University of Virginia Library

MARGARET TO ANNA.

From the same fountain flow tears and smiles! How curiously
we are made. My cheeks tingle, my heart goes pit-a-pat.
Mr. Evelyn would not send off his letter without showing
it to me. All the world may speak well or ill of me; I take
it, as Nimrod says a horse does the bit, very coolly. His
censure or approbation quite undoes me. What is he not to
me! When other things are so much, how much is he!
God, Christ, and Mr. Evelyn; the Infinite and the Finite, in
triune, golden chain encircle me, in one sweet heaven embosom
me. Man is that wind-harp, through which the breath
of God sounds so softly, as in the thick pines. Mr. Evelyn
revealed Christ to me, Christ revealed God to him. Dear,
dear, thrice dear Mr. Evelyn. Does he not know how much
my strength is nourished from him, as well as from bean porridge?
He has not told you how I have watched him when
he was asleep; nor how I vibrate to his voice when he calls
me in the garden; nor how I wait upon his words, his opinions,
his judgment. When he was gone so long, and so far
away, I cherished him, as a hidden birth in my soul, which
his coming alone brought into life. Did I not tell you, Anna,
how much I loved him? Yet, you understood something of
me, and more of him, and you would not be surprised that I

did love him. But when he left for Europe, I knew not that
I should ever see him again, and he did not write me. What
under these circumstances could a girl like me do? Why,
love in silence, the same as fishes swim. You are a woman,
and you know what that is; and we are women, Rose says,
and we are but women, I allow. It never occurred to me that
I was poor, or that I was bred in “the orful wicked ways of
the Pond,” as the Leech said. Yet how did I love Mr.
Evelyn? His letter, if it does not recall me to myself, does
certainly recall all my life to me. And if I have not always
answered all your questions, dear Anna, it was because I was
more apt to fill out my sheet with what was then on my hands,
than with what had slid off into my memory.—But I must first
settle certain preliminaries as to what a woman is. You would
sometimes seem to admonish me lest I become a partaker of a
vague somewhat unwomanly. Yet in theory I always agreed
with you, and our differences, if there were any, only contemplated
the details of practice. And, here, what I have to say
is formed, not from any considerable stress of logic, but out
of what lies all around me. To say “We are women,” means
no more at Mons Christi, than to say, “We are men,” and
just as much. There is the same difference, I think, between
a man and a woman, as between a black birch and a white
one. The character of woman has risen a hundred fold in
Livingston, yet are we all women still. The girls are not
boys, neither are the ladies lords. We have no amazons, or
hybrids, unless I except the Goddess of Health. Man and
woman, we are both united and elevated by the common tie of
respect and esteem, mutual deference and goodwill, love and
honor. We are boys and girls, wives and husbands, men and
women still. Man is less exclusive and despotic, woman is
less slavish and tame. Our Festivals, our dances, the general
diffusion of Christianity in town, have had the effect to
abrade many prejudices, correct many diversities, raise the
women in their proper scale, and restore the just order and
equitable arrangements of society. It seems, after all, to be a
question of beards and breeches, and since nature has not
furnished us the first, why should we be anxious to supply
ourselves with the last? “Don't be afraid of Livingston!”
Captain Tuck says, and in this matter, so say I.

Now, being a woman, how should, or how did I love Mr.
Evelyn. They tell of two yew trees that fell in love, but
being separated by a large extent of forest, could not speak
together. Cherishing their love in concealment, they at length

grew so tall, they could overlook the intervening trees; they
saw each other, their love was consummated. We did love,
we were separated, we at last met, and our love was consummated.
But, the growing tall, how was that? Were we prepared
for a perfect love at the first? Did we need each other?
Were we of proportionate moral stature? Were there no distances
even in ourselves requiring that we should first grow
tall before we could overlook them? Does not one need a
certain amount of self-subsistence, before he or she can subsist
another? We are capable of loving, long before we are
capable of being loved; I mean capable of supporting the
love of another. “A solemn thing is love,” said Isabel, when
Rufus offered her his heart. Mr. Evelyn, as I recollect, when
I first saw him, imparted to me something of a tremor. But
what if he had then proposed to marry me? That would have
made me tremble worse and more hopelessly. His love for
me must first become a subjective part of my own existence,
it must grow up in me, it must mould me somewhat into his
image; and so too must mine for him act upon him; then
when we meet, our diversities will have vanished, we shall be
like each other, we shall be ready to live together always.
Perhaps you will say this is rather the record of my own experience,
than the establishment of any principle; and what is
worse, it may indicate a very dull and unsavory process. I do
believe in falling in love, spontaneously, ardently, as much
as Rose does, but I do not believe in falling into a quagmire. I
cannot approve of those marrying who have no points in common.
I confess indeed to the power of love in diminishing
differences, and uprooting antipathetic tendencies. But should
not their general tastes, sentiments, views, feelings, be accordant?
Let love set the mill a-going, but how can we expect
any good results from cogs that never fit, or from a wheel-band
running on the barrel of a watch?—Yet, are we not
Pythagorean half-souls? Men or women, do we not all need
our mates? Do we not float through the world, like loose
planets, till we are caught in the attraction of some other orb?
I must have Mr. Evelyn, Rose must have Frank, Rhody must
have Nimrod, Sybil Hash, Isabel Rufus, you Mr. Greenwood;
and so, vice versa. This at least is Rose's doctrine, and I
leave it with her to carry on the discussion.

Marriage is proposed as the cure of love; “Get them husbands
betimes,” says my oracle. We find marriage the sustentation
and enrichment of love. When did I love Mr.
Evelyn more than to-day! That we have diversities is certain;

but what shall we do with them? Wink them out of
sight; agree to disagree; bear with one another in silent, consuming
pain? No. Let them be thrown into the common
crucible of our affection, and fused together into some tertium
quid, some new homogeneous form. We have been married
seven years. Twice,—for they say I have an excellent memory,
and I cannot very well forget the times,—twice he has
distressed me, agonized my heart beyond description; I could
have died. I thought—I cannot tell what—it is past now.
Only I fancied he did not do me justice—it was a little thing
—it was not that I was a woman and he a man, for he has
never failed not only to love but even to honor me. It was
two souls becoming dark to each other, veiling their faces.
We were hidden only a short time; the dew of sadness that
was upon our windows became beautiful, and then vanished.
Yet when he chided me, he loved me. You look from a welllighted
room through a window when it is pitch dark abroad,
and you see your own image out in the darkness. He was
dark, but in his soul was my image; he tenderly cherished
me, and I had to ask to be forgiven. The Apostle prays that
we be perfect in love. In love we go on to perfection, in perfection
we go on to love. “Are we not illimitable and
immortal only in love?” asks my father of my own dear
mother. “God dwelleth in him that dwelleth in love.” He
dwells in Mr. Evelyn and me. His Shekinah is our house and
our hearts. Our trees and our flowers grow larger and more
beautiful every year; so does our love. God is the same
forever, he never grows old, he is never common place; nor is
our love ever dull, having its roots in the Infinite. To the
eyes of love all things are new.

I too am a mother, so is Rose, so are you. Gottfried
Brückmann is four years old, Jane Girardeau, two. Rose has
the prettiest little blossom you ever beheld; she daily waxes
more happy, more strong. How pleasant to multiply the
avenues into which the Divinity may pour itself! You used,
sometimes, to raise questions about miracles. Let us cease
wondering, and become wonder-workers. The ways of nature
are the true anagogics. Gottfried is brown as a nut, and I
see Jeannie rolling on the grass. They are hale and hearty,
and do not grow under a board; they eat lustily three times a
day, and sleep well o'nights. The root called pie-plant, just
before it shoots from the earth in the Spring, is the most beautifully
tinted thing you ever beheld. Remove the soil, and
there you have disclosed a most exquisite rose flesh color,

deepening into the purest carmine, and alternating with vermilion
and gold. Children that germinate with a plenty of
mother earth about them, come out in the fairest hues. Cloth,
as Ma used to say, is sometimes killed in coloring; but those are
artificial dyes. The tints of nature betoken vigor and heart.

Rhody has a son whom they call Chilion; Isabel a
daughter, Margaret hight. Rufus has built an elegant marble
Italian Villa, on the north eastern brow of Mons Christi.
Thus we form an extensive community. I am not afraid of
our children becoming contaminated here. Hash and Nimrod
are really new men in Christ Jesus. You would hardly believe
that they have daily prayers with their households; which
is nevertheless the fact. Our Bishop has urged the duty of
family religion, and great is the change in this respect, in all
parts of the town. I can hardly describe my astonishment,
when, the other morning, going into Pa's, to find that once
blasphemous, atheistic old man, soberly reading the Scriptures
with Ma, and devoutly praying! But what shall become of
our children, in aftertimes, and elsewhere? Livingston seems
to us, like Arranmore to the Irish, where, in clear weather,
they fancy they can see Paradise. The world is dark and
sinful, and how can we adventure our children in it! Pa
takes a great liking to the little ones, and they often run over
there. The old man is still mercurial; but his pot-valiantry
is gone; cold-water is his only fog-breaker; for Anacreontics
he sings Christian hymns. He only wishes he had two ears.
Ma says Jeannie looks like me. And I was a child once.—
The other day I rowed across the Pond, and leaped off into
the water where I used to bathe, and chase the sand-pipers.
The rocks, the shadows, the vines were there, and I was there,
in my little canoe. I forgot the Universe, and my life, and my
children, to be a child once more. Presently Mr. Evelyn
came, with Gottfried and Jane, and we frolicked in the
water together, and were all children as one. How should a
child punish a child; I mean, how should I punish my children.
Are parents never in the wrong? Are children never
in the right? “Nurses should not have pins about them,”
said Deacon Ramsdill. Do not parents, by their own pride
and ignorance, often prick their children, and then whip them
for crying?

“The bones of an infant,” says Dr. Buchan, “are so soft
and cartilaginous, that they readily yield to the slightest pressure,
and easily assume a bad shape. Hence it is that so
many people appear with high shoulders, crooked spines, and

flat breasts, having had the misfortune to be squeezed out of
shape by the application of stays and bandages from their
birth.” The world abounds in what Comenius calls Deformed
and Monstrous people, in both a physical and moral aspect;
all squeezed out of shape in their infancy. Can you fail to
understand how men become depraved? “Laissez faire,” says
Mr. Evelyn. We would encompass our children by the influences
of the Good and the Beautiful, which is all they can,
primordially, understand of God. Let their characters have
an imperceptible development, like rose buds.

Mr. Evelyn would make you believe that I have been personally
interested in this rejuvenescence of the town; so mote
it be. After all it is God's work, and we are only his subalterns.
You are surprised at the result; I am not. There
are 2,304,000 pores in the human body; so many avenues, I
might say, has God to the heart; and if we will but be co-workers
with him, we can find access also. God follows, or I
should say, makes nature his mode of entrance and influence;
we have but to go in by the same way, and work after the
same pattern. Not but that there have been difficulties; but
the greatest one, after all, was to find God's stand-point of
Nature. What the people of Livingston needed, I could but
see; what they would receive, may, at times, have admitted
of some questioning. Their vices were not indeed peculiar,
they shared in the common backsliding from God; their cisterns,
drained of water, held only sediment, for which they
were ready, at any moment, to do battle. I remembered the
feeling that prevailed here when I was lost in the woods; how
good everybody was, self-sacrificing, and self-forgetful; I remembered
my dreams. There were the many things Deacon
Ramsdill told me; there was my experience with the children,
when I kept the School, where I learned more of the
infinite susceptibilities, wants, tendencies of our nature, than
could in any other way have been presented to me out of myself;
there was what Chilion told me about Music; there was
the geode, and the incrusted crystals. Ever too was myself,
I could but be sensible of my own wants, and what would do
me good. There was the revelation of Christ to me, by Mr.
Evelyn. There was the well at No. 4, of which he speaks,
clear water, a subterranean Heaven in that greasy, odious place,
and along with it Dorothy's pink, that seemed to me like
another little Heaven in the deep degradation of humanity.
There was also a strong conviction that the sin which I saw

in the world was unnatural and self-destructive, that much of
the folly of men was preposterous and remediable. So in
many ways I was taught the Will of God. I know not that I
was ever conscious of any mission to this people; but after our
house was done, I could not be satisfied till something else
was doing. Our, or my, if you please, first experiment was at
No. 4, as he has told you. The effect was almost instantaneous,
and quite magnificent; that the Scripture might be fulfilled
where it is written, “though they have lain among pots,
they shall become as the wings of a dove covered with silver,
and her feathers with yellow gold.”

I have a fortune indeed; and some would fain make themselves
believe that we have opened a battery of systematic bribery,
that we have got into the human heart, as Philip did into
the Athenian walled-towns, by our gold. You would be surprised
to know how little we have bestowed in a mere eleemosynary
manner. We gave nothing to the No. 4's, except
what took an ornamental form. Their solid comfort and prosperity
is wholly to be attributed to themselves. It was not
largesses they needed, but industry, economy, temperance and
love. We bought them a barn, when their hay and corn
began to increase; but they have since repurchased it. I gave
Abiah Tapley a clarionet, and Isaiah Hatch a bugle, that they
might join our Band; Dorothy we have educated. In the
town at large we have done little for charity; our money
indeed has gone freely, but more in ways æ-thetic and religious
than anything else. It has aided in the erection of a
Church, a Cemetery, a Fountain, School-house, remodelling the
Jail, planting trees, setting up Statues, etc. etc. To Judah
Weeks we made a loan, on an importation of sheep, cows,
fruits and seeds, he was bringing from England; but he has
repaid it. And, I believe, at this moment, I could receive
back principal and interest, all I have laid out. The pecuniary
ability of the people has kept pace with their moral
excellence. Land has advanced in price, strangers are anxious
to come and settle amongst us. The people have expended
a good deal, and they have made money. Abstinence
from ardent spirits, military duty, needless fashions, lawsuits,
have saved the town ten thousand dollars a year; so Judge
Morgridge said at our house the other night. Add to this the
recovery from idle habits, negligent dispositions and an unproductive
uniformity, and you will see our people are able to
expend much in other ways.

Waste lands have been redeemed; sundry improvements in

agricultural and mechanical arts adopted, whereby at once is a
saving, and a profit. Education, Literature, Religion, Recreation,
Beauty, Music, Art, Morality and General Happiness,
are things the people enjoy, and for which they are able to
pay. They have laid the foundation for a building to serve a
composite purpose, of Library, Museum, Lecture Room,
Reading Room, &c. The Natural History of the place some
are beginning to develop and illustrate; its insects, birds,
fishes, rocks, flowers, weather and sky. Arthur Morgridge
and Aurelius Orff spent the whole of last year in examinations
of this sort, and their book under the superintendence of
Master Elliman will be published, and two hundred copies will
be sold in Livingston. Hancock Welles, the Principal of the
Grammar School, spends one whole day in the week with his
scholars, studying the world about them; I mean the Livingstonian
world, of wood, earth and water. Of our extraneous
public taxes some of the people complain a little. Mons
Christi paid a general tax last year of two thousand dollars.
Mr. Evelyn says the State has helped Livingston somewhat,
and if Livingston can help the State out of its difficulties, it
will be better for all in the end.

Speak of wealth, Anna? Mr. Evelyn says our country expends
for military and warlike purposes, in all ways, at the rate of
80,000,000 dollars a-year, for intoxicating drinks 50,000,000
more, and for vain and hurtful customs enough to carry the
tale to 200,000,000! What if this sum could every where be
devoted to Christ, Beauty and Happiness; you would cease to
wonder at what is done in Livingston.

What time, what labor, what money is laid out in the great
world on what is known as Fashion! Vice is ugly, and yet
you embrace her; if she were beautiful, that might be an excuse
for your conduct. Can anything exhibit a more “hideous
mien” than Fashion? The French Milliners are a more
dangerous foe to the race than French arms. Madame Laponte
threatens a worse evil than Napoleon. She has actually invaded
America, and thousands of females have fallen victims
to her arts. Your grandmother said I should certainly lose
my symmetry if I did not wear a whalebone corset, which
she showed me, and one that would have weighed I should
think three pounds. Your friend Miss Lees, said I should
lose caste if I did not carry my waist up over my shoulders;
long waists she said were fast going out of fashion, or worn
only by the vulgar. Is it not, after all, only a circular race
between Tippee and Twaddle? Tippee is now ahead, Twaddle

soon overtakes her, Tippee falls behind; so round and
round they go; which leads, or which is beaten, who can tell.
Can that be Beauty which lowers your corsage to-day, and
raises it to-morrow; which flaunts a furbelow one year and
denounces it the next? Your ladies seem to me more jiggered
than dressed; they are tasty, but not neat; they struggle for
good keeping, but attain no harmony; they are bespangled
without ornament, and fashionable without beauty. Mr. Evelyn
has a volume with plates illustrative of our ancestral costumes;
and I am persuaded that if the Indians had appeared in an
attire which has been the glory of Christian belles, it would
have been set down as the proper accompaniment of Barbarism,
and the Greeks in such dresses would never have advanced
beyond the woods of Attica. One department of our Museum,
devoted to Antiquities, I recommend to have supplied with
garments showing the fashions of our own and other times;
as suitable a relic as we can transmit to posterity. The
Spartans forbade all colors but purple. If we do not restrict
ourselves to that extent, we will at least become more moderate.
A robe, a la Grecque, has been introduced into town, is greatly
admired, and somewhat worn. But alas for the persons of
quality who have wens on their necks! You contrive to hide
this deformity by your cardinal-hoods. But what will you do
with the next person of quality who has monstrous ankles?
The wen must then go bare! Our people have got the good
graces of the Quakers! four of whom have come to reside
here, with hands full of industry, and purses full of money;
and they are interested members of Christ-Church.

We have had the staunchest concurrence, a munificent
sympathy, a most effective aid. Names, which if it could be,
I should like to have published to the world, are blazoned
here on Livingston hills, and storied in Livingston hearts;
Judge Morgridge, Deacon Ramsdill, Deacon Bowker and wife,
Esq. Weeks, Isabel, Judah and Mabel Weeks, Esq. Beach,
William and Julia Beach, Mr. Stillwater, Abiah and Dorothy
Tapley, Captain Tuck, Consider Gisborne, the Pottles, the
Whistons, Anthony and Ruth Wharfield, the Palmers, Tony
Washington, Arthur Morgridge, Mr. Readfield, the new Merchant,
Job Luce, Grace Joy and Beulah Ann Orff, Zenas Joy,
Captain Hoag, Socrates Hadlock, Hancock Welles, Kester
Shield, Philip Davis; and many, many others, whose names
are writ in the Lamb's Book of Life.

How has it been done? I will tell you. Dorothy Tapley, you
know, lived with us. She used frequently to be in the room

when I was playing the piano. She was not long in disclosing
a deep musical aptitude. I gave her what little instruction I
could, and sent her to your city to be perfected. She is now,
as we judge, a singer and player of the first order, and has
many pupils in town. Again, one Sunday, there came to our
house, in company with many others, a poor, ragged boy from
the North Part of the Town. Some of our paintings were
shown to him. Again he came, and sat an hour alone, and
looked at them. In a few days, he brought us some rude
chalk imitations of a Sir Joshua Reynolds. Of course we
should assist him. His name is Elam Dater; Julia Beach
found him wandering in the streets, took him to Church,
and had him come to Mons Christi. He has taken some portraits,
but his forte is Landscape and Design. He has furnished
us several fine views of Livingston, one of Mons
Christi, as seen from the Green, which I mean to send to you.
He is now engaged on an original work, the Beatitudes, to be
executed on one piece of canvass, having Christ with the
green tree-cross, in the centre, and the several groups arranged
about him. It is to be purchased by Christ-Church members,
and put in the Church. So genius, as well as real-estate, and
all good things, rise under the influence of an indomitable,
universal Christian Love. “When we love God and love our
fellow-men,” says our Bishop, “then and only then is our insight
clear, our judgment sound, our strength available, and
our resolve steadfast. Hereby alone we attain to virtue, are
inspired by Beauty, and moved to Greatness. The Spirit of
Christ in a man, does more enlarge the mind, develop the
capabilities, animate the will, than all other things. In the
new Heavens and the new Earth, wherein dwelleth righteousness,
Art, Poetry, Painting, Sculpture, taking new forms from
the divine life of the soul, shall offer to the world unexampled
creations, and transcendent grandeur.” This is the secret of
what you behold in Livingston, Anna; all contained in a nutshell.

Music I cherish for its own sake, for my dear brother
Chilion's sake, my dear dead father's sake, and for Christ's
sake. Some of the Ancients did not encourage music, lest it
should weaken the temper of the people. The object of most
nations, Mr. Evelyn says, has been to make the citizen subservient
to the State. Nor has it been sufficient to enslave his
strength, and drain his products, they must also prevent his
proper moral growth. Ability to prosecute wars has been the
test of a healthy national condition. Individuality of character

has been construed into rebellion, and simple happiness stigmatized
as effeminacy. To live for the State became the
chief end of man. We discern a higher end, the glory of God.
He made man musical; Music is a Divine gift, and God works
in it.—The more I reflect upon Chilion, the more am I impressed
with his greatness. His conceptions, as I see them
now, were magnificent, and his execution powerful. But he
was chaotic and undeveloped. Only at the hour of his death
did I understand the feelings of his life. He came out, like
the sun, at the close of a cloudy day, glittered, and expired.
His music always thrilled me, as I have seen it blow many
about, like leaves in the wind. His violin was truly oracular,
orphean, superhuman. Through it, I am sure, he would have
communicated much of the hidden secrecy of the soul. Reserved
in manner, hesitating in speech, his instrument became
his confidence, his utterance, his communicable self. An
Inexplicability took him from us! Soul of Chilion, descend
into my soul. If tears were song, I would sing thee over the
world; when I have ceased to weep, I only pray there may
remain strength enough to sing. Yet like an inapproachable
star, his light descends to me from afar. All Livingston has
caught something of his spirit. There were many, in whose
hearts he silently sank, and upon whom he scattered his wild
but divine musical seeds. Without speaking, he originated
sensations in many a breast, and without putting forth a hand,
his designs have been moulded into the beautiful forms of Art.
Many pieces which he played extemporaneously and aboriginally,
I remember; Abiah Tapley is able to recall others; so
that our Band is in possession, not only of his name, and ideal,
but of many of his creations. He very early taught me the
use of the violin, and in this way I have been able to retain
and distribute more of him than I otherwise should. I did not
know how good Chilion's music was, until I discovered how
much poor music there is in the world! His frozen words
have thawed, and may be heard all over our Town. Robert
Bruce, since in his lifetime he could not go to the Holy Land,
at his death ordered his heart to be embalmed and carried
thither. Chilion could not come to this our Holy Land, but
we have here his embalmed melodies.

Have you not reflected that Christ was a singer? At the
Last Supper “they sang a hymn.” Mr. Evelyn says he
thinks it could not have been, what some suppose, the Hillel
of the Jews. David, he says, could not compose a song for
Christ. I think it was an extemporaneous swan-song of Jesus.

His voice itself, as I have heard it, is pure music. Are not
the Beatitudes the highest kind of Poetry. Or I should say, I
do not think the highest kind of Inspiration to be Poetry, I
mean at least it is not rhyme. In many of Christ's words are
harmony and softness, mellifluence and music. The Gospels
seem to me truth melodized. The best parts of the New
Testament have never been thrown into a lyric form; even by
those whose profession is scripture versification. Master Elliman
has a copy of Sternhold and Hopkins, and I had as lief
use it as Watts; notwithstanding the great distance between
them. Your Mr. Belknap is better, but he falls sadly below
the true Gospel Idea. The Gospel, if it were understood, if
with warm hearts, they descended into the depths of its spirit,
our Poets, I am certain, could turn into rhyme and beauty.
Mr. Evelyn's volume, prepared for Christ-Church, we like
very much.—Nature is musical, and God in Nature; the stars,
the brooks; so must all things become, Religion, Life, Society,
Intercourse, Labor, Politics, Controversy, Reform; so speaks
my sprite. “My Peace I leave with you,” said Jesus. The
Peace of Jesus would be the music of the world.

Beauty also has its own end and office, is absolute and
divine. Beauty is musical, music is beautiful. God made
the trees of the garden of Eden good to look upon, that is,
beautiful. Beauty is Truth's usher, whereby it is introduced
to the heart. No Truth is received till it puts on a beautiful
aspect. The mind even seems to have the power of exorcising
Falsehood, expelling from it the spirit of Ugliness, and transfusing
it with that of Beauty. People tell me that they never
used to make up their minds to believe Theological errors,
until they were first presented in a beautiful form. The
Widow Luce says, she was first made to see some beauty in
the doctrine of Reprobation, before she assented to it! The
old Prophets had ideas of beauty that we have lost sight of.
“The Beauty of the Lord our God be upon us,” says David.
Then in the New Testament, Christ is called the Beautiful
Shepherd; of the woman who anointed him he says, “She
hath wrought a Beautiful work on me.” St. Paul says, “Provide
things Beautiful in the sight of all men.” This secret
sentiment of high moral Beauty, a Beautiful Goodness runs
through the Gospels. God is Beautiful, and Christ has ever
seemed to me the Beautiful One, beyond all created description
or compare. His Beautiful Goodness won my unconscious
child's heart, and when I knew it not, made me its own; and
as it were when I was asleep, impressed its image upon me,

which reappeared when I awoke, and still rises with my higher
existence of thought, and shall live with me forever.—The
power of Beauty over what is known as the common mind,
our house and grounds, our statuary and paintings furnish
instances of, every day. “This is a beautiful spot,” people
say, when they come to Mons Christi. I remember overhearing
old Mr. Shooks, the former Jail-keeper, the flintiest,
driest, crossest man I ever saw, make that exclamation; and
he really looked pleased when he said it. His heart was
touched. Innocent gladness is one of the most beautiful things
under the sun; it is the roses and pansies of humanity. Pa's
gay humor, wicked though he was, always impressed me as
something beautiful. How shall we account for this effect of
Beauty? I know of no better way than that given by my
Author. “It gets in at our eyes, pores, nostrils; engenders
the same qualities and affections in us as were in the party
whence it came. The rays sent from the object carry certain
spiritual vapors with them, and so infect the observer. Our
spirits are inwardly moved by this subtil influence.” In this
connection, Anna, read that what I shall call stupendous passage
of St. Paul, where speaking of Christ, he says, “Whom
beholding, we are changed into the same image, from glory to
glory.” If we only beheld Christ as we should, we should be
transformed into his Divinest Beauty; there would be “engendered
in us the same qualities and affections as are in him.”
Mr. Evelyn says, Christ is not preached as any complete whole,
soul and body; not as a full-orbed, deeply capacious personal
being; but only as one who, in a certain moment, did something,
as one who, at the end of his life, died to execute a certain
intention of God. Hence no body is changed into the
real image of Christ, but all are casting about to satisfy themselves
as to the application of that single executive stroke of
his. So many paintings of a merely dead Christ, I do not
fancy. That by Giotto, from which it is said most of the
famous paintings in Europe are obtained, originated in this
way. Giotto hired a man to hang an hour on the cross, and
at the expiration of the time, instead of relieving him, stabbed
him dead, and then fell to drawing! Are we not more saved
by a living, than a dead Christ? Is there nothing in a living
Christ for a painter to draw from, and a Christian too?—Beauty,
God's creation, is sinless and pure; and it helps to make us
good. In 1529, when the soldiery took Florence, and entered
a monastery for purposes of pillage, where was a picture of the
Last Supper by Andrea, they were so struck with it, they
retired without committing any violence. Such is the power
of a living Christ, such is the power of simple Beauty!

The matter of Philosophy I shall leave wholly with Mr.
Evelyn. I think when we are Philosophers, we shall have
Philosophy. Or if, as he says, I am Philosophy, it is because
I am myself. Not being what we should be, our speculations
are buffoonery. Could we understand the Philosophy of
a single moment, or a single atom, we should understand the
Philosophy of Infinity. “Who by searching can find out
God?” Could I understand God in the structure of a single
head of fox-tail grass, I should know more than all theosophists.
Let me fall back and work the work of Nature, so shall I work
the work of God, and be above all schools. Mr. Evelyn says
the Germans will presently surprise the age with the novelty
of their views, and the grandeur of their speculations. What
avails speculation in this slouched, vagabondish world? Eternity
is made up of moments, let me live the present moment
well, and I shall live forever well. Immensity is composed of
square rods, let me tread well where I now stand, and I shall
always have a good foothold. Christ was a true Philosopher,
let me be a Christian. Mr. Evelyn says I act philosophically;
I am only conscious of acting according to my nature. I
confess I am much less uneasy than I used to be; I am quite
a convert to the Master, and as he once told me, like a cow I
have learned to eat my grass quietly and thankfully, asking no
questions. “God,” says Job, “giveth not account of any of
his matters.” Be He monotheistic or pantheistic, as some
dispute, my duty is one, to live well. God is and I am, God
lives and I live, God works and I work, in God I shall be;
with this I am satisfied. A Universe of beauty, love, joy and
truth are before me, let me press on. So, at least, I feel
to-day, and the morrow shall take care for the things of itself.

Another distinct and stringent law of God and Nature is
recreation. Of the many kinds that are afloat, we have been
obliged to use care in our choice. What would Christ approve,
what is best, we ask. In what can all ages and conditions
unite? What relaxes without weakening, is cheerful
without frivolity, and offers attraction without danger? Not
to the exclusion of other things, our election has fallen on the
Dance, a species of recreation enjoined in the Old Testament,
and recognized in the New; one practised in every age and
country, and recommended by the sanction of the best and
greatest of men. All these things our people soberly thought
of, while I had got my lesson years ago. It has Music and

Beauty for its garniture and strength. Its intrinsic value has
won for it the approval of all. We sometimes dance on the
Green, sometimes in our Hall. It is enjoyed in all families.
Parents dance with their children, husbands with wives. It
has supplanted many ridiculous games, and extirpated cruel
sports. It has broken up drunken carousals, and neutralized
the temptation to ardent spirits. Having once entered upon
it, we become straightway sensible of its advantages. Whatever
grace is needed in person, or courtesy in manners, it
operates to perfect. And surely, as my authority observes,
“it is pleasant to see those pretty knots and swimming figures.”
It brings the people together, interests strangers, and
diffuses a serene, whole-souled harmony over the town. It
has no boisterousness and much life. It embodies the recreative
element in the healthiest and holiest forms. Where all
unite, there is no excess. We praise God in the dances; it
is a hymn written with our feet. I would dance as I would
pray, for its own sake, and because it is well-pleasing to God.
Fenelon, when one of his curates complained to him that his
parishioners would dance after their religious services, replied,
“Let us leave those poor people to dance; their hours of happiness
are not too numerous.” This was kind of the good
Fenelon, but it indicates a bad state of society, that wherein
the greater part of life is a drudgery. We are happy when
we work, when we pray, as well as when we dance.

We are great politicians, so at least President Jefferson said.
I will tell you. We were visited successively by both the
Presidents, Mr. Adams and Mr. Jefferson. Mr. Adams'
forte, Mr. Evelyn says, is the science of government, on which
topic he has written a book. Of course he and Mr. Evelyn
fell to talking politics. Said he, “I have perused the history
of every monarchy and republic, the records of which have
descended to our times. Salonina, the most virtuous and distinguished
empress that ever adorned a Roman throne, promised
the philosopher Plotinus, that she would rebuild a decayed
city of Campania, and appoint him over it, that he might
experimentally know, while presiding over a colony of philosophers,
the validity and use of the ideal laws of the republic
of Plato. The history of that republic I have never seen,
until by the hospitality which has invited me to your house,
and the attention which has taken me over your town, I seem
to be all at once transported into the bosom of it!” President
Jefferson has the reputation of being less of a theorist, and
more acquainted with men as they are. Said he, “You are

the very best politicians in the land; I wish the country was
full of such. You have freedom, competency, virtue. I had
rather be Mrs. Evelyn than William Pitt. Don't you blench
though all danger menaces you. The Government shall not
molest you; the nation is honored by having within its borders
the town of Livingston!”

“Courage!” said Diogenes to a young man whom he saw
blushing. “That is the color of virtue.” One needed courage
to face this battery of applause. Epaminondas, the day after
his victory at Leuctra, came abroad in squalid attire, and with
an abject look, giving as a reason that he was overmuch
joyed the day before. I do not understand that we need to
put on sackcloth and ashes because men are pleased with
God's doings, nor behave like a certain artist, somewhat whimsical
he was, who, when one praised a statue he was making,
smote it with his hammer and dashed it in pieces. I recollect,
when I was keeping school, at Esq. Beach's one evening, hearing
a warm discussion, a sort of grave snip-snap, about Napoleon's
return from Egypt, Russia seceding from the Coalition,
Tom Jefferson becoming President, and what not. There
were Esq. Beach on one side, Esq. Weeks on the other, and
Esq. Bowker a sort of third party man. Indeed, you would
have thought a new geological cataclysm was at hand, and
that we were about to be submerged in some diplomatic ocean,
or swallowed by some Megalosaurian man. These men are
all on one side now, that of Christ and Love. Our people
have lost all fear of England or France, and Mr. Jefferson has
at heart, I think, some of the noblest purposes that ever filled
a human breast. If the great Suwarrow comes amongst us
and behaves himself, he shall be welcome; but if he goes to
playing his pranks, we shall have to open our meal-bags upon
him. These Megalosaurian Men, O Anna! But in the New
Earth now in process of creation, we shall dig for their remains,
as we do for other fossils, and wonder, not how they
got in there, but how they could have subsisted. We do not
lean on an arm of flesh whereby we are cursed, but on that of
God; and what saith the Prophet? “Blessed is the man that
trusteth in the Lord; he shall be as a tree planted by the
waters, and that spreadeth out her roots by the river, and shall
see when heat cometh, but her leaf shall be green.” “Who
is he that will harm you, if ye be followers of that which
is good?” is the question of Christianity. “Fear not, little
flock, it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom,”
are the words of Christ. What Atheistic, Anti-Christian

fear pervades Church and State! How much men pay,
and do, to demonstrate their infidelity!

I am writing a long, long letter. Like Elihu, the son of
Barachel, the Buzite, I could have “answered and said, I am
young, and ye are very old, wherefore I was afraid and durst
not show you mine opinion. But great men are not always
wise. Therefore I said, Hearken to me. I am full of matter.
I am ready to burst like new bottles. I will speak that I may
be refreshed.” I am sensible, Anna, that I have not told you
everything that your interest relates to, and Mr Evelyn urges
me on to give you my views and notions.

There are individual histories in town, each in itself sufficient
to make a book. We read accounts of conversions; I
could recite you some here, equal to any you ever heard of.
When the Lives of our Saints, and the Exploits of our Champions
shall be published, it will make a volume superior to any
that has issued from the press this some time. I wish you
could hear what is rehearsed at our house every week of battles
won on the field of Evil, of temptations endured from the
world; the poor becoming rich in grace; the besotted finding
their way up to virtue; the fearful overcoming their dread;
the persecuted blessing their enemies; the proud humbling
themselves, and such things. There is a long story to Elam
Dater; there is Miss Arunah Shooks encountering inward
foes, such as might have intimidated St. George himself; there
are the trials of Hiram Ravel, in the North Part of the Town,
that would embellish a Book of Martyrs; there is the conviction
and conversion of John Weeks, reminding you of George
Fox; there are Isabel, Dorothy, Triandaphelda Ada Hadlock,
Sylvina Pottle, and others, whose biographies ought to be
written. But I leave them for the present.

We are a united but not an identical population, Mr.
Evelyn wishes me to tell you. Striped grass, planted
with other grass, becomes of one color, an uniform green.
For one, I wish to see no such loss of individuality, and
absorption in the aggregate. Let each spear retain its own
lines, each man his own qualities, and why as Deacon Ramsdill
says, can they not all live happily and perfectly together in the
same field, the same town? I do not wish the people all to
do as we do, only I do wish to see them Beautiful, True, Happy,
Christian. The town is eight miles long by six broad; it
contains two hundred farms, three stores, two taverns, one
Church, six school-houses, three or four joiners' shops, a
tannery, fulling-mill, grist-mill, blacksmith shops, &c., no

distillery, no jail. A right spirit prevails with the major
part of the inhabitants; that is our identity. Each one eats
his own meals, maintains his own family, follows his own calling,
thinks his own thoughts, dies his own death; in this are
we separated. Unity in variety is a good motto. There are
many common interests, our Church, our Festivals, Roads,
Cemetery, Dances, Library, Schools, Music, Art, Love, Christ,
Nature, God. The inhabitants of ancient Cuma, were reputed
stupid by their neighbors. But it was found they owed this
character to their virtues. We are indifferent to some things
that engage and distract the world. But there is life, spirit,
and enterprise among the people. Sour rivalries, envious association,
jostling activities, are not. To perfect ourselves,
our institutions, our Town, is a life-work. If there arises a
dispute, there are trusty people enough to whom we are glad
to refer the matter. Nor can one take advantage of our confidence.
The spirit of Christ is lynx-eyed; or as our Bishop
says, it penetrates the secret things of darkness, unmasks the
hypocrite, and reads the heart of the designing. “If we should
all become good,” you said, “there would nothing remain
whereby to keep philanthropy and benevolence alive.” Love,
like jealousy, grows with that it feeds on; thrives on itself.
Like plants, the fruits of the Spirit mature best in a soil where
the elements are analogous. Virtue grows on God, as the
misletoe on oaks. Does God ever decay?

Of myself need I say anything more, or of my connection
with these things? Can a bee tell how it builds its comb?
Other people might give you a more satisfactory account, but
to me it seems to have grown up as corn grows. Judge Morgridge
is about publishing a little history of our affairs, which
I recommend to your friends. The leaves of the five-finger
draw together to shelter the flower when it rains, and open when
the sun comes out. So have I done to my plans; can I tell
how? The Widow Wright taught me Utility; “Not looks,
it's use, child,” was her maxim. The hang-bird taught me
Caution. Mother Goose's Melodies taught me not to cry when
I could not help a thing. But more than this, if we could but
see it, there is a waiting for Goodness and Truth in all souls.
“In every bone there is marrow, and beneath every jacket
lives a man,” saith the Arab proverb. Then through the
world wanders the spirit of Love, though she be no more than
the chipping bird that builds a nest in the rose-bush, or a butterfly
that shimmers over a dirty pool. Did I have dreams
which others enjoyed not? Were they mature and finished

even beyond my experience? In this also is not the Scripture
fulfilled; “In a dream he openeth the ears of men, and sealeth
their instruction.” Did Christ himself come very near to
me and speak with me? As the disciples after Christ's death
understood many sayings of their Master, which were hidden
before, so have I in later years come to understand the deep
meaning of Christ to me. I must live his childhood's life; I
must grow up in his image; “his life must be made manifest
in my mortal body,” as St. Paul has it. When I came to
compare the inward Christ of my soul with the historical
Christ, whom Mr. Evelyn made known to me, they flowed
together, and mingled in one.

I had dreams too of Beauty and Art, a Classical Magician
waved over me his wand. Could I see the chain that binds
together, Christianity, æsthetics, Heroism! But in me they
are one, in the world they are at odds. I could not rest till
these things went forth in forms and life. In purity and
love have we genius; the Gospel gives beauty to the eye, and
holiness to the soul. Our Cross, not like Constantine's which
he bore at the head of his armies, blossoms as the rose, and
heals up the ravages of war. Our Oriflamme of silver whiteness,
is such as the Apostle John might have unfurled when he
started on his mission of love. I am dealing with great subjects,
quite beyond my depth. I admire old Atlas, but I have
neither his thews nor his good nature, I cannot bear up
the world. I remember when Hash was driving a cart up a
hill, I used to trig the wheels, that is, put under a stone. If
any Demiurgic Teamster is disposed to drive the Cart of
Peace and Good Will over the Earth, I stand ready to trig the
wheels; beyond this I cannot do. My hand aches with writing,
as your eyes must with reading. Wait till I come back, Rose
is at the door on horseback, we are going to take a ride.

We went full four miles to the North Part, and carried some
supplies to a poor sick family there. How beautiful is our
town! No European village that I have heard of, no American
village that I have seen, is so beautiful. Here are
views that would, I will engage, match you with Greenwich
Tower, or St. Mark's Steeple in Venice. The Green with its
majestic rim of elms, thanks to our forefathers, and its central
star, the Fountain; the Cemetery with its white monuments
under the green trees; the River beyond the Village, the fine
houses on Grove Street; Aunt Wiswall's, whose house and ornamental
grounds cover the burnt forest, Col. Welch's; Mons

Christi, our house, Rufus' tasteful seat, above all, the Cross.
That Cross, seen at sunset among the gorgeous clouds, is
superb. Rose, who used to be afraid of thunder-storms, says
she looks to that and grows quiet. In all the streets, and
many of the bye-ways are ornamental trees, elms, maples,
tulip-trees, horse-chesnuts, spruces, larches; the houses of
the town are painted white, grey, cream-color, some red. You
meet such happy, loving faces, merry groups of children; the
old people seem so warm-hearted and benevolent; the young
men and women are easy and polite. Esqs. Beach and
Bowker we saw; they had been arbitrating on a case.
This is now their principal business, and they get ample pay
for it. Even people come in from other towns and great distances
to employ them. They say they can trust Livingston
lawyers! Mr. Adolphus Hadlock also we saw. He has twice
sold out, and moved from town, and twice returned. No poor
man was ever so frightened. But the conversion of his Triandaphelda
Ada, and the marriage of his son Socrates to Dorothy,
seem to have reconciled him; and he walks the streets
now more like a man than that “Aunt Dolphy.” The Jail
is tenanted by a man with his family, who was originally confined
for murder; he was converted through the instrumentality
of our Bishop, pardoned by the Governor, and now keeps
an agricultural seed and implement store; but is engaged to
yield his rooms whenever there is any convict to occupy them.
Old Alexis Robinson, who became wholly insane, and was confined
in the old Jail, has recovered his senses, and is supported
handsomely by the town, and has a room in the new prison,
dwelling-house, or whatever it be. Master Elliman has dubbed
Livingston L. L., Laudabilis Locus.

Holy and delightsome is the Earth! God saw that every
thing he had made was very good. I bless God for the dandelions
that bestar the green grass; I bless him for the song-sparrow
that sings out against my window; I bless him for the
little Jane Girardeau that is here playing with the kitten.
What an ecstasy were the golden fires kindled as the Sun went
down last night, and the polished silver dawn I saw at four
o'clock this morning, set with the Mohammedan's sign of worship,
the crescent Moon. The Spring, the Summer, the Autum,
the Winter, do feast and ravish me. Not that anagogical Hebrew
Oil, compounded of stacte, onycha, galbanum, had so sweet
a perfume as that with which I am daily anointed, and which
maketh my face to shine in innumerable flowers, that fill the
woods and ways all the season through. The best prayer I can

offer is to use all things well; my highest gratitude enjoyment.
Sin, I cannot. All things are incense to me,—the woods, the
brooks, the birds, the fogs, the dew, the clouds, the sky; I
will be incense to God; like my dear Redeemer, a sweet
smelling savor. Into me the Universe flows, from me it returns
back to its Maker. If I cannot tell the cause of the flux
and reflux, like Aristotle on the banks of the Euripus, I will
not get angry, and die.

How singularly are we situated; on one side you approach
Mons Christi, by the Delectable Way, on another, by the Via
Salutaris; from the east, by the Via Dolorosa; across the
place runs the Brook Kedron! Names taken up in stark caprice,
have become animated with the deepest significance.
Our Bishop had told the people there was a street in Jerusalem
called the Via Dolorosa, through which Christ is said to
have borne his Cross to Calvary. One Sunday Miss Arunah
Shooks, deeply impressed with a sense of her sinfulness, as she
said, in having so often offended Christ and broken the laws of
the Gospel, came up that way, alone; she said she wanted to
bear her cross to Mons Christi. And what do you think that
cross was? This, she said, that she treated me so rudely
when I went to see Chilion in the Jail, and she wanted to come
and ask my forgiveness. She said she had long struggled with
her convictions, but after the confession, she felt a load drop
off.—Livingston itself—a name derived from a respectable
American family—the Living Stone, disallowed, it may be, of
men, but chosen of God and precious; the Stone cut out of a
mountain without hands—may it at least become a Mountain
great enough to fill its own place in the Earth!

I did not tell you that my old friend Ben Bolter is here.
One of his legs was shot off by the Tripolitans; he has made
a full-rigged miniature schooner for Gottfried, and they sail
together on the Pond. My boy may become a sailor after all.
Ben Bolter exhibits gratifying tokens of a renewed mind.

In the North part of the town, on the very spot where the
Gallows stood and Chilion was hung, has been erected a monumental
piece representing Moses kneeling to Christ and surrendering
the Book of the Hebrew Code; Christ appears as it
were closing the Book with his foot—the action being partially
veiled by drapery. It is exquisitely done; Art is satisfied, Justice
acquiesces, Humanity triumphs.

We have a Library indeed, but how few good books! Is it
a dream; or has some one said it, or will some one say it, or
is it my sprite that says—“America has not fulfilled the reasonable

expectations of mankind. Men looked, when all feudal
straps and bandages were stripped asunder, that Nature, too
long the mother of dwarfs, would reimburse herself in a brood
of Titans, who should laugh and leap in the continent, and run
up the mountains of the West with the errand of genius and
love.” A very facetious sprite is that, whoever he be. He
reminds me of a certain Talmudic God, that spent his time
whittling sharp sticks, wherewith he was wont at his leisure to
prick the sides of mortals and enjoy their grimaces. “We
have a thousand authors of all sorts,” says Father Burton two
hundred years ago. But in truth I have found little to entertain
me more than “The Loves of Osmund and Duraxa,” I saw in
Boston some years since. So I must “conclude myself a mere
block that is affected by none of them,” according to the writer
aforesaid. As soon as Napoleon finds his quietus, I hope the
world will take breath again, and somebody be moved to write
a good book here in America.

We have had our crosses frequent and severe; individual
and corporate, personal and social. The last the Town was
called to endure, fell out in this wise. The following appeared
in the Kidderminster Chronicle.

A convention of Clergy was soon called at Kidderminster,
before which the Rev. Mr. Lovers of Brandon, the gentleman
alluded to, was summoned. He had made three or four exchanges
with Frank. His prosecutor was the Rev. Mr.
Orstead, of Windenboro, who wrote the notice for the paper.
The trial went on two or three days. The council was divided
on the question of withdrawing fellowship from Mr. Lovers,
suspending, or deposing him. But their meeting was brought

to a conclusion in an unforeseen way. While they were debating
what to do, an accuser appeared against Mr. Orstead in
the person of an unmarried female, who charged upon him a
child she had recently borne. His guilt was so far proved,
that he confessed it. Mr. Lovers was saved, and Mr. Orstead
degraded. The unhappy man, despised at home, Frank went
to see, invited him to Livingston, where he has spent some
months; and I hope has become a better man.

During the excitement this affair gave our people, Dr. Freeman
came to see us, and renew those condolences and sympathies
he has so often expressed for us. While at our house,
he told me this story. When the Dutch in Albany, some years
since, would renew and enlarge their Church, they suffered the
old one to remain, and erected the new one about it, completely
enclosing it. Their worship continued in the old place
till the new house was nearly done. They then tore the old
Church to pieces, and carried the fragments out of the door of
the new one, into the finishing of which they entered. “Great
reforms,” continued the Doctor, “must be gradual. It is
easier to tear down than to build up; easier to remove an
error than supply a truth. Rome was not built in a day.
There are more Alarics than Romuluses in the world.”
This was a good story, and you have it for what it is worth.
“But I see,” said the Doctor, “you have built up far more
than you ever pulled down.” I replied that we had not sought
to pull down anything, but rather to put life into what was
dead, and reinstate Christ in his own Church. He agreed
that it was so.

As regards those who oppose us, could we, as did Nicholas
Sture, that Swede, who when he was stabbed by his Sovereign,
drew out the sword, kissed it, and returned it, could we
so meet all attacks, happy were we. “Tell me how I may
be revenged on my enemy?” said some one to Diogenes.
“By becoming more virtuous,” replied the philosopher. We
are charged with Infidelity! Will unkindness, traducement,
insinuation, bleardness, never cease? Anaxagoras, the most
religious of Philosophers, was persecuted for profanity; Socrates
was condemned for an heretic; Christ himself was
executed as a blasphemer, impostor and insurgent! When
Pyrrho, who professed indifference to all evils, was reproached
for driving off a dog that flew at him, “Ah,” replied he, “it
is difficult to bear everything!” So indeed it is; but as he
added, “We must try.” The Athenians constructed a Statue
from the marble which the Persians brought to raise as a monument

to their victories. We will make no ovation out of this
signal defeat of our enemies; I feel disposed the rather to
weep over human follies.

What will become of us? If we trust in God, we have his
promise, that the waters shall not overflow us, or the fire burn
us. We abide under the shadow of his wing. That a great
work has been done here none can deny. It is said that certain
fish, when brought to the surface of the water, sometimes burst
from the rarefaction of the air. Livingston has been raised
from a lowest depth. Yet it seems to me so compact in all its
proportions, that it cannot fall asunder. The world may
wholly leave us; but the thrush sings sweetest in the loneliest
woods, and we will keep up our song in solitude. The Spartans
were forbidden to pursue a flying foe; we shall not follow
our retreating enemies, with any intent to kill; nor shall
we turn our backs upon them if they rally again.

Orpheus has seemed to me a natural prophecy of Christ; a
part of the groaning of the creation after the Redemption. By
the sweetness of his music he drew the wild beasts after him;
he caused trees and rocks to move; his strains subdued the
rulers of Hell; through the charms of his melody the wheel of
Ixion stopped, and even the Furies relented. His music was
at last drowned by a hoarse discordant horn. He was himself,
too, torn in pieces, and the river Helicon, sacred to him, hid
itself under ground. Our Pond I used to call the Lake of
Orpheus, at the Master's suggestion, that here those waters had
risen. I have since called it the Lake of Christ. Such Orphean
music was he. He drew after him a whole age. He stilled
the fury of man, and the malice of devils. Some hoarse discordant
horn was raised in the Church; his music was quenched;
he was torn in pieces; his waters, hid under the Earth,
as I would fain fancy, have appeared on Mons Christi!
Whither now shall the Christian Helicon flow?