her room one day, "it makes me downright angry to see her so obstinate in this. That puppy! Sometimes when I think of Doris and John Allen I could almost kill him."
"Be careful, be careful, Mark. He proposes nothing serious yet."
"Yes, but he will when he dares, and he has no more manhood than our Jimmy, nor half so much. To think of a girl like Doris----"
"She sees him through a haze of romance, Mark. To her he is a knight on a noble quest, and she is his fair lady. All women love the worshipful adoration of a good man, and to each of us our knight seems valiant and true. God grant that our little girl may get her eyes open before it is too late. He is far too small in mind and heart for her, but he is not a bad man, and we will hope for the best. I think I need have no anxiety about your love affairs, my son," she said, with a smile. Mark, with an answering smile, left the room.
And now the days were filled for all with earnest work. Home letters went often from the farm to seminary and college. Bright letters from college and seminary to the farm kept each in touch with the others. Doris wrote from South Hadley:
Dear Mother:--
We are as busy as bees. Miss Lyon has given our class this motto, which I am sure you will like:
"Freely ye have received, freely give."
We are finishing Euclid, and Keren is much better in it than I am, but I like Chemistry and Butler's Analogy better than she. Our music is a great joy to us both, though she is ahead of me. In French we are about equally matched, and "parlez vous" often to each other. There is no doubt that we shall both be able, if we keep well, to finish this year; and if we do not, it will not be the fault of these teachers, for they all look after us like mothers. I don't need to tell you how that is, do I, dearest of mothers?
Miss Lyon's vigor is amazing. Those who know her best say that she seems to have taken a new lease of life. Xhe is able now to leave all the domestic arrangements in other hands, and give her time to the mental and spiritual life of her daughters. How any one can live here and not want to be very good I cannot see. We have missionary meetings, prayer meetings and meetings for those not definitely Christians, and yet, with all this serious undercurrent, we are encouraged to be as merry and happy "as all good girls should be."
Her heart is so big that it takes in the whole world, and she has let two of her own nieces go as missionaries. They were teachers here, and were as dear as really own daughters to her. Then Miss Fidelia Fiske, another teacher, went to Persia, which was a great joy as well as grief.
But here I am telling you things that you know already. Good-night. Always your little
Doris.
P.S. I am sending you some leaves from my journal, because I think you will enjoy them. Please preserve them for me; I must never lose them.
Miss Lyon's morning talks in Seminary Hall are full of serious persuasive tenderness. She walks rapidly into the hall, with her worn Bible under her arm. Her face has a wonderful light in it, and we know that she has come to us from her hour of prayer. She wears a simple cotton dress, a plain collar, and a snow-white cap. As she stands on the platform, we rise to receive her greeting, "Good morning, ladies."
We sing a hymn after she has read it, with beautiful expression, and then she sits with her hand on her Bible and, without gesture, explains the lesson of the day. These hours are profoundly, sweetly solemn, and we feel the strength and beauty of her message. We come away often awed into reverence, and stimulated to do our best in the service of God.
Often she makes us feel that the very ends of the earth are calling to us, individually, for salvation, and we are glad to give all we possibly can to send missionaries to heathen lands, among them some of her most cherished daughters, to help teach and preach the kingdom of God.
I will copy a few things here from my notebook that I want especially to remember:
"Never expect to govern others until you govern yourself."
"Never teach immortal minds for money. If your object is money-making, be milliners or dressmakers; teaching is a sacred employment."
"It is important to be prepared to be good mothers; you can then easily become good teachers, and will in any case be good members of society."
"Be perfect in all your requirements here, and you will have power to control yourself anywhere."
"Go where no one else will go, not seeking the praise of men, but the favor that comes from God only."
"If work needs to be done, and no one wants to do it, that is the work for you. Much of the work of the world, if done at all, must be done for love, not for pecuniary returns."
"It is a serious thing to live, to have responsibility, not only for your own life, but for your conscious and unconscious influence. No act, no word can be known to be without future consequences."
"The Seminary is His (God's), built by His direction. I have no more expectation that it will die than that I shall cease to exist in eternity. I doubt not that these walls (meaning the school) will stand to do His work in the millennium."
She urges us not to follow her methods too closely without adapting them to our own personality and to the circumstances in which we be placed.
Miss Lyon's afternoon talks are often full of wit and merriment, and we learn many a valuable lesson while waves of laughter are sweeping through the Hall. In every way, by serious entreaty, merry laaghter, and always with utter unselfishness and profound thoughtfulness, she tries to lead us to the attainment of the highest and best. Sometimes she is very beautiful. Her strong, sweet voice must echo always, I think, through these halls, and in the of hearts of her daughters here in New England, in far-away Persia, India, China, or wherever they may be.
"Never scold," she said one day; "if you cannot teach without scolding, lay aside your office."
One day she was talking to us about the care of our health, and said that if we could not take care of ourselves we ought to go to a school for little girls, adding, in her vivacious way:
"There are two things, young ladies, that we expressly say you must not do here. One is that you must not violate the fire laws; the other is that you must not kill yourselves. If you will persist in killing yourselves by reckless exposure, we think it would be better for you to go home and die in the arms of your dear mothers."
Midwinter came and went. The year was drawing near its springtime, and all seemed well at Mt. Holyoke, when a deep shadow fell. Doris wrote at once to her brother for counsel:
My dear Mark:-
I write to you first because I do not want to alarm mother. One of the senior girls is ill with erysipelas. The doctor does not think it is likely to be serious, but you remember what a dreadful time they had in the village at home a few years ago. Now if it should develop into anything alarming, ought I to stay or go home immediately?
Keren and I have talked it over, and if I go she will. We are not at all afraid and would much rather stay, unless the school should be closed. I do hope you both will say, "Stay, unless the school is closed."
Hastily but always lovingly,
Doris.
A few days later Mrs. Banner received the following letter from her daughter:
Mt. Holyoke, Feb. 24, 1849.
Oh, mother, mother, the senior girl is going to die, and many of the students are in a panic of fear! Miss Lyon has ordered disinfectants sent to every part of the house, and called us all together in Seminary Hall. She was so calm and full of courage, and told us we might go home if any of us were afraid, but that the work of the school would go on as usual. I am very glad that you and Mark wrote for me to decide as I thought best, and we shall stay.
I wish you could have heard Miss Lyon talk to us about death. It seemed really beautiful as she begged us to follow our dying friend up to the "Celestial City and, as its pearly gates opened to receive her, look in and catch a glimpse of its glories." No one of us can forget the rapture in her face as she exclaimed:
"Oh, if it were I, how happy I would be to go!" But added quickly: "Not that I would be unclothed while I can do anything for you, my children." She went on with inexpressible tenderness:
"Shall we fear what God is about to do?" and added, with an emphasis that thrilled our very souls: "There is nothing in the universe that I fear but that I shall not know all my duty or shall fail to do it."
Feb. 26. I did not get my letter posted, dear mother. Our friend is dead and her father carried her body away yesterday. Of course we are all very sad, but - Keren came in just now, her face as white as a sheet. Oh, mother, mother, dear Miss Lyon is very ill. I will write again soon.
A week of sharp agony for the beloved teacher followed. Pupils and teachers waited and listened with baited breath, and then the end came, Her great loving heart and active brain knew thenceforth no weariness, no pain.
They carried her in solemn procession to the church, to which on anniversary days she led her light-hearted followers. Her daughters followed her with bowed head and tearful eyes.
They buried her near an oak, east of the Seminary building, on a gentle hill; as the school journal recorded the sad experience of the hour, it was to them "like the blotting of the sun out of the heavens at midday."
Mary Lyon, of immortal fame! College girls of a later day, by thousands and tens of thousands, from Mt. Holyoke and from every college for women in the United States, and even from schools around the world, bring to you their tribute of undying gratitude for the work you wrought.
Do yon know, we wonder, in that fair land to which you have gone, of the far-reaching results of your labors? Do you know that your dream has come true, that large as are the privileges of culture for the men of our great Republic, the women of our day hold equal opportunity with the best? And do you know that, far beyond your dreaming, your country has honored you, pioneer of the highest education for women; that in the Hall of Fame, connected with one of the great universities of America, your name stands first in its majestic corridor, crowned again and again with chaplets of roses?
The routine of school went on as usual after those days of silence and sorrowful waiting. Should teachers and pupils work less earnestly or faithfully because the active brain and heart were at rest? There seemed an added incentive to every effort, and the class of 1849 came to their anniversary day with chastened hearts and, almost without exception, with honorable record.
Doris and Keren looked much like the "flowers" of 1846, in their snowy muslin gowns. No fairer girls received their diplomas that eventful day than Keren, with her coronet of red-gold hair wound about her stately head, and her deep, shadowy eyes; and Doris, with her tender eyes of violet-blue and irrepressible chestnut curls. Mrs. Banner and Amelia were looking proudly on, and Mark had come over from A---- for the day and the social evening at the Seminary.
The next day Mark took his degree at A----, with mother, sisters and the friend of his childhood in the audience. He was proudly conscious of them all - of his mother, who had a look of elevation that startled him; of Amelia, with her sweet matronly airs; of Doris, dimpling and smiling with the old dear comradeship of their childhood; of a pair of dusky eyes and a crown of Titian hair that often held him by their spell.
During the long ride home they talked of the plans for the coming year, already matured. Mark was engaged as teacher of Greek and Latin in the well-established academy for boys at Barnwell, Massachusetts, and would enter on his chosen career with the opening of the school year in October. Doris had accepted an offer to return to Mt. Holyoke as an assistant teacher in Latin, with opportunity to continue her study of French and music. Keren had suddenly laid aside, for a time, her cherished plan of teaching, to pay a debt of loving gratitude to the only mother she had ever known, a service which was to bring her full reward for her sacrifice in a real relationship as of mother and child.
"Do you think I could say 'no' to that, Mrs. Banner?" asked Keren, drawing a letter from her bag. "Please read it and tell me that I have decided wisely."
"dere keren," the letter ran, "i now take my pen in hand to let you no that i am well, and hope this may find you in the same state. i cannot say the same for mis Jones. she is very porely, and there is not much prospects of her ever bein any better. when she has rote you she sed nothin about it. she says keren is an eddicated lady and wants to teech. i cannot ask her to come hum to stay, for this is her hum and she seems like a darter to me, and teers fel when sed it. she doos not no that i am ritin this. no more at present.
Zachariah Jones."
"When did you receive this, Keren?"
"Only yesterday. I went at once to Miss Whitman and asked if I could be released from the engagement she had made for me. The request for a teacher had been for a Mt. Holyoke graduate whom she could recommend, and not for any special person. She knows of a young lady who will do just as well as I, and when I told her the circumstances she released me at once. But tell me, do you think Mrs. Jones will not get well?"
"I am sorry to tell you that it is only a question of time, my dear. It may be a few weeks or months, or it may be a year; no one can tell, but she cannot live long. I visit her often, but she made me promise that I would not tell you. She loves you like a daughter, Keren, but she is so reserved she has not been able to show all that she has felt. I am very glad that you have decided to stay with her. I felt sure you would when you saw how much she needed some one to care for her."
"She was always kind to me," said Keren, with quivering lip; "I will stay with her to the end, and she shall know a daughter's care."