March 28th, 1874.

My Very Dear Sister:

Yesterday about 2 P.M. the American mail brought me four letters. The address of one I recognized as the handwriting of R. H. Kinnison and I opened it first. It was a very long and exceedingly entertaining letter, written from Willoughby, O.; and in it he described his visit last fall to the Big Run Camp Meeting, and how he met my brother William there, became acquainted with, and liked him. It was one of the best letters I ever received; and after I read it I took up the next which was mailed at "Lucasville, O.," and which I was glad to find was from Bro. Wakefield. But I had read only the first four or five lines when my heart fairly stood still, and I could hardly credit my senses. William dead! dead and buried! Buried two full months before! How could it be? Surely there was some mistake. I read on, and when I came to Bro.W.'s pathetic and circumstantial account of the funeral services, etc., the big tears welled up from a heart heaving with emotion, and I knew it must be so. Ah! the shock was as painful as it was sudden, for I had long pictured out a glorious future for that brother, and one of my most promising hopes was forever blighted. And never before did I know how much I loved that brother.

Then I took up your letter, with that ominous black line around the envelope which I had not noticed before; and in what you and Agnes both wrote, I found a repetition of Bro. Wakefield's story. And in the 4th and last letter, which was from Aunt C.E. Glasser, I found the same sad intelligence.

At first I failed to realize that it was so; but the sad burden of grief kept pressing down tighter on my heart, and I could do nothing but sit and think. It was almost midnight when I went to bed, and I doubt if I slept one hour. All through the lonely night I kept thinking, thinking, thinking, until in imagination I had gone over every little incident connected with that solemn and painful event. That weary watching and waiting for two nights before the corpse came -- that dreary Sabbath morning when the long, black coffin was brought into the house -- the people coming in from all parts of the country to manifest their sympathy and esteem -- the uncovering of the lid and the disclosure of the white face, only 3 weeks before blooming in the freshness of youth, now pallid in death -- the last fond, lingering look at those well-known features, and the closing of the coffin (Oh! how could you endure it?) -- the weary tramp of multitudes of feet up that steep hill to where so many of our family rest in peace -- the lowering of the coffin into the dismal depths of that yawning grave -- the solemn reading of the burial service -- the hollow sound of the clods rattling against the sides of the coffin -- the covering up from sight of the mortal remains of him whose spirit at the time was rejoicing in the newly attained bliss of the heavenly world -- I have gone through it all. And then the sad return to the church where so lately he had been ministering to hardened sinners -- the crowding of those seats with anxious and tearful spectators -- the reading of the solemn hymn,

"How vain is all beneath the skies,

How transient every earthly bliss!

How slender all the fondest ties

That bind us to a world like this!"

-- the mournful strains of hundreds of voices rising in unison to the throne of God -- Bro. Wakefield's feeling prayer -- the hearty but oft choking responses of the brethren -- the triumphant sermon from the more than triumphant text, "O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?" -- the conclusion of the services, and the sorrowful return to the newly prepared home which should never be cheered by the presence of him who had built it; -- I do not wonder that as you passed through all these scenes you could not realize that you were awake, and that you expected sooner or later to wake up from a frightful dream.

My dear sister, it is all over, long ago, and by the time you receive this letter the world will once more have put on a sunshiny face, and you will have become somewhat reconciled to this unexpected stroke of Providence. But it is not 24 hours since my heart received the wound, and you must allow me to indulge in these sorrowful reminiscences, to show you how much sympathy I have for the folks at home.

And poor Nancy M'Kinley! As I think of her I cannot restrain my tears. I want you to tell her that I feel for her so much, and that I have no doubt she will bear up under her loss just as a good, brave, Christian girl (as she is) would be expected to do. I have no doubt that the feeling of my heart is the feeling of all your hearts -- that a very powerful tie which bound me to this world has been severed, and has become a link which draws me more forcibly than ever towards heaven.

This has been a strange Providence but my heart does not murmur. Sometimes men rashly and obstinately expose themselves to danger and lose their lives, and then their friends say the Lord has seen fit to take them out of the world; when the fact is the Lord has had very little to do with it, and they are simply semi-suicides. But if ever there was an instance where God did purposely, by a special Providence take any one out of the world, I think this is one. And now that it has taken place, I wonder that months ago we did not feel any premonitions. What did that intense earnestness and devotion, that powerful and pathetic pleading in prayer, that rapidly deepening religious experience mean but that he was fast ripening for heaven? And was it not fitting that after having made those earnest appeals to sinners he should, as it were, seal the truth of his exhortations by a triumphant death? Will not his last words thus produce a more powerful and lasting impression, and lead to much more glorious results, than if he had lived? "He being dead, yet speaketh."

Two letters which I have written to William he did not receive. One was written, Dec. 17th, and would not come to hand until near a month after his death; the other is not yet across the Pacific. Both were addressed to Aetna Furnace, and I hope the friends there will forward them to you. If they do not, you must write for them. I am afraid the grumbling letters which I have been sending home will come to hand at a wrong time to be appreciated. Little did I think when I wrote them, that they would be read by those whose hearts were bowed under sore affliction. My Advocate has not yet come to hand, and I don't know what to think of it. I intend to write a long letter to Bro. Wakefield this afternoon. His letter received yesterday was so full of tenderness and Christian sympathy, and of a spirit of cheerfulness and triumph over this stroke of death, that it did me ever so much good. God bless him abundantly, and may he live many years to evangelize Southern Ohio with his untiring and fervent ministerial labors.

Now I shall say goodby, as I expect to write to Ag., to Joe, and to father by this mail. I hope you are comforted by this time over our sore bereavement, and that with a brightening confidence in Him who doeth all things well, you can say, "It is good for me that I have been afflicted."

Your aff. brother

A. Stritmatter

Please remember me to all the friends, in particular to Bro. Abner Field, and to Mollie Reiniger. God bless Hugh McKinley, and may he become a steadfast, shining light in the Church, as I believe he will.