New York. Oct. 27. 1847.
My dear Mary,
Tis not that I have not thought of you often, very often, that I have not written you. No, oh no. But the fact is, I am grown strangely negligent in regard to writing letters. To tell the plain truth I have now no regular correspondent but my mother. It is not because I love my friends "less" but that household and parish duties press "more". I have not heard a word from you in a long, long while, except what David Sawyer's wife told me and that was that your health was not good. This is news that for a long time I have been fearing I should hear. I am very anxious to know how you are at present. Do not tender evil for evil, but write me how you are immediately. I do not think you ought to teach another day. If I were you, I would come home to New England and see if I could not get recruited. There is no necessity, Mary of your teaching so constantly. Do pray leave it and come home. And as you come, on your way, make your plans so that you can stop with me two or three weeks. I am in earnest in giving this invitation. As I told you I believe in my last letter, I am now keeping house and nice it is to have a home even in a "hired house" where one can have their own friends stay with them. My little boy is now with his grandmother Webster in Boscawen. He was quite sick this summer and we did not dare bring him on when we came. We expect both of them here next week. Of course I want to see them "a little".
You have doubtless heard of the death of Libbe Pitkin's brother Frederick at Delavan, Wisconsin. Did you know, that he killed himself? He was just recovering from a brain fever, induced by over exertion and toil in his field of labor, and the delirium of the fever had not then left him. His poor widow still remains there with one little daughter. I have not had a word from Libbe in a very long while. The last time she did write me, she said, that she had written to you and that you had never answered that letter. She is at home at East Hartford with her mother.
Have you seen the Memorandum Catalogue. It gave me a mournful pleasure to sit down and read over those names, some of them so dear to me. Many are there reported as dead, of whose deaths I had never learned. Soon we must go. How important that we be found ready. I hope dear Mary that you are enjoying the blessed presence of Jesus. Oh if we can only feel, if we only have the evidence to feel, that God is reconciled to us by his son Jesus Christ our Savior, how does it mitigate the pains and sorrows of earth. Let us put our trust in him, cling to him, and though cast down, you shall never be forsaken. How precious the promises of Jesus - "He that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out." "Cast your burden on the Lord and he shall sustain you". "Come unto me all ye that are weary and heavy ladened and I will give you rest." Oh how I wish I could see you, nurse you up, give you a "dose of Castor oil" if necessary. But God can do more for you than any earthly friend. I think you had better come home directly. Won't you? Your health is of more consequence than any temporal good. It is your duty next to your soul, to take care of that. I dont [sic] think the employment of teaching and the climate agrees with you. At any rate, just try the effect of a journey east.
Did you know that our dear Mr. Condit of South Hadly [sic] has gone to his rest on high. Yes, oh yes. It is true. There are many excellent spirits in heaven, are there not? Above all Jesus himself is there. It sometimes seems as though we should not be so loathe to think of going there. But it will be of rich, free sovereign grace, if we ever get there. I think I feel this more & more, viz. that if saved at all, Jesus must save me.
Persis (Thurston) Taylor sailed for her native isles on Monday last in the ship Matilda. She was in excellent spirits. Annette (Hubbell) Peabody left for the west some two or three weeks since. I hope you may see her. But it is getting late and I must bid you "good night." Do write me immediately, won't you & tell me just how & where you are. The Lord bless you, the God of Jacob defend you.
Your affectionate friend,
Ann R. Eaton.Mr. Eaton would send his love did he know I was writing.
[Research supplied from "jkpaper27," a dealer on eBay:
The writer of this letter, Ann R. (Webster) Eaton, (1823-1910), was born in Boscawen, NH. She graduated from Mount Holyoke Seminary in 1842, and was a teacher there from 1843 to 1845, when she married Rev. Horace Eaton, (1810-1883) of New York City, and later resided in Palmyra, NY, where he was Pastor for many years.
The letter is to Mary Pickering Thompson (1825-1894), born in Durham, NH, the daughter of Ebenezer Thompson (1797-1826) and Jane Demeritt (1794-1869). She was the great-granddaughter of Judge Ebenezer Thompson (1737-1802), the Revolutionary war patriot. She received her early education in Durham and in 1845 graduated with honors from Mt. Holyoke Female Seminary. In 1847 she converted to Catholicism and entered the Notre Dame Convent in Cincinnati, Ohio. Subsequently, she taught in Ohio, Kentucky, Texas, and Maryland, and made several trips to Europe.
From 1877 until her death, Mary lived in Durham and engaged in local historical and genealogical studies. In her time, Thompson's library was thought the "finest and rarest collection of books and manuscripts" in the state, while she herself was considered the "best cultured woman in New Hampshire" (John Scales, Miss Mary Pickering Thompson).]