The Missing Letters of Mirinda Piper, part 3

Lincoln, May 12, 1858.

Dear Friend:

I have quite a task before me to answer three letters; but as it is my own fault (and really I do not consider it a task by any means) I have nothing to say. When I received yours of April 20th, I was undecided what to do and waited till I thought it was too late for you to receive a letter from me before leaving home. I am sorry now I did not write immediately for I know what it is to expect a letter and be disappointed.

I received the engraving Saturday night, about four weeks since. It is a beautiful picture, so life like; one almost seems to be in the midst of the happy group. I sincerely thank you for remembering me enough to have it sent.

Truly a private life is far preferable to a public one. A person that serves the public has a thankless office and he must be far happier who is aloof from all the harasses a public life naturally brings with it. If happiness is not to be found at home among our nearest and dearest friends, I ask, where is it to be found?

Please do not think your letters will ever be out of season or visits either. You need not apologize for your letters nor warn me of your visits; any time it is convenient I will not only be pleased but happy to see you or hear from you. I do not know how to express myself about burning your letters. I would as soon think of burning anything else as them, and you surely ought to know that by this time. (Excuse my impertinence)

Well, I was at the wedding. There was not much to describe, except that they both think they are the happiest people in this world, but as that is sure to be the case, it is not much use to tell that. The happy couple start tomorrow on the cars for Missouri where he resides. It is about 14 miles from Kansas in the south part of Missouri. By the way, her name was Miss Rachel Rush and his is Mr. Rankin. By the way (also), there was another of my friends married the same day; so they go, one by one, till there will hardly be any girls here at all after awhile; there is certainly few enough here now.

It has rained almost incessantly here ever since I can’t tell when. The farmers are nearly discouraged and think they will not raise any corn this year at all. The roads are perfectly awful and in many places are impassable.

This is certainly the most entertaining and interesting sheet imaginable. I think if you was to try to burn this, it is so “dry” it would flash up like powder.

I have often thought that my old friends have all forgotten me or only remember me as insignificant and hardly worth mentioning. I have so little confidence in myself some times I think I have not enough and very often I think I have too much.

As it is getting very late, I will close this dry epistle, although I have not written near as much as I thought when I began.

I remain yours                   

Most Truly,                 

Mirinda Piper         

Mr John Andrews

Lincoln, Ill. May 26th, 1858

Dear Friend:

Yours of the 26th was received today, and I was very happy to hear you would be here so soon. I hasten to say that I will be happy to see you and also at any time that it is convenient for you to call, as I said before.

There has more rain fell since you were here than I ever saw in the same length of time before, but as the “oldest inhabitant” is not at home, I do not know how much he has been. The roads are nearly impassable and it seems as if there would never be any more pleasant weather.

I answered yours of May 5th almost immediately on the reception of it, but I suppose the rain has deranged the mails so much that it is uncertain whether you ever received it.

The moon is shining brightly for the first time in a long time. Do you ever look at the moon? Of course you do, but do you ever think that the same moon is looking down on all our friends at the same time, and although we are separated we can be gazing at the same beautiful moon?

I sincerely hope you will have a pleasant journey and arrive here at the time you expected to. I will send this tomorrow and perhaps you will get it by Friday, but if you do not, it will not be much difference as you come soon.

You must not expect a very lengthy or sensible letter this time (but as you never receive any of the latter kind from me you will not be disappointed) as my ideas are very much scattered and confused this evening.

Once more wishing you a safe journey and a pleasant time, I will bid you good night.

Most truly yours,                                

Mirinda Piper                           

Lincoln, June 6th, 1858

Dear Friend:

Well, you did have a good time generally, on your way home and saw some sights. You saw “three drunk men and Miss Jackson”, I presume they were in different crowds. You did stay till “the rain was over” for that day and the next; but on Wednesday the rain came down as if we had not had any for a month. You ask “how large the moon seems to me”, well, about as large as a very small plate, is not that about the size.

Since you were here, I have thought deeply on what you spoke of at that time. I have certainly given you every assurance in my power that you are preferred. I have always had the most entire confidence in you and it has never been shaken since our association began. I believe I am not mistaken in your character—that I do know you, and oh! that you may never think of me different from what you do now. My heart has long been yours, as you already know. My spirit is always with you, whether in danger or out of it. Yes, I have trusted you far and will trust you farther if you can me. I can return no other answer,—although I sometimes tremble when I think that your happiness is involved. Oh! what would I not endur rather than be the cause of unhappiness in you. Destiny seemed to have thrown obstructions in my way from my childhood but could never blot from my memory the virtues I ever believed you to possess. Not even a sense of my deficiencies could make me forget you. But will not the course of the dearest and kindest of friends be a guide and a stay to me? The prospect cheers me and bids me hope I may succeed.

You spoke of my parents. The thought of being separated from me seems very painful to them, yet, to everything else they prefer the happiness of their children, and, honoring you as they do, will not stand in its way.

Now, I have written frankly just what my feelings are towards you. Have I spoken too plainly or said too much? You speak of my happiness. Could I have any greater earthly pleasure than to be loved by one so dear to me?

No doubt you have arrived safe at home before this time and picked up another of my letters on your way. I do hope the mails have not got so entirely out of order that we will not get our letters regularly, for that would certainly give me the “blues” and you know that is a very bad disease.

I was down to Salt Creek today and thought what a pleasant time we had there a few days ago. Your initials are there, just as you left them. Also, I was in town last week and had my miniature taken and our folks say it flatters “orfully” and I think it does too.

Well, I believe I have written all the nonsense I can think of so I will close for the night.

I remain yours as ever,                               

Mirinda Piper                                  

Mr. John Andrews

Lincoln, Ill. June 28th, 1858

Dearest Friend:

Yours of the 20th was received 5 days after it was written, as soon as could be expected, considering the roads and weather.

Although I know it will be a severe trial for me to leave my parents and would rather, if it was perfectly convenient, be near them, I will not be selfish and am willing to go with you where ever you propose. I have not the least shadow of fear that you will “deceive” me, neither have my parents, if I had, I would not have trusted you with my happiness. I am bound to my home by closer ties than most girls of my age. Father being from home so much of the time, I was almost the only companion my mother had, and never being away from home more than one week at a time, it will be very hard on me for a while; but, as I have never lived in one place long at a time, am of course, not much attached to any country. As Father never stays very long in a place, I could not expect you to live near him, and you know my sentiments in regard to changing residences.

You ask, what time do I propose. I would much rather you would suggest some time, as you are as much concerned as I am, and perhaps it would make more difference to you than it would to me; at least you can propose some time in your next; as you have all the trouble of coming, you should certainly have something to say in the matter.

I am glad you intend to write often, it is such a long time to wait for a letter, I get nearly out of patience. Your miniature is a source of great pleasure to me, there is nothing I prize so highly. Why did you not speak about mine when you were here? I would certainly have had it taken, bad as the weather was. If you wish it, I will send it by mail, although would much rather you would come after it, but know that is impossible as you have been here so lately and it is such a great distance.

The Art journal came duly to hand some days since and I am very much pleased with it. There are some very interesting pieces in it, but presume you have seen it.

Father has been very unwell for two or three weeks, so much so he has been on the bed most of the time. This morning he thought he would ride over to Lincoln and did so. He took my letter and on arriving there found it was gone. He looked everywhere he had been but could not find it. I was very sorry and so was he but it could not be helped. I concluded I would write another immediately. I would have waited until I received another from you but knew you would be uneasy; I know I would be. You have the advantage of me in that particular, you take your own letters to the P.O. but I have to send mine by someone else and do not always know whether they will go safe or not. I would not have troubled you with this explanation if I had not thought I might be possible some person would find it and put it in the P.O. and you would think strange receiving two letters so near alike. I know you will excuse it as it was an accident and one that I could not possibly avoid, nor any one else for that matter.

I was just thinking the other day how much we had been favored; none of our letters have been miscarried or lost before and this would not have happened if Father had been well. I have always feared something of the kind would happen ever since the correspondence began. This is truly a “tedious way of communicating with each other” but, as you say, “must be endured for a while yet”.

You do not know how much pleasure your letters give me or I am sure you would write every week. You know, I promised to write every time you did and I will. But I must “bring my few lines to a close.

I remain yours                                   

Very Truly,                                     

Mirinda Piper                             

John Andrews


Ernest John Andrews wrote: The lost letter referred to was no doubt picked up and mailed by some thoughtful person, as it was received, and here it is:

Lincoln, Illinois

June 28th/58

Dear John:

Yours of the 20th was received 5 days after it was written; much sooner than I expected, considering the weather. There has been no rain here for about two weeks and the farmers are complaining of the dry weather and wish it would rain almost as much as they wished it to stop some time since.

Although I know it will be a great trial for me to leave my parents and would rather if it was perfectly convenient be near them, I will not be selfish. I am willing to go with you where ever you propose. I have not the least shadow of a fear that you will deceive me, neither have my parents. I am bound to my home by closer ties than most girls of my age. Father being absent from home so much, I was almost the only companion my mother had, and never being away from home more than a week at a time, it will be hard on me for a time, but not having lived in one place for any length of time of course am not much attached to any country, and you know my sentiments with regard to changing residences. As my parents never stay very long in one place, I could not ask you to live near them unless it perfectly suited you. I am very thankful for your disinterestedness. Few men would be willing to surrender their judgment to any and I certainly do appreciate your kindness. May I ever prove worthy of such tenderness.

You ask what time do I propose. I would much rather you would suggest some time in your next, as you are as much concerned as I am and perhaps it will make more difference to you than it does to me; as you have all the trouble of coming, you certainly ought to have something to say in the matter.

I am glad you are going to write often, it is so long to wait for a letter I get almost out of patience waiting. Your miniature is a source of great pleasure to me; there is nothing I prize so highly. If you had just spoken about mine when you were here, I would have had it taken, bad as the weather was, and if you would like to have it, I will send it to you by mail. I do not think you can send me a dog; you will have to come and bring it and I don’t care how soon. The Art Journal came duly to hand a few says since and I am very much pleased with it but I presume you have seen it. The weather is so warm I can hardly get my breath. If it stays this way long, there will be nothing raised here.

I remain very truly yours,                            

Mirinda Piper                                     

John Andrews very properly wrote to Mirinda’s parents formally and asked for her hand in marriage. Ernest John Andrews wrote: Evidently, John Andrews wrote to the parents, asking for their daughter, as they wrote as follows:

Lincoln, Il. July 5th, 1858

Mr. Andrews

Dear Sir:

                                                                                               Your letter of June 28th was received in my absence and my wife wrote you on another part of this sheet— She was in bad health and perhaps you may not be able to decipher it all.

I join in the request she has made in regard to her religious privileges, etc. Tho’ I must say that I have not the remotest fear of any abridgement.

It truly is a hard task to give up a beloved and favorite child; but I have so much confidence in the hands of them she is confided to that it greatly lessens the pain.

I have not a shadow of reason to offer as an objection, yet, I could wish you could be nearer to us that we might enjoy your society more. But our lots are cast at present where they are and we must submit.

Yours truly,

                    B. B. Piper.

Dear Friend:

Your request recalls to mind a subject on which I have thought much. Not that I expect to arrive at any very wise conclusions by study or thought. But thought toils on like destiny. It is never idle even when the objects of its solicitude are wrapped in quiet slumber. What care, anxiety, on a subject that to all outward seeming should give only joy. Yes, care, not unmingled (I confess) with gratitude and hope. I am not ignorant of the truth that the union of fortunes so widely different in almost everything is a matter of no small moment. I say almost, for the true heart is a priceless gem that can never be excelled. We may speak thus of our human flowers, our coveted treasures; but others are not so partial. Therefore, no small share of wisdom will be required to perform successfully the duties of the new position with which you propose to honor my child; and, will that wisdom be granted in the time of her need? is the question I have asked myself, O! how often.

Even her untaught and absent minded mother might sometimes give counsel that would be useful. But she will need a stronger and wiser friend; and will that true friend, that faithful prompter be ever near; will he find means to impart what will be received in the same spirit of love in which it is given?

Her religious views are known to you. I scarcely think it necessary to say that I desire there may be no abridgement of those privileges to which she has been accustomed. The tenderness with which I have heard you speak of your mother and sister assures me that such a request would be unnecessary. Nor do I believe you would seek to draw her away from the principles whose strength and purity have sustained her under so many trials and which better than any other support can give the power to be a cheerful companion through life. How much you many need such an one is not now known, nor how much you may sacrifice for your fellow men. Minds are seldom endowed with such powers unless they are needed. The field will be shown sooner or later or I misjudge.

I strangely forget. Why do I thus weary you? None but a mother knows a mother’s heart. Your mother! O! that I could know she would never regret, with just cause, the choice of her son. May my child never be lacking to you and yours; and may every cloud and chill mist be driven away by the warm sunshine of affection, should any such arise.

Yes, should you be permitted to claim the performance of the promise so sincerely made you have my full and free consent. You are the only man I ever saw to whom I could willingly have given the child in whose life my own is so perfectly bound up that I tremble to think she is no longer mine. O! may your path be bright. Fain would I pluck away the thorns and leave only the flowers.

“Be pardoned one repining tear, for he who gave her knows how dear.” [note 1]

Undying Truth but claims its own; yet dreaded thought, alone, alone. [note 2]

With my best wishes for the welfare of you and yours.

I am your friend,

                                                     Delia D. Piper

Ernest John Andrews wrote:
This is a remarkable letter. It is the supreme renunciation of a woman of sorrow. Much of the time of her husband was spent away from home, ministering to his various churches, work in which he delighted, and among those who sought to make his life pleasant. While she struggled much alone in ill health against poverty and the sickness of her four young children. Her church ministering was largely to care for those who were often “visitors” but not “company”; who sought often bed and board for a day. Three times she had followed a child to its grave; and long since her own mother had died. In those days, not only were children afflicted with the ills of our day but many more. She, herself, when the letter was written was in “bad health”, and she soon after grew worse and died. She, perhaps, knew that her end was near, and she realized that parting with her “coveted treasure” would end her hopes for joy on earth.

But the letter discloses only respect, admiration, and best wishes towards the seeker of her treasure. She made no complaint. She asked for no delay, though her child was but seventeen. The little she desired was taken for granted. she was a devout church woman; a minister’s wife; and was giving her “child in whom her life was so perfectly bound up” to a comparative stranger who lived beyond the state, and who was neither a church member nor a believer in her creeds. And yet, with breaking heart she writes: “Should you be permitted to claim the performance of the promise so sincerely made, you have my full and free consent. You are the only man I ever saw to whom I could willingly have given the child in whose life my own is so perfectly bound up that I tremble to think she is no longer mine.”

Well may we be proud of her of whom she wrote, and of him to whom she wrote. And well may we be proud of her who wrote. It is such women as she who slowly lead humanity upwards. From this letter and from what I know otherwise, my admiration for her is without bounds.

The letter, too, is the inspiration of genius. Inspired, perhaps, by the crisis which faced her and with the philosopher’s vision, she has expressed truths and only as a poet can. What might she not have done with full opportunity to develop her gift. Without education or training; a mere woman before the woman’s day; without encouragement, without authority, perhaps, her soul bursts forth in imagery and language which puts to shame much of the twaddle of today.

“Thought toils on like destiny.” Who has not found it so? but who has expressed it so forcibly. “The true heart is a priceless gem that can never be excelled.” A profound truth, gracefully expressed, and graciously implying that her correspondent, as well as her own child, had this gem. And throughout the letter the spirit of the philosopher and the poet shines forth. How much is conveyed in the few words which seem to be her own: “Undying Truth but claims its own; yet, dreaded thought, alone, alone.” Bowing to the inevitable, her soul bares its woe.

Let us hope that this woman of sorrow has transmitted the germ of her gifts to her posterity, so that some descendant will benefit humanity as she might have done had she lived a century later.

And let us be thankful that her trust was not misplaced, and that for seventy years or more her child was granted the health and happiness which for so long had been denied to her. [note 3]
********************

Notes:
1. “Be pardoned one repining tear!/ For He, who gave her, knows how dear,” are lines from Sir Walter Scott’s 1810 poem “The Lady of the Lake.”
2. In Book II of John Keats’ 1818 poem “Endymion,” there is an image of mother Cymbele coming “alone – alone” which might have been familiar to Delia and may have been part of the inspiration for these lines.
3. My own thoughts on Delia D. Piper’s letter are somewhat in agreement with his, but first I note his tone of condescension, unconsciously adopted by a man who was used to a world in which women were second class, but who nevertheless consciously welcomed a change to more equal status. He was writing his analysis of her letter about the time that women were first granted the right to vote in the United States. He was ahead of his time as a genealogist in tracing the lines of all his female ancestors as well as those of his male ancestors. I love that he recognized and celebrated the poetic gifts of his grandmother. However, that he thinks she needed to live a hundred years later to have been able to express such gifts somewhat denigrates the women of her era who did write poetry and very successfully. And Delia herself denigrates her ability to analyze and present coherent thoughts, but her letter belies her modesty. She is perfectly articulate.

Delia Deborah Norton Piper came originally from a somewhat wealthy family, so when she wrote about the problems of a couple with widely disparate financial backgrounds, she knew personally the situation she saw her daughter entering. But where her daughter Mirinda was marrying a man with more wealth than the Piper’s, Delia herself married into poverty after being reared in a home with material advantages. Her father was a liberal man who tried to do for his daughter what he could, allowing for the natural pride of his son-in-law. It was a difficult situation, and perhaps that was part of the unhappiness Delia always felt.