If you’ve spent any time getting to know the characters in Isabella Alden’s novels, you’ve probably met them multiple times: the widow who takes in lodgers to keep her family afloat, the young store clerk boarding far from home for the first time, the landlady presiding over a dinner table crowded with as many opinions as boarders. Boarding houses show up so often in her stories that it’s easy to read right past them — but for Isabella’s original readers, they needed no explanation. For us, more than a century later, a bit of an explanation is in order.
Newsapaper ad for a private boarding house in Florida, 1878.
A boarding house was, at its simplest, a private home where the owner rented out rooms and provided meals — typically breakfast and dinner were included in the weekly rate, with lunch offered as a lighter, extra meal since working boarders were away at midday. This is an important distinction: a boarding house was not the same thing as a rooming house, where a lodger rented a room but ate meals elsewhere, usually at a restaurant. Boarders lived and ate under one roof; roomers just slept there. Isabella’s characters moved between both kinds of arrangements, and knowing the difference helps explain a lot about their daily routines (and their complaints).
A small private home open to boarders. The sign near the seated woman reads “Rooms by day or week.”
A well-run boarding house was expected to offer more than just a bed. According to the standards of the day, a boarder could expect a clean, whole set of bedding, a washstand with a large pitcher for washing up, fresh drinking water left by the bed at night, and a well-supplied bathroom down the hall. Whether a house actually delivered on these basics — or fell woefully short of them — could make the difference between a boarder’s contentment and outright misery. We meet both kinds of houses in Isabella’s novels.
A boarder’s room at a boarding house in Uniontown, Pennsylvania (courtesy Uniontown Public Library).
In Isabella Alden’s lifetime, a woman who needed to support herself — or her family — had only a handful of respectable options. She could teach school. She could sew. She could clerk in a store. Or she could keep a boarding house.
That last option had a particular appeal for women who already owned a home, especially widows left with a house too large for their remaining family and no other income. It required little starting capital. You didn’t need to buy a building or stock a shop; you just opened the doors of the house you already had. And on paper, it looked deceptively simple: cook a bit more food, make up a few extra beds, and collect the weekly rent.
The dining room at Mrs. Heath’s boarding house, Duluth, Minnesota, 1893.
In practice, as Isabella’s own characters discover, it was one of the hardest ways a woman could make a living. Keeping boarders happy, fed, and paying required real business sense — knowing what to charge, what “extras” to allow, how to set rules boarders would actually obey and respect — and it demanded relentless physical labor that often fell hardest on daughters and servants rather than the woman whose name was on the sign. That was certainly the case in the Ried household in Isabella’s novel, Ester Ried.
Ad for a large well-staffed boarding house in the Toronto Daily Star, 1904.
Isabella Alden probably had some personal experience as a boarder. As the wife of a minister who moved frequently from one calling to the next, she likely spent time in boarding houses and rented rooms herself, sizing up landladies and dining rooms much the way her characters do. That experience may be exactly why her boarding house scenes feel so specific and true.
Isabella’s fellow boarders had their own reasons for renting rooms. They were people who needed lodging but didn’t have or want a household of their own — young unmarried clerks and salesmen, professionals new to a city, widows and widowers, traveling businessmen with schedules that didn’t match a family’s routine, and increasingly, by the turn of the century, single working women living independently of their families for the first time.
Some residents of the Taylor Boarding House in Denton, Texas, 1904.
That mix of backgrounds, ages, and personalities all sharing one dining table is exactly what made boarding houses such fertile ground for Isabella’s imagination. For her, a boarding house dining room could be the setting for a marriage proposal, a theological argument, a landlady’s quiet influence on a wayward young man, or a boarder-turned-lifelong-friend, all in the course of an ordinary week. Isabella used her boarding houses not just as scenery, but as places where her characters’ true selves came out and sometimes, their spiritual journeys were corrected.
Join us again on October 20 when we’ll begin looking at the boarding houses in Isabella’s novels, starting with a weary young heroine named Ester Ried and the exhausting responsibilities she carries as she tries to keep her family afloat.
In 1892 Isabella Alden—writing under her pseudonym, Pansy—was one of the most popular fiction authors in the U.S. Her novels were translated into multiple languages and sold around the world. A “Pansy book” was guaranteed to occupy an honored place on bookstore and library shelves.
She wasn’t alone on the best-seller lists. At that time the literary world was dominated by books like:
The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde The Sign of the Four by Arthur Conan Doyle Tess of the d’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy
These novels were praised for their new “realistic” writing style that featured characters and plots that were “true to life.” By comparison, some critics complained the characters in Isabella’s books were “too good to be true” and her themes were “sentimental.”
Isabella clapped back.
She wrote an essay for a Christian magazine titled “How to Read a Story.” In it, she fiercely defended her work and taught a master class on how a Christian should select and read fiction. Her essay gives us a wonderful insight into Isabella’s philosophy as a writer—and the high expectations she had for her audience.
Read Isabella’s essay below. When you’re finished, continue on to see how her 134-year-old words still hold true today and perfectly describe one of her most famous characters.
HOW TO READ A STORY
BY “PANSY”
My complete subject is: “How to read a story so as to get the most good out of it.” Let me emphasize the thought involved; first choose your story. There are stories which are not and cannot by any process be made helpful. Busy young people, at least, have a right to the best.
Of course there is a difference of opinion as to what is the best, and perhaps the first thing to be done in order to get help from a story is to decide why it should be helpful. We hear a great deal about realistic writers, or those who picture life as it is. At first thought these seem to be the ones whom we should choose for helpfulness, because of what use is it to study a life which is not helpful? But a closer look shows you that there are two sides to this question. The police reports, the murder trials, the accounts of bar-room fights, and the like, are intensely realistic; but why should we grovel in such scenes as these, merely because they are too sadly true to life?
We hear a great deal about sentimental writers, until some of us are in danger of learning to think that sentiment of any sort is a very weak and offensive thing. The fact is, there is a vast difference between sentiment and sentimentalism, and we young people must learn to discriminate between them. For instance, the sentiment of love is ennobling, uplifting, immortal in its power; but the sentimentalism of love which makes a parade of its outward forms—dishes them up for silly readers, giving to the public words and caresses which should be held in sacred privacy—merits our stern disgust. To discriminate between them is what we want to learn.
It has become a fashion of the present day to sneer at what is called the “goody-goody” book; by which too often is meant the book written with an evident purpose to accomplish good in the world. But whatever others may say, of course no Christian reader will be found sneering at the book which was “written for a purpose,” for without a purpose worthy of an immortal, what right has one to write, or one to read, who is pledged to “try to do, every day, just what Jesus would like to have him do?”
Only yesterday a young lady, speaking of a character in a well known book, said, “He is too good—unnaturally good; there never lived a man like him.”
Did there not, dear friend? Have you forgotten the man Christ Jesus, who came to be our example?
I take it, young friends, that if there be a legitimate realm for fiction in a Christian’s life, it is found in an earnest attempt to portray, and an earnest effort to study, a character which represents not what most people are, but what people might become who tried to live each day a life hid with Christ in God. When next you hear the cry of “unnaturalness” raised against a book or character, try to learn whether it should be unnatural, or whether it is not your privilege to live just as round and full and beautiful a life as that.
Well, we have chosen our story; how shall we read it?
“How not to do it, is the first rule to apply,” said a young reader to whom I appealed the other day. And when I further questioned, he explained, “Why, don’t plunge in, and read for twelve consecutive hours, straight through. If you do, you will feel at the close as if you had been to a three days’ circus, and on the whole you will be disgusted with the performance. I have discovered it to be a good plan to lay aside a story as soon as I have found I don’t want to … I do not want a story-book to be my master.” I think so many stories get out of their proper place in our lives.
Do you ever try to study a writer’s power over you? To define what pleases you in the story? Why you want to read it? I think that is one of the ways of making a story helpful.
“I mark books freely,” said one young reader who reads to good purpose, “stories as well as other matter. I mark the passages which thrilled me, and go carefully over them when the story is finished, to discover, if I can, why they thrilled, and whether, on sober second reading, they still have that power. Moreover, it is not much of a book which does not give you one or two thoughts that you want to remember and quote for the benefit or pleasure of others.”
Sometimes we get good out of a story by carefully studying the characters whom we admire, and discovering why we admire them. If we find that in certain situations their conduct has been admirable, and that in like situations we should be tempted to act differently, we can use this story to forewarn and forearm ourselves against a future temptation. The reverse of this proposition is also true. I remember reading, years ago, a story in which I disliked a certain character. A careful analysis of my reason and a little careful thinking developed within me the astounding thought that I was often guilty of the same line of conduct, though I had never realized it before.
I would have you learn to note with exceeding care the effect which a story is having on you as you read. Does life seem to you a better, nobler, grander thing as you read of its dealings with these creatures of fiction? Do you admire true courage and unselfishness more? Do you feel more eager than ever to overcome within you that which mars your usefulness and cripples your influence? Do you rise up from its pages feeling stronger to do that day’s’ duties, however small; to bear that day’s crosses, however irksome? Then indeed such a story may be to you a voice from the King himself urging you to higher and better endeavor in his service.
But if, on the other hand, as you read, the every-day commonplace life that you are called upon to live grows petty to you, grows irksome; if sin in any form looks less appalling to you because your story has awakened some weak interest in the sinner; if, in short, God, and duty, and endeavor in His name and for His sake seem less important and less inviting because of the story you are reading, let me beg you to put the book from you as unworthy of the thought of an immortal soul.
In her essay Isabella wrote, “Sometimes we get good out of a story by carefully studying the characters we admire, and discovering why we admire them.”
Were truer words ever written? Isabella wasn’t just lecturing readers about an impossible standard—she shared her secret for creating enduring fiction. Her books still have the power to make readers examine their own lives, leaving us feeling “stronger to handle our daily duties [and] to bear that day’s crosses.” Perhaps more importantly, her stories showed us “what people might become who tried to live each day a life hid with Christ in God.”
Ester Ried is one of Isabella’s most beloved characters because she fulfills that exact role. Ester’s struggles with a never-ending to-do list, financial worries, and family friction feels incredibly modern because we still wrestle with the very same problems today.
Isabella also wrote that sometimes we can learn from the reverse, by looking at a character we dislike and realizing “we share the exact same flaws.”
This also applies to Ester Ried. Ester wanted a deeper spiritual life, but she was too tired, too cynical, and too overwhelmed by her daily “crosses” to find it. We readers might initially judge Ester’s grumbling attitude, until we realize we often handle our own busy, stressful lives with the same grumbling spirit.
Ester’s eventual transformation isn’t an overnight miracle that makes her rich or takes away her chores. Instead, the grace Ester finds altersher heart toward her daily duties. Because Isabella grounded Ester in real human emotion, Ester’s journey still inspires us to find that same grace in our own hectic lives.
What do you think of Isabella’s essay?
When you first read Ester Ried, did you see your own daily frustrations reflected in her? How did her journey help you look at your own “every-day commonplace life” with fresh eyes?
What other Pansy novels have you read that served as a mirror that made you examine your own life?
This month’s free read is a short story Isabella wrote for an 1876 issue of The Pansy magazine about Janie Smith, a miller’s daughter who can’t help comparing her own plain life with another girl’s seemingly charmed one.
Janie Smith has never ridden the stage coach, never seen the city, and never owned anything half so fine as the traveling costume Miss Josephine Jennings wears. Watching the elegant young heiress board the train one morning, Janie can’t help but feel the world has been very unfair. But the express-man’s quiet words — “Poor little thing!” — are about to change everything Janie thinks she knows about fairness and God’s blessings.
In honor of Mother’s Day this month’s free read is a story about the debt of love we owe to those who raised us.
After a life of sacrifice, widowed Mrs. Kensett finds her twilight years spent shuffling between the homes of her adult children, where she’s treated more like a burden than a beloved guest. She expects more of the same when she arrives at the doorstep of her youngest son and his new bride—only to find an unexpected sanctuary at long last.
Isabella Alden’s novel Ester Ried, Asleep and Awake opens with a memorable scene: Ester Ried—barely eighteen years old—finds herself with much more responsibility than a girl of her age should have. With an ill mother, four younger siblings, and several boarders to care for and feed, she is often pressed for time, thin on patience, and struggling to keep up with a never-ending list of things to do.
Much of her time is spent in the kitchen cooking, washing dishes, and supervising laundry; and on scorching summer days, the heat from the wood stove makes the entire room even hotter, so her cheeks were always in a state of “glowing.”
Trade card for a traditional wood-burning kitchen stove, about 1890
When Ester Ried was published in 1870, kitchen stoves were large, cast-iron pieces of furniture; and while their primary function was for cooking, stoves also served as essential elements of a home’s heating system. In winter a wood-burning stove helped keep the house warm and cozy. In summer, the same stove could make a kitchen unbearably hot.
Isabella’s readers could identify with Ester Ried’s plight. Isabella, too, must have had more than her share of summer days spent “glowing” in an overheated kitchen while she cooked her family’s meals, heated water for bathing, and tended to a litany of household tasks.
An 1884 trade card from the Detroit Stove Works, manufacturer of wood-burning, oil, and gasoline stoves.
So in 1880, when a new type of cooking stove—the gasoline stove—appeared on the market, Isabella took notice.
Unlike traditional wood-burning stoves that required constant monitoring of logs, flues, and dampers to manage the temperature, gasoline stoves offered a revolutionary level of control. They worked much like a kerosene lamp: a cloth wick pulled the gasoline up to the burner where it turned into a gas, creating a steady, hot blue flame.
An 1890 ad for the Sun Dial gas stove.
By simply turning a knob to adjust the wick, a woman could make her cooking and baking incredibly precise. Best of all, because they didn’t radiate intense ambient heat like massive cast-iron wood stoves, they spared homemakers from suffering in a sweltering kitchen.
In 1880 Isabella wrote about a young wife and mother who learned about the advantages of a gasoline stove in a short story titled, “Faith and Gasoline.”
Summer heat and money troubles force Faith Vincent to face the heartbreaking prospect of being separated from her husband for the entire summer—until a neighbor’s wisdom, a clever “gasoline stove,” and a good amount of prayer help Faith secretly transform her despair into a promising future for herself and her family.
In an 1899 issue of The Pansy magazine, Isabella shared these wise words:
“A good conscience is more to be desired than all the riches of the East. How sweet are the slumbers of him who can lie down on his pillow and review the transactions of every day, without condemning himself! A good conscience is the finest opiate.”
You can find more of Isabella’s words of wisdom to read, print, and share. Just enter “quotables” in the search box to see more.
In February 1881 Isabella was thirty-nine years old and an extremely busy woman. She was editor of The Pansy magazine, and was also the magazine’s primary contributor of fiction and non-fiction articles.
The March 1887 issue of The Pansy magazine.
She was the primary creator of the Presbyterian church’s Sunday school lessons for young children, which were published in The Sabbath School Monthly and distributed to Presbyterian churches across the country. She also wrote stories for other Christian magazines that were published in America and Europe.
Almost every week she had a speaking engagement somewhere in Ohio—where she and her family were living at the time—or in a neighboring state. Sometimes her appearances included a public reading of her newest story or novel; sometimes she lectured on the proper content and delivery of Sunday school lessons for young children, a topic on which she was an acknowledged expert.
At home in Cincinnati, she was a busy minister’s wife in a demanding household that also included:
Her seven-year-old son Raymond
Her fourteen-year-old step-daughter Anna
Her forty-four-year-old sister Julia
And her precious seventy-seven-year-old widowed mother, Myra Spafford Macdonald, whose health was slowly declining.
How Isabella managed to juggle so many responsibilities all at once is a mystery, but there must have been times when the mounting pressures threatened to overwhelm her.
One of those pressure points may have occurred in January 1881, when her husband became pastor of a congregation in Cumminsville, Ohio. The new church was only about five miles away, but it meant the family had to once again pack up their lives and begin again in an entirely new place.
Is it any wonder, then, that this curious little paragraph appeared in a Cincinnati newspaper just one month later:
From The Cincinnati Enquirer, February 10, 1881.
The “Cleveland Sanitarium” was a polite name for an inpatient psychiatric hospital near Cleveland (some 250 miles from Isabella’s new home in Cumminsville).
At that time the hospital was formally named “The Northern Ohio Hospital for the Insane,” and “paralysis of the brain” was among the many conditions they treated. In the hospital’s 1880 annual report to the governor, they gave this definition of the condition:
It wasn’t the first time Isabella had sought help for her physical and emotional needs. Twenty years earlier, as a new bride, Isabella checked into the Castile Sanitarium in New York and stayed five months. During her stay there she gardened and played croquet, walked and spent as much time out of doors as possible in between her scheduled therapy treatments.
She may have had the same experience during her stay in Cleveland. The Cleveland Illustrated Guidebook, published by William Payne in 1880, describes the hospital’s grounds where “nature and art have united to make [them] attractive.”
Immediately in front is a stream, separating the grounds from the … railroad track. A grove skirts the entire grounds, affording an abundance of shade and strolling room for the patients, and adding to the general beauty of the location.
Perhaps the beautiful grounds reminded Isabella of the New York sanitarium and the benefit she’d found in similar treatment twenty years earlier.
Illustration included in the “Twenty-Sixth Annual Report of the Cleveland Asylum for the Insane to the Governor of the State of Ohio for the Year 1880.”
Here’s what is most striking about this episode: Isabella didn’t hesitate to get help when she needed it. She checked into a hospital that literally had “Insane” in its official name, and she didn’t seem worried about the stigma. Maybe that’s because mental and emotional health were viewed differently in the 1880s. Conditions like “paralysis of the brain,” melancholy, and nervous exhaustion were treated as medical conditions—ailments that could be cured with rest, therapy, and proper care. Or maybe Isabella was just remarkably practical about her own wellbeing. When life became overwhelming, she took action.
Unlike Isabella’s previous stay at a sanitarium (which you can read about here), we can’t know what treatments she received this time. But just a little more than a month later, on March 14, 1881, the Cincinnati Enquirer published a single line update about Isabella:
And just like that, Isabella was home. A little over a month of treatment, and she was back to her family, her work, and her impossibly busy schedule. We don’t know exactly what happened during those weeks in Cleveland, but we know the outcome: she recovered and went on to maintain her extraordinary productivity for decades to come. Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is admit we need help—and then actually get it.
What strikes you most about Isabella’s decision to seek help? Do you think it would have been harder or easier in the 1880s compared to today?
Have you ever had a moment when life’s responsibilities threatened to overwhelm you? What helped you get through it?
YOU CAN READ MORE ABOUT ISABELLA’S HEALTH AND HOW ILLNESSES WERE TREATED DURING HER LIFETIME BY READING THESE PREVIOUS POSTS:
Isabella Alden was a teacher at heart. Before she became a bestselling author, she earned her living as a schoolteacher and devoted countless hours to preparing meaningful Sunday school lessons for her students. So when the Chautauqua movement began in the early 1870s, it was a natural fit—she was involved from its earliest days.
The Chautauqua idea started simply enough as a summer gathering where Sunday school teachers could learn best practices for their work and enjoy a bit of recreation when classes weren’t in session.
What began as a “Sunday School Assembly” in 1872 gradually evolved into something much bigger—a “summer university” that welcomed people of all incomes, backgrounds and education levels. It was, wrote Harper’s Monthly Magazine in 1879, “a school for those who, conscious of their need, earnestly desire the highest culture possible for them.”
One of Chautauqua’s founders was Rev. Dr. John H. Vincent, who served as Sunday school secretary of the Methodist Episcopal Church and was a close friend of Isabella’s. Like her, he prized knowledge, learning, and mental discipline.
Rev. Dr. John Heyl Vincent
But what really united them was their shared conviction: that it was possible—even essential—to study art, science, literature, and history through the lens of religious truth.
In 1909 Rev. Vincent addressed the Chautauqua Women’s Club on a topic close to both his and Isabella’s hearts: the importance of education in religious experience. Fortunately, his speech was preserved in an issue of Chautauqua Herald, the assembly’s monthly newspaper.
In many ways, his thoughts on balancing education with Christian faith feel remarkably relevant today—more than a century later. Below are some key points that illustrate the heart of his message. See if you agree with his ideas.
“The Educational Factor in Religious Experience.”
Education and religion used to be too separated. But that is not the case in our time.
In our time education and religion are drawing closer together every day, and one sign of our progress is the growing recognition of religious teaching. I believe that people will increasingly see the value in religious teaching as it becomes purer and freer from the bigotry that once characterized it.
We all remember when fanaticism, bigotry, and opposition to science (as if science were opposed to religion!), found theirplace in the church and prejudiced the minds of scholarly people. As we broaden our perspective and gain a wider view of the world of Nature, this fanaticism is dying out and the scholars and the religious teachers are no longer enemies.
Religion opens the whole field of education, in which theology is fundamental. Religion in its truest sense is education.
Educated people ought to be religious. Religious people ought to be educated. When we surrender our intellect to God through religion, He returns it to us as a precious gift to use. Let us, then, as a form of religious expression, learn how to think—and delight in it.
There are seven points in the consideration of religious life as related to personal culture.
First, religious experience and personal growth work together by developing power of thought.
Second, we should cultivate our ability to reason. Let us ask, why is this? and, why is that?—applying our reasoning not only to intellectual pursuits, but to the realities of daily life.
Third, religion is a great thing to cultivate imagination, and we must develop imagination if we want to broaden our lives. But we must also keen imagination in check.
Thought, reason, imagination—these are all effects of religious experience.
Fourth, we should identify a noble, guiding purpose in life. What am I living for? That is the question we should ask ourselves. How can I beautify my little corner, and how can I do good to my neighbor? Why, every line I read or word I speak leaves its mark on some other human being. Men and women can sink to a lower level very easily. It is a great thing when one woman influences to higher thought one man or ten men.
Fifth, religion should help us see ourselves accurately—not too high, not too low.
Sixth, let us remember that a genuine religious spirit combined with the pursuit of learning will develop philanthropy—a pure philanthropy rooted in Christian values.
And seventh, let us remember that religion develops character. Practice builds virtue—the hallmarks of character that Peter describes when he says “add to your faith courage—add to your faith integrity—add to your faith strength.” Peter understood the secret of inner spiritual life.
“Add to your faith virtue, and to virtue knowledge, and to knowledge moderation, and to moderation”—patience, strength—“godliness, and to godliness, brotherly kindness, and to brotherly kindness charity. For if these things be in you and abound, they make you that you shall neither be barren nor unfruitful in the knowledge of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.” (2 Peter 1:5-8)
Religion thus becomes a process of self-mastery in which we take time to focus our abilities and develop them.
Rev. Vincent’s speech captured so much of what Isabella believed and practiced throughout her life. She never saw a conflict between being educated and being faithful. Her novels explored complex themes and moral questions. The articles she published in The Pansy magazine taught children about science, geography, and literature—all while maintaining a foundation of Christian values. Like Rev. Vincent, she understood that true education develops the whole person: mind, character, and spirit. It’s a vision of learning that, at the time, was both revolutionary and deeply needed.
What do you think?
Is it possible to pursue knowledge while maintaining spiritual grounding?
Can we cultivate our minds without losing our moral compass?
Dr. Vincent and Isabella would say yes. And given the lives they both lived—dedicated to learning, service, and faith—their example suggests they might be right.
Isabella Macdonald Alden and her sister Marcia Macdonald Livingston were always very close. They were both married to Presbyterian ministers, and both found success as writers of Christ-centered novels, as well as short stories for Christian magazines.
Isabella Alden (left) and her sister Marcia Livingston (right).
In 1898 the sisters learned through their churches about the plight of a retired minister and his wife who were in danger of losing their home. The couple needed just $150—about $5,900 in today’s money.
Isabella and Marcia knew from experience how difficult it was to live on a minister’s inadequate salary, and how that meager income made it nearly impossible to save anything for retirement. The elderly couple’s plight touched the sisters’ hearts and they decided to take action.
The sisters wrote a joint appeal for donations on behalf of the elderly couple. Their letter was published on May 4, 1898, in a weekly Christian magazine and read as follows:
TO THE WIVES OF PRESBYTERIAN MINISTERS.
Dear Friends: Let us beg your pardon in the beginning for addressing you. Our excuse must be that we feel we are not strangers, but friends; the mystic bond which unites the wives of all those who have given themselves to the ministry of the gospel of Jesus Christ unites us, as well as that dearer, stronger one, Jesus Christ being our Elder Brother. It is because it seems that he has put it into our hearts to send you this word that we do it.
It has come to our knowledge that there is in our beloved Church a minister and his wife who sorely need a little help just now to tide them over a hard place. The facts are, briefly, these:
A Presbyterian minister, formerly in active service as pastor, now broken in health and nearly seventy years of age, invested his little all several years ago, in a small place in California, hoping to make a living by raising fruits and vegetables for the market. He and his wife, who is now partially crippled by rheumatism, have worked heroically on their home, but the unprecedentedly hard times of the past few years, as well as increasing ill health, were against them. The little home, so carefully and prayerfully worked for, is in danger. A mortgage of only $150 rests upon it; but, unless even that small sum be raised promptly, it must go.
A minister and his wife belonging to our grand Church, sick and old and with no home! Isn’t it pitiful that such a thing should be, when they have given their best years to the Church?
Why are we telling you? It has come into our hearts that possibly 148 ministers’ wives will each spare $1, to be placed with our $2, to be sent at once to this dear minister’s wife, who can no longer work with her crippled hands, as she has bravely done, to help support her sick husband. This, as a token that we are sisters and recognize the bond.
While we write the words we remember that probably some cannot do even this, and are moved to ask that any who can will make their offering $2 or $3, or even $5, for the sake of those who would respond but cannot, and for the sake of those who will mean to do it, when they read these words, but who will let the cares of this busy world crowd it from their minds.
The sisters closed their appeal by providing their home addresses where donors could send money, and a promise to provide updates in a future issue of the magazine.
Photo of Isabella Alden about 1880 (age 39)
It’s hard to know what their expectations were. Perhaps they thought they’d eventually receive a few donations that they could add to their own and forward to the retired minister and his wife.
But that’s not what happened! You can imagine Isabella and Marcia’s excitement when they wrote the following update, which appeared two weeks later on May 18 in the same magazine:
AN ACKNOWLEDGMENT.
Dear Friends: It gives us pleasure to report at this date the receipt of $41 towards the $150 that we are trying to raise to save the little home, of which we wrote you last week. As the magazine containing the appeal has been issued only four days, including Sunday, the replies thus far have been instantaneous.
The sum of $41 in today’s economy is about $1,600. That’s an astonishing amount to receive in so short a time! The sisters continued:
Our gratitude for these kindly and prompt responses is very great. We are looking to receive many more before the week closes. One friend writes that she hopes we will excuse her for not being a minister’s wife, and yet for sending her offering! We are delighted with her.
We remember that there are ministers’ wives by the score who gladly would, but cannot; it is fitting that some more blessed with this world’s goods should reply for them. Two dear ladies have already done so; one sent $5, the other $10.
One friend hopes that we will receive much more than the sum called for and be able to make an additional gift. We echo the hope.
Later it will be our pleasure to give a somewhat more detailed account of this pleasant work, and of some of the precious letters that have come to us. There have already been received gifts that represent sacrifice and letters that would touch your hearts. Yours sincerely,
What a promising start for the sisters’ fund-raising campaign!
Marcia Livingston around 1905.
Their next update was published three weeks later on June 8 with the following headline:
THE MORTGAGE LIFTED
The sisters’ wrote:
Dear Friends:
It is with pleasure and gratitude that we come to you with the final result of our appeal for those dear servants of God in California, asking you to lend a helping hand in saving their home.
You will remember the amount of the mortgage was $150, and we have the joy of telling you that we have received in all the sum of $210.
That $210 would be equal to about $8,300 in today’s money! The sisters continued:
Undoubtedly it will be a blessing to our dear friends to receive these tokens of fellowship, but the Lord’s own statement, that it is “more blessed to give than to receive,” seems again to have been verified.
Nearly every letter writer has taken time to add a word of tender sympathy and to express the wish that the sum desired might be much more than realized.
As we read the heart-lines accompanying them, we wished that you could all enjoy them with us. It has been interesting to note how many ministers’ daughters responded, “begging the privilege” of being counted in.
One friend wrote that she was not in any way connected with ministers, but she was a member of the Presbyterian Church, and she felt it a precious privilege to lend a helping hand to these servants of the Lord in their hour of need.
Another, who said she “had just begun to be a minister’s wife,” was only too glad to inaugurate her service in this way. Still another begged admission to the circle on the plea that she expected “very soon” to become a minister’s wife.
Many ministers’ widows, out of their small incomes, sent glad offerings. One who was nearing her eightieth year, but who had a good home, the rent from which supported her, joyfully offered her gift. Another token was from an old minister and his wife, who said that they had no home to save, but the Lord had taken care of them for seventy-eight years, and given them a little with which to help others.
One wrote, “Your appeal coming so soon after our Sunday-school lesson on ‘Giving,’ afforded some of us an opportunity to show our faith by our works. How thoughtful of our Lord!”
There were gifts from those who “had to count even the dimes carefully to make the ends meet, but were glad to share with others.”
Times without number we were thanked for affording the opportunity, and the wish was constantly expressed that much more than the sum called for might be received.
Now, in regard to the recipients of these gifts, nothing would afford us greater pleasure than to copy at length the beautiful and touching letter received from the dear wife, in response to the check sent her. The length of the letter and the personal character of some of it deter us. A few sentences, however, we feel that we must quote. The letter commences:
“Dear, dear friends: What can I say? Words will not express my feelings! God only knows the heart, and he knows how thankful, oh, how thankful, we are to you for all your great and noble kindness. God bless you all, and ever keep you in the hollow of his hand, safe from all want. I want to tell you how it was, so far as words will. My husband was out in the yard when your letter came. I called to him and said: ‘Come in; I want to show you something.’ When he came in I said: ‘Put on your glasses;’ then I handed him the check. He is a man who thinks before speaking. As he sat looking at it I said: ‘Cannot we trust the Lord?” Then I could not keep the tears back any longer, and still he had not spoken. He sat with bowed head, and I knew he was thanking God for his loving kindness. When he looked up his eyes were full of tears, and when he heard how it was, he said: ‘The Lord guided you.'”
Was there ever a more beautiful word picture made than that? The entire letter, which is long, is the out-pouring of hearts almost over-burdened with gratitude. As we read we could hardly help feeling that the offerings were small and poor as compared with the wealth of the return; but, after all, that is what was promised: “Good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over.” May the blessing of him who “maketh rich and addeth no sorrow” be upon every giver.
What is most striking about this story is how Isabella and Marcia immediately moved from sympathy to action. They didn’t just feel bad about the elderly couple’s situation—they did something about it. Using their talents as writers and their influence in the Christian community, they rallied others to join them in making a difference.
Isabella around 1885.
The sisters are an example of practical Christianity at its finest. They believed wholeheartedly that even the smallest gesture done in Christ’s name mattered, and the overwhelming response they received proved they were right! Within weeks, they hadn’t just raised $150—they’d collected $210 and created a community of givers who experienced the blessing of helping others.
Isabella and Marcia were women of action who used every gift God gave them to serve others. It’s a reminder that we all have something to offer, and that acting on our faith—even in small ways—can create ripples far beyond what we imagine.
December 8, 1925—almost exactly 100 years ago—started as any ordinary Tuesday afternoon in Palo Alto, California. Isabella Alden was 83 years old, and was living in the beloved double-home that she and her husband Ross built a decade before on Embarcadero Road.
Ross and her son Raymond had died the year before, so only Isabella and her daughter-in-law Barbara (Raymond’s widow) and her five children were left to share the rambling house.
Barbara Hitt Alden, about 1910.
That afternoon, Isabella, Barbara, and Barbara’s youngest son, Raymond Jr., set out together in the family car. Barbara was behind the wheel. None of them could have known that their simple outing would dramatically change the remainder of Isabella’s life.
A 1925 Lincoln sedan, a popular car style in the 1920s.
At a street intersection a little less than a mile from their home, another car collided with the Alden vehicle, striking it with enough force to cause it to overturn. The impact shattered the windshield and windows, showering the passengers with broken glass.
The San Francisco Chronicle, December 8, 1925.
Barbara was only slightly hurt. But Isabella and her young grandson suffered “severe cuts about the face and head, and many bruises.” After receiving first aid from a nearby physician, Isabella and Raymond Jr. were taken to Palo Alto Hospital for treatment.
Palo Alto Hospital in the 1920s.
The next day’s newspaper reported reassuring news: the accident victims had returned home, and Isabella “was found to have suffered only from shock and minor cuts.” Her grandson’s injuries were described as the most serious of the three.
The Peninsula Times Tribune, December 9, 1925.
But that assessment would prove tragically wrong.
What those initial medical evaluations missed was the true extent of Isabella’s injuries. The accident left her in considerable pain and, ultimately, confined to a wheelchair for most of the remaining years of her life.
Until the accident, Isabella was a woman who had been remarkably productive well into her eighties—still writing, still engaged with her work and family. The accident didn’t just slow her down; it fundamentally altered how she could live her remaining years.
Isabella in later years.
In her memoir “Memories of Yesterday,” which she finished writing after the accident, Isabella documented the physical pain she endured. For a woman who had spent her life in service to others, who had quietly helped so many navigate their own difficulties, those final years must have been particularly difficult for her.
Isabella lived for nearly five more years after the accident, passing away in 1930 at age 88. Those years, spent largely in a wheelchair and dealing with chronic pain, were a far cry from the active, engaged life she had led for more than eight decades.
What is striking about this incident in Isabella’s life isn’t just the tragedy of the accident itself, but what it reveals about her character during her final years. Despite her pain and limitations, she continued to write. She finished her last novel, An Interrupted Night, and entrusted it to her niece, Grace Livingston Hill, to guide it through the publishing process.
She also completed her memoir, Memories of Yesterdays, candidly sharing her memories and reflections on a life well-lived. Even when her body was confined to a wheelchair, her mind and spirit remained active.
That’s the Isabella Alden we’ve come to know through her writings—someone who lived out the principles she wrote about, even when circumstances became difficult. She had spent decades writing about faith, perseverance, and finding purpose in adversity. In her final years, she had to draw on those very principles herself.
A hundred years ago this month, Isabella’s life changed forever on a Palo Alto street corner. While the accident limited her physical abilities, it couldn’t diminish the legacy she’d built through decades of faithful work—or the strength of character that sustained her until the end.
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