[6] Mrs. De Witt was the wife of the Rev. Thomas De Witt, D.D., a man of deep learning, an able preacher in the Dutch language as well as the English, and universally revered for his exalted Christian virtues.  He was a minister of the Collegiate Church, New York, for nearly half a century.  He died May 18, 1874, in the eighty-third year of his age.  Here are other sentences uttered by him at the grave of his wife:  “Farewell, my beloved, honored, and faithful wife!  The tie that united us is severed.  Thou art with Jesus in glory; He is with me by His grace.  I shall soon be with you.  Farewell!”

[7] Prof.  Smith had been suddenly stricken down by severe illness and with difficulty removed to the well-known Sanitarium at Clifton Springs.

[8] Referring to the book in a letter to a friend, written shortly after its publication, she says:  “Of course it will meet with rough treatment in some quarters, as indeed it has already done.  I doubt if any one works very hard for Christ who does not have to be misunderstood and perhaps mocked.”

[9] One of the best notices appeared in The Churchman, an Episcopal newspaper then published at Hartford, but since transferred to New York.  Here is a part of it: 

“For purity of thought, earnestness and spirituality of feeling, and smoothness of diction, they are all, without exception, good—­if they are not great.  If no one rises to the height which other poets have occasionally reached, they are, nevertheless, always free from those defects which sometimes mar the perfectness of far greater productions.  Each portrays some human thirst or longing, and so touches the heart of every thoughtful reader.  There is a sweetness running through them all which comes from a higher than earthly source, and which human wisdom can neither produce nor enjoy.”

[10] Golden Hours.

[11] The name given to the Dorset home.

[12] Afterwards changed to Urbane and His Friends.

[13] The passage from Coleridge is as follows:  “The feeling of gratitude which I cherish towards these men has caused me to digress further than I had foreseen or proposed; but to have passed them over in an historical sketch of my literary life and opinions, would have seemed like the denial of a debt, the concealment of a boon; for the writings of these mystics acted in no slight degree to prevent my mind from being imprisoned within the outline of any dogmatic system.  They contributed to keep alive the heart in the head; gave me an indistinct, yet stirring and working presentiment that all the products of the mere reflective faculty partook of DEATH, and were as the rattling of twigs and sprays in winter, into which a sap was yet to be propelled from some root to which I had not penetrated, if they were to afford my soul either food or shelter.  If they were too often a moving cloud of smoke to me by day, yet they were always a pillar of fire throughout the night, during my wanderings through the wilderness of doubt, and enabled me to skirt, without crossing, the sandy desert of utter unbelief.”