University of Virginia Library

LUCY HOWARD'S JOURNAL

Wednesday, August 1st, 1810.

They have given me a nice blank-book for a
journal. I've written my name and the date as
well as I possibly could. What more to put in
it I'm sure I don't know.

The schoolmistress says we must all keep journals.
She gives several good reasons for it. But
what a child of ten years, unless she's wiser than
I, can find that's worth writing down, I can't for
my life see. I think nobody would care to read
it after it was written.

There has been a great storm to-day, with
thunder and lightning. I've got nothing else to
say. I wish I could get along without this journal,
as I used to do; but mamma says I must
obey my teacher always.

Somebody has called a journal a map of life.
A rude outline I am afraid mine will be. An irregular
coast; an island uninhabited; Mountains
of the Moon; rivers rising nowhere and emptying
nowhere; “Great cry and little wool.”
Never mind. Let me try to do as well as I can.

I had a grand time in the arithmetic hour this
morning at school. I did so many sums, and so
fast, that my hand trembled, and my heart beat
quick; but it made me happy. I do like those
studies that one is sure of. You have only to go
straight ahead, and work, and take pains, and all
will come right.

If I kept school, I think I'd try to make every
body have a good time; for if children get mad,
they won't learn. If they are very cold, or very
warm, or very tired, and you say to them “study,
study!” and look cross all the time, they are apt

to think hard. Then there is no doing them any
good till they get into a better mood. If teachers
would only just look pleasant, and speak
pleasant, and not get mad themselves, what a nice
place school would be!

I hope I did not write unkindly yesterday.
When I read it over this morning it seemed just
like a slap of slander. I am afraid I did not feel
pleasant myself, and that made me think others
were not so. An old lady used to say, When you
complain of things around, most likely something
goes wrong within. I'll try to carry a sunbeam
in my heart to school to-day, and see what that
will do.

Tuesday, January 1st, 1811.

Here is a New Year's day, and my birth-day,
too. I should suppose I might have some decent
thoughts on these two events. So I have, but
'tis such an awful trouble to write them down.
As soon as I take a pen away they fly. My
strongest impression at present is, that it's terribly
cold. I was half frozen in going to school
this morning, and not much better off after I got
there. We took turns, indeed, in standing at the
fire, but the wood was green, and the sap ran out
in streams upon the hearth, and the chimney
smoked so fiercely that we all shed tears.

They have sent me to a man's school. My
mother was induced to believe that it was more
thorough, and would be better for me in the end.
I'm sure I hope it will. But I love to be taught
by ladies, because I always have been. I am
awfully afraid here to look up. The gentleman
is said to be very learned, and has not been long
out of college. It seems so strange to hear him
calling me Miss Howard, seeing my name in
school has always been Lucy. At first I did

not know who he meant, and did not answer, and
looked all round the seats to see who Miss Howard
was.

There are twenty-five of us scholars, most of
them older than I, and about half are of the other
sex. I miss the needle-work in the afternoons
very much. It was so pleasant to employ ourselves
that way a part of the time, while one read
aloud in history; and then to be able to carry
home a garment neatly made to mother. That
was a very great pleasure, peculiar to us girls,
and it seems a pity to lay it aside. But there is
more time for study, and I'll try to learn as fast
and much as I can, to pay dear mother for the
expense of my education. This is a very orderly
and strict school, and so still that it is much
easier to learn. I think pupils like a strict school
best, and are prouder of it, though they may sometimes
complain.

That short bench of boys who have entered
college, I wonder they don't go there. Why
need they be studying a year at home? To save
expense, I suppose. Well, that is praiseworthy
enough. But it would be much more agreeable

to us younger scholars if they were away. Their
room would be vastly better than their company.
Mighty grand are they, because they happen to
be in the fourth book of the Æneid. It will not
be long ere we catch up with them, I trust. But
the worst of it is, that every time we open our
mouths to recite, they watch, and carp, and criticise.
I only hesitated once to-day in a long lesson
in Philosophy, and yesterday in the conjugation
of a French verb, and heard them whisper to
each other, “There! that's a'most a mistake.”
It was not, neither. I knew what to say, and
should have said it as glib as ever, if they had
not been looking straight at me with lynx-eyes.
Judges, indeed, they set themselves up to be,
without any jury. I wish they had to wear wigs
and sit upon a woolsack.

I studied all my lessons thoroughly last evening.
I repeated them after I lay down in bed.
I put my books under my pillow. In my soundest
sleep I knew they were there. In one of my
dreams I thought they had changed into grappling-irons,
and said, “Hold the knowledge fast.”
When it grew light, I peeped at some of the
worst places, and said all the easy ones to myself.
While I was dressing, Memory showed me

that she had got the whole all right and clear.
So now I will go bravely to school, and that
bench of Scribes and Pharisees may take notes
as fierce as they please; but they sha'n't have a
chance to whisper again, “There! there! ain't
that a'most a mistake?”

I hear them talk a good deal about the cold
Friday of last winter. Some of the old people
say they scarcely remember any thing like it.
What made it felt more was, that the previous
day was unusually warm, so as to make the difference
of some sixty degrees in less than twenty-four
hours. For my part, I scarcely recollect
any thing at all about it, though I went to school
all day. I dare say my fingers ached, but I forget
about it. Yet it would be easy for me to remember
the date, if I wanted to, there are so many tens
about it. For instance, on the 10th of January,
1810, when I was just ten years and 10 days old,
it was 10 degrees below zero, with a sharp wind.
I can not help thinking it makes people feel both
the cold and heat more to be always studying
thermometers. I reckon it's better to keep busy,
and not mind whether the quicksilver rises or
falls.

I do love to parse in Milton. It is so entertaining
to have to chase after a nominative for
your verb, back and back through so many lines,
like a needle in a hay-mow. Then there's idiom
enough to keep your mind awake. It would be
pleasanter, though, if we did not have to go through
all the descriptions just as they come, with those
students glowering at us, and amused if there
happens to come any new bright color into our
cheeks.

Rain! rain! For three days I have gone to
school like one of the “amphibia,” as our Natural
History says. Never mind. I would not stay
at home for any thing, and let others get before
me in the lessons. It is a nice way to draw
the head of your cloak up over your bonnet. It
saves that, and keeps the back of your neck dry.
Mother was so good as to let me carry my dinner
to-day. Several of the girls did, and I think
we made too much noise. Then, as the clouds
grew a little lighter between schools, we took a
walk for exercise five times as far as to have gone
home. I wonder what our careful mothers would
have said to have heard of us so far away, and in
strange places where we never went before. But
it was right pleasant to explore new regions, and

our leader proposed that at present nothing should
be said about it.

Our next neighbor's little boy, Johnny, is a
good-tempered child, and smart. I often play
with him when I can get a chance. His mother
said yesterday, “How awfully it rains! We can
not get our clothes dry; they hang flapping on the
wet lines ever since Monday.” “Mamma,” asked
he, with a bright smile on his red lips, “will not
the rains bring out the fifth leaf on my cabbage?”
So he was as happy as he could be, while the
grown - up people were complaining. I should
like such a little brother, or, indeed, any kind of
a brother, if it had pleased God to have given me
one.

The girls have come to a conclusion to call our
teacher Preceptor. For my part, I do not exactly
discover any added glory in the title. But
then there's a good deal in names. I am sure he
deserves all the honor we can give him, so faithfully
does he seek our good. And I think he has
an excellent system with us, and that it is not
just to get money that he keeps school. No, indeed!
He tries to improve our conduct and character,

as well as to make us recite well. Those
are the right kind of folks to teach the young.
He takes pains to improve our memories. Twice
a week he reads to us from books of history, or
other sciences, that we can't get a chance to look
over, in a very slow, distinct manner. He chooses
such parts as he thinks are important, and closing
the book, questions us. Then we write afterward
what we recollect, in our own language, and show
it to him. He corrects what is wrong, and on
Saturday we copy it fairly in a manuscript book,
which we call our Remembrancer. To this we
add any other recollections of our studies during
the week. A regular omnium-gatherum mine is.
At the end of the year a medal is to be given to
the most perfect scholar—I don't know whether
of silver or gold. The pedantic bench of wiseacres
expect to have it, members of college as they
are, and old withal. Let's see a little to that,
though.

I wonder if it is wrong to write poetry. Some
wise people say it is a waste of time, and that
poets are always poor. I do not wish to waste
time, which is so precious; and I am not willing
to be poor and beg. But when any thought keeps
singing in my ear, just like a bee, I do write it

down, and it comes in rhyme. If I try to drive
it away, it flies round my head, as if it meant to
sting me. I have quite a pile of such things hid
away. I hope mother will not find them. I never
tried to conceal any thing from her before.

I am glad I have to knit my own stockings.
I used to think it was hard, but now I take pleasure
in shaping them right, and seeing them grow
a little every day. Besides, I am much more
careful not to hurt or lose them, since I know
what a great quantity of stitches they take, and
how slow it is to knit heel. I asked my mother
to teach me to mend a pair neatly that were a little
worn, and permit me to give them to a poor
girl whom I met without any, and who has no
time to knit. She kindly consented; and when
I saw the blue ankles comfortably covered from
the cold, and the downcast eyes looking glad, I
felt such a lifting up of the heart that I could
not help saying softly to myself, “Thank God!
thank God!”

I love to go to school in a snow-storm. It
makes me jump about, and feel so light and gay.
I am not philosopher enough to tell the reason.

A school-girl's party. My first one. I doubted
whether my mother would let me accept the
invitation. But she willingly consented. So we
went early on Saturday afternoon, dressed in our
best. Entering the parlor gravely, we courtesied
to our schoolmate. I think I should have laughed
in her face, but I espied her dignified mamma
seated in the corner, and made a still lower obeisance.

We sat upright and folded our hands. We
talked about the weather, and the babies at home,
as ladies do. I longed to jump and play
“Puss in the corner.” But no; it was a party.
We looked at each other, and thought of some of
the tricks at school. One or two of the oldest
giggled a little; but that would not do. It was
a party.

It seemed longer than a whole day at school
before the tea came in. Two large trays—one
with cups, cream, and sugar, the other with biscuits
and cakes. I never drank a cup of tea in
my life; but it would not do to ask for milk, because
it was a party. So I stirred mine, and put
it to my lips, as the others did. But it tasted
just like motherwort, or some hateful doctor's
trade, and I should have been glad to throw it
out the window. I wonder, when I grow old, if

I shall love to go to parties and drink this horrid
Chinese weed.

Just as I was wondering what to do with my
plate, and cup, and saucer, not being used to hold
my supper in my lap, in came my friend's stately
father. Up I jumped to make my manners, and
down went my bread and butter upon the carpet.
He was very kind to us, and I soon forgot that
he was such a great man. But, worst of all, in
came our Preceptor, who boards there. I was in
an awful fright, and slank into a corner, hoping
he would not observe me. It seemed so queer to
hear him talking about common things. I expected
every minute that he would call on me to construe
a passage in Sallust, or tell the genealogy of
George the Third back through all the old Saxon
kings.

Then I was afraid to see him eat, and would
not look up. Methought it would lower him from
his high estate in my mind to be swallowing food
like the pupils he instructed. So much above
other mortals did he seem, that I did not wish to
see him subject to their common wants. But he
was fortunately called away, and I was saved
from my foolish fear, if foolish it be to count the
teachers of knowledge superior beings.

After tea we took a polite leave, thanking our
entertainer and her parents, and escaped home,

running a little when we got out of sight of the
house. We arrived at sunset, as we had been
told to do; for Saturday evening is considered as
belonging to the Sabbath, and kept sacred. Parties
are, I dare say, very nice things when people
have once learned to like them.

I so love little children. Their smiles and gay
voices seem to put new life into one's heart.
They say such queer things too. I think the
wit of the world is with them. I know almost
all that belong to the neighborhood. One baby-boy
I like to hold in my arms when his mother
is busy. I stole in so lightly the other morning
he did not hear me. He was talking to himself.

“How do you do, boy?” said he.

“How do you do, Robby?”

“Pretty bad, I thank oo.”

Learning to walk, he came boldly down stairs
to meet me, without touching the banisters.

“Look! see! I came holdin on by nothin.”

He learns words nobody seems to know how.
Yesterday I stopped to speak to him as I went
to school, and a lady came, who had several teeth
taken out by the dentist to prepare for a set of
artificial ones. He noticed the change at once,
and fixing his eyes on her mouth, said,

“Ma'am, you're a natural curosity.”

If he lives to grow up, I think he'll be something
more than a common man.

Sunday is a good day, though I do not find so
much rest in it as people talk about. To remember
the texts and a good part of both the sermons,
to recite in school on Monday, keeps my mind
pretty busy. Then I say, after church at night,
the Assembly of Divines' Shorter Catechism
through, with all the Scripture proofs. If there
is any longer catechism, I wonder what it is. I
stand up through the whole of this, and my mother
and grandfather wish me to repeat every answer
slowly and distinctly, so that I am quite
willing to sit down when it is done. It is a good
exercise for memory, and I suppose, when I grow
older, it may help my understanding. Grandfather
says he could repeat it throughout, and ask
himself the questions, before he was as old as I
am. He has not forgotten it now, though he is
aged. If he feels wakeful at night, he begins to
repeat it to himself, and soon falls into a sweet
sleep. I should think it would be far more likely
to keep one awake.

I have such a lovely time on the Sabbath meditating
in my own little room. No one to disturb
me. So quiet. I speak to the angels,
who the Bible says are near us. They do not
answer me in words, but sweet thoughts come
into my soul. I seem to hear the rustle of their
wings. I speak to God our Father. The whole
earth is full of His goodness. I thank Him that
I live, and move, and have a being. And the
blessed Sunday, like a wreath of love, girds up
my heart for the whole week.

Saturday afternoon is the only period of the
week not devoted to school. On all the other
six days we go at nine A.M., and return at twelve;
and at two, after dinner, and return at five. This,
with our evening studies, very pleasantly covers
the time, so that we have little chance for idleness.
At the close of every quarter, which comprises
twelve weeks, we have a vacation of one
week. At first we think only how glad we are;
but at last how tedious it grows, and how delighted
we are to get back to our teacher and
companions. Even Saturday afternoon would
seem long, were it not that I have usually some
necessary needle-work for myself or my mother.

This afternoon mamma kindly permitted me to
join my schoolmates in the amusement of sliding
on the ice. Oh, it was so exhilarating! The
pond was smoothly frozen, and by taking hold of
hands we could go such long courses. The boys
of our class attended us, and were very polite.
When it was nearly time to go home, some of the
most mirthful took it into their heads to run down
a very steep hill partly covered with snow. Down
they came, rushing like avalanches, a boy and
girl, hand in hand. I thought it looked a little
bold and hoydenish, though Henry Howard pressingly
invited me to go down with him. I believed
my mother would not approve of such wild
sports, and refused. Then one of the girls, who
came flying past me, exclaimed, shortening one
of Pope's couplets,

I thought it rather ugly of her, but could not
help laughing. Then, not wishing to set myself
up for too precise an example, I accepted Henry's
hand, and we ran down as swift as any of them.

What a delightful season winter is! The air
is so pure, and every body's cheeks and lips are
so red. How imperfect the year would be without

it. I wonder why the poets need to be always
saying evil things about it. I suspect they
mope too much by the fire, and do not run about
to quicken their blood. Then they fall into the
dumps, and blame the weather, when the fault is
in themselves. If we wrap up properly, and
brave the cold, and keep winter out of our hearts,
I suspect all would be well enough.

Our Preceptor says there are many kinds of
fraud besides taking money, and that one of them
is writing so as not to be read. It is a theft of
time and eyesight, both of which are precious
things. Now I will certainly take pains not to
deceive and trouble my fellow-creatures in this
way. I will endeavor to write with a copperplate
plainness, and not indulge myself in careless
chirography, because I am in a hurry, for that
will help to establish a bad habit.

Wednesday, January 1st, 1812.

My birth-day and the new year meet me at the
same time. This double visit makes both more
interesting. The girls say that none of them
have such a grand date as mine, the beginning of
a century. Yes, on the 1st of January, 1800, I
was a New Year's gift to my mother.

Four thousand three hundred and eighty days
and nights have I lived in this world, each comprising
24 hours. What an immense stretch of
time! More days, by three hundred and seventy-six,
than there are years from the creation
to the Christian era. If I had done all the good
in my power every one of those days, it would
be quite an amount now. To be sure, in my
babyhood I could not have done much more than
learn to live; but since I have known good from
evil I have been often forgetful and idle.

My dear grandfather mentioned me in his family
prayer this morning so tenderly that tears
filled my eyes. I think I saw them in his also.
May the heavenly Father whom he loves and
serves bless him.

My sweet mother folded me closely to her bosom,
and said, “My daughter, try to make this

the best year of your life.” I will, God being my
helper.

I heard two little boys talking. Said the smallest
one,

“I've got a beautiful house to live in when I'm
out doors. It has a green carpet, and a blue and
silver roof.”

“Yes,” answered the other, “and its builder
is God.”

What a hateful thing is bad spelling! It ruins
the looks of the best writing. Our teacher (I
meant to say Preceptor) thinks so too. He requires
us to be accurate in every word, but helps
us as much as he can, because he knows the orthography
of our language is difficult, and defies
all rules.

Sometimes he permits us, by way of reward,
to choose sides. That's grand! Just before
school is out at night, two whom he appoints
come forward and choose alternately, just as they
please, from among the scholars. They select
first those who are known as the best spellers,
until the whole are ranged under their leaders
like two hosts going to battle.

Then, having a difficult lesson, each leader
gives out the words to his regiment, which are to
be spelled distinctly, and without waiting a moment.
All hesitation is fatal. Down the discomfited
one has to sit! The leader who has
the greatest number left standing when the conflict
is over has the victory. There's sometimes
a little boasting; and I suppose 'twould not do
to have this pleasure too often. But it helps us
mightily over hard places, and I dare say that
is the object, as a driver gives his horses a
cheery chirrup when about to draw their load up
a steep hill.

“I wish I could have my own way sometimes,”
said one of the girls as we were coming along
home from school; “but I can't, because mother
will have hers.”

“Is not your mother's way the best?”

“She thinks so; but it is different from mine.”

“Can't you make your own way the same as
your mother's? Then you'd always have your
own way.”

“I declare that's smart. Why, no! Don't
you see that would be only just to be ruled always?”

“What if your were traveling in the new countries,

and did not know the way, and one who
did was kind enough to show you—would not
it be better to follow the guide than to set off by
yourself and get lost?”

“I don't like your philosophy, madam,” said
she; and so she ran away home.

Now I do most earnestly give thanks that my
mother's will has been always mine, and that I
never think of any thing different. I dare say it
is because she brought me up so, and perhaps
there may have been a time when I would have
liked to battle for my own way; but if there was,
I can't remember it. The praise is hers, and I
have had the comfort. If I were thinking how I
might rule her, or hide things from her, I should
be miserable. It seems to me one of our greatest
blessings to obey, and rely lovingly on those who
are wise, and willing to guide us. I would have
repeated the fifth commandment to my schoolmate
if she had not got so angry and flown
away.

A neighbor said that her two little ones were
going to bed, and, looking at the window, saw it
was dark.

“Where are the stars?” said one.

“Tired with shining,” answered the other;

“so the cool clouds drew their curtains round,
and they went to sleep.”

“Did they go to sleep with the spirits of the
just made perfect?”

These children had heard their father read the
Bible every morning, and laid up some of its language.

We have a delightful school-exercise for every
other week instead of a written composition. It
is to collect passages of Scripture on some subject
which is given us. We arrange them in the
order they are found in the Bible, and copy them
neatly, and hand them to our Preceptor. If we
happen to select one which does not exactly belong
to the subject, he points it out to us and explains,
and his talk is like holy music.

Each one tries to get the greatest number of
texts, and we have a book on purpose to copy
them in, and nothing else. Our last theme was
the prophecies of the coming of our Lord. I was
not aware there were so many, and some of them
are the grandest poetry.

We placed them according to the year in which
they were written. What a wonderful description
is that in the fifty-third of Isaiah! It would
seem as if the prophet had looked upon him and
followed his life. “A man of sorrows and acquainted

with grief; despised and rejected of men;
led as a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before
her shearers is dumb, so he opened not his
mouth.”

I have learned that sublime chapter by heart,
and love to repeat it silently to myself when I
lie down to sleep.

One of our schoolmates has lost a dear little
brother. When she came back again to school,
looking so sad, and telling us of his last sickness,
we all mourned with her. He was patient in his
pain, and tried to kiss them when his lips were
white and cold in death.

One of the last things that he said was, lifting
up his poor, thin hands, “Oh, pray! pray, dear
Lord, don't let poor mamma cry so much, so
much!” There stole a sweet smile over his face
when he left off to speak, as if the angels took
him in their blessed arms.

Owls! Now what strange creatures they are!
Faces like cats, and round, unwinking eyes. I
wonder why the Athenians chose them as symbols
of wisdom. Because they look so grave?
People may be grave and stupid too, I think.

But I never can help looking at an owl as long
as I can see him. He is so queer and mysterious,
as if his great, fixed stare would turn you
into stone. I used to wish to have one of my
own. Since that, I have heard some things against
them.

I guess they are cruel and hard-natured. They
feed upon living things, and are greedily fond of
little birds. How frightened the poor nurslings
must be, who, expecting their pleasant mother,
see a pair of great, evil eyes looking over the edge
of their nest, and, instead of food, a greedy monster
going to eat them!

They catch mice—that is not so bad. I hear
they have been seen flying with a snake in their
claws, which they let fall to hurt it the more, and
then, swooping down, clutch it again. Perhaps
that is one of their plays, like their cousin-cats
plaguing a mouse they are going to devour.

I am told they can dive and get fish. I wonder
at that, if they can see only in the night. But
a man who had lived where there are many said
he found in a large hollow tree an old owl, with
several fishes he had laid up for his private eating.
So, if he provides beforehand for winter, or any
time of want, he is as wise as the ants.

Gray says, in that beautiful Elegy, which I
have just learned, and shall repeat in school,

perhaps of some mischievous boy who came to
steal her preserved fish. Who knows but she
had parties sometimes, and made mouse pasties,
and a dessert of dried serpents? What a terrible
hooting there must be if they had ever a concert!

After all, I wish I knew more of the nature
and habits of owls, and of all the winged creatures
that God has made.

Our worshipful bench of collegians don't improve
in the grace of humility. At our usual
Saturday's review of all the weekly studies, they
take much more note of other people's mistakes
than their own. They are so mighty self-satisfied,
too, and boastful. I could not help yesterday
just saying to them as they came out of
school, “Væ vobis;” whereupon they were exceedingly
mad. Drawing together in close conclave,
they seemed to be concocting some vengeful
plan. I hope there's no branch of the Inquisition
existing among them.

We greatly enjoy our Ancient History. In
some respects, it is our pleasantest study. Our

recitations give so much to think about, and ask
questions too, which our Preceptor is very kind
to answer when there is time.

How long it was before men learned to go forth
boldly on the waters! The Bible mentions the
ships of Solomon, almost a thousand years before
Christ, that went to Tarshish, and brought back
“gold and silver, ivory, apes, and peacocks.”
Sidon, and Tyre, and Carthage were among the
first of the nations who ventured out upon the
deep. I guess, however, they did not go very far
out of sight of their own coasts, for they had no
compass to guide them, and I doubt whether their
vessels would stand storms.

What a grand description is given of the Tyrian
ships by the Prophet Ezekiel, almost six hundred
years before the birth of Christ! Masts from the
cedars of Lebanon; benches of ivory; “fine linen,
with broidered work from Egypt, spread forth to
be the sails.”

But I should not think any of these beautiful
things would help them in a tempest. They
could not have been strong enough to plow the
great ocean waves.

It was the mariner's compass, in 1322, that introduced
the world to itself. Then distant climes
knocked for the first time at each other's doors.
Face to face they stood, bringing what they could

spare, and buying what they wanted. Then commerce
grew up and flourished like a great tree,
shedding golden fruit upon all the nations.

I fancied I heard some talk among my flowers
this morning, and hastily wrote it down:

We have got just the queerest little child in the
neighborhood, and, I think, the smartest. Her
mother died when she was very young, and she
lives with her grandmother. Both of them were

highly educated, and have trained her carefully
from the beginning. She has not been much with
other children, so her talk is like a little old woman.
She seems to have a great idea of the precise
meaning of words.

One day she was playing on the carpet with a
book of pictures. A gentleman said to her,

“I hope you'll be careful and not hurt that
nice book.”

Fixing her eyes on him, she replied,

“Sir, you should not say hurt. Don't you
know a book can't feel? The right words are,
You must not injure that book.”

She had been a good deal annoyed by the crying
of a baby that had visited there, and on being
asked if she liked children, answered sharply,

“Children? By no means! They are my
decided aversion.”

She has a white kitten of which she is very
fond, and a doll that she takes great care of, undressing
and putting it in its little bed at night,
and dressing it every morning. She was told
she must not wash it, for it would take the paint
from its cheeks. This rather troubles her, for
she says “it would be more beautiful if it was
daily bathed.”

Her grandmother asked her which she loved
best, her doll or her cat. She looked from one

to the other several times, as if it was a hard
question; then, wrapping up her doll n a large
shawl, as if to prevent its overhearing, she hugged
her kitten closely, and, running to her grandmother,
whispered in her ear,

“I do love my cat best; but, please, don't tell
dolly.”

“Why not?”

“I would not for the world hurt her feelings.”

What a blessing it is to have such health as
to be able to attend school in all weathers. I
fear that I am not sufficiently grateful for never
being kept at home by sickness. What we always
enjoy, like the light, and the air, and the
water, we sometimes forget to thank God for.
We should praise Him continually, that He never
forgets us, though we take His blessed gifts with
so little gratitude.

I heard a nice story about one of my schoolmates
from her aunt. She had been accustomed
to hear her father ask a blessing at the table, and
to be still and reverent during the exercise. When
scarcely three years old she was taken abroad to
spend the day, where they sat down at a table

loaded with many nice things, and began to eat.
She was bountifully helped, but did not touch the
food, and looked wonderingly and sorrowfully
around. Something had been omitted which she
thought necessary to every repast. Then she
said to the master of the house, “Peaze, sir, peaze
pay,” meaning please to pray. Perhaps he did
not understand her broken language, so he took
no notice. Then she folded her little hands, and
bowed her head till the bright curls fell over her
plate, and said distinctly the prayer that her
mother had taught her:

There was silence for a few minutes after the
baby-chaplain had done speaking. Then a gray-haired
man who was in the company said,

“Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings
hast Thou ordained praise.”

The last day of the year. It seems as if a
good old friend was going away. Many blessed
things did it bring me, for which I praise the
Great Giver, my Father in Heaven.

Friday, January 1st, 1813.

My birth-day again — my thirteenth. That
used to be a great era among the ancient Romans,
who then gave their sons the toga virilis,
receiving them into the ranks of men. I do not
read that they conferred any distinction on their
daughters when they reached that age. For my
part, I should not consider it any favor to be hurried
into womanhood before the time. I like girlhood
better; for, if you don't have as much liberty,
there is more chance to learn, and I want to get
all the knowledge I can, it makes one so happy.

I wonder if I could not find thirteen events or
facts worth remembering to distinguish my birth-day.
I take such pleasure in dates and correspondent
numbers. Let's see:

1. At thirteen the Jewish youth were accustomed
to make public resolutions of good conduct
amid the prayers of righteous men.

2. At thirteen the garment of manhood was bestowed
on the boys of ancient Rome.

3. There are thirteen clauses in the creed of
the Jews.

4. Thirteen states which, thirty-seven years
since, formed an alliance to resist British power,

and bravely persisted till they won the liberties
of our united and happy country.

5. Thirteen kings there were in England from
the fall of the Saxon dynasty to the forcible accession
of the house of York, under Edward IV.

6. Cranmer was thirteen years old when he
entered Cambridge University, a good scholar,
afterward an archbishop and a martyr.

7. Thirteen years was King Solomon in building
his own palace.

8. In the thirteenth year of the reign of Josiah,
Jeremiah commenced his prophecy.

9. Thirteen cubits was the length of the gate
of the grand temple described in the vision of
Ezekiel.

10. There are thirteen pieces in the ancient
game of hazard or bowls, at which our Indians,
in the early settlement of the country, used to
play madly till they lost every thing.

11. Thirteen lunar months to the year.

12. Thirteen to a baker's dozen, I've been told,
but don't know why.

13. Here I'm put to my trumps for the thirteenth
date; so I'll add my own thirteenth birth-day
on this first day of January, 1813, it being
three hundred and twenty-one years from the
discovery of America by Christopher Columbus,
and twenty-four since the establishment of the

government of these United States. His Excellency
James Madison is our fourth president,
being now in the fourth year of his administration.

May Heaven guide our happy country, and
make us a firmly united and Christian people.

Methinks I wrote somewhat flippantly on my
birth-day. God forgive me if it was so. I ought
to be humble, for I am very far from the high
standard that I hope to reach. But oh! I am so
happy! This world is so beautiful; my friends
are so kind; my mind is so thankful for the new
ideas that enter and flow through it like a great
well-spring of delight. What can I do but bless
my dear Father in Heaven, and rejoice in his
mercy!

The class in Butler's Analogy having nearly
finished their last review of that good and very
deep book, our Preceptor rewards us for attention
to it by sometimes reading to us in Locke's Essay
on the Human Understanding. He explains
it, and examines us in what we think about it,
so we are obliged to fix our minds closely on
what he reads. He makes it interesting, as, indeed,

he does every thing that he teaches us. It
seems this was a favorite book with President
Edwards when he was a little boy. I suppose
it gave its character to his mind and his future
remarkable writings. He was born in 1703, entered
Yale College at twelve, and graduated at
sixteen, the age at which young men nowadays
begin their college studies.

It was a good reply which one of our soldiers
made to a British general in the war of 1776.
He was taken prisoner after one of our battles,
and carried into the presence of Lord Cornwallis,
a proud and pompous man. Looking on the fallen
foe with a frowning brow, he asked haughtily,

“Where is the baggage of your party?”

“Out of your reach, sir.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that the Americans are between you
and that.”

This is something like the spirit of the ancient
Spartans, who said, when their enemies required
them to lay down their arms, “Come and take
them.”

Our Preceptor says distinguished people almost
always keep journals, and that, to feel the full benefit
of the habit, we should never omit a day. I
have no prospect of belonging to the distingué,
and as for writing every single day in a journal,
it is quite out of the question. I think the advantage,
if there is any, must be in the writing
part alone, for to read the daily record of our
proceedings would be but too tedious and stupid.

We often have company in our school, and whoever
comes is sure to notice one thing. By the
side of the Preceptor, at his desk on the raised
platform, sits a pupil, to whom he turns with deference,
and sometimes consults in a low voice.
In the morning, after prayers, when he reads aloud
to us the Rules, so that none may say they did
not know them, this same personage pronounces
from a written paper the annexed penalties for
breaking each separate one. During the day he
watches with Argus-eyes every misdemeanor, and
if any heedless creature leaves a seat without liberty,
whispers to another, etc., out comes the cabalistic
pencil, and on a large slate, containing the
list of all the names in the order they stood the
preceding day, down goes the offender in the class

one, two, or three, or to the bottom, according to
the degree of guilt. The scholars, at entering
and leaving the room, must bow or courtesy to
this remarkable viceroy as much as to the Principal.

Now how came they to this place of honor?
This is the way. One of our daily lessons is a
page in the Dictionary, with the orthography,
meaning, and grammatical character of each word.
The last exercise, before the prayer that dismisses
us to our homes, is this lesson. We all stand in
a row, being called one by one, according to the
order on the Monitor's slate. If any scholar misses,
either in spelling or definition, the word is
passed onward, and the successful one goes above
the rest. Whoever is at the head of the class
when the lesson is over is Monitor for the next
day. The last office of the one in power is to
write the order of the class on the large slate,
placing his or her own the last.

Oh, but to go down and get up again is so fine!
Good scholarship and good conduct help you
along mighty fast; and then, if there should happen
to be no failure any where, which is hardly
to be expected, you will be at the head in twenty-five
nights by regular rotation. Yet I usually
get up a precious deal faster than that; and then
at the end of the term the pupil who has been

Monitor the greatest number of times is to have
a nice book for a premium.

Whoever should continue this course two or
three years would stand a chance to know the
true meaning of a good many words in our language.
I think this is a right cunning plan; for
though the orthographical lessons, going into the
structure and root of words as they do, are hard,
every scholar is fierce to learn them; and it is
quite wise, too, that the magisterial office of Monitor
can be held but a single day. The power
and honor are so great that they would puff us
up, very likely, as “Mistress Gilpin, careful soul,”
when she went to ride, would not let the carriage
come within three doors of her house, “lest folks
should say that she was proud.”

A beautiful legend of the Turks our Preceptor
told us in one of his pleasant talks, where we always
get instruction. He indulges us in them
when the business of the day is over, if we have
pleased him by our conduct.

Every man, say they, is attended by two angels,
one on his right hand, the other on his left.
When he does a good action, the angel looking
over the right shoulder smiles on him, writes it
down, and seals it with rose-colored wax. When

he commits a fault, the angel on the left writes it
down, but does not seal it. He lingers with a
sorrowful face. He waits until sunset; then, if
the man repents—if he says, “O Allah! I have
done wrong,” and gives alms to the poor, the angel
washes out the writing with perfumed water,
and presses on his forehead the kiss of peace.

But if he does not repent—if the daylight fades
away and the darkness comes, and he has not
prayed Allah to pardon him, nor given bread to
the hungry, or water to the thirsty, or garments
to the naked, the record is sealed up for the judgment.

I am sure we Christians might be made better,
if we would, by this Moslem moral.

It is an interesting tradition of the ancient Assyrians,
that Semiramis, when she was cast out
in the woods a helpless babe, was surrounded by
doves, who pitied and cooed over her, and were
wondering what food they could go and get the
poor infant, when a shepherd came and took her
to his own hut.

She did not show any very dovelike properties
after she became a queen and a warrior,
though Romulus always resembled his wolf-nurse.
I wonder if the ballad of the robins covering the

children in the woods with leaves did not come
in the beginning from this old fable of the doves
and baby.

Somebody had given our boy-neighbor a small
bow and arrow. He was perfectly delighted.
As I passed to school, I saw him on the doorstep
trying to take aim.

“Whom are you going to shoot, Johnny?”

“You.”

“Me! Then you could not come to see me
any more Saturday afternoons.”

“Well, I sha'n't shoot you; but I wish Satan
would just heave in sight.”

“Why?”

“'Cause then I'd shoot him dead, and he couldn't
do any more evil.”

Methought the child had a patriotism as large
as the world to wish to rid it of its great enemy.

He had been a good deal troubled by the rain
a while since, which had kept him from his outdoor
plays. His mother was reading aloud in
the Bible, not long after, the passage that speaks
of sending rain both upon the good and the unthankful.

“I don't think much of that,” said he, interrupting
her with his commentary. “I expect to

be one of the good people myself, but I don't want
to be washed away by the rain.”

I have had a party. Can it be possible? I'm
sure I never expected to; but my sweet mother
proposed it herself. She thought it proper that
I should pay this attention to my friends, several
of whom had invited me, and that it would please
my grandfather, who loves the young. She said
the entertainment must be simple, and break up
at nine o'clock.

Of course, we were to have an early tea, and our
old colored woman was delighted at the thought
of serving it round. How kind and busy was my
dear mother to see that the biscuits, cake, and
sliced ham should be nice and in the best order.

All the scholars were invited, and scarcely any
failed to come. How well and neatly they looked,
dressed in their very best. Excellent manners,
too, most of them had. At this I was surprised,
having seen some behave very differently
in school. It pleased me much that, after entering
the room, they each went up and bowed and
courtesied to my good grandfather. He looked
beautifully, seated in his arm-chair, his hair, which
is not very white for his years, brushed so smooth
and shining.

“I like to see young people,” said he, as he
took them by the hand; “I don't know why
they should not like to see me too.”

“Indeed, we do, sir,” they answered with one
voice. Then some of them gathered round him,
and asked for stories of the Revolution and of
Washington. After gratifying them a while, he
requested them to sing a song or tell a story.
That used to be the way in the circles of old times.

They tried to do as well as they could, out of
respect to his wishes, but soon fell back into a
variety of pleasant games. We played similes,
and history characters, and “what's my thought
like?” and made words out of letters printed on
little squares of pasteboard, which we gave to
each other to find out, having the right to ask
three questions about the word when it was discovered,
and whoever made a mistake in answering
must pay a forfeit. That's a right good game
to review studies by. There's fun in it too.

Then we took to telling riddles and conundrums.
I am not very good at deciphering them,
but some of the girls are as quick as the light.

“What is it,” said Henry Howard, “that gives
a cold, cures a cold, and pays the doctor?”

When some one answered “a draught” or
“draft,” I wondered I could not have thought of
it myself. My mother asked, “Why is a woman

diligent at her needle like the great enemy of
souls mentioned in the parable of the sower?”
The right answer was, “Because she sews tears
(tares) while others sleep.”

“What said the cat when she came out of the
ark?” was another. And a great laugh there
was when Henry Howard replied in the Irish
brogue,

“E'er a rat here,” sounding broadly like Ararat.
So swiftly fled the evening that we were
amazed when the church bell began to ring for
nine o'clock. Then all took a respectful leave of
grandfather and mother, and told me how much
they had enjoyed their visit.

I could not but feel ashamed that I had so often
been displeased and satirical at our class of college
students when I saw how dignified they could
appear. Quite a number of the pupils, too, who
had never been distinguished for scholarship, I
found, were so by fine manners and attention to
older people. So I felt more strongly than ever
that there are various kinds of goodness in the
world, and that we should try to do justice to all,
and not expect every body to follow one pattern.

When I kissed and bade my precious mother
good-night, I thanked her for her indulgence and
thoughtful care to make me happy, and was delighted
that she and my grandfather both expressed

their approval of my conduct and manners
throughout the evening.

“Social feelings and virtues,” said he, “are
essential to every well-balanced character.”

Truly does he exemplify his own precept. He
loves all mankind, and so enters into the pleasures
of the young that there is no shadow of the coldness
or crossness of age about him.

The examination at the close of our scholastic
year is soon to take place. Four terms we have,
of twelve weeks each, with a vacation of one week
between. I think that is a nice division of time,
keeping us close to our studies, but allowing a
little rest. Our Principal always takes care not
to press the mind too much, and to make it pleasant
to get knowledge, so that we do not grow
weary in it or of it. We love his gentle rule,
and love to be together, so that even our short
vacations seem long enough, and too long.

At the end of every term is a review of our
studies, at which the parents are present, but at
the completion of the year is a more thorough examination.
Then every pupil has liberty to invite
three friends, and the Preceptor ad libitum,
so we shall expect a full audience, though a select
one. We shall adorn our room with vases

and garlands of flowers. Our Preceptor says we
must not spend too much time in arranging them,
but simply present them as a sweet welcome to
our friends, and make the principal entertainment
our own faultless recitations, and good conduct
and manners. How earnest he is for our improvement,
and how his fine, expressive face lights up
with smiles when we do well.

What a glorious chapter is the fifteenth of the
first of Corinthians! When I read it by myself
in my chamber, slowly, and musing upon every
word, it lifts up my soul as if an angel spoke.
Portions of it have been committed to memory
from time to time, and last Sunday I finished
learning the whole. I felt happier for it through
the day. Now, when I lie down at night, I can
repeat it to myself, provided I do not fall asleep
before I reach the end; so I take holy thoughts
with me into my dreams.

What a beautiful effect it has in the burial service
of the Episcopal Church! After that fine train
of reasoning, and the terrific assertion, “Then
are all that have fallen asleep in Christ perished,”
like what a music-strain it breaks forth, “But
now is Christ risen from the dead, and become
the first fruits of them that slept.” Christian

faith and resolve gather new strength from its
grand close, “Wherefore, my beloved brethren,
be ye steadfast, unmovable, always abounding in
the work of the Lord, forasmuch as ye know that
your labor is not in vain in the Lord.”

We school-girls have been talking about how
far back we can remember. There are a variety
of opinions. Some say till four years of age,
others three, and others even earlier. It is difficult
to distinguish between what has been told
us and what is entirely the work of memory.
Strange or terrifying things may make a very
early impression.

Snatches of scenes and glimpses of persons I
remember when a very young child; but they are
vague, and mixed up like a dream. Besides, I
am not certain that some of them were not described
to me. Of one thing, however, I am sure,
and that is a clear remembrance of the great total
eclipse of the sun when I was six years, five
months, and sixteen days old.

It took place on Monday morning, June 17th,
1806. The washer-woman, at her tub in the
kitchen, was rather cross because I wanted to
smoke pieces of glass at her fire.

“Miss Lucy, you're a gettin in my way every

minute. My clothes is on a bilin, as you see,
and it's ten o'clock, and I can't be hindered so.”

“Please just let me smoke this last piece a
little more, to look at the eclipse with.”

“'Clipse! What a fuss starin arter 'clipses!
I've seen 'em ever since I was as high as a hen.”

But my controversy soon ceased, for the wonderful
sight began. The moon moved slowly before
the face of her master, and, as she proceeded,
the trees and grass assumed a melancholy hue.
A ring of brightness was preserved, but growing
narrower and narrower, until the usurping satellite
wholly covered the great, blessed sun. Then
the earth looked dismal, and the birds hushed
their song; the herds left off grazing, and stood
in solemn silence; my chickens flew upon their
roost; the summer air grew chill, and a strange
vapor floated over the ground. Here and there
might be seen a pale, frightened-looking star, as
if it knew it had no business there.

Oh, how sad it seemed, and yet sublime! But
the parent sun pitied the earth, and suddenly
broke forth, methought much faster than he disappeared.
Madam Moon fell into her right place
again, and took the stars with her. All Nature
rejoiced at the recovered noon-day. Astronomers
say that such an eclipse will not take place again
for many hundred years.

Friends of mine, who were traveling, passed at
this time through the settlement of a tribe of Indians.
They all came forth to gaze on this sudden
change, not knowing that it was to take place;
but the pride of their race withheld them from expressing
fear, or even surprise. Though they
could not turn their eyes away from it, they just
said in the coldest, haughtiest way, “They'd seen
such things before,” which, of course, was not the
case.

We are through with the great yearly examination
of all our studies. It was not as bad a
time as I expected. We all appeared in the neatest
dresses, and the school-room and halls were
beautifully clean. When the people first began
to come was the worst time. The minister, and
the deacons, and the doctor looked so grave, I
thought I should suffocate if I had to speak before
them; but when my sweet mother, and my
grandfather in his serene old age, took their seats
and turned their eyes toward me, I said to myself,
“I'll die before I put you to shame.”

So I determined to speak distinctly whatever
I had to say, and not plague any who took the
trouble to come and hear us. After we begun,
every study brought zeal with it, and we forgot

ourselves. The questions were given and answered
rapidly. If any one hesitated a moment
it was passed to the next. I inly prayed that
the hateful word “the next” might not be spoken
to me, and God granted my prayer.

I firmly believe that no man on earth besides
our Preceptor could have gone thoroughly through
such a variety of studies in so short a time. Being
himself the sole teacher in every one, and accustomed
in our weekly reviews to examine us
without a book, and having always trained us to
promptness of reply, and to feel it disgraceful to
have a question passed, he went on with a clearness
of mind and rapidity that seemed to be
shared or imitated by the scholars. He took not
up a moment of time with remarks to the audience,
but simply said to them, with his peculiarly
graceful, courteous bow, “Ladies and gentlemen,
we welcome you, and will all do our best.”

The hardest part of the whole was to rise and
read our own compositions. I do not know why
we should not learn to do difficult things as well
as agreeable ones, for life is not always to be filled
with easy lessons. I remembered that dear
grandfather did not hear perfectly unless one
spoke slowly and distinctly. I thought it a pity
if I could not take a little trouble for him, and
was gratified, when we got home, to be told that

he heard every syllable. A portion only were selected
for this exercise, and a few of the boys to
declaim, lest the audience might be wearied.
They did not appear to be, and our close was
beautiful. Hand in hand, like a circle of twenty-five
brothers and sisters, we sang, “Lord, dismiss
us with thy blessing.”

To-morrow morning we meet for a little while
to take leave and receive prizes. How sorrowful
it is that our Preceptor returns no more. He bids
us farewell, to commence his theological course in
a distant city. He does not know of the gifts
we have prepared for him. All of us have united
and bought him a fine edition of Shakespeare, his
favorite poet, and a large, beautiful Bible, having
in gold letters upon its cover his name, as the
gift of his grateful pupils. So hereafter, in his
own home and his family devotions, he will remember
us.

We have met and parted, and I hold in my
hand the medal toward which our efforts for a
year have turned. It seems as if I were not
writing the truth. Have I deserved this prize?
Indeed, I have tried for it, but have thought for
some time past that two or three others had a better
chance of obtaining it. I supposed I should

have the Monitor's premium, having filled that office
the greatest number of times during the last
term, but had requested it might be given to my
dear friend Mary Ann, who was next me on the
list, because I had received it before. I believed
myself a competitor for the credit-mark premium,
but this we never know until the final counting
of our Preceptor, who gives us a mark for every
correct and audible answer in all our studies,
copying them from the Monitor's slate at night,
and placing their amount every Saturday in his
book opposite our names. But, then, every infraction
of the rules sweeps off a number of these
marks, so that we can seldom tell how we stand
in this matter till quite the last. However, I had
about settled down that I had as good a prospect
here as any one, and that the medal would
be of difficult decision between two or three older
pupils.

When it was suddenly announced to be mine
by undoubted merit, a strange feeling came over
me—a mingled shock of embarrassment and gratitude.
I did not see clearly, and when it was my
duty to go forward and receive it, a sort of nightmare
seized my limbs, and it seemed impossible
to move. I believed I could not speak, but by
some means or other my thought became a murmur
that I did not deserve it; whereupon our

Preceptor cried “A vote,” and every hand was
raised. Then he kindly came toward me, and
threw the chain of the medal around my neck
while I was blind with tears.

But oh! the parting with him; it was so bitter
to us all. He tenderly counseled us about
our future conduct, and that we should early and
firmly give our hearts to our Father in Heaven.
We shall not soon forget his beautiful quotation
from Cicero: “I can not think any one in his
right mind who is destitute of religion.” To the
precept of the heathen he added the impressive
words of the Psalmist, “To-day, if ye will hear
His voice, harden not your hearts.” Then he
read the twenty-second of Acts, that affecting
parting of St. Paul with the flock at Miletus,
and, kneeling down, committed us all in prayer
to Almighty God for the last time.

The last time! And now he is gone, and we
shall see him no more, all of us together as a family,
in this world. The Lord bless him wheresoever
he shall go. He has done a good work for
us, and been faithful. When we come to die, I
believe we shall count him among our best, truest
benefactors. The Lord bless him and his teachings
to us.

I am so pleased that the scholars are not angry
at me for having the medal. I felt almost afraid
to meet them after the school was broken up. I
think in my own private mind that Harriette
should have had it. She writes better compositions;
and there are two of the older boys who
are certainly more thorough classics. I have
taken rather more pains, perhaps, to be diligent
and obedient, and, I suppose, all such things were
taken into view in according the reward for a
whole year. But as to the matter of talents and
scholarship, I do not believe I stood first, and I
guess others think so too.

But they are all so good. It brings tears into
my eyes to think of it. Several have called on
purpose to express their satisfaction, and others
that I have met crossed the street to take me by
the hand and say they were glad. Especially
Harriette, who is in so many respects my superior,
said, “Sweet Lucy, it is your right, for I am older
than you, and if I happen to know a few more
things, that don't alter the case; so come here and
kiss me.”

Then Henry Howard must needs call out, in
his own queer way, “Lady mine! you have fairly
won.”

I do feel happy, though in a measure humbled,
by this reward, and truly thankful to Him from

whom cometh every good gift, for enabling me to
obtain it, if, indeed, I have in any measure deserved
it.

Sadness gathers over me when I think of the
farewell of our kind Instructor to his pupils.
Very strong are the ties that bind our hearts to
those who lead us in the paths of knowledge. He
was not content with just imparting to us what
we find in books. He called into action all our
better powers, and tried to fit us to do our duty
in the sight of God. He wished us to love each
other, and to love all mankind. He taught us to
reverence the Sabbath, and, while we enlarged our
minds with new ideas, to feed the heart with right
affections, and the soul with the bread that came
down from heaven.

Therefore we so loved him, because he daily
made us wiser and happier. Methinks I shall
never cease to mourn the loss of such a teacher
and friend.

Saturday, January 1st, 1814.

The vanishing week brings me a birth-day.
Methinks it throws it at my head, like a snow-ball,
with an icy hand. But I receive it gladly,
as a token of good, from Him who, sitting above
the clouds and the cold, sends it to me.

I am perusing the Sacred Volume by myself,
in course, and was struck with the great beauty
of a passage that occurred in the one hundred and
sixth Psalm, my portion for this morning: “Remember
me, O Lord, with the favor that Thou
bearest unto thy people: oh! visit me with Thy
salvation; that I may see the good of Thy chosen,

that I may rejoice in the gladness of Thy nation,
that I may glory with Thine inheritance.”

I have great comfort with my friend Mary Ann.
We are side by side in most of our studies, and
always one in heart. I have seen her more than
usual during this vacation, and love her better
than ever. She is like a sister, as far as I know
what a sister would be; at any rate, she is one
to me. When we enter school, as our seats are
not together, we always smile upon each other;
and if any thing goes hard in our lessons, we look
into each other's loving eyes, and seem to get
light and strength. After school, if we are not
obliged to hasten home, I walk with her to her
door one day, and she with me the next. She is
so beautiful, and her thick, raven hair so glossy.
Sometimes I think she is an angel. I wish we
might go to school together all the days of our
lives.

Some of the girls laugh at us. Others say,
they wonder what we find in each other so very
remarkable. They wish to give us names significant
of our preference. One of the boys said
that neither sacred or classic story gave an instance
of female friendship, so that the only way
would be to form a feminine to David and Jonathan,

or Castor and Pollux, or Beaumont and
Fletcher. So, thinking himself very witty, he
exclaimed, “For the present, we can do no better
than to call them Miss David and Miss Jonathan.
But which of them, do you suppose, will
brandish the sling and stone? for I don't believe
either, for all they're such famous scholars, would
have the pluck to kill Goliath.”

Alas! alas! what shall I do? It is decided
that I must not go to school any more. How
can I write such words? How can I believe
them?

People have been talking to mother. They
say I am a good scholar in French and in Latin,
in Algebra, History, and all the common branches,
and that there's no more for me to learn. 'Tis
not true. I am just a beginner. To be sure, I've
taken pains to get my lessons well. I wish I had
not. I wish I had made mistakes at the public
examination. I wish I had mumbled when I read
or spoke, so that they could not have heard me.

I wonder if this does not come from getting
the medal. I'd rather never have had it, nor any
of my other prizes.

Grandfather says, when he was young, the
women did not go to school so much, and were

better housekeepers, and had better health. I
don't see why their housekeeping, or their health
either, should be helped by being dunces. “You
polish and polish,” he says to mother, when talking
about my education, “but will the foundation
be stronger?” Oh dear! I don't wish to
hear any of their arguments to this end. I expected
to have been a pupil much longer. I feel
as if I knew nothing yet as I ought to know.

Every thing has two sides. A clear mind
ought to look upon both. Now about this miserable
matter of leaving school so young. I have
fully bemoaned myself. Is not there comfort to
be found somewhere? “If a bee has stung us,”
says an old writer, “we may as well hunt after
the honey.”

Our adored Preceptor is going away. He understood
all our characters and loved us. Perhaps
some one will take his place who may do
neither. It would be sad to see a stranger in his
seat. So it is a good time to leave when he
leaves.

I need not forsake studying. Is not the whole
world of books before me? Besides, I have something
new to learn, the domestic science of making
home happy. It belongs to my sex, and

has many details and an unending scope. One
need not be ashamed of it, for it well employs
both mind and heart.

Now I can have time to help my darling mother.
There is the strong consolation. If I can relieve
her from the slighest care—if I can come with my
young arm to the aid of that which so tenderly
embraced me when a helpless infant—if I can see
her, when sad or weary, turning to me as a useful
assistant, I shall be grateful and grieve no more.

Many stories of the Revolutionary War my
good grandfather knows, which are much more
interesting for his having borne a part in those
stirring times. Love of country seemed then to
fill every bosom. He belonged to the first company
in his native state that sprang up and left
their homes at the news that blood was shed at
Lexington.

In one of the neighboring villages an aged negro
servant came into the house, saying,

“What for 'e drum beat? No trainin-day,
no town-meetin, but 'e drum beat.”

Some doubt being expressed of the fact, he
went out again, and, returning hastily, exclaimed,

“I wish Pompey drop down dead if 'e great
drum don't beat.”

In his steps came the son, the sole hope of the
family.

“Father, please to reach me down the gun.
Mother, put me up some bread and cheese. The
regulars have shot down our people at Lexington.
I must go.”

There was no holding back of their treasure.
The lips of the parents pronounced the words of
blessing, and he set off on his journey of more
than a hundred miles to peril his young life in the
“high places of the field.”

Once, while Washington was engaged in superintending
the building of a fort, a flag of truce
was sent from the British. He left the timbers,
and stones, and toiling soldiers, to take the message
of the envoy.

The time of dinner arrived, and the stranger
was invited to partake. It was simply boiled
pork, with the vegetables of the country, brought
on in a large tub. No apology was made. Each
man was requested to seek out a clean chip for
his plate, and partake. This they did cheerfully,
and with hearty appetite.

He who bore the flag of truce said on his return,
“I thought, until now, that the rebels would
be easily subdued; but men who are willing to
do as I saw them do can never be conquered.”

There was something of the spirit of Rome in
her best days, and, what was better still, that
Christian reliance on the God of battles, and that
belief in the righteousness of their cause, that led
on through every hardship to victory. So said
my venerable grandfather, and so I believe.

Dear mother says the spirit of order is essential
to all good housekeeping. I wish to begin
at the right end, and learn it like any other science.
“Order is Heaven's first law,” said Pope.
Then it ought to be ours, if we expect to get to
heaven, and feel at home there.

I am to have certain departments in the house
committed to my care. Simple enough they
seem, and when I am quite au fait in them I
shall go higher. Besides the regular work of the
family, my mother has a particular employment
assigned for each day of the week, and our clever
colored woman has thus become quite systematic.

I shall try, also, to fix my own hours in conformity
with her plans, and my seasons for reading,
writing, needle-work, and social intercourse.
It will be beautiful, I am sure. Thus, every
day, I hope to see that something useful has been
done; every week, that something new has been
learned; every month, that a good advance has

been made; every season and year, that I become
more what I ought to be—what I shall wish I
had been when I make up the account of life.
My heavenly Father, I look to Thee for wisdom
and strength to persevere.

What funny mistakes children make about
words! A little sister of one of my friends had
been taught to say at night, as a religious exercise,

She had heard some animals described, and
among them the lama, and, from resemblance in
the sound of the third and fourth words in the
first line, thought it was the name of this quadruped.
So, after a while, says she, when going to
bed, “Mamma, I'm awful tired of always saying
`Now I lama;' won't it do once in a while to say,

I begin to like knitting very much. I find I
can knit and read at the same time. It is mighty
interesting to do two things at once. In the long
evening, by a bright fire, I knit at my mother's
side, and learn of her to shape a stocking, which

is quite an art. Grandfather says there was an
old adage that “they who knit their own stockings
never came to poverty.” I suppose it meant
that the habits of industry and economy thus
cherished would be a protection against beggary
and want.

I have a great desire to know something about
cookery, not because the French call it a fine art,
but because it makes people happy at the table,
and has a great deal to do with health. Heavy
bread and puddings, meat half roasted, or fried up
like shot, I am sure hurt people's stomachs, and
temper too. There shall be no such things in my
house when I have one; so I must learn now
how long different kinds of meat, fish, and vegetables
require to be exposed to heat, that I may
teach others. Mamma says she will instruct me
how various favorite dishes are composed, and I
am to have a book of my own, in which to write
the rules and recipes of all that I make with my
own hands. I don't see why it won't be as nice
as learning a new language, and about as extensive
too, if one only gives their mind to it. In
one way it seems to be better, for you might decline
nouns, and conjugate verbs, and interest nobody
but yourself; whereas, if you bring forward

a light cake or a well-browned chicken, there will
likely be pleasant words and smiles to repay you.

A new thing has been learned to-day. It
makes me very happy. There was a large wheel
in the garret, and grandfather said he wished me
to spin upon it, for it made a peculiar kind of
music, which in early days was pleasant to his
ear. Then I began turning it round at a great
rate, but he said “not so.” My mother produced
some long, white rolls of wool, like the softest
silk, and instructed me how to draw out a thread
evenly from them, turning the wheel with judgment
to give it consistence; then, when two or
three threads are put together, and slightly twisted,
it is in a fit state to make durable stockings.
It would please me very much to knit a pair or
two for dear grandfather of my own spinning.
The exercise is so exhilarating, too. As soon as
I was able to manage the machine, I sang involuntarily
from lightness of heart. It is said that
people have been cured of pulmonary weakness
by spinning at the great wheel, so salutary is its
action to the chest, as well as other sets of muscles.
Some old writer has christened it “Hygeia's
harp.” I do not intend to be ashamed of
its use, though it may be rather out of fashion;

and, if my mother consents, should like to keep it
in action an hour in each day, provided I can find
enough to spin. Flannel sheets are thus made,
which old and feeble people find comfortable in
the winter; also cotton may be spun upon it, as
well as what is hatcheled out of flax, which is
economically converted, I am told, into tablecloths
and towels for the kitchen, with other
coarse and durable fabrics.

I have now more time to get acquainted with
mother's pensioners. Old Mrs. Dean lives in a
very small, cold house. She is more than seventy.
All the family have to support them is what is
earned by her daughter, who goes out to washing,
scouring, and the hardest work. While she is
away, the grandmother takes care of the children
as well as she can. The oldest, Nancy, nine
years old, lost the use of her lower limbs by the
scarlet fever, and is able only to help a little with
her poor, thin hands. Then there are two boys,
three and four years old, full of health, and just
as rude as they can be. A tight thing it is for
the old person and the feeble girl to keep them in
any sort of order. Their father went away two
years ago, and has not been heard from since.
Perhaps he was no great comfort to the family

when he was with them, as he liked drinking better
than work, and used sometimes to come home
as bad and fierce as a grizzly bear, and drive them
all out of the house. Mamma said I might take
a nice, nourishing soup to them if I would make
it myself. This was a double pleasure, and so,
asking directions of her and the colored woman,
I proceeded as follows:

A large piece of beef containing a marrow-bone,
and which is, I believe, called a hock, was boiled
the whole afternoon, carefully taking off whatever
rose to the top; then it was poured out to cool.
In the morning the oleaginous part was removed,
and likewise the sediment at the bottom, in which
were small fragments of bone. Returning it to
the vessel, which had been nicely cleansed, it was
permitted to boil gently and steadily until about
an hour before it was to be used. The bones
were then taken out, a quantity of carrots, turnips,
and potatoes, cut like dice, added, with a little
cabbage and celery cut small; some flour, browned
at the fire, and mixed evenly without lumps,
put in, to thicken and give it color, with salt and
pepper sufficient to flavor it. It was a real cold
day when Amy went to help me carry it, taking
also a couple of loaves of her nice bread. Poor
Mrs. Dean sat shivering when we went in, for
there was but little fire. When she had tasted

two or three spoonfuls of the nutritious food, light
came to her eye, and she said, “God bless you,
my dear young lady.” I could scarcely help crying
for joy. Feeble Nancy received a large saucer
full, for the distance was so short that we got it
there quite warm, and seemed comforted as she
cowered over the hearth, where were a few embers.
The two little ragamuffins, who had been pitching
each other into the snow, came in for a plentiful
share, dispatching soup and bread in a marvelous
manner. “That's right good,” said they,
smacking their lips; “give us some more on't.”
I told them to make a bow to their grandmother,
and thank her for their dinner. “'Ta'n't her'n,”
said they. But I insisted that they should make
her a bow, and showed them how to bend their
stiff backs, at which they seemed, in the end,
mightily entertained. I am going over once or
twice a week to teach Nancy to read, she having
never had health to go to school, and then I secretly
contemplate instructing these semi-barbarians
a little, at least in the alphabet of civilization.

Though grandfather is very much pleased with
my interest in household matters, he does not
wish me to lay aside my studies. He expressed

a fear lest I should forget what I had acquired at
school, especially the languages; so I have translated
for him to-day a part of one of the Georgics
and some passages from the Æneid. I could not
but observe that he gave more entire attention to
the former than to the latter, though it was a
stirring portion of the second book, describing
the conflagration of Troy. This convinced me
that, though he had been so long a military man,
his tastes were peaceful. Doubtless he became
a soldier from duty, when his country struggled
for life, but his heart was with Nature and rural
things. He was delighted with this little classical
exercise, and desired me to repeat it three
times a week, appointing the hour. His own excellent
memory seems to remain unimpaired; but
I see that he takes pains to keep it in action, not
only by recurring to what he learned in youth,
but by committing something verbatim almost
every day, if only a few lines of poetry. If every
aged person would be equally careful in exercising
their memory, I think they might prevent its
decay. After the reading, when we had talked a
little about Virgil, he repeated to me one of the
versions of his epitaph, which pleased him by its
concise narration of facts:

I never much liked William the Conqueror,
nor, indeed, any of the Norman line. My sympathies
have been with the Saxons. It was tyrannical
in the new lords to tear down their
houses and plant great forests to hunt in, and let
the growling wild beasts in where the children
grew. Then they guarded their selfish pleasures
by such severe laws, putting out the eyes of whoever
pursued any game without permission, though
they had so little idea of justice that he who killed
one of his fellow-creatures might get off by paying
a fine. William laid waste the country for
some thirty miles, to make the new forest near his
palace at Winchester; drove the poor inhabitants
from their dwellings, and gave them no compensation.
I always thought it was right that his
son, William Rufus, should have been slain in
that very wilderness they were so proud of, instead
of the deer that he was himself hunting.

I was glad to find that old Mrs. Dean had a
comfortable fire. Somebody had sent a good
quantity of wood, she did not know who. I
think grandfather may, who, in his alms, observes
the divine rule not to “let the right hand know
what the left doeth.” She was much pleased
with some coarse yarn I brought her, of my own
spinning, from gray wool which mother had given
me. With this, she said, she could knit stockings
for them all, and teach Nancy to help her.
I was delighted to find how much the latter had
improved in reading, for she practices in the simple
books I left with her during the intervals of
teaching. She is able now to read one of the
short psalms to the family in the morning, and
before they go to bed at night. “That's such a
comfort,” said the grandmother, “and seems so
much like a prayer.” Strange as it was, the two
wild boys stood still, listening, while she read to
me. Then the oldest twitched my sleeve, vociferating,
“I want to use them 'ere books as well
as Nance.” I asked him if he would learn to
read, and he answered, “Yes, I will;” so I gave
him a lesson, and, to my great surprise, he attended

earnestly, and promised to learn another before
I came again. Then I told him if I taught
him to read he must mind his mother and grandmother,
and wait upon his sick sister, for the great
end of knowledge was to make people good. So
he promised that he would, to my great amazement;
and when I gave him a little book, remembering
my former lesson in manners, he made a
low bow, and said, “Thank you, ma'am, for my
dinner,” that being the phrase which was at first
taught him.

My grandfather said that in the olden time a
variety of domestic cordials were compounded for
the weak and weary, especially during seasons of
severe cold. One of these he mentioned as worthy
of a place among my practical recipes, whereupon
my mother immediately provided me with
the materials, viz., one ounce and a half of white
ginger in the root, four pounds of loaf sugar, and
two large, fine lemons. It is better to have the
ginger unpulverized, that it may leave no sediment,
and white rather than yellow, if you wish
the cordial colorless. Macerate the root; mix it
with the sugar and juice of the lemons; pour
upon them six quarts of water; add two large
spoonfuls of fresh yeast; stir the whole in some

deep vessel, and allow it to stand two days without
moving. When the fermentation is complete,
pour off the cordial; add enough pure white
spirit to prevent its acidulating; strain it through
a flannel bag; bottle, and cork it with care. When
well made, it is very clear, and has sometimes, at
first opening, as much fixed air as Champagne.
It is better to put it in pint bottles, as, after being
once uncorked, it loses a portion of its life. It is
agreeable to the taste, and also a cheap and useful
gift to the invalid poor, who frequently, in
their convalescence, suffer for the want of a simple
restorative, and are thus tempted to the unsafe
search of stimulants and the formation of
ruinous habits.

I wonder if I could not write a novel. I think
I might, though I have never read one. Mamma
has not been willing that I should occupy my
time with them. I suppose I must take Earls
and Countesses, and several singular people, and
beauty and love, and dangers and escapes, and
perils and quarrels, and shake all up together,
and the end would be matrimony. A great deal
of uncommon action to arrive at a common condition.
And then, I understand, all the romance
vanishes.

Emily, Mary Ann's handsome cousin, has some
young brothers and sisters who are bright, and
say queer, funny things. One of them had a
slight touch of fever not long since. Having
heard it said that people were sometimes delirious
with such complaints, he seemed to be looking
out for that condition. One day, growing rather
tired with sitting up, he cried out suddenly, “Lay
me on the bed! lay me on the bed! my head is
getting affected! my reputation is gone!” But
the panic, which was half serious, half in laughter,
soon passed away.

Dear mother likes the sound of the French; so
I have been reading her, by little and little, the
two sacred dramas of Racine, Esther and Athalie.
It seems he was induced to write them by the request
of Madame de Maintenon, who wished something
drawn from Scripture history to be recited
by the young ladies under her charge at St. Cyr.
Thus Miss Hannah More composed her sacred
dramas, as a similar exercise for the pupils of the
school conducted by her elder sisters.

Adieu to the first volume of my journal. Every
possible space in it is covered. I began it
with reluctance, as we are sometimes forced into
an acquaintance with a stranger whom we do not
expect to like. But it has been quite a comfort,
on the whole. I have formed such a habit of
gossiping with it that it seems like a sort of intelligent
companion. At all events, it is a good
listener. More than this, I believe it is a good
friend; and if I make a right use of its friendship,
it will be the means of aiding my improvement
here and my happiness hereafter.

Sunday, January 1st, 1815.

Three forms, with this brightly rising sun,
seem to stand before me. One bears a scroll,
and at her girdle a writer's ink-horn. One, with
a brow of beauty and mystery, takes my hand
and leads onward. The other kneels and points
upward, saying, “Worship God.”

I know them to be a New Journal, with unstained
pages, a New Year, and a New Sabbath.
All meet me together. I give them welcome. I
yield myself to their teachings.

Methought I heard tones of singular sweetness,
like a blended song:

To-day, January 8th, completes a century since
the death of Fénélon. Riding in a retired part
of his estate, his horses took fright and overturned
the carriage, so injuring him as eventually to
terminate his life at the age of sixty-four. I admire
the simplicity of his writings, the patience
with which he met ill treatment, and his great
benevolence. So well did he balance his income
and his expenses, that, when he died, he left
neither debts to pay nor wealth to be disposed
of. Once, when his valuable and beloved library
was destroyed by fire, he said, “God be praised
that it was not the cottage of some poor family.”
He was often found in the abode of the humblest
peasants, tasting their coarse fare, instructing their
ignorance, or comforting them in affliction. Long
after his decease they pointed out with veneration
the chair beneath the trees on which the “good
Archbishop of Cambray” sat and talked with them
and their children. I think a true Christian example
should be revered, wherever it is seen, or
to whatever wherever it belongs.

I saw last evening, February 15th, a novel and
most exciting scene—an illumination for the return
of peace. I had no idea it could be so superb.
Window after window lighted up, and hilltop

threw to hill-top its signal of joy. When the
panes were small, with a candle, or a part of one,
placed at each, the effect was beautiful. They
had a tremulous motion, as the air swept over
them, like twinkling stars. Some were so placed
as to form words, such as “Welcome, Peace!”
“Hail to the men of Ghent!” alluding to the
city where the treaty was signed. Snow upon
the roofs of the houses, and trodden in a firm
pavement upon the streets, added contrast to the
brilliance. There was fine martial music, and the
bells rang as if they had souls. Throngs passing
and repassing spoke words of greeting, and
strangers seemed to love each other. Such delight
has the termination of a war caused which
never had the approbation of the people; so different
from that in which they stood for life and
liberty, and all that was dear.

Never have I witnessed such enthusiasm.
When the appointed time for extinguishing the
lights came, it seemed to be done in a moment.
Then the darkness was so mournful. Yet it was
very pleasant to see with what regularity and
quietness all returned to their homes, as if they
knew how to rejoice like a wise people. We
three, with dear Mary Ann and Henry Howard,
who was at home from college, walked up and
down the streets while the spectacle lasted. We

felt no fatigue; it seemed as if we were in a
dream.

Last night it was long after returning ere I fell
asleep. Then methought I saw an angelic being
with an olive-branch, who said,

“My white wings enfolded the globe when it
first came from its Creator's hand. I lingered
among the green shades and bright dews of Eden.
I tuned the harps that on the plain of Bethlehem
sang `Peace on earth, and good-will to men.'

“But my permanent abode is not here. War
is loved better than peace. To earth I must be
a transient visitant. I find my best shelter in
the breast of the humble followers of Jesus.
There I speak, and am answered, and leave gifts
that the world can not take away.”

My mother's birth-day gift was a beautifully-bound
blank book, with clasps, and my name and
the date in gold letters upon the cover. It is for
accounts; and on one page is to be written whatever
income I receive, and on the opposite one all
my expenditures. At the close of the year the
whole amount of each is to be cast up, before a
new one begins. She recommends also that this

should be done at the end of every month, by
way of turning more attention to the subject;
for, if the amount should be small at present, it
will probably increase in future, and the habit is
of consequence to every woman. Mamma says
it is like a map to a traveler, and she does not see
how any housekeeper can do her duty without it.
She wishes me to have the writing very neat, and
the figures plain and clear, that I may take more
pleasure hereafter in looking it over, and says she
has found it a good way to keep the daily accounts
upon a separate piece of paper, and copy them at
the close of each week in her book. The ladies
of England have the credit of being much more
attentive to the keeping of these household books
than we are; so my dear mother, knowing its importance
to the economical and correct management
of every family, wishes to form the habit
now, and early instruct me in whatever appertains
to woman's sphere.

She also gave me a smaller blank book, bound
like a pocket-book, with compartments for money,
to contain the items of charity. There is a quiet
look of secrecy about it, and it might be stowed
away in any little private nook.

The object is not to make a display of that
which our dear Savior says should “not be done
to be seen of men,” but to serve as a guide in

distribution, and to assure you of what might
sometimes be forgotten—whether stated contributions
have been paid or not. A certain proportion
of whatever I receive is here to be recorded,
with the proper date, and the sum placed in
the pocket-book, to be ready for any claim of benevolence.
She suggests that a tenth be always
devoted to the poor, as a sacred offering of gratitude
to Him who has committed them to our care,
and connected the duty of relieving them with
such hallowed pleasure. She would not limit me
to a tenth, but desires me always to be regular
in making at least that consecration of all sources
of income, however small, as soon as they come
into my hands.

But oh! she said to me so many loving and
blessed words when she gave me this counsel,
never shall I forget them, nor the affection that
moistened her eyes when she folded me to her
bosom. How can I be grateful enough to her,
or to the God who gave her? What can I do for
either to testify my devotion? My poor efforts,
my best duties are so inadequate. My mother!
I will keep all thy words in my heart of hearts.
Methinks I could lay down my life for thy sake.
But of Him from whom cometh all we enjoy or
hope for, what can we say?

My course of Ancient History I take pleasure
in reading aloud, that my dearest ones may enjoy
it with me. Rollin seems to interest them as
much as a romance. Indeed, some of his descriptions,
especially those of Assyria and Egypt, have
in their grand and peculiar features an air of fiction.
Grandfather is often drawing parallels or
contrasts between the heroes of old and those of
our own Revolution, which amuse himself and us
all. They are usually in our favor, and always
so when Washington is concerned, who to him
seems as a god among men. I was reading last
evening of the attack of Agathocles upon Carthage,
when, finding his inferiority of numbers,
and that he had not arms enough for his men, he
ingeniously contrived some that were counterfeit
to deceive the enemy; then, to raise the desponding
spirits of his soldiers, he left fly among them
some owls, which he had taken pains to procure,
that their own favorite bird of wisdom might be
to them an omen of victory.

“So did the brave General Putnam at Bunker's
Hill,” said grandfather, “when ammunition grew
low, have barrels drawn up filled with sand, to
give the impression that powder was plentiful.
He did not let any owls loose, for our people
would not have regarded them as the ancient

Greeks did. But the English were the owls after
that battle, and had to stoop to the new-fledged
eagle.”

I am convinced that a journal is an assistant
to intellectual improvement. I think also it aids
in the formation of character. I should not be
surprised if it made life seem longer; for the time
that I review, even by my very imperfect one, reminds
me of a road where there are waymarks
and milestones. Every line that is written recalls
events and feelings that cluster about it, and
might else have been forgotten. It strings the
pearls that otherwise, lying loose, might be trodden
upon and swept away. I was unwilling to
begin it from ignorance, but now, if it were taken
away, I should feel as if something had been lost
that was important and appreciated.

A journal, to have its full value, should be kept
sacred. The thought that it is to be scanned by
other eyes destroys its use. It ceases then to be
a means of self-improvement, of solitary communion.
The moment you cogitate how to make
what you record there agreeable or witty, you are
tempted to represent yourself better or wiser than

you really are, and its end is frustrated. If vanity
or display have any thing to do with a journal,
they will uproot all its usefulness. I speak of its
moral influence, which should always have the
highest place. Setting this aside, it might still
have a sort of statistical value as a register of
passing events.

My dear Mary Ann joins in our historical readings
when she can get time from her school, where
she still continues. It is delightful when she
comes, for them we question each other about the
substance of what we have been reading together,
and sometimes I recapitulate what I have read
in the interval, so that she may have the advantage
of all. It seems a little, too, like an exercise
in classics, which vastly pleases me, for my
heart still turns back to school-days with a hankering
love, notwithstanding I am so very happy
in my housekeeping.

She was asking me about my progress in it,
and praising some jellies of my making, of which
she begged me to give her the recipe. Being in
her debt for a poetical morceau or two, I thought
I would write it in rhyme:

I told mamma that poor old Mrs. Dean sat on
a hard wooden seat, which did not look comfortable,
and asked her permission to buy a stuffed
chair. She replied that ingenuity and economy
were very interesting features of charity, and that
this might be a good opportunity to practice them.
So, by her advice, I proceeded, with such help as
was needed.

A nice and rather tall flour-barrel was cut in
the side, at the right height from the floor, for a
seat, the head serving for the bottom, on which
two or three castors were placed. The remainder
was shaped by the saw of the workman into
arms and a back; and, as I fancied the latter
scarcely high enough, I contrived to have a little
frame added, and then covered it with coarse
brown cloth, stuffing it with cotton to such thickness
and shape as I chose. Mamma gave me
dark calico to make an outside cover and cushion,
the latter resting on strong pieces of webbing,
crossing each other, and nailed firmly within.
Really, when it was done, I was surprised as
much at its good appearance as at its cheapness,
and, moved by the same motives, went still farther
in the career of constructiveness. Remembering
lame Nancy upon her block of wood, and
having some calico left, I made a cushion for a
good-sized tea-chest, with a drapery of the same

around the sides. The cavity also made a nice
little repository for her books and work. Satisfied
with these labors, and the thought of the comfort
they would give, I thanked my beloved mother,
who was the author of both.

I never could have imagined such a terrible
storm as I have seen. A violent northeast wind,
coming in blasts, did the work of a tornado. The
sky was dark at noonday, and rain fell in great
white sheets. I thought of what is said in Genesis,
that the “windows of heaven were opened.”
A wrecking sound was among the trees, and
away went the fences like a pipe-stem. Barns
and light buildings were unroofed or swept from
their places.

In full view of our dining-room window was
an immense old pearmain-tree, encircled by a
heavy grape-vine. I looked out, but it had gone.
Where was it? At some distance, prostrate in
a field, its rich red fruit and the purple clusters
looking aghast. The mass of roots, with the
earth carried on them, was higher than my head.

The tempest extended to a great distance.
Miles of woodland were laid low, and streets obstructed
by fallen trunks and branches. On the
coast, up came the sea and rolled where it never

was before. A family who lived several miles
from it, and whose house was blown over, ran
into the fields, and said the torrents of spray that
covered them were salt as the ocean. Great
damage was done to shipping and by inundations.
The oldest persons remember nothing like
it, and I am sure this storm of September 23d,
1815, will not soon be forgotten in New England.

This morning I found old Mrs. Dean and Nancy
seated in state, and more grateful for their
comfortable chairs than I can describe. I carried
the latter the fragments of the calico that had
covered them, cut into squares for patchwork,
recommending to her to sew them neatly, and
persevere until she should get enough for a bed-quilt.
Then came the oldest boy, wishing to
learn to sew too; and, thinking it might help to
amuse and keep him out of mischief, I instructed
him a little, and promised to give him a thimble
if he would work with his sister and mind her.
I asked if he should not like to knit on a stocking
for his mother, to keep her feet warm when
she went out to work to get bread for him. He
said promptly, “Yes, ma'am, I will, if you'll give
me a new book with pictures in't.” I heard him
read, and was pleased with his improvement. It

seemed as if a desire for knowledge had tamed
him. He stood like a lamb before his teacher,
ready to do whatever he was told, though so lately
he was as a wild bear from the woods.

While pleasantly busied with him and his sister,
I observed the youngest boy standing in a
corner, with his back to us, now and then repeating
in a kind of recitative, “Old Tom and old
Nance.” Supposing it one of his usual tantrums,
I went on with my teaching, till at length, noticing
that his face was distorted with emotion,
and tears gushed out to the tune of “Old Tom
and old Nance,” I asked his mother, who chanced
to be at home, what was the matter. She said
he was jealous. At first I felt provoked; but,
after considering a moment, pitied him, and asked
if he would like to come and read to me. At
first there was a crab-like movement; then he
slowly approached in zigzag lines, as if alternately
attracted and repelled by contradictory
forces. Perceiving that he gained on the distance
between us, I told him to go first and wash
his face and hands, and have his hair brushed.
With astonishing quickness he achieved these
changes, and stood at my side. He read the alphabet
three times at the top of his voice, and
when I gave him a lesson to learn before I should
come again, looked up with a clear eye, as if delivered

from a demon, and said, “Now I guess
I'm as good as Nance and Tom.”

Poor little heart of childhood! who can read
aright all thy trials save Him who made thee?

“A place for every thing, and every thing in
its place.” Homely adage, but most important.
A kind of keystone to every orderly household.
Daily I make it the rule of my practice. It requires
close observation and a good memory; so
it is an intellectual exercise of value. Mother
tells me, when I go to the kitchen for cookery, to
put back in its place, and in a neat condition,
every utensil that I have used. It is due to servants
not to disturb the policy of their empire
when we enter it for the furtherance of our own
designs.

In meeting the varied wants of the poor, we
find it a good plan to mend thoroughly any garments
we may have done wearing, and lay them
in a repository to be ready for applicants. Though
they are not so useful for those who labor hard,
yet there are almost always some sick or old people
who are gratified with clothing of a finer texture.
I begin to like to mend since we have had

this object in view. There is a sort of friendly
satisfaction in prolonging the existence of what
has faithfully served us; and, in repairing its decays,
we can imagine how the nurse or physician
feels when the invalid patient is built up again,
or the lame walks. My mother excels in that
ingenious industry by which materials for the
wardrobe, or household use, receive new life, or
pass through transmigrations. Like the cotter's
wife of Burns,

She gave me last week several partly-worn
sheets, and told me to use them as I pleased.
Taking the strongest portion, and making the
others double, black Amy was kind enough to
dye them for me, with a little Spanish arnatto, a
good salmon-color; then, cutting them of a proper
size, and filling them with cotton batting, I
passed a needle with strong thread through and
through, at equal distances, and made thick and
good comfortables, in which, I hope, some poor
people who have nightly shivered will greatly rejoice.
But a long time must it be, if ever, before
I can hope to equal my mother in the economy
of charity. When I see her so ingenious in devising
and executing, I often think of two lines
in the quaint old version of the Psalms:

I have always been cheerful, and have had every
thing to make me so; but I never imagined
such a flow of spirits as come over me continually
since I have begun to learn housekeeping.
Like a bird, I can not restrain my song. Grandfather
wished me yesterday to sing to an old
friend of his. I did as well as I was able. “It
is not equal,” said he, “to what I hear from you
up stairs when you ply the broom and duster.”

I wonder any young girl should be unwilling
to learn cookery. She misses a positive pleasure.
The French ladies are said to be very skillful in
this science, and not to consider it inconsistent
with a position of elegance. Since it has so much
to do with health, I wonder why it should be
wholly trusted to ignorant and wasteful servants.
As yet, I know but little of this accomplishment,
but am anxious to learn more. To-day we had
unexpectedly some company to dinner. Mamma
always makes it a rule on such occasions to give
a cordial welcome, to produce the best she has,
and make no excuses. Yet I fancied that a shade
of thought passed over her mind on the subject
of dessert, for which we happened to be unprepared.
It was then rather late, but, hastening to
the kitchen, I asked Amy to give me a quart of
milk. While it was preparing to boil, I mixed

four spoonfuls of flour with some cold milk, taking
care that there were no lumps, and at the full
boiling-point stirred it in, with a cup of sugar,
and half that quantity of butter. When all was
well incorporated, I took it off, and, letting it cool,
added six eggs well beaten, four drops of essence
of lemon, and a cup of raisins, a quantity of which
we usually keep stoned, to be ready for any emergency.
The pudding was baked in a deep dish,
and when it came on the table, well browned, and
rising lightly up, the silent look of approving delight
from my loved mother more than repaid me.
Besides, I was conscious that it was not only an acceptable
addition to the repast, but one that might
be eaten without injury, and not like some of the
rich sauces and confectioner's compounds, which
cause the doctor to come at the heels of the cook.

We have had some company at tea, and it was
the wish of my mother that I should prepare,
with my own hands, all the entertainment, and
preside at the table. It was a simple matter, yet
I felt some responsibility. Mary Ann was invited,
and her cousin Emily, a very handsome
girl, and Henry Howard, to wait upon them home.
Mamma thought it would be a good time also to
ask Ensign Conant, who was in a part of the

Revolutionary War, and sometimes calls to see
grandfather; and Miss Keziah, his daughter, a
rather ancient lady, who keeps his house, and
prides herself upon her speckless neatness, is
quite critical in household matters, and addicted
to keen remark. I, however, felt no anxiety about
any of the eatables, except the cake, which I feared
might not be quite as light as usual. The
biscuits were fine, I had stamped the yellow butter
beautifully, cut the dried beef as thin as possible,
arranged the sweetmeats unexceptionably,
and had an eye to the making of the tea and settling
of the coffee. We formed a glad circle
around the pleasant board. Miss Keziah sat up
as straight as a pikestaff, tasted every thing, and
praised nothing. With her long bony arms, covered
to the knuckles with the tight sleeves of her
dove-colored silk, she reached the cups as fast as
I poured them, so that Amy, in her smart turban,
ready to help with her small silver waiter, found
herself superseded. Finding that I took pains to
ask each one if their tea and coffee was agreeably
mingled, or if I should alter it, she said, “'Twas
a much better way to push round the sugar and
cream, and then every body would stand a chance
to get suited.” I found this quite a valuable suggestion.
By-and-by, says she, in her usual sharp
tone, “Miss Lucy, what's your rule for that cake?”
Having a secret consciousness that this might be
a weak point, and she had fixed upon it, I was
aghast for a moment; but, as it happened; the
cake was really nice, and being assured by a
smile from my mother, I proceeded laconically to
answer her inquiry. “Five cups of light dough,
ma'am, four and a half of sugar, two and a half
of butter, and four eggs, mixed well together, and
suffered to rise a little before putting in the pans
to bake.” “Don't ye put in no seasonin'?” “Yes,
ma'am, spices and raisins as you choose, and a
glass of wine, if you like it.” “Well, I declare,
if this ain't just the best cake I've eat these many
a day.” A load was lifted from my shoulders.
Miss Keziah had approved. I think she felt happier
through the rest of the visit for having been
so amiable as to praise any thing.

A pleasant evening we had. Songs were sung
and stories told. Henry Howard, who is always
so polite as to put every body at their ease,
pleased Ensign Conant vastly by asking information
about the encampment of his regiment at
Rye, New York, in the early part of the war, where
they suffered from the dysentery. It gave me
pleasure to see the warm social feelings of the
aged gentlemen, and that they received such marked
attention and respect from my young friends.
On the whole, all passed off well. Miss Keziah

was mollified, her father pleased with the attention
of being invited and the opportunity of talking
about old times, the young people cheered by
making others more cheerful, my best-beloved ones
satisfied with my attempts, and I grateful to our
Father in heaven, from whom every joy proceeds.

Henry Howard, who has a fine voice, sang at
our house, the evening we had company, that
stirring ode of Robert Treat Paine, entitled “Adams
and Liberty.” The first stanza runs thus:

It was affecting to see with what enthusiasm
the two venerable soldiers joined in the chorus.
They felt its true spirit. Ensign Conant sprang
up, and beat the time, as high as his head. Zeal
made him young again. My grandfather's still
rich tones swelled the music with a solemn joy,
as though it were a patriotic prayer. I thought
it a beautiful scene.

At our pleasant little tea-party last week, we
had in the evening some preserved apples and
cream handed round, which gave general satisfaction.
I was requested by one of the younger
part of the community to give the recipe, and
write it in poetry, with the remark that it would
be better remembered. So I have chosen a measure
of considerable amplification, thinking, if an
exercise of memory was desired, I would make it
as comprehensive as possible.

Among those to whom my dear mother has indulged
me by being her almoner, is a poor mulatto

boy, who has been long sick. He lives
alone with his mother, and seems now to be fast
declining. He is not very intelligent, and sometimes
rolls his eyes and distorts his features awfully.
It troubles me so much that I dream
about him, and see large, strange creatures making
up horrible faces like him, and, starting, wake
up affrighted.

This morning I begged mamma to permit me
to send what I had made for him, telling her my
reasons. But she said very seriously,

“No; go yourself, my daughter. Though
young and in health, learn to look suffering and
death in the face. By one gate we must all go
out of the world.”

I obeyed, but with more of shrinking reluctance
than I should have been willing to own.
The place looked as dreary as usual, for the poor
mother had no idea of that neatness and order
which makes sickness comfortable. He drank
some of the chocolate, and seemed inclined to taste
the other things I had brought. Then he murmured
to himself, in a hollow voice, “Angels—
there's angels here;” and, glaring at me, said,
“She's one.” I asked his mother if he was
crazy, and she said his mind wandered, and had
a good deal of late. Then he shouted, “Wings!
I see wings!” and, straightening himself out, with

a great cry that left his mouth wide open, ceased
to breathe.

Have I indeed seen death? What a solemn,
fearful change! That lowly room, its miserable
inhabitants, seemed lifted up and majestic. God's
mysterious messenger was there. He had done
his great work, yet no hand was seen. He had
taken out of the dead clay the living soul.

That living soul! While here, it was little regarded,
being clad in weeds of poverty. Now
it sees what is hidden from earth's wisest ones,
the world of spirits. What will it avail the man
of wealth that he has lived luxuriously while his
poor brother ate the scanty bread of toil? “They
shall lie down alike in the dust.”

Death, the silent teacher, has thrown a new
light upon life. With cold, invisible hand he
hath written, “Vanity of vanities,” on what the
world holds forth as enticing. God grant that I
may never forget the lesson.

Monday, January 1st, 1816.

Beautiful New Year's morn, lead me with thy
cold, frosty hand to the Beneficent Giver. Pleasant,
smiling birth-day, come with me to His footstool,
and implore His favor upon both; for “He
is good, and doeth good. His tender mercies are
over all His works.”

Father in heaven, I bless Thee for my continued
life and all its joys. Fain would I devote it
to Thee. Wilt Thou accept the offering?

I have for some time been desirous to make the
baptismal vow of my infancy my own intelligent
act. I wish to be enrolled among the friends and
followers of my dear Redeemer. The sacred duties
that belong to this character I hope He would
deign to teach me. The dispositions that are
pleasing to Him may I more and more receive,

till this faint, glimmering light shall become the
perfect day.

Has not the Savior commanded, “Do this in
remembrance of me?” And shall I not obey?
Is my youth any objection? The divine injunction
is, “Seek me early.” Father, I come. Make
plain to me what thou requirest. I am as a
little child before Thee. Say unto me, “Fear
not.” Methought I heard a voice commanding,
“Praise!”

I have partaken of the holy communion. Side
by side with her who nurtured my infancy and
him who guided her own, I have received the
symbols of dying and redeeming love. I saw in
their loved eyes tears of joy, and blessed them,
and blessed God.

I feel that I have given myself up entirely to
Him. But have I not been His from the beginning?
What more can I be now? Only His
by my own consent and deed. His by the consecration
of my poor services—by the open promise
of allegiance until death. Oh, may these not
be words of course, but living, lasting principles.

Is it an illusion, or have I indeed taken a place
at the table of my Lord? Me, at His table!
Have I not intruded? Lamb of God, who takest
away the sins of the world, forgive me. Shall I
not see Thy face at last? Wilt Thou not give
me the lowest place at Thy feet, among the least
of Thy servants? At Thy feet, the least and the
lowest place?

What an excellent man is our minister. I
have always admired his sermons, and his pleasant,
serious manner when he meets his people.
He makes no display, but there is about him a
character of holiness, which, in his public services,
sometimes brings to mind those exquisite lines of
Goldsmith:

Yet it is only since I have conversed with him
about my own spiritual concerns that I have realized
the depth of his piety. When I first went
to his study to consult him on the subject of becoming
a communicant, I was agitated and unassured.
I told him all my misgivings, that I was
not able to point out any precise time of passing

from darkness to light, and felt unworthy to approach
with confirmed saints the table of the
Lord. He asked why I wished it, and how long
it had been my desire. He seemed satisfied with
my answers; and, after explaining the duties devolving
on a professed follower of Christ, inquired
if I were willing, if necessary, to bear self-denial
or reproach for His sake, and if I would serve
Him unto the end.

Afterward, in conversation, for he was so kind
as to call and see me several times while preparing
for that sacred ordinance, he was so anxious
that I should understand the full requirements
of the Gospel, and determine in all things to be
a true and not a nominal Christian, that I revered
him as an embassador from heaven.

He is himself a model of what he requires
others to be. His whole life is devoted to the
service of his Master. Faithfully he watches
over his flock. In every time of sorrow he is at
their side. He shrinks from no fatigue or toil
for their benefit; indeed, it seems as if he never
thought of himself. Though superior in learning
to most with whom he associates, he shows no
ostentation or vanity.

I admire the arrangements of his household,
where simplicity and contentment reign, and enable
him, with a small salary, to keep entirely

free from debt, according to the divine injunction,
“Owe no man any thing, except to love one
another.” His example of humility, avoidance
of display, and industry in devoting all his time
and talents to those whose immortal interests are
committed to his charge, is not lost among his
people. Great is our blessing in having such a
faithful and holy spiritual guide.

To-day, February 8th, is the two hundred and
twenty-third anniversary of the execution of poor
Mary, Queen of Scots. What a strange and sad
romance was her life! A strong contrast there
was between her luxurious training and regal life
in France, and the rudeness of her native realm, to
which, in her young widowhood, she returned.
It must have been like coming from the sunny
tropics to the Arctic Zone, and the bears too.
She seems to have had no wise advisers, and to
have been thrown upon treacherous friends. No
wonder that she committed errors. I do not wish
to excuse, or speak lightly of them, but her long
captivity and violent death make us forget the
spirit of blame in sympathy.

Dear mother thinks I am not sufficiently cordial
in my manners at all times. The presence
of those we like to associate with will usually secure
an agreeable deportment. But she wishes
me to keep in mind that to every person some
palpable degree of kindness is due. The very
circumstance of their taking the trouble to enter
our doors, and putting themselves under the protection
of our roof, implies trust on their part,
and imposes obligation on ours. Many more of
these than we imagine may have concealed sorrows,
and a secret longing for sympathy. A cheerful
brow, a pleasant tone, an animating word, may
be the medicines they need, and give them strength
to go onward. She says I am not careful enough
to greet guests as if I was happy to see them, or
to smile when speaking; yet that both belong to
the science of home and social happiness.

How kind it is in my tenderest friend to tell
me these things. How much I thank her for

making me sensible of my deficiencies. The love
that, even at the risk of giving pain to itself,
points out faults for our improvement and benefit,
is a true love, and I am more and more grateful
for every renewed proof of this affection.

I am so glad that this day of Washington's
birth, February 22d, is observed among the people.
Thus may he be ever held in living remembrance,
and his glorious patriotism and disinterested
goodness made a pattern to be followed by
every new generation. I pleased my dear grandfather
this morning by offering this little whiff of
incense at the shrine of his idol, in honor both of
him and of the recent return of peace:

It is so much easier to write poetry than prose.
I don't mean that high poetical thoughts would
be easy to find; but for such thoughts as you
happen to have, rhyme is a great help. It hovers
like music around you, and beguiles the toil. It
is like the song the bees sing when they are
abroad at their work. I suppose that amuses
them while they are getting their honey. So is
the rhythm of the measure to the mental bee, as
it stores a little sweetness in its hive.

I think I am in love with my beautiful mother.
She is so young for her years, so graceful in
all her ways. Sometimes, in the street, we have

been taken by strangers for sisters. This pleased
me much. We have summer dresses alike, which
favors the illusion.

I enjoy her society more than that of any gay
companion. Our confidence is perfect. I tell
her every plan and every thought. This seems
to me always due from a daughter to a mother;
but it is an immense protection, besides, from the
follies that beset our way. Those who fail in filial
trust are the losers.

I suppose we are drawn more entirely toward
each other from having neither of us a brother or
sister. At any rate, the affection which has
sprung up from continued benefits on one side,
and gratitude on the other, is the sweetest solace
of my life. Then she has so much tact, that,
though we are so intimate, she never compromises
her authority. I should no more think of contravening
her wishes or opinions than when I was
a child. It is doubtless among the secrets of her
attraction that she ever keeps her true position,
and still leads me by that “perfect love which
casteth out fear.”

Early rising is such a privilege. Not only
does it give you time for your employments before
interruptions begin, and show you Nature's

great wonder, the rising sun, but it seems to reveal
the deeper beauty of life. I suppose this may
be from its cheering effect on the spirits, making
them throw a brighter sunbeam around. I can
not philosophically analyze it, but I only know
I am as happy as a bird when I rise before the
sun, and vice versa. One of my school companions,
who better loved her couch, said she “would
not treat the sun so disrespectfully as to rise before
he was ready.” This was an ingenious excuse,
putting the best face on the matter, as the
Yankees usually do. This morning I was up
earlier than usual, and while I was discharging
my household duties, with the golden sun-rays
first glistening on the windows and waking a
sleeping world, and the air so pure and exhilarating,
my heart overflowed with inexpressible happiness.
Ere I was aware, I heard a murmur,
“How beautiful is life! how beautiful!” and found
it came from my own lips. Then I blessed Him
who had given us this being, and this paradise,
his earth, and the high hope of a heavenly inheritance,
and said with the Psalmist, “He is good;
His mercy endureth forever.”

I am much pleased with a carpet of domestic
manufacture which has recently come home. Its

colors are simply black and green, the latter very
prettily shaded. I had formed such a friendship for
the great wheel, that mamma told me, if I would
like to conduct an enterprise of this kind, she would
purchase coarse wool for me, and give me liberty
to employ such poor women as I should choose
to aid in the spinning, provided I would keep an
accurate account of debt and credit, and see that
they were regularly paid as soon as their work
was done. In this way I had opportunity of getting
better acquainted with their characters and
concerns, and about their children and old people,
when they had any, and how they might be
helped if they were sick or ignorant. This feature
of charity was one of the pleasures of the
undertaking.

I could not help feeling important when those
grown-up women came bringing their yarn to me
to be examined, while, with due dignity, I counted
the skeins, and saw that each had the requisite
number of knots, and gave them the price of their
labor, and they were so pleased to be paid and
carry it home to their families. Then I felt the
truth of my grandfather's maxim, that the best
way of helping the poor is through their own industry,
for that saves their self-respect.

By my mother's requisition to keep a statement
of all expenditures, I know every iota of

the economy of the enterprise. There is some
pecuniary saving, imported carpets being very
dear at present; but the principal gain is in the
pleasant excitement of the thing, the good done
to the laboring poor, and the ultimate durability
of the article. Amy, who has given much assistance
in this affair, especially in the dyeing, for
which she seems to have a native genius, was rewarded
with the superfluous yarn, of which there
chanced to be quite a quantity. So the industrious
creature gave it to a weaver; and, having
prepared a filling of woolen cloth, or cast-off
clothes cut in narrow strips, has made herself a
comfortable carpet for the upper part of her kitchen,
where she sits in great state in the afternoon,
as in a servant's hall. Our own new carpet is
fitted nicely to a back parlor, where it has quite
a cozy aspect, and grandfather is never tired of
praising it.

Some say that female domestic occupations are
unfavorable to mental improvement. I think they
may be so mingled as to help each other. A consciousness
of doing one's duty gives vigor to every
thing. That versatility which can turn from
one employment to another, and apply itself to
all with zeal, and not waste time in the transition,
is valuable, and may be cultivated.

Under the smiling morning's face, Emily comes
gayly in and says,

“Have you heard the news?”

“What news?”

“Why, the great news.”

“No, Emily.”

“Then nerve yourself. It is neither more nor
less than this—Henry Howard is engaged. They
say it's to a very beautiful young lady, the daughter
of some gentleman connected with his college.
For my part, I think it is ridiculous, so young as
he is.”

“How young is he?”

“Lord! I don't know. Somewhere about
twenty, I suppose. Don't he graduate this fall?”

“Yes.”

“Every body thought he was engaged to you,
and said you were made exactly for each other,
so elegant and so learned; and then he was forever
following you. I think it is a shame to be
so changeable. How silent you are! Now do
just tell me frankly if you were not engaged.”

“We were not.”

“If that does not beat every thing! You take
it so coolly, too. I expected you would faint
away. I thought you'd at least be surprised at
the intelligence. Perhaps you knew it before.
Don't you correspond?”

“No.”

“Well, if you are not a real philosopher. I
expected quite a little scene this morning.”

“Did you look, like the islanders of old, that
I should have swollen and fallen down dead?”

“You're mighty polite to compare yourself to
the chief apostle, and me to the barbarous inhabitants
of Melita.”

“I did not mean any thing invidious.”

“No, I dare say, Miss Lucy, with your sweet
way of speaking, you think you never did a wrong
thing in your life; but I am sorry for you. I
know you feel bad, though you won't own it. I
think you are a little white round your mouth.
Sha'n't I get you some camphor?”

So, opening her little green parasol with a graceful
flourish, and bidding a pathetic adieu, she
skipped away like the butterfly among the flowers.

My dear grandfather is very partial to Young's
“Night Thoughts,” as I think people of his age
are wont to be. I have read the work so much
to him that I begin to get interested in its sententious
style and weight of sentiment. Some
of its passages have become familiar, and he occasionally
asks me to repeat them. This is one
of his favorites:

The beginning of this passage reminds me of
those sublime expressions in the twenty-eighth
chapter of Job: “The depth saith, It is not in
me; and the sea saith, It is not with me.” “It
can not be gotten for gold, neither shall silver be
weighed for the price thereof.”

I do not think Pope's Universal Prayer, as it is
called, is held in sufficient estimation. Some of
the stanzas are very expressive. This is a favorite
of mine, and surely breathes a Christian spirit.

Some suppose the petition implies doubt, or
uncertainty of belief. To me it seems rather an
echo of the apostolic sentiment, “Not as though
I had attained, either were already perfect; but
I follow after.”

Alas! my blessed mother is very sick. She
was seized several days since with chills, followed
by a high fever. I am not willing to leave
her for a moment.

The physician says she has a modification of
typhus, which was prevalent here. Some of her
pensioners had it. I think she might thus have
been exposed.

What a fearful disease! But her constitution
is so good, I hope it will not be long ere she surmounts
it. I have never seen her sick before,
and am greatly distressed. She takes all her
medicines and nourishment from my hand. I
would trust no other.

What a comfort to have such a good physician!
He is so attentive, so studious of the case,
and asks minute questions of every change of
symptom before he prescribes. I confide more
in him, because his hair is gray, one proof of experience.

A nurse! No, indeed; while I have strength
to serve her, I resign that privilege to none. She
who took care of my helpless infancy so long,
night and day, can I not “watch with her one
hour?” I have never had opportunity before to
prove my love by its nursing services. A stranger
has no right to that honor. I am too selfish to
yield it at all.

Lord, she “whom Thou lovest is sick.” Thou
knowest it. Yet, like the disciples, we have liberty
to come “and tell Jesus.” She is ready for
Thy will; but remember me, a “reed shaken by
the wind.” Remember, and have pity.

It is most touching to see my poor grandfather.
He comes and looks at her in her broken sleep,
fearing to fatigue her by conversation. There he
stands, his head drooping upon his breast, the
statue of despair. Sometimes he lifts his hands
over her in silent prayer:

“Out of the depths have I cried unto Thee,
O Lord. Out of the depths.”

More entirely than ever is Mary Ann my second
self. A great part of the time she spends
here, filling my place to my poor grandfather.
She reads, talks, and walks with him, and, whenever
we meet, has a sweet word for my burdened
heart.

Our dear physician has pronounced the crisis
over.

For two nights only have I trusted my treasure
to the charge of others. I could see that the
change and the ways of the watchers troubled
her. Her nervous system is debilitated, and more
sensitive than usual. I am determined not again
to leave her.

How precious are the consolations of our religion,
and the visits of its ministers in such time
of trouble! Faithful and kind beyond expression

has been our own spiritual guide. His voice of
prayer beside her pillow breathed like subdued
music. “I come myself to be instructed,” said
he, when, week after week, he saw her serene faith
and saintly patience.

My dear mother is reduced to a state of almost
infantine weakness. Yet I am so thankful that
she can sit up a short time in bed, supported by
pillows, while, placing myself behind them, I can
once more comb out and arrange her beautiful hair.

Her eyes are so much affected that she can
scarcely bear the light. The doctor has advised
a simple remedy, which already begins to do them
good. It is an ounce of fresh rose-water, with a
teaspoonful of brandy, and a few drops of laudanum
infused. I bathe them often in this with a
soft linen cambric cloth. It was fortunate that
we had our own fine damask roses distilled. The
extract is better, and more fragrant than any we
can purchase.

Our kind physician said to-day, taking my
hand in a fatherly manner, “Permit me to point

out a fault, one that is common to the most loving
natures. They forget themselves in the care
of the sufferer until their own health is utterly
sacrificed.”

“Please not to say any thing to me against
taking charge of my mother at night.”

“That is the very thing in which I desire to
indulge you. I wish to tell you how you may
sit up. Ah! now I see you listen to me. Will
you do as I direct?”

“Be so kind as to instruct me, sir.”

“She will probably have a long convalescence,
for she is extremely weak. Her nightly rest will
be broken, and yours, of course. Promise me,
therefore, that you will every afternoon retire to
your own room, and take three hours for sleep.
Then rise, bathe, and dress yourself, and return
to her renovated and cheerful. In this way you
will be able to hold out. Were your body as
strong as your heart, there would be no need of
this; but you are already a little hollow-eyed and
care-worn. Will you take my prescription?”

“Oh yes, sir, if my mother consents.”

“She will; for your good is hers, and you have
fully proved that hers is your own. Now you
are my patient, and must hear me farther. Take
a little walk every day, when the weather is fine.
Turn to the breezy hills, and fill your lungs with

fresh air. Once in the day, also, when you can
best be spared, leave your mother's room and take
some household exercise. Rub a table, if nothing
more. The object, as you will see, is the circulation
of the blood, and a new flow of thought by
change of object. It would be no proof of affection
to her to neglect yourself, when she needs
the aid of all your powers to recover her own.”

“I am sure I can never sufficiently thank you
for your great goodness to her and to me.”

“Show your gratitude, then, by obeying me.
Will you? We shall see.”

I have followed the doctor's advice. Mamma
has so much self-denial that she gives me up for
a long interval every afternoon. Faithful Amy
is but too happy to sit beside her, and Mary Ann
comes to read to grandfather. Laying aside my
cares, I rest on my bed. God gives me sweet
sleep as to an infant. Then, after a bath, I arrange
my hair in the way that I know pleases
her, and put on one of those pretty calico morning-dresses
which she likes, of which, having several,
I change them ere they are at all soiled, for
she is neatness itself. I hasten to her with delight.
We meet as lovers who have been long
separated. Methinks a tide of fresh, hopeful spirits

flows into her warm heart through mine. Why
should we not take as much pains to make ourselves
personally agreeable to our sick friends as
to our well ones? They notice more closely
than we imagine, and a serene brow and cheering
deportment are often among their best medicines.

I had no idea there were so many tonics in the
world. Every creature who calls “hath a proverb,
hath a doctrine, hath an interpretation.”
Each one desires my mother to take her own
particular favorite. If she did, I don't know
what would become of her. One old lady sent a
bottle of “boneset,” which would set your teeth
on edge. Something which Mary Ann's mother
made I gave with the doctor's permission, and it
proved useful. I inquired its ingredients, and
she said, “One ounce of valerian root bruised,
and boiled in two pints of water till reduced to
half, then strained upon a dessert spoonful of
chamomile flowers, and, after standing an hour,
one ounce of the compound spirits of lavender is
added, and the infusion kept carefully corked in
a bottle.” But the sweet air, which we are careful
to admit as freely and frequently as possible,
quiet sleep when she can have it, and the calmness

of holy trust, which is always hers, seem
her best restoratives.

I find her regular rest much promoted by making
preparations for the night quite early. Moving
around the room, with a light flashing upon
the bed, or bustling about to get what may be
necessary for comfort at a late hour, annoys the
mind, and disturbs the little seeds of repose that
were beginning to germinate. I doubt whether
any one who has not been very sick can imagine
how much inconvenience arises from such sources,
from careless moving of furniture, sharp, sudden
noises, or heavy footsteps.

Our physician says that the nursing of convalescence,
especially after a fever, is as important,
and sometimes even more difficult, than during
the previous disease. After the patient has been
able to see a friend or two, it is not always easy
to regulate that matter. A little social feeling
may be salutary, but all approach to excitement
is prejudicial. If the brain sympathizes ever so
slightly with the disease, quiet is absolutely essential.
All my mother's friends wish to see and
congratulate her, and she can not bear to deny

any. I can see she is easily tired, and it is better
to prevent fatigue than to trust to getting rested
afterward; so I have become a very Cerberus
in guarding my Hesperides. I venture to refuse
the most intimate when necessary, and to shorten
the stay of the most ceremonious. However invidious
it may seem, it is still a duty to protect
her from being “wounded in the house of her
friends.” Who shall do it if her sentinel falters?

I have had such comfort in feeding her to-day
with part of a little bird that a kind friend had
sent her. Yet so feeble is she that even to take
this was an exertion. Her delicate appetite has
been of late somewhat stimulated by a preparation
of our good physician, which I had better
write, in order to remember it. One ounce of
pulverized columbo root, put into a pint of pure
old Sherry, with a little dried orange-peel, and a
handful of raisins. A wine-glass, or part of one,
to be taken daily, an hour before the principal
meal.

“I am glad you always keep a calm and pleasant
face in the sick-room, my daughter,” said the
kind physician this morning.

“You praise me too much, sir. All the first
part of the time I was going out constantly to
weep.”

“Yes, but you wiped your eyes and returned
cheerful. I am always telling professed nurses
of the importance of a calm deportment. There
are stages in some diseases where loss of self-command
in those around is fatal. The thread
of many a frail life has been severed by the fright
or uncontrolled emotion of the objects of its love.”

I think there was never so kind a people as
those among whom we live. Not only from
friends and neighbors, but from those with whom
we were scarcely acquainted, the attentions have
been unbounded. The sympathetic message, the
fresh flower, the rich fruit, the varied niceties prepared
on purpose for her, have been continual.
The cheering influence of these remembrances
have been among the means of her recovery.
Mary Ann's services it would be impossible to
recount. The wife of our good minister has been
his helper in this work of benevolence, and the
physician's whole family have learned of him how
to be kind. His son Egbert, in particular, has
been constant in his calls, bringing things that
were acceptable, and offering brotherly services.

I think I shall now know, better than ever, the
value of every mark of sympathy in such time of
affliction.

Down to dinner! down to dinner! Leaning
on her father's arm came the beloved, I going
a few steps before, carrying the pillows and blanket
for her chair, and Mary Ann bringing up the
rear with a cricket for her feet. Amy stood by
the nicely-spread table ready to wait, her honest
black face radiant with joy. Surely every heart
lifted itself on the devout words with which the
silver-haired father blessed our food and the Giver
of our life.

But oh! I had not realized, until seeing her in
a stronger light than that of her own chamber, how
emaciated and ghastly pale she has grown. I
wished to weep like a child, and should have done
so but for fear of distressing her. I felt the tears
swelling under my eyelids, and peremptorily ordered
them back.

Our good doctor and his son, happening to call
during the repast, joined us at the dessert. What
deep delight must a Christian healer feel at seeing
one brought back from the gates of death
through his instrumentality. Surely our giving
of thanks this day was from united souls.

I have made a written list of all who have in
any way testified kindness to my mother in her
sickness. They are her benefactors, and henceforth
mine. Always will I remember them when
I have gifts to bestow; and if, in sickness or sorrow,
they should need aid or sympathy, I will
strive to repay them, for I am their debtor.

The first ride! What an era in our lives
when we have said, with the sick monarch of
Judea, “In the cutting off of my days I shall
go down to the gates of the grave.” The reviving
invalid enjoyed so much the rich blue of the distant
hills, varying as the clouds floated over them,
and the sparkling waters dancing in the sunbeam.
Autumn kept back some of its beauties for her.
In sheltered spots the golden rod waved, and the
purple asclepias looked up to greet us. The forests
were fading, but here and there the maple
flushed, and deep yellow and umbered brown
mingled their fleeting tinge with the constant
evergreen.

Once more at church again, side by side. “Into
Thy gates, our God, we came with thanksgiving,

and into Thy courts with praise.” Methought I
had never before felt true gratitude. I felt that
I could give thanks for the great sorrow that had
passed over me. Without it I might never have
known the depth of this holy, filial affection.
What would I not do for thee, my blessed mother,
who hast done so much for me!

Her sweet, pallid face was radiant when, after
divine service, the good minister came to our pew
and welcomed her again to the house of God. In
his prayer he had given earnest thanks for her
recovery. His sermon was feeling and impressive,
and some passages adhered to my memory.
His text was from Revelations:

“As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten;
be zealous, therefore, and repent.”

Afflictions are not always received in accordance
with their design. The Prophet Jeremiah
speaks of some who had “set their faces as a
flint.” But when grief presses the bitter tears
from the Christian's heart, and he asks, Why is
this? Is not God pitiful, and of tender mercy?
Why is this?

Behold, a letter! He opens it. What are
its first words? “As many as I love, I rebuke
and chasten.” He is answered. He is content.
He will strive to endure patiently, whether the
suffering be from sickness, bereavement, the disappointment

of cherished hopes, or the attainment
of these hopes, and the discovery that they are but
vanity.

Still, is there not something more intended by
this discipline than simply the recognition of a
Father's hand, and the belief that his frowns are
but the “graver countenance of love?” The lesson
follows, “Be zealous, therefore, and repent.”

Oh, be diligent to learn God's lesson, ye whom
He hath in kindness afflicted. Look over your
lives, your words, your motives. Forsake whatever
conscience pronounces to be offensive to Him;
for if one arrow is not enough, He hath a full
quiver; if one plague fails to humble the proud
heart, are there not ten more? If one wave will
not suffice, He can make you walk “under the
cloud, and through the sea,” until, in prostration
of spirit, the wanderer exclaims, “I have sinned!
What shall I do unto Thee, O Thou Preserver
of Men?”

I was greatly pleased, as we came out of church
on Sunday, to see so many friends gathering
around my mother to express their joy at seeing
her once more among them. She deserves to be
loved, and I am sure such marks of love cheer
her. Some whom she had fed and clothed came

forward to bless her, and she took their outstretched
hands so kindly.
and if they did not “pluck her gown to share
her smile,” it was because she smiled on them
without it. I thank Thee, our Father in Heaven,
for Thine unspeakable goodness.

Henry Howard graduated some time since with
honor. He has fine talents, and was always an
excellent scholar. His uncle, who has directed
his education since his father's death, does not
wish him to study a profession, and has placed
him in a bank here, with which he is himself connected.
I regret not seeing him as formerly, for
we have been friends from childhood. He seems
to spend what leisure he has in Emily's company.
When I see them they are cold in their manners,
and distant as strangers. The rumor of his engagement
abroad is, I presume, unfounded.

The intimacy one forms with a Journal is remarkable.
It seems as a living friend. It is always
ready for us, and has no occupation but our
concerns. As soon as we have formed the habit
of resorting to its society, it gets a strange sort

of power over us. It remembers for us, and gives
new life to scenes and emotions which might else
have been forgotten. It never speaks a word,
yet it has a reproving power, so that we respect
it. If we should persevere in evil doing, I think
we should be afraid to meet it. I don't see how
a very wicked person, if they told it the truth,
could keep in its company. I believe that, by
little and little, it would grow very confidential,
and that we might lay words upon its silent brow
that would scarcely be uttered to those who have
ears and voices.

Our regular habits of reading have been for
some time broken up. Since dear mamma's recovery,
we have resumed Marshall's Life of Washington.
At first I thought it dry, and the style
deficient in life; but it conveys information of
the most important kind, that of our own continent
and country. There may be more fascination
in the history of other climes, especially in
the far-off fabulous ages; yet we ought not to
be ignorant about the land of our birth.

This work was begun out of compliment to
grandfather's taste, but I continue it for mutual
pleasure and personal instruction. Mary Ann
has often participated in its perusal, and this

evening Egbert joined our reading-circle. We
have been struck with two prominent points in
the character of Washington—his greatness in the
midst of difficulties, and his freedom from ambition.
Secret troubles he had while the great
burdens of the war devolved upon him, misconstructions,
treachery, opposition where he least expected
it, complaints of the Fabian policy which
saved the nation. Had his motives been less
high or holy, he would have gone back in disgust
to the retirement that he loved. He differed from
almost all other leaders of armies by understanding
the policy of peace as well as of war. Many
heroes have fought and conquered, but knew not
how to rule. They were at home among the
thunders of revolution, but knew not how to rest.
They could outride the deluge, but were puzzled
when they “saw the bow set in the cloud.” But
Washington, being placed at the head of the nation
he had rescued, knew both how to stay there
and how long. He was not so dazzled by power
as to aim to make it perpetual. To sustain
it was self-denial. Far better did he love the
tillage of his ancestral acres. He was destitute
of the selfishness of ambition; he sought
only the good of his country and the approval
of his God.

There has been a succession of storms. Ice
clinging to the rattling trees, and snows heaping
themselves up, as if to stay forever. Grandfather
says,

“Where is Henry Howard? Why does he
not come with his flute as he used to do, and entertain
us? I think him the most agreeable
young man who ever visited here.”

Ah! I wish he had not spoken those words.
He did not know that they touched a chord painfully
vibrating. There was at that moment a
deep longing in the heart for the music that he
praised and for the presence of the musician. I
wish, at least, he had not spoken them just as I
was retiring; for sleep, fickle goddess, scarcely
visited my pillow, or only in fitful dreams, like
an unamiable traveler, sullenly riding on a broken
car.

Would that I could have seen my father, or,
rather, that I might have looked upon him when
old enough to have remembered his face, and once
have lisped his sacred name! My mother has
spoken of him recently more freely than is her
wont. I used incessantly to ask her questions
of how he looked, and what he said, but they gave
her pain, and I desisted. Now, since she has

been so near a reunion with him in thought, she
seems inclined to gratify me by describing him.
In her limning of love, he was a model of manly
beauty and virtue. She has long since told me
that my hair was of his color, between chestnut
and auburn, and inclining to curl; and during
her sickness she once said, when I bent earnestly
over her, that the expression of our eyes was
alike. If there is any resemblance, may it increase
for her comfort. In that purer world, may
I kneel beside him and call him father? And
will he know the daughter whom he scarcely beheld
on earth? There will be then no separation,
no change. Blessed clime! may I be made
fit for it in God's appointed time.

The winter solstice is always a point of thoughtful
observation. Nature seems to be tired of giving
daylight, and fills the cup of the year to overflowing
with night. She calls us to rest and refit
for the duties of a more active season.

Shall I say, Wherein have I offended? And
why is thy countenance changed? Come back,
as in days of old, to a friend who has never
swerved? Come back; the lone spirit hath a
void place for thee?

Shall I? or shall I not?

Be patient, restless heart. “In quietness shall
be your strength. But they said, Nay, we will
ride upon horses; so shall they who pursue you
be swift.”

There is something very soothing in the search
and linking of poetical sounds. Sometimes they
so beguile the mind that the thought which should
give them solidity escapes. The “tinkling cymbal”
amuses, and the sense becomes secondary,
or takes flight. Nevertheless, this writing of
rhymes is a fascinating, and may be a useful
thing.

The last moon of the year. She goes wading
through clouds, troubled, but tinging them all
with silver. They float away, wearing the beauty
that she gave them. As I muse this evening,
the yearning after a father's love comes strongly
over me. Why should that name seem dearer,
more expressive than even that of mother? One
is a part of ourselves, but the other—father! fa

ther!—imbodies the protection which the helplessness
of our sex needs.

When they taught my baby-tongue the prayer,
“Our Father, who art in heaven,” I thought it
was this father of whom I asked for my daily
bread; and when there were none by me, and the
lamp was taken away, I lifted my head from my
little couch, and said, “Father, come back. You
stay a long time in heaven. I so wish to see
you. O, father, come back.”

I sometimes think that I have seen him, so
often do we meet in dreams. I stretch out my
arms to the sacred form, but it vanishes away;
yet the smile is always the same. When we meet
at heaven's gate, by that image shall I know him
among the angels; and will they not rejoice at
my glad cry of “Father! father?”

Wednesday, January 1st, 1817.

My journal! my true friend! walk with me
through this year, if it is to be mine, prompting
me to higher endeavors and a purer piety. Walk
by my side as a prompter, and, if need be, a reprover;
for my own strength is but weakness,
and my wisdom vanity.

Almighty Father! remember me, in Thy great
mercy, at the return of that day in which Thou
didst call me into existence. Deign to look upon
the whole frame of my nature, and elevate it to
its noblest ends. Make me more in unison with
angelic influences, and uplift me by a prospect of
the world to come. May both the sunbeams and
the clouds of this lower life raise me heavenward.

Thou hast told us of those invisible guardians
who “bear us up in their hands, lest we dash
our foot against a stone.” Grant me pleasant
meditations on those celestial messengers, and a
likeness to them; for they “do Thy pleasure,
and hearken unto the voice of Thy word.” In
communion with them, and with the holy spirits
of the departed, who once loved us in the flesh,
may I find themes of joyful thought, and motives
to a more entire obedience.

Immense comfort have I in my little conservatory.
It was erected for me on the promise that
I would take the principal charge of it. This has
been an unmixed pleasure. Simple it is, and
small, but neat and flourishing. Built on the
southern side of our common parlor, where the
window has been made into a door, the access is
easy, and we can see the plants at all times. It
is especially pleasant to look at them while we
are seated at the table. Methinks we are more
grateful for the food that we receive while we see
them happy and healthful. Sometimes, when I
give them water, or move them that they may
better meet the sun, I think they have intelligence,
and amuse myself with Darwin's fanciful
theory. I have no great variety yet, as my establishment
is comparatively new. A scarlet
geranium and great lemon-colored artemisia are
the present aristocracy; but my prime favorites
are two pure white roses, an Egyptian one of
the richest crimson, and a young orange, which
will soon bud, and which, when I bathe its thick,
deeply-green leaves, seems to look up at me like
a loving child. The very care endears every
plant that shares it. I never realized how valuable
was the gift of flowers until I watched the
progress of the swelling blossoms and unfolding

petals. Surely He who brought all this beauty
from the unsightly mould meant that we should
admire and be made better by it.

It seems like a dream to write we are in Washington.
Grandfather had for some time been
wishing to visit once more the capital of his country.
The physician said that a milder climate,
for a part of the winter, would promote my mother's
entire restoration. She, in her great love,
fancied that I needed some change of scene after
the confinement of nursing. She erred in supposing
that any service for her could do me aught
besides good. I have no ill health to complain
of, though I may not be quite so buoyant as when
I was younger. However, the reasons were deemed
sufficient, and, as the boy said, “I was born,
and up I grew,” they decided, and here we are.

The capital of our country is delightfully situated
on the noble Potomac and the classic Tiber.
It is a place of magnificent outlines, which methinks
it will take a long time to fill up, though
our young land has great vitality. Still, it can
scarcely be called central, especially when the
Far West, and the large territory purchased by the

late President Jefferson, are settled. But dear
grandfather will not admit this, and persists in
giving it unqualified praise, because it was the
choice of the “man of men,” and bears his honored
name.

Mr. Madison, our fourth president, is now nearly
at the close of his administration of eight years.
He is of small stature, and formal in his manners.
He is said to possess varied and profound learning,
and, when he was Secretary of State, to have
produced documents uncommonly powerful and
luminous. I can see that my grandfather's high-toned
chivalry does not pay him perfect respect,
for having made what he considers a rash war,
and for his want of bravery when the invading
enemy approached. Yet, if “caution is the better
part of valor,” flight was on such an occasion
commendable.

Politics seem to me but another name for strife;
and, as Falstaff says of honor, “Therefore I'll
none on't.” One of the privileges of our sex is
that they may keep clear of such matters. Our
wisdom, even if we were not Christians, is to be
peace-makers. Now it is our duty. What a

mistake to feel that we are injured by being excluded
from an active part in the arena! Thrice
blessed is our own quiet sphere of duty, where,
in making others happy, we find our own truest
joy.

Every body admires Mrs. Madison; so queenly
is she, yet so full of kindness. She puts all
at ease around her, especially the youngest and
the lowest. Her deportment is almost maternal.
It mingles with native dignity a simplicity and
truthfulness which at once inspire confidence, and
whose elements may have had something to do
with her Quaker nurture, as she originally belonged
to the denomination of Friends. Her brilliant
complexion heightens as she speaks, and she
seems the personification of an exuberant benevolence.

Our pilgrimage here would have been wholly
incomplete had we failed to visit Mount Vernon.
We have been to that Mecca shrine. We have
entered the ancient mansion, where the sweetness
of domestic love and the quiet of rural pursuits
solaced him who was “first in war, first in peace,
first in the hearts of his countrymen.” We have

stood by his tomb. It was touching to see my
dear grandfather, his venerable head uncovered,
and tears dropping from his cheeks like rain.
What a wonderful man must he have been who
could create and sustain such love!

The opinion of the Marquis de Chastellux,
who, being here with the French army, had many
opportunities of personal intercourse, throws some
light on this point, and is fervently expressed.
In his volume of travels he says,

“It may be truly asserted that Condé was intrepid,
Turenne prudent, Eugene adroit, Catinat
disinterested. Not thus simply can Washington
be characterized. It will be said of him that at
the close of a long civil war there was nothing
with which he could reproach himself. If any
thing can be more marvelous than this, it is the
universal suffrage of the people. Soldiers, magistrates,
commoners, all admire and love him, all
speak of him in terms of pride, tenderness, and
veneration.

“Still, the confidence he inspires never gives
birth to undue familiarity. Rochefoucault has
said that `no man is a hero to his valet de chambre.'
Washington is an exception to this maxim.
Those who are nearest to his person love him
most. Yet this love is never separated from a
sentiment of profound respect.

“In speaking of this perfect whole, of which
Washington furnishes the idea, I would not exclude
personal appearance. His stature is lofty
and noble; his form exactly proportioned; his
physiognomy grave and agreeable; his brow
sometimes marked with thought, but never with
inquietude: in awakening admiration, he inspires
reverence, and his smile is always the smile of
benevolence.”

We are all so interested in attending the debates
of Congress. I fancy that I can tell from
what section of our country the representatives
are when they first come forward to speak. The
New England and the Southern members have a
marked idiosyncrasy, and I think the Western
men have a freedom and bravery of manner, as if
caught from their broad, unsettled regions. It is
beautiful to see them, as brethren of one common
family—more beautiful than if they were all alike.
Legislating as they do for the good of the whole,
each has some little sacrifice to make, which adds
moral elevation to their bond of brotherhood.

Above all places in the Capitol, I delight to go
to the room of the Supreme Court of the United

States. There seems the gravity and wisdom
that would save the republic, should it be shipwrecked
elsewhere. One feels such a repose of
mind in this spot, as if here would be the regulating
power if things outside went ever so wrong.
I look with the deepest reverence at Chief Justice
Marshall, so wise, so truthful, yet so simple
in his greatness. He has filled this exalted post
about sixteen years, revered by men of varying
political creeds. I like him better for his native
love of poetry, and that he does not despise it
since he has risen to so lofty a station. I could
not but remember that in his early boyhood he
copied the whole of Pope's “Essay on Man” in
a clear, fair chirography, and that now, though
the highest judicial authority in our realm, he
never had the advantages of a collegiate education.

We had the honor of an introduction to him at
an evening party. How kind and simple are his
manners, the true dignity that knows no display.
I was so enthusiastic that I wished at once to
thank him for the pleasure and instruction derived
from reading his Life of Washington. Of
course, I could not take such a liberty, but was
glad to hear my grandfather express our sentiments
to him in his own earnest and dignified
manner, neither saying too little nor too much.

It is said by the knowing ones that it will not
do to ask the President his age. I thought that
kind of weakness was confined to females who
had passed their prime, or who are called, in common
parlance, old maids. The reason assigned
for this fastidiousness is the disparity between
himself and Mrs. Madison, some twenty or thirty
years probably, which it annoys him to have made
prominent.

It was our last levee in Washington. The
great room at the palace was crowded almost to
suffocation. While promenading and conversing
with the many acquaintances we have made,
through a vista in the throng a pair of “deep,
dark, spiritual eyes” met mine. No other could
have so touched the inner pulses of the soul.
They conveyed a glance of unutterable intelligence.
The response was electric.

Their owner immediately joined us. He returned
with us to our boarding-house. Full explanations
ensued. What had seemed so mysterious
was capable of solution. The apparent
alienation was unfolded and dissolved. Arts had
indeed been used; yet I ought to forgive Emily,
since all has so happily terminated.

Grandfather says at breakfast, “How pleasant
it was last evening to see a face that we knew in
a land of strangers.” Mother added more significantly,
“Now Henry can attend us home;”
and my heart in its secret chamber breathed something
about a “home forever.”

Poor Emily! I wish she had not done so
wrong. I need not blame her for admiring attractive
excellence, or wonder at her being willing
to appropriate it; but

To one accustomed to the New England cold,
a winter thus far south is cheering, and, I think,
salubrious. Certainly my dearest mother has
found it so. Still, there are sudden and high
winds here—gusts, as they call them—of which
I am no admirer. If you chance to be in the opposition,
and on foot, it is no trifle to surmount
them with hat on head.

I believe the weather is considered uncommonly
mild, and the season precocious. The aspen-tree
has hung out its long, drooping tassels, and
the grass is green by the side of the pavements,
and in sheltered places of the fields. The leaves
of the lilac are already “larger than a mouse's

ear,” to borrow the comparison of our poor Indians.
The snowdrop and crocus lift their beautiful
heads among the gardens. I hope they may
not have crept forth too soon from their safe retreats,
lured by the fickle air and wintry sunbeam.
I should be sorry to see them laid low
by the Frost King, sweet, trusting innocents.

We have decided to leave before the inauguration
of the new president, Mr. Monroe, on the
fourth of March. It is necessary for us to be at
home soon after that period, and we would like
to have a little time for the intervening cities,
through which we passed in a hurried manner on
our way to the capital. Besides, we are filled to
surfeiting with show and pomp, and do not care
to mingle with the throng of a still more gorgeous
pageant.

Baltimore has a pleasant location and some fine
buildings. I heard it remarked that the illumination
for peace, some two years since, was more
striking here than in most of our cities, from its
boldly undulating surface, and the position of its
edifices.

More and more am I attracted by the ease of

manner and hospitality of the Southern people.
It is not possible to retain the feelings of a
stranger among them. We at the North have, I
trust, as much heart, but we do not show it as
readily, or succeed as well in drawing out that
of others.

I shall always be so happy to have had the
opportunity of seeing the venerable Charles Carroll
of Carrollton, who chanced to be in this city.
None would suppose him to have numbered fourscore
years, so slightly has time marked him, and
so cheerfully does he enter into the pleasures of
others. A finished gentleman is he, with the
courtliness acquired by intercourse with foreign
lands, having been sent to France at the age of
eight for education, and continuing there and in
England, in legal studies, and in wider European
travel, until mature manhood. His talents, wealth,
and personal influence were freely devoted to the
liberties of our country, and his signature to the
declaration of our independence was given with
a firm hand and full knowledge of what he hazarded.
He retired from his seat in the Senate
of the United States more than twenty years
since, that he might enjoy the quiet of home,
where he is surrounded by all that domestic happiness,

elegant hospitality, and universal respect
can bestow. Long may he live to enjoy these
blessings.

So sang the author of the “Columbiad,” Joel
Barlow, who was sent on an embassy to France
by President Madison, and died only four years
since at a Polish village. We were reminded of
him, and this little strain from his lyre, by entering
Philadelphia in the evening. Methought the
spirit of William Penn, that great and good man,
still hovered there.

I very much like this city of Brotherly Love.
Its perfect regularity pleases me. How beautifully
it sits between its two fair rivers, the Delaware
and Schuylkill! The quietness of the people,
and the frequent appearance of the Quaker
costume, please me. I think I have an inherent
love of that sect. Their perfect neatness, the
neutral tints that they patronize, their rescue of
time and thought from show and fashion, and the
familiar friendliness of the plain language, agree
with my taste, and seem favorable to repose of
mind and contentment.

Good, venerable Bishop White, I shall not
soon forget him. Through his acquaintance with
Henry's uncle, we had the pleasure of an interview.
Though scarcely seventy, his patriarchal
manner, and the silvery whiteness of his hair,
give him the appearance of more advanced age.
His aspect and saintly life would win the most
thoughtless to admire the “beauty of holiness.”
His smile, and the sweetness of his fatherly words,
will dwell among my most cherished memories,
the finishing tint of the picture which this noble
city has given my heart.

We have met no person in New York with
whom our whole group have been more entirely
delighted than Colonel Trumbull, the soldier-painter,
“him of the pencil, the pen, and the
sword,” as he has been well styled. His perfect
courtesy adds grace to all he says, and his conversation
is by no means restricted to subjects of
art, but has gained richness and variety by residence
in foreign lands. He is fair in countenance
and graceful in person, bearing no trace
of time, though he must be at least sixty. He
is engaged on four large national pictures for the
rotunda of the Capitol at Washington. Being

president of the American Academy of the Fine
Arts, he politely took us to see its collection of
paintings and sculptures.

His wife, who is an English lady, accompanied
us. We were told that he was made captive by
her beauty, but that has passed away. Her dress
and manners were both peculiar. Objections were
made to the way in which the light fell upon one
of her husband's pictures, which had been newly
placed on the walls. Calling his attention to it,
she exclaimed,

“Look! look! God Almighty only knows
why they have seen fit to hang it here.”

Not being accustomed to hear emotion thus expressed,
I think I looked surprised, and the gentlemanly
artist strove to efface the impression by
pointing out and commenting upon other works
of genius.

Two pictures from Trumbull's pencil attracted
me—one the knighting of De Wilton, suggested
by a description in Scott's “Marmion,” the other
a scene from the “Lady of the Lake.” The latter
depicts Douglas in his exile, speaking to Malcolm
of Ellen, who at a little distance, playing
with Lufra, her favorite dog, still seems listening
to the conversation of her father and lover. The
surrounding scenery is wild and Scottish.

What a busy, bustling city is this same New
York! How full of vitality and progress. The
people hurry through Broadway as if there was
a bailiff at their heels. I wonder how they got
into this fast way of walking. Not from their
Dutch ancestors, I fancy. The grave old burgomasters

and thrifty vrows, could they trundle
about here again, would scarcely believe this to
have ever been New Amsterdam.

Immense capacities for commerce has this powerful
metropolis. Already it numbers one hundred
and twenty thousand inhabitants. Grandfather
says that, before the Revolution, Boston
and even Newport had precedence; but since
that period its growth has been astonishing. Perhaps
nothing will limit it but the island on which
it stands. I am bewildered by its unresting activities;
the more so for having just come from
Philadelphia, where people take time to sleep,
and sometimes to think too. Men from all regions
of the earth congregate here, and all, with
one consent, agree in chasing each other.

Some noble institutions I have visited in this
city, and am glad of the opportunity of seeing
them. I was thankful for safe arrival in it, and
more especially thankful to get safely out.

Home! sweet, sweet home! how doubly delightful
after absence! However much a visit
may have been enjoyed, one of its greatest gains
is the heightened value of home. We know better
how to estimate its daily comforts, and come
back with new vigor to its duties. Even its humility

seems to endear it. We may have admired
lofty mansions, and their luxurious appointments,
where it is proper they should exist;
but we would not wish to appropriate them, with
all their show and care. In neat, plain apartments
there is more of quiet comfort, at least to
me. We admire the green-house exotics, and to
visit the kingly magnolia, but we kneel down by
the lily of the vale, or the violet in our own garden,
and press our lips to the woodbine that
climbs over the door. Thankful to have been
permitted to see the high places of my own land,
peopled and made glorious as they are by the
great and the good, my heart overflows to Him
who hath guided and restored us, and I enter these
my lowly “gates with praise.”

Dear Mary Ann's face, as she stood at our door
to receive us, was as the face of an angel. And
good Amy in her gladness, “though black, was
comely.” Of what consequence is color where
the loving heart is right?

Our engagement is completed. It has been
fully sanctioned by my beloved mother and grandfather,
and by Henry's uncle, who has long been

his sole guardian. Their affectionate consent and
blessing have added greatly to our happiness.
The love that has been in our hearts from early
years, and almost unconsciously “grown with
our growth,” until it became entwined with the
fibres of our being, has been solemnly confirmed
in words and in the fear of God. My whole
soul praises Him for his great goodness.

My dear grandfather says that the entrance of
true love into any house, or its increase there, is
a blessing to all who dwell in it. So may the
fountain here opened in our hearts ever shed refreshing,
cheering influences upon those who have
nurtured ours—all who have been kind to us—
all who may need our kindness.

I know not how I could ever have been worthy
of the love of so pure and ardent a heart, such a
vigorous and accomplished mind. Indeed, I am
not worthy. It is God's unbounded mercy. A
new strength seems to have inspired me, as if all
life's troubles would be light, all its clouds silver-lined,
through the aid of this kindred spirit.

I am so pleased to have relations. Henry's
uncle, who resides near us, has adopted me into
his affections; and his only brother and wife,
though far off, have written and welcomed me as a
sister. I have always been hankering after relatives,
because I had so few, and have tried to make
various friends into brothers and sisters, and hunted
for years even to find a twentieth cousin. Now
I feel as if I was “suddenly made rich and my
glory increased.” May the Giver of all these
treasures grant me wisdom to make a right improvement
of them.

The voice of the early bluebird! His bright
plumage gleams through the budding branches.
Methinks there was never so tuneful a carol, so
fair a spring. To admire the beautiful things of
nature does us good. Was not beauty so profusely
scattered in our paths to make us better?
Its perception seems the most active in the purest
hearts.

Many friends call to congratulate us on our betrothal.
They kindly express an opinion that
there is in it a fitness and congeniality. It adds
to our enjoyment to find an important decision

thus approved, and to be bidden God-speed both
by “old men and maidens, young men and children.”

We have had some company to dine—two
of my grandfather's friends from Washington,
who were passing through town, and to whom he
wished to pay respect. Henry's uncle and himself,
our good minister and his lady, and my loved
Mary Ann, were of the party. More of preparation
and circumstance attended this than any of
our previous hospitalities. Mamma trusted the
whole to my arrangement, but was kindly ready
with advice and aid. Every thing went off well,
and I was repaid for all exertion by seeing the
guests so happy.

I could not help remembering, with a secret
risibility, my former anxiety when we had only
two or three people at tea, and my terror when
Miss Keziah Ensign's sharp eyes inspected my
housekeeping. Now, though there was vastly
more responsibility, I was entirely at ease. Why?
A pair of dark eyes might answer if they would.
Their approving glance was on me at the right
times. Whenever I needed a little aid, they knew
it, and threw me strength. Their owner was so
considerate as to send his uncle's serving-man,

who is an accomplished waiter, to assist at the
table, so that care was taken from my mind.
Continually do I feel how true love gives energy
for every duty, as well as zest to every joy.

Emily appears shy and crestfallen. I hope to
convince her that I am neither offended nor disposed
to exult. I can not help pitying her that
she should have been tempted to such inventions
and crooked ways. If she feels any compunction,
it may be salutary. But that is her own soul's
concern. Sometimes I wish there was another
lover equally perfect for her, and that she might
have the grace to meet him in ways of truth.

On the whole, we are both indebted to her, for
we might not so soon have discovered the depth
of our mutual affection if she had not probed our
hearts according to her own fashion. I hope we
shall take pains to show ourselves friendly when
proper occasions offer; for, inasmuch as she has
sustained loss, she needs sympathy.

The first arbutus of the year, brought me by
a hand most dear. Afterward we went in search
of more in the surrounding woods, accompanied
by Mary Ann and Egbert. It seemed to have

put itself away more cunningly than usual, “but
the ointment of its right hand bewrayed it.”
Among the decayed vegetation of the last year
and the young springing turf we found it, hiding
under its dark leaf, and got enough for the mantel
vases and to fill the house with fragrance.

Of all kinds of exercise I prefer the equestrian.
It gives such a sense of power to rule a noble
animal, and be fearlessly borne by him through
rural scenery, where the sweet air lifts up the
heart to the Maker of this wonderful frame of
Nature.

I have thought that the officers of the Revolution
rode better than other men. My grandfather,
even now, manages the most spirited horse with
address and elegance. He has heretofore instructed
me how to keep my seat, and criticised all indications
of awkwardness or fear. We have ridden
much together, and I hope may long continue to
do so. To-day he declined going, and proposed
to another person to take his place. Who was
that other person?

Oh! but we had a delightful time, though his
horsemanship is less elegant than that of my former
companion. Amid the retired haunts that
Spring is beautifying, it was like music to hear

his rich voice break forth in that exquisite stanza
from the Minstrel,

This poem of Beattie, which abounds with fine
passages and the purest morality, never seems to
me to have been fully appreciated. Henry admires,
with me, the Spenserian stanza. The closing
Alexandrine gives force to a grand thought,
if there happen to be one to bring out. Thomson
has shown that he could easily wield this elaborate
measure in his “Castle of Indolence.” Some
parts of that poem I can never read without wishing
to go to sleep, so soothing are its lullaby melodies.

Henry has from boyhood desired to study a
profession, and thinks his bachelor uncle very
arbitrary to overrule him in a thing of this nature.
But he has long claimed the authority of a father,
and possesses a great share of worldly prudence.

He says the necessities of this young country are
for men of action rather than of sedentary thought;
that Henry can do more good in his day and generation
by adhering to the former class; and he
prefers his entering the banking business. He
adds that he regarded his native thirst for knowledge
by giving him a liberal education, which will
be of value to him in all positions, and that the
world of books being widely open to him, he will
always be adding to his mental stores. I trust
Henry will acquiesce in this reasoning, as he has
already signalized his obedience from early years.

Henry has become much interested in the German,
having met with a good native teacher while
in college. He made very commendable progress
in the language during the intervals of his other
studies. To please him, I have given it some attention,
he being my instructor. We have amused
ourselves a little this evening by forming phrases
on the rule that “adverbs beginning a sentence
require the verb to precede the nominative;” for
instance:

“Thither wandered a young shepherdess.”

“Hither comes, rejoicing in the east, the King
of Day,” etc.

Though I know comparatively nothing of this
language, it seems majestic in its structure, and
to comprise immense stores of untranslated riches.
Elizabeth Smith, so remarkable as a linguist, said
that she had only a few select friends whom she
thought worthy to be acquainted with the German.

I wonder people should be so inattentive to the
accomplishment of good reading. I do not mean
oratorical declamation. There is enough of that;
but a plain enunciation, so as not to cheat any
word of its power, and an entering into the spirit
of the book, so as not to defraud the writer of his
aim and labor, is what I mean—a sort of justice
to the author and the language—which those who
will not render had better let both alone, or read
to themselves, and not make the tired, impatient
listeners parties to their fraud.

Among the poems of Walter Scott, I have been
inclined to give the preference to “Marmion,” as
expressing the force of his genius more fully than
the others, perhaps, with the exception of parts
of the “Lay of the Last Minstrel.” The “Lady
of the Lake” is more popular, and probably more
symmetrical; yet nothing in it is as thrilling as
the “Convent Scene,” or the whole description of
the battle of Flodden Field. The introductions
to the several cantos are fine poetry, but seem to
me unwisely placed, as hindrances to the dramatic
action. It is better to read them by themselves,
when, ceasing to be intruders, their merit
is apparent.

I have never appreciated “Marmion” until hearing
Henry read it aloud, with his melodious, manly
elocution. It is a favorite of his, and that renders
it more effective. How thrilling he made
that picture of Constance before her judges, in
the dark vault of Whitby's convent!

The description of Constance, when about to
make her last appeal before the infliction of her
cruel doom, is as graphic as the pencil could have
made it.

My dear grandfather and mother have listened
with delight to Henry's readings of Marmion, by
which he has rendered a few rainy evenings pleasant,
and have occasionally pointed out subjects
which they thought an artist might successfully
illustrate. One is the last interview of the haughty
and high-minded Douglas, at the gates of Tantallon
Castle, with the hero of the poem, who
would fain have given him the parting hand.

What a rebuke for soiled knightly honor to
one of the proudest warriors of England!

Dreams are such a pleasant part of life. They
seem a proof of God's loving kindness, that, while
we are apparently unconscious, he provides for
us a happiness which we have not sought after,
and can scarcely understand. “He giveth to his
beloved in their sleep,” as some translator has
rendered it, instead of the common version. I
often think of this passage at waking with gratitude
for the action of the unslumbering mind, and
the scenes through which it has been led, so wild,
so wonderful, that memory, with her plodding
pencil, can scarcely touch their rainbow hues.

How is sorrow ever treading on the heels of
joy! Henry's father-uncle has been smitten by
a stroke of apoplexy. He is no more. Oh
Death, how fearful art thou when thou comest
unawares! One moment man moves in the glory
of his strength; the next, what and where is he?

Pale! pale! How changed! Never more to
speak to us! The bereft house is as solemn as

the tomb. Those who pass to and fro on necessary
avocations glide with noiseless step and suppressed
tones, revering the sheeted dead.

My mother and myself came to Henry in his
trouble. We remain with him much of the time
during the day, for we can help and comfort him.
My tears have flowed freely with his, for I love
those whom he loved, and it is my privilege to
share in his griefs.

Love deepened by sorrow. I did not know
how perfectly my heart was Henry's until this
affliction came upon him. He divides his cares
with me, and asks my counsel so confidingly, that
I feel as if I had not lived in vain. There are
many things to be done in which my mother's
advice and aid are important to him and to the
housekeeper.

What a change when the head of a household
falls! What utter desolation! The band that
held it together is broken. The divinity that
presided in the temple has departed. As before
the fall of Jerusalem, mysterious voices are heard,
saying, “Let us go hence.”

The funeral obsequies are past. He who so
lately entered his own doors in the glory of his
strength has been borne from them to return no
more. I have never before fully realized the solemnity
of such a scene, from not having been called,
until now, to take part as a mourner. How
unspeakably impressive, yet consolatory, is the
burial-service of the Church of England! The
most thoughtless are arrested by its tender pathos.
“Man that is born of a woman is of few
days and full of trouble.” After that shudder of
the heart which comes with “earth to earth, ashes
to ashes, dust to dust,” and the echo of the clods
from the cold casket of the sleeping clay, how
like a triumph-strain breathe the words, “I heard
a voice from heaven saying unto me, Write: blessed
are the dead who die in the Lord.” The soul
that has been broken, and laid low with grief, lifts
itself up and responds, “Even so, saith the Spirit;
for they rest from their labors.” In the thought
of their peaceful rest, so precious after this weary
life, with more intense faith in Him who is “our
resurrection and life, in whom he that believeth
shall live though he die,” we go from the grave
which we have enriched by what we love. If
we turn away from it no wiser, humbler, or more
confiding in Him who can alone give us victory
over this death that destroys the body, methinks

“neither should we be persuaded though one arose
from the dead.”

This bereavement of Henry's will hasten our
nuptials. They had been appointed for the next
spring, but his home is now closed, and he scarcely
comfortable at a public boarding-house. He
is so sad and lone-hearted when away from us.
He urges that on my approaching birth-day we
should utter with our lips the vow that our hearts
have long since taken. As he has consented to
come to us, and there will be no separation of the
family, but only an addition to its happiness, it
will be far better to comply with his wishes than
to constrain him longer to lead the life of a
stranger.

I sit alone in my own room this thirty-first of
December, until midnight, to bid the year farewell;
a year to me so eventful, so fraught with
changes that take hold on eternity. Its mantle
fades in the dim distance, but the smile of a cloudless
moon silvers the landscape while it gives me
the parting kiss. As its last voice, Twelve, slowly
knells itself away, my heart is lifted in fervent
praise to the Almighty Giver who has led it

on, through light and through darkness, in unerring
wisdom, and crowned it with love. “Bless
the Lord, O my soul; and all that is within me,
bless His holy name. Bless the Lord, O my
soul, and forget not all his benefits.”

Thursday, January 1st, 1818.

With the first light of this hallowed morn of
my birth and of my bridal, I look unto Thee, the
father of my spirit, the high rock of my salvation.
I cast myself at Thy footstool before the blessed
sun comes “rejoicing in the east.” Humbly I
take Thy glorious name on my lips, yet in the
confidence of faith. Thou, who hast never forgotten
me since I was laid on my mother's bosom,
remember me now.

Much have I to implore on this, the most eventful
day of my existence. What shall I say?
Thou knowest all. Thou hast filled my cup
with an overflowing mercy ever since I was born.
In the new brightness that now surrounds me I
would not proudly wrap myself, thinking that
there will be no cloud. May I press the cross
meekly to my breast when trouble cometh. May
I seek the happiness of others more than my own,
not resting too much on this beautiful earthly
love, save as it enhanceth that which is divine
and eternal. And now, Almighty Protector and
Guide, I consecrate unto thee the being that thou
hast given. What I omit to ask for my true
good, deign to grant; what I desire amiss, deign

to deny; for I supplicate thy wisdom in all my
ways, the smile of thy sustaining Spirit on my
soul, through the intercession of a blessed Redeemer.

Our wedding was quiet and simple. It would
not have been proper, on account of recent bereavement,
that it should be gay or festive. Invitations
were given to those only who had peculiar
claims. The circle was therefore select,
but pleasant and sympathetic.

The rooms were beautiful with flowers. Our
little conservatory gave forth all its wealth and
fragrance. The hyacinths were in full glory, in
bulb-glasses and in pots; and the English ivy,
climbing out of its baskets, almost covered the
principal windows. Heliotrope and mignonnette,
Henry's favorites, were so disposed among the
rich crimson roses as to have a good effect. Mary
Ann's taste and assistance were freely lent. She
and Egbert stood up with us at the solemn ceremony.

“Can a maid forget her ornaments, or a bride
her attire?” asks the prophet. I was gratified
that the entire simplicity of mine was approved
by those whom I best love. A pure white dress,
a fair white rose in the bosom, white rose-buds

and orange-flowers wreathed in the hair—that was
all. I was so glad not to be absorbed in preparing
an elaborate costume, or for the excitement
of a large and strange company, at an era so sacred.
My grandfather's blessing and my mother's
embrace, after the thrilling, hallowed ceremony,
and their sweet welcome of my beloved to
their heart of hearts, I can never forget while
memory holds her seat.

Henceforth, in all my prayers, another soul
standeth with mine. I implore the Divine favor
for that soul before my own. I would stand back
that it may receive the first fullness of the heavenly
blessing. I would be lost in its shadow, if it
might but drink a double portion from the fountain
that cleanseth unto eternal life.

Henry has seen Niagara in the frigid drapery
of winter, and thinks it more strikingly majestic
than when surrounded by the gorgeousness of
summer. He is very urgent to take me there,
and I should be delighted to behold that magnificent
work of Nature in its most solemn garb,
and with him. But dear mother is not entirely
well, and I should not think it quite right to leave

her for a tour of pleasure. He acquiesces in my
reason, and thinks anxiety would mar the enjoyment
of both. She would not permit this renunciation
on her account, if she knew it, for she does
not call herself ill. But since I have been a sentinel
over her health, I perceive the slightest approach
of the most insidious foe sooner than she
does, because she never thinks of herself. With
our united care, I trust these slight symptoms of
evil will vanish. In the mean time, we have
fallen back upon our original plan, which was to
visit Niagara at the period first appointed for our
marriage.

Mary Ann and her mother have given us an
evening party, as pleasant as refined society,
sweet music, and elegant refreshments could make
it. Those kind feelings reigned which impart so
much enjoyment, and are long remembered. The
manners of one of the guests I could not help observing.
Every lady received from him some notice
or polite attention; in the graver conversation
of gentlemen he mingled, and his opinions
were heard with regard. But he sought out the
oldest persons in the company for his especial attention,
and brows marked with age brightened
as he drew near. The respect thus paid to the

hoary head seemed both an offering of the heart
and the result of high principle. Then he looked
after those who chanced to be embarrassed or
overshadowed, and, being at ease himself, succeeded
in making them so. There was a boy
of that certain age which is constrained in a ceremonious
circle, and feels that it is wanted nowhere.
To him he went, and anon the bashful
creature was talking as to a companion. A young
child of the family wandered about like a stray
lamb, and resisted every advance. But she was
found sitting on his knee, and presently, lo! she
throws her white arms around his neck. His deportment
was evidently no attempt at popularity,
but an amiable desire to make others happy, and
a pleasant consciousness of being able to do so.

Who was this gentleman? and why did I feel
proud of him?

“Husband” is a new, great word. I have not
yet learned to use it. It seems to denote a being
quite above me; something to look up to and be
afraid of, like the Grand Mogul. I still cling to
the more familiar cognomens, endeared by early
association. This proper and dignified title will
get learned by little and little, and naturalized in
due time.

Henry sympathizes with me in fondness for
noticing anniversaries. Sometimes, instead of
simply mentioning the recurrence of the birth or
death of some distinguished personage, he amuses
us by throwing himself into the character. This
morning he came down rather stylishly wrapped
in a large cloak.

“Whom have we the honor of receiving?”

“Excuse me, I pray you, for thus appearing
before you without introduction. Deign to question
me, and I will endeavor to give you satisfaction.”

“Of what country are you a native?”

“Of England.”

“In what year were you born?”

“Forgive me for not being quite ready to tell
my age. It is rather a delicate matter. Dates
might reveal me too soon.”

“Where did you learn to make that elegant
bow?”

“Of my father.”

“Was your father a schoolmaster?”

“No; schoolmasters don't make the best bows.”

“Did he superintend your education?”

“Not so much as my mother. To her I am
under unspeakable obligations.”

“Was she qualified to instruct you?”

“She was a learned woman, and, being but
feeble in my childhood, I was by her side when
the deepest impressions are made on the mind
and heart.”

Perceiving who he was personating, I said, in
a low voice, “Notwithstanding her great learning,
she was willing, it seems, to be the Cook of
Bacon,” and left the examination to others.

My mother said, “Had you any brothers, who
were distinguished like yourself?”

“I had one, madam, who was much regarded,
and deservedly so.”

“Had you many friends?”

“Some; but more in seeming than in truth.”

“Were you much of a traveler?”

“Yes, in early years.”

“At what college were you educated?”

“At Cambridge.”

“How old were you when you entered?”

“Twelve, madam.”

“What was your employment through life?”

“I had various vocations. My most congenial
one was the writing of books.”

“What kind of books?”

“I wrote about the earth, and about the winds,
and the life of one of the kings of England.”

“And about philosophy, for you early `took
all learning to be your province.'”

My grandfather, who seemed to imagine that
he was some military personage, or, perhaps, wished
only to prolong the entertainment, said,

“Were you ever personally in a battle?”

“No, sir.”

“Had you any thing to do with the American
war?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Did you know George the Third?”

“I had not that privilege.”

“Had you any part in making the laws of
England?”

“I held an office under government.”

“Under a king or a queen?”

“Under both.”

“Did the latter ever pay a visit at your house?”

“I think it possible that she might.”

“I wonder if it is possible that you were once
the little boy who, on such an occasion, being
asked his age, replied, `He was just two years
younger than her majesty's happy reign?'”

“I was.”

“Fairly caught, my grave Lord Keeper. Now
I understand the pun of that fair little wife of
yours, as your mother was the daughter of Sir
Anthony Cook; so please take a seat at the
breakfast-table, and apply yourself by affinity to
that excellent plate of bacon. And pray help us

also, since I think you said of old that `you
took it upon you to ring a bell to call other wits
together rather than to magnify your own.'”

Laughing, he divested himself of his immense
envelope, and, as the repast proceeded, an occasional
interrogatory was addressed to his assumed
character.

“Since you are found out, have you any objection
to tell your age?”

“I was born on the twenty-second of January,
1561, at York House, in the Strand, two hundred
and fifty-nine years since, this very morning.”

“I always wondered why so eminent a man
should suffer his servants to rule him.”

“My mind was upon greater things.”

“What made you offer so much flattery to such
a person as James the First?”

“It was the fashion of my times.”

“Being so much wiser than other men, why
did you seek so slavishly for court preferment?”

“That was my weakness.”

“Were you friendly to Essex?”

“I advised him for his good to conciliate Elizabeth,
and enforced it by the words of Scripture:
“`Martha! Martha! attendis ad plurima, unum
sufficit:” win the queen.' But he would not
take my counsel, and followed his own wild
temper.”

“May we ask if you were true to him in his
adversity?”

“I gave assurance long since, in my works,
that `I had the privy-coat of a good conscience.'
Nevertheless, I am glad that my present engagements
do now call me away, inasmuch as your
questions are more numerous and searching than
comport with my perfect convenience.”

Our intervals of leisure through the day and
stormy evenings, when we have no company, are
made so happy by the mixture of reading with
our conversation, and the luxurious music of the
flute. It seems as if we could never be satisfied
with its dulcet melodies. I know of no instrument
of music, when skillfully played, that so
well illustrates Milton's line of

Shakspeare's delineation of Catharine of Aragon
has interested us anew. The combination
of high Spanish pride and religious bigotry with
the truthfulness and tenderness of womanly nature
is well portrayed. To awaken strong interest
in such a personage, without any allurement
of beauty or talent, required skill in the poet.

Much is owing to her position in history, and to
the injustice of her lot, which creates pity. There
is to our sex some secret charm in her domestic
character. Her gloomy residence at Kimbolton,
sequestrated from the company of her only daughter
and all the allurements of the court, she cheered,
as far as she was able, by the industry of the
needle among her maidens. One of the old chroniclers
says that, when visited by the wily cardinals
on matters of state, she came forth to “meet
them with a skein of white thread hanging about
her neck.” Notwithstanding the courtesy and
resignation with which she received them, how
spirited is her rebuke when she discovers their
duplicity:

Touching indeed is her mournful admission of
her unprotected state, far from her native country,
and devoid of counselors and friends in her adversity:

The contrast between her dignity and the
thoughtless impulsiveness of her beautiful rival
must have required some adroitness to manage,
inasmuch as the latter was the mother of Queen
Elizabeth, under whose auspices Shakspeare then
wrote; a woman inured to flattery, and not delicate
in either manifesting or avenging her dissatisfactions.

What strange things children sometimes say!
Mary Ann's young sister asked her mother if
she might invite two schoolmates to spend Saturday
afternoon with her. Permission was granted,
and the inquiry made if they had not a little
brother who could accompany them, and play
with her own. The young girl replied,

“No, ma'am, they have no brother, except one
who is much older, and I believe he is only a
half-brother.”

The child, who was giving close heed to their
conversation, exclaimed, with a ludicrous look of
dismay and wonder,

“A half-brother! Have they got the part
that has the head on it?”

Perhaps Solomon's decision to divide the contested
child with the sword might have been in
his mind, and lent some precision to his ideas.

We have had a delightful sleighing-party of
our more immediate friends. The pure snow, the
elastic atmosphere, the rapid motion over perfectly-beaten
roads, the exhilarating sound of the silvery
bells, the surpassing glory of the full, liquid
moon, and the cheering voices of loved ones, formed
a singular combination of pleasure. The bridal

vehicle was expected to take the lead, and the
white steeds, tossing their manes, seemed to enjoy
the exercise in every nerve and muscle. Arriving
at a township of several miles' distance, a
favorite point for such excursions, we found, at
the spacious house of entertainment, a fine orchestra
awaiting us, and, after listening with delight
to their spirited and varied music, partook of an
elegant supper. The only drawback to my happiness
was some apprehension, which scarcely
sprang up, however, till we were ready to return,
that the unusual lateness of the hour might cause
anxiety at home. But, lo and behold! I found
them entirely prepared for the result, and sitting
up to receive us in the best possible spirits, having
been apprised of every arrangement for the
concert, which was to be a bridal surprise, and,
of course, kept secret from me. I can not, by
any form of words, express my gratitude to my
Heavenly Benefactor for His countless blessings.

We have great comfort in Sandy, an excellent
Scotch servant, long trained and trusted by Henry's
uncle, who has lived with us since our marriage.
Both in the house and out, he is equally
efficient, never tired, and always respectful. This
mixture of Caledonian blood with New England

culture makes a very reliable and intelligent person.
He has also knowledge of gardening, and
is already pondering how our grounds may be
improved when the season opens. His ruling
idea at present is a grapery, which it has been
decided to erect, as a prolongation of the conservatory,
and already he sees in imagination long
Syrian clusters depending from the roof, like the
grapes from the valley of Eshcol. On this and
kindred subjects he sometimes enlarges to Amy,
his sole auditor, who begins to think all wisdom
inherent in the Scottish clime. He studies, during
the long evenings, whatever he can find on
horticultural subjects, and sometimes comes to
ask for a volume of the Encyclopedia, having,
like most of his nation, a love of knowledge. Occasionally
he reads aloud to his African friend,
who has great respect for mental improvement,
and reciprocates his condescension by little offices
of kindness. It is pleasant to see them so contented
in their lot; for surely the kitchen, from
whence so many important supplies daily issue,
and which has so much to do with the well-being
of the household, should not have its own comfort
and respectability neglected.

It cheers and makes me inexpressibly grateful

to see the entire reliance of my dear mother
on her new son. This affection was an unspoken
want in her heart. Perhaps she was not fully
conscious of that void until it was supplied.
Whenever it is in his power to assist her, he legislates
or acts for her with such tenderness and
discretion that she needs to burden her mind
with no weight of care. My grandfather, too, is
equally pleased with his activity and perfect respect
for advanced years. At every proposition
that is brought forward, it is, “Wait, and ask
Henry;” on any matter of taste, before an opinion
can be given, it is, “Wait, and see what Henry
says;” no enjoyment, however trifling, can be
partaken of until “Henry comes home.” Sometimes
it amuses me to see them surrender their
opinions, as if they were scarce accountable beings.
I knew they would eventually love his
goodness, but had not supposed it would be so
absorbing a sentiment and of such rapid growth.
Earnestly and continually do I bless God for this
bright sunbeam upon the path of their advancing
years. It would be impossible for me to enjoy
my own added happiness unless I also saw theirs
protected and promoted. “Bless the Lord, O
my soul, and forget not all His benefits. Bless
the Lord, O my soul; and all that is within me,
bless His holy name.”

With the fine settled weather we are beginning
to prepare for our journey to Niagara. Great
pleasure are we anticipating from the view of
that wonderful scenery, and the new regions
through which we shall pass together. Yet it
will seem so strange to leave those behind who
have hitherto accompanied me in all my excursions.
We shall write daily during our absence
to our blessed mother and grandfather, that they
may know all our movements, and, as far as
possible, partake our joys. The angel of the covenant
spread over them his protecting wing, and
bring us again in happiness to our sweet home.

Niagara! God's voice! God's voice! Let
man keep silence.

That fathomless flood! That torrent falling
night and day! Have they never rested? Will
they never run out? Hath it been so from the
beginning? Will it be so unto the end? No
other such symbol can there be of God's eternity.

If any are disappointed in this glorious cataract,
it must be either because they did not know
what to expect, or did not stay long enough to
become acquainted with its sublimity. In all
changes of light or darkness, by starlight, by
glimmering moon, or under the storm-cloud, it
grows upon you as a mysterious and awful presence,
an embassador from Him who “poureth
out the waters in the hollow of His hand.” Should
it be possible for them to be disappointed at last,
methinks it must be from their inability to grasp
the great thoughts that sweep onward and overwhelm
the soul.

The Rapids are beautiful. From the window
of our hotel we have a fine view of them. The

volume of water becomes suddenly compressed,
and opposed by rugged rocks. In contending
with them it prepares for the terror of its great
plunge, from which it seems at the last moment
to recoil, as if it would fain escape, like an intelligent
being shrinking on the verge of some great
calamity.

There is wonderful fascination in the recesses
of Goat Island. Thither we often turn, and linger
long. When our senses are overpowered by
the majesty of the great fall, and our earthly natures
seem unable longer to endure such sublimity,
we hide in the shadow of its umbrageous
trees, like the prophet in the cleft of the rock,
when that ineffable glory passed by which “no
man may see and live.” There we sit, in silence
too exquisite for speech. Sometimes we gather
the wild flowers that cluster around our feet, still
unconsciously, for we “wist not what we do.”
It was in one of our flights to this enchanted
isle that we first beheld the lunar bow. We had
often seen Niagara thus celestially “clothed by
the sun,” but now, like the mystic vision of the
seer at Patmos, it “had the moon under its feet.”
Neither pen nor pencil could touch the tremulous
beauty of that crescent, “born of the evening

dew-drop, and the smile of starry queen.” So
pure, so illusive, it seemed like the folded shadow
of some heavenly thought.

It would be desirable that every visitant of
Niagara should, if possible, choose that time when
the moon has power to present him this gift, her
own delicate, unequaled tinting of Nature's grandest
picture.

We have been so annoyed in what we intended
should be solitary visits to different points of
the surrounding scenery by the company of a
statistical genius, whom we tried vainly to avoid.
Enthusiastic is he too, in his way, but it turns to
matters of admeasurement. He has spent quite
a long time here, and is lavishly benevolent of
his knowledge. When you fancy yourself concealed
in some quiet nook, he suddenly appears
at your side, and raises the screech of his explanations
above the thunder of the torrent.

“Have you visited the Cave of the Winds?”

“Not yet.”

“I shall be happy to show you the way. I
have been seventeen times to the Termination
Rock. When do you go over on the British
side?”

“We do not know.”

“You are aware, I suppose, that the fall is
longer on their side, but not so high as on ours
by six feet. Their part of Niagara is 2100 feet,
and ours not more than half as long, but it's 164
feet in height.”

We relapsed into silence, hoping to be left undisturbed;
but he continued:

“Do you know how wide Niagara River is
when it first bursts out of Lake Erie?”

“No.”

“Well, it is full two miles, and at Grand Island
it spreads out to three; but the rocks shut
it in so that it's scarce a mile broad here and at
the Rapids above. The four great lakes that it's
the outlet of cover a surface of 150,000 miles.”

“Could not you have something of a water
privilege here?” said Henry, hazarding a joke;
but he took all in good part.

“Grand mills, indeed, there might be, sir—no
end to the water-power. But the trouble would
be where to build them, and how to make them
stand.”

The man is neither foolish nor ignorant. On
the contrary, he has gathered a large stock of information
during his sojourn here, and is, I believe,
writing a book. But the mistake is, he thinks it
his vocation to do the honors of Niagara.

The voyage to the Canadian shore was to me
unique and impressive. I had never before been
on such deep waters. As we reached the middle
of the current we were sensible of its giant force,
bearing up the boat like an egg-shell upon its
terrible tide. Instinctively I glanced at the muscular
arms of the rowers, wondering if they were
equal to a task which seemed full of temerity.
The view of the falls is here magnificent. A
stupendous column with a fathomless base, and
its head among the clouds. It utters not, like
Memnon's statue, musical articulations, but with
a great thunder-voice warns you not to approach.
Unable to turn away your eyes from the beauty
and the terror, you gaze at it, amid fragments of
rainbows, until you are blinded by the baptism
of its spray. Forgetting all the apprehension
that at first oppressed you, you are lost in humility,
and feel what you really are, an atom in
the great creation of God.

Niagara is but imperfectly appreciated until
viewed from the Table Rock. As you stand upon
that unparapeted verge, its unveiled glory bursts
upon the astonished senses. Its scope, its majesty,
the ineffable beauty of its coloring, the white,
the green, and the violet, are more fully revealed.

Flocks of little birds dare to disport around, dipping
their slender wings in its clouds of spray
unharmed.

Descending to its base, and looking up, we were
awed by another aspect of sublimity. Though
less overpowering, it seemed, in some respects,
more congenial to us, born of dust, to dwell
among the lowly thoughts that there sprang up
like blossoms in the shade.

Here we are, in the dominions of his majesty,
the British king. No perceptible change in ourselves
by being under a monarchical government.

There is doubtless in us Americans an innate love
to the good old mother-land. It was inculcated
on our ancestors as a part of their religion, and,
though the war-cloud dashed it with bitterness
and stained it with blood, it is not dead. I trust
she will be proud of her high-spirited offspring
by-and-by. These Canadian subjects of George
of Brunswick are less intelligent, and wiry, and
wide awake than the Yankees. They seem an
industrious, well-disposed people, not made uneasy
by a surplus of ambition.

We are well accommodated here, and from the
windows and piazza of our hotel have commanding
and enchanting views of the great cataract.
Among the places in this vicinity to be visited,
we went to Drummondsville, and stood on the
spot where the sanguinary battle of Lundy's Lane
was fought three summers since. This we did
that we might better describe its locality to our
grandfather, who, though he deprecates the last
war, has a soldier's reverence for bravery. A
guide pointed out to us where the conflict had
most furiously raged, and the earth drank deepest
of their blood whose veins were filled at the
same fountain. Near by was the burial-ground,
where, their brief hatred over, they quietly sleep,
“whom fate made brothers in the tomb.”

Back on the American side, which is, after all,
more beautiful, though less sublime than its competitor.
One more walk together on the Terrapin
Bridge, an unpoetical name given to a strong
abutment, ending in a single beam of timber, and
projected over the flood as far as it can be with
safety. To stand on this point and look into the
foaming abyss beneath your feet, amid the whirl,
and the eddy, and the tumult, rocked by the
winds, and bathed in the spray, gives a sense of
isolation from all God's created works. At first
it needs some firmness of nerve, and you grasp
the balustrade at every step, but eventually there
is a strong, strange pleasure in standing there,
as though the soul were alone with its Maker,
and swallowed up in Him.

A romantic young man persuaded his lady-love
to let him lead her blindfold at her first visit to
this terrific spot. At the extreme point he removed
the veil, and she fainted. It must have
required no small degree of skill and tact to convey
a helpless form from so singular a location.

Farewell to Niagara! I could not have supposed
that the parting would have caused pain.
Henry, who has been here before, says this reluctance

to leave increases at every visit, and that
the attachment is proportioned to the length of
your stay. It does not seem like common, elemental
matter, a great flood put in motion, but a
mighty soul with which you intimately commune.
Its sublimity is not like that of the grand, solemn
mountains, on whose heads the clouds settle.
It has a voice, forever speaking one great
Name. Their ascent is with toil and peril, breathing
through blood, from the rarefied atmosphere.
Here, you seat yourself, as friend with friend, in
the shadow of green trees, under the loving skies.
Neither is its sublimity like that of the ocean,
now tossed and towering in the madness of
storms, and then subsiding into a dead calm that
sickens the mariner. More than any other thing
of earth it may be called always the same. But
is it a thing of earth? Nay, rather of the skies,
and in affinity with the “Sky-builder.”

We have solaced our sorrow at parting with
Niagara by a visit to Boston, the fair capital of
the grand old “Bay State,” to which the other
New England commonwealths look with filial
pride. This is Henry's favorite city, and he confidently
trusts that it will be mine also. It contains

about forty thousand inhabitants, and has
many elegant public and private mansions. The
State-house, on its lofty eminence, is imposing,
and the Common, with its graceful elms, a truly
pleasant spot. The environs, with here and there
a baronial country residence, are exceedingly beautiful,
and under high cultivation. I am glad there
are no falls to visit. I would not see them if
there were. I am jealously pledged to admire
only Niagara.

On the sacred ground of Bunker Hill have we
stood, at that very anniversary (June 17th) which
has given it in history a place with Marathon and
Salamis. Before us spread, as in a great, living
picture, the recorded events of that day: the anger
of the regal troops at discovering the breast-work
thrown up during the night by the toil of
our fathers; the “arming in hot haste” under
morning's peaceful smile; the indignant pride of
the more powerful host; the resolved firmness of
the other, on whose brows was written Freedom
or death; the rush to “battle's magnificently stern
array;” the trumpet cry; the commanding form of
Prescott; the thunder-voice of Putnam; the fall of
Warren; the flames of Charlestown; the volleys
from the deck of the Asia, making the quiet waters

a partner in earth's conflict; the countless circumstances
which, by eye-witnesses and actors,
had been related to us, gathered new force while
standing on the soil which had so deeply drank
the blood of its sons. Methought the spirit of
'76 came over us, and we were filled with more
enthusiastic gratitude to those who, for us their
posterity, thus “periled their lives on the high
places of the field.”

Boston is far less bustling than New York,
less calmly serene than Philadelphia, more staid
and ceremonious than Baltimore. Its English
habitudes are deep, and yet it has a marked idiosyncrasy.
Its dignity has been sometimes thought
to amount to stiffness, especially by our Southern
friends, who have such a pleasant facility in getting
acquainted. There is great respect for ancestry
testified here, in which both Henry and
myself sympathize. He says the aristocracy of
honorable descent is far preferable to that of
wealth, and brings with it a loftier class of sentiments.
The society which we have met, principally
on account of his late uncle, who had many
acquaintances here, have given some fine specimens
of the “old-school manners.” Among these,
the Hon. Harrison Gray Otis has appeared to me

the most perfectly polished and courtly. He
knows how to say elegant things in an elegant
manner, and just at the right time. Though past
fifty years old, a senator of the United States,
and distinguished as a lawyer and politician, he
has all the freshness and amenity of early manhood.
I should think he might possess that kind
of popular fascination that distinguished Themistocles,
seeming to know every one, and to say
gracefully what every one would best like to hear,
yet without compromising his own elevated position.
Why should any one assert that gentlemanly
manners are of little consequence? I doubt
whether I could entirely, or long, love any one
who was radically deficient in them, provided opportunity
had been given to acquire them. True
politeness, springing from a knowledge of what is
due to others, a desire to render them happy, and
a disposition to please itself last, is not only a
most attractive accomplishment, but in sympathy
with the spirit and duties of religion.

Exceedingly beautiful is the scenery in the
richness of this leafy month. Sparkling streams
wind like ribbons through the vales, and silver
lakelets are adorned with the iris and water-lily.
The pastures are profuse with the white blossom

of the blackberry, seen through vistas and forest
ranges of the sweet wild rose.

While I stop to gather these till the carriage
is paved with bloom, Henry interests himself in
the various geological formations. Sometimes he
discovers slatestone, and a kind of gneiss unusually
brilliant with mica; then comes upon limestone
ranges, where fine marbles are imbedded.
But I am allured from his scientific eloquence
when the wild, bold hills, or excavations among
the mountain spurs break on us radiant with the
most splendid specimens of the laurel. Its delicate
tints of pink, now fading into white, and
anon deepening to a decided red, contrasted with
its dark, lustrous leaf, continually reminded us of
Him whose pencil could alone paint it. We were
happy that our leisurely mode of traveling permitted
us to take note of Nature's charms, and to
heed even the simple lessons of a flower. When
the object is only to surmount space with as much
rapidity as possible, the rural sentiment receives
no culture, and some of the purest pleasures of
which we are susceptible must be sacrificed.

How that little word home underlies all our
satisfactions! The heart comes back to it as a
key-tone from all the wanderings of its song. For

myself, I shall be content to roam no more. In
Niagara have I not seen the utmost that Nature
can display? My eyes have “looked upon the
king in his beauty, and, until they behold the
land that is very far off,” methinks they are satiated.

When the sound of our returning wheels was
heard, in the prolonged flush of a summer twilight,
my blessed mother and her father, the beautiful
old man, hastened forth to welcome us. A
joyful meeting was it. Faithful Amy, too, participated
in our pleasure; so long a bearer of our
toils, she has a right to be a sharer in our joys.
Her attachment to us seems like that of feudal
times, and her sable skin and lot of servitude are
no reasons why it should not be reciprocated.
She was glad also to see Sandy, our kind and
careful driver, and anticipates great entertainment
from his details of the wonders of his way.

Into our evening devotions and chanted hymn,
voices and flute concurring, the incense of grateful
hearts was pressed to overflowing. As a family
reunited by God's mercy, we knelt before Him
in love and praise. Graciously may His Spirit
guide us until this heaven below shall lead us to
a heaven above.

Methinks I am too happy and too idle. A
most ungrateful return for distinguished blessings
to become inert and self-indulgent. What
can I do for the good of others that shall involve
some effort or self-denial? Hitherto all my services
of that sort have been pleasant and overpaid,
gifts cast into the treasury that cost me nothing.
I would fain bring those two mites which were
approved by Him who “pleased not himself,”
and whose followers we profess to be.

It seems as if I might be useful by instructing
poor little girls, were it only in the use of the needle.
Many home-virtues are connected with that
simple implement, and much wretchedness has it
power to prevent; but, unless acquaintance with
it is formed in early life, it is seldom resorted to
with pleasure or profit. After a family consultation,
there has been full consent that I should
undertake such a plan, and once a week have as
many of these neglected children as our back parlor
will conveniently contain. Henry is especially
zealous about it, because he knows it will
please me. He is arranging to have benches
made, of a proper form and height, which can at
other times be slipped into the conservatory and

grapery, and serviceable there. God bless his
kind, ardent heart.

Mother and I have been out canvassing for
scholars. I reap the benefit of her large acquaintance
with the poor, and of their gratitude
to her. Into the “highways and hedges” have
we gone, yet not compelling them to come in, for
they scarcely needed persuasion. The argument
that had most weight in overcoming any shadow
of hesitancy was, that, after they had learned the
use of the needle, they were to have for their own
any garment that should be given them to make
in school. I trust that ere long some of the tattered
habiliments we have seen in our visits will
be mended, or replaced by better ones, through
the little people committed to my charge.

They have been, the poor young creatures, for
several Saturday afternoons. At first they were
so uncouth and so frightened. Two of the smallest
set up a great cry, not knowing what evil was
to befall them. I was so glad that they could
look into the conservatory. The flowers seemed
to quiet and assure them. They gazed on them
with dilated eyes. Was it the perception of beauty

that soothed their poor hearts, or felt they His
protecting presence who careth for the lilies?
Now the feelings of the timid ones have subsided.
A few are bold and coarse, and require to be repressed.
But all are the beings of Thy power and
love, Father in heaven, and should be dear to us,
for the Savior's sake.

My children have greatly improved. Some of
them did not know at first on which finger to
wear the thimble, or, indeed, what a thimble was.
Now they begin to sew carefully. The plainest
needle-work and reading are all that I at present
attempt. These simple branches are interspersed
with oral instructions, in the form of short stories,
precepts, texts of Scripture, or verses of hymns.
I cultivate in them the habit of attention when
spoken to, and of respectful manners. Instead
of rushing into the room en masse, and making
for the benches as if pursued by a wolf, the strong
pushing the weak, and the bashful slinking behind
the brave, they have learned to enter and leave the
room with a decent courtesy, each taking her own
particular seat in an orderly way. I am resolved
they shall have civil manners, if they fail in every
other accomplishment; also, if they read only
ten words, they shall pronounce them distinctly,

if they go over them ten times for that purpose;
and not, like the pupils of some of our fashionable
seminaries, who, perhaps, may excel in music,
yet neither in reading or speaking enunciate so as
to be understood, leaving it doubtful whether their
words be “piped or harped.” I seem to love
these little ones, more for their ignorance and
their faults, because, in a great measure, they are
not to blame for either, being the result of their
condition in life, and because they are so ready
to forsake them, and learn better things.

The changes that have been made in our
grounds by Sandy's Scottish zeal and perseverance,
under the direction of Henry, and the daily
supervision of my grandfather, are surprising.
Especially have the productions of the garden
expanded and multiplied. Beds of rich esculents,
which to my eye are comely, furnish our
table with abundant supplies, and are acceptable
presents to neighbors and friends. Raspberries
cover with their fruitage the espaliers that support
them; currants, trimmed in the form of small
trees, display long, pendent strings of red and
white, while at their feet, and circling out beyond
them, the strawberry in its season ran luxuriantly,
breathing fragrance. Grape-vines, loaded with

clusters, from wall and trellis, promise an abundant
harvest. Upon these fruits of our heavenly
Father's bounty, bearing so directly on health
and comfort, I look with more delight at this
season than even at the flowers, which are the
especial solace of winter. Mine, from the little
green-house, are disporting themselves in the free
soil and open air like city children let loose upon
a farm. Henry so enjoys his walk and work here
when the confinement of banking hours is over.
There we wander together “at the cool of the
day,” and devise improvements. Then, also, he
often inquires about my pet school, and its different
members, and co-operates with a strengthening
sympathy.

All our family congratulate me on the improvement
of my school, both in diligence, good manners,
and neatness of appearance. The latter has
been quite an object with me, keeping in view
the ancient adage that “cleanliness is next to
godliness.” Faithful Amy presides over a tank
and a robing-room, through whose transmigrations
they pass ere they enter their school, which
I am glad has been kept in a parlor, for it authorizes
me to claim more of that preparation which
is so useful to them. Faces and hands receive a

thorough ablution, if necessary, and the hair gets
a careful brushing from this mistress of ceremonies;
then long-sleeved aprons are put on, covering
their whole dress, which she keeps nicely folded
for them until they come again. I was amused
to see her drawing back two who had rather lightly
escaped her criticism, exclaiming, “Here! here!
clean hands and a pure heart before you go in to
the mistress.” She is fond of quoting Scripture,
or any wise saying she may have heard, having
a remarkable memory. She considers these services
of purification a part of the educating process,
and herself honored by being permitted to
preside as priestess at the laver. Her kind heart
is therefore comforted by counting her office, which
is surely no sinecure, as comprehended within the
sphere of benevolence to the poor.

It is not merely during the time allotted to my
school that the children occupy me. Their work
must be prepared during the interval, and the sewing
materials supplied, that I may be able, when
with them, to attend to their lessons, and mingle
as wisely as possible those instructions which I
hope may prepare them for a better life. I was
not before aware of the strong interest of the teacher
in those under her care, though I knew the affection
the young heart bears its teacher.

We have a list of the families of the scholars,
and call on them in rotation. This kind of parish
visiting is very useful, for, thus becoming acquainted
with the interior of the laboring households,
we better learn how to aid or encourage
them; and this wider sympathy with humanity is
a material of true happiness.

One pleasure of a journal comes from writing
our thoughts without the trouble of correcting or
elaborating them. Giving them their course, just
as they rise, on the “cream-bowl” of the mind,
they have more freshness than when churned into
butter, to use, like Socrates, a homely comparison,
though this is borrowed from Milton, who describes
in L'Allegro the goblin toiling to “earn
his cream-bowl, duly set.” A journal has almost
a magician's power in recalling past scenes and
clothing them with their first life. When you
review it, a single line, like a seed-thought,
draws around it countless associations. Its wand
touches departed friends, and they come back;
books long since read, and they pour out their
wealth anew; forgotten events, and they burst
brightly upon memory; buried feelings, and they
are quickened in their graves to a resurrection.
So, by the aid of this silent annal, the unwritten

pages of life are made plainer and more vivid than
those which the pen has traced.

The breath of the Frost King, hastening before
his time, has not yet prevailed to whiten the
dew-drops, but he has torn the leaves from their
boughs, and turned them brown, tossing them
about spitefully. Ah! what have they done, thus
to be abandoned to a tyrant's power? Greenly
had they waved, making the landscape beautiful,
and hurting none. They had, perhaps, looked
into the nests of the birds, and spread a cool curtain
over them while they slept, and thrilled with
joy at their morning song. Innocent were their
lives and lovely; but the birds have flown away
to a warmer clime, and forgotten their tender care.
In poverty and desolation the smitten leaves die,
with none to mourn for them.

The happiest anniversary of our blessed Redeemer's
birth that I have ever known. Impressive
and delightful were its sacred ceremonies in
the sanctuary. Sermon, music, and all the services
seemed in unison with the angel's song on the
plains of Bethlehem, “Peace on earth, and good-will
to men.” Almost like inspiration breathed
that sweet old hymn:

The exchange of gifts at the early morn softened
and cheered our hearts, while the love of
God and of each other, with the high praises of
Him whose coming was our salvation, made earth
like heaven.

The children of my home-school were not forgotten
in our joy. The Saturday after Christmas
was a festival for them. Each was permitted
to invite two guests, and generally brought
their parents or sisters, while a few of our own
intimate friends came to witness the scene. The
pupils entered two and two, entirely neat in their
persons, clothed in white aprons with long sleeves,
made by their own needles for this occasion from
materials given by my mother. They saluted the
company with a respectful courtesy, answered a
few simple questions about what they had learned,
and read very slowly and distinctly a verse
or two from the Sermon on the Mount. Our
good minister made them a kind little address,
which they seemed to comprehend. Then they
received their gifts with thanks and joyous faces.
Henry, having had a nice basket made for each
by an Indian woman whom he patronizes, presented

them, filled with cakes and fruits, which
they were to carry home and share with their
families, instead of selfishly consuming. My
grandfather's gift was a pair of thick shoes, my
own a warm shawl, and my mother's a nice quilted
hood, on which we had both been for some
time busily engaged; so that the whole class
will now be in a plain, comfortable uniform. We
had selected such articles as we knew most adapted
to their needs, and I detected my grandfather
pressing into the hands of such as had aged relatives
at home parcels which he had privately
prepared for them. Blessed old man! At parting,
they stood in a circle, taking hold of hands,
and sang to a simple tune the following still more
simple strain:

Friday, January 1st, 1819.

Almighty Father, “the rolling year is full of
Thee.” With the voice of thanksgiving I approach
Thee. My whole being offers thee praise.
All my joys, all my hopes, I place in thine Omnipotent
hand, with the repose of undoubting
trust. My hopes, my joys, have I said? What
right have I to call any thing mine? For all
mine are thine, and I am thy servant.

The mercies that I need, Thou knowest. Supply
them according to Thy wisdom. The trials
that are appointed me, Thou knowest. Let Thy
grace be sufficient for them. Command the angels,
whom Thou hast appointed our ministering
friends, to draw nearer with their sustaining
smile, their strengthening wing.

The soul that Thou hast incorporated with
mine, in every request for Thy favor, grant it a
double portion. Fill us more and more with Thy
most excellent gift of charity. Deign to accept
us, while we lay upon Thine altar all that we
have and are; commending ourselves to the
watchfulness of the compassionate Redeemer, to
the Spirit of grace and consolation, to the unslumbering

Former of our bodies and Father of
our spirits, through time and through eternity.

I think the chief value of a conservatory is to
furnish tokens of friendship and cheering gifts
for the sick. Our own has been so prosperous
as to supply us bountifully for such purposes.
One class of these opportunities has been more
frequent than usual, many of our acquaintances
having suffered from an epidemic influenza, whose
effects are singularly debilitating. Among them
has been Emily; and in sending her our sweetest
flowers, I have breathed the silent prayer that
their heavenly fragrance might lead her in Christian
obedience and love to their bountiful Giver.

I am laboring now with my scholars during
their intervals for conversation, and, indeed, while
they are working, to impress the importance of
truth as the foundation of all moral duty, and
necessary to acceptance with that Being of truth
who seeth in secret and rewardeth openly. I
endeavor to simplify the subject by breaking it
into parts. I require of them, in any statement

they wish to give me, or any narrative I desire
them to relate, a strict adherence to facts as they
are, and to words just as they were spoken. The
obstacles to this accuracy are not so often a love
of falsehood as inattention to minute circumstances,
and ignorance of the precise import of
language, which are common to uneducated minds.
Therefore I try to quicken their habits of observation,
and to instruct them in the meaning of
words. The culture of the powers of perception
is no slight part of a proper training. Much deception
arises, not from an intention to deceive,
but from neglecting to make that use of the eyes
and ears on which correct testimony depends. To
impress the import of words, I accustom them to
constant definition, whether in reading, spelling,
or conversation, asking them what they understand
by such and such a word, until they comprehend
and remember it.

I am convinced that the untruthfulness which
is so freely charged upon the lower classes and
upon children often comes from the bewilderment
of undisciplined minds, or from want of
moral courage to confess what has been done
amiss. If you set fear in array against truth, it
will be very likely to prevail, where there is no
strong religious principle. What a mistake to
frighten those who have committed a fault. As

if the pain and disgrace of doing wrong were not
sufficient to make us pitifully yet firmly set them
right again, and not plunge them into the deeper
shame and grief of falsehood.

I have found it useful, while enforcing this
cardinal duty of truth, to show them, at the close
of the week's school, the engraved likeness of
some person eminent for integrity founded on religion,
and to describe the character, that they
may bear away the force of example with the remembrance
of the picture as a monitor until we
meet again.

Among my most favorite plants is the Cyclamen
Persicum. Its fair, white, modest flowers
steal forth so unostentatiously, and stay so long.
I had never seen it until it was sent by one of
Henry's acquaintances at a distance. It has become
such a favorite that I do not place it in the
conservatory, but keep it in my own window, as
a sort of intelligent, suggestive companion.

Mary Ann and Edgar join us one evening in
each week for the consecutive perusal of history.
Hume is at present occupying us. Such intercourse
is perfectly delightful. The remarks thus
called forth rivet the knowledge in remembrance,
and often inspire original thought.

Methinks the African race have warmer affections
and more lasting attachments than our hirelings
of other nations. Probably I have formed
my judgment from our faithful Amy. So long
has she served us and been interested in our welfare,
both as a family and as individuals, that I
feel as if she were our own flesh and blood. To

be served from the heart is a luxury, a privilege
for whose continuance we should give thanks to
God.

The pleasures of feminine industry are always
worth securing. To the highest domestic happiness
they are capable of adding a consciousness
of discharged obligation, of marking the fleeting
hours with usefulness, and of adding with our
own hands to the comfort of those we love. A
zest is thus given to the ministries of the bright
little needle, that instrument of woman's weal
which was not despised in Paradise. “Was not
Eve the first seamstress?” asked one of my scholars,
as I was giving her some advice about her
work. Another little one, as quick as thought,
rejoined, “Who was her teacher? Who sewed
her aprons for her till she learned how?” One
is almost shocked at the familiarity or irreverence
of the idea; but I have encouraged them at proper
times to converse freely with me, if they will
never interrupt each other. Thus I am in the
way of hearing some strange and bright fancies.

“I love flowers, and all that God loves,” said
the eloquent Bishop Taylor. Would not that

contormity to what is revealed to us of the divine
character be a better evidence of congeniality and
acceptance than any form of words or peculiarity
of doctrine? “Men build the walls of religious
controversy so high that no beam of divine love
can penetrate or surmount them,” says an old
writer. How was the sublime poet, Milton, deprived
of his last remaining eye? Not by the
labors or demands of Urania, but his bitter polemical
warfare with Salmasius, whereby the
world is now neither better or more wise.

“I don't know any thing about housekeeping,”
said a young acquaintance of ours soon to be married.
“I am sure I shall not like it, so I think
we will take our present abode at a boarding-house.”
This seems to me a fraud upon her future
partner. Putting capital into the concern,
he has a right to expect that it shall not be frittered
away by mismanagement or indifference.
The most common trade requires an apprenticeship,
and this profession, which involves so much,
ought not to be entered without at least some
wish to understand it. My mother says there
are two stages in the novitiate of domestic duty
which must be overcome ere it can be performed
with pleasure. One is the ignorance common to

all, the other the dislike which indolence or mistaken
education fosters.

Sandy has been permitted to add to his rural
realm a few hives of bees. His especial pride
are they, and he appears to understand their
management. This is an occult science, and not
always a safe one. I hear him talking to them
early in the morning, in his favorite broad Scotch
dialect. He says they like to be spoken to pleasantly,
and maintains that they will not sting the
family who take care of them. How far this is
a fine fancy remains to be proved. I recollect
reading, when a child, in the Memoirs of Marmontel,
a very pleasing account of the temperament
of his father's bees, and how an aunt of his,
when they were oppressed by chill and humid
weather, used to take them in her hands and
warm them by her breath, while they crept in
gratitude over her neck and shoulders. I think
it will be some time ere I proffer such marks of
tender regard. They surely have strong characteristics,
an independent way of providing their
food, and no despisable power of testifying displeasure.
I love much to hear their busy, monotonous
song, as the tireless troop

Shakspeare, whose knowledge of human nature
was so great, seems not quite so well informed
about the polity of bees. Modern naturalists
represent them as under feminine rule. The relation
that their chief ruler bears to them would
seem to make their form of government matriarchal,
if we may be allowed to coin a word. At
all events, they are no upholders of the Salique
law, and prosper notwithstanding.

The great bard just quoted styles them

Without knowing much about their interior
legislation, I love to watch the progress of their
architecture through the glass in their hives,
which sometimes they secretively cover. Curiously
they find their way into every crevice of
the conservatory, and travel, I am told, for miles,
guided by favorite odors. Their diligence in the
garden is unwearied. It was such a pleasant
sight to see them clustering around the apple-trees
when they were in blossom, eagerly entering
every little cup for its draught of nectar, and
swaying the light branches downward with their
weight. That kind of efflorescence seems peculiarly
gratifying to their taste, and the honey

drawn from it, like that from the Southern orange-flower,
has an exquisite flavor.

Henry is troubled because he fancies he has
checked my taste for writing poetry, which he
says I do not cultivate as before our marriage.
He kindly adds that he could not forgive himself
should he be the means of destroying any gift
or attainment I might have possessed in earlier
years, but would feel it his privilege as far as possible
to add to their number. So, to remove his
scruples, I immediately wrote a dialogue for two
boys, in whose education he is interested, to speak
at their approaching school exhibition:

Henry very kindly accepted my extemporaneous
dialogue for his protegés, and thinks I
have happily kept in view their different style
of elocution in the characters assigned them. It
animates me to have won his approval, “for his
applause is more than fame.”

The close of our dreary season threw out a
bright smile, but fickle and deceptive it has proved.
Somebody or other, perhaps Thomson, has said
or sung, that

I never much admired his metaphor.

What was the gift of Spring to me? yes, its
very first morning? A snow-drop? an arbutus?
a daffodil? No, the Frost King kept too sharp
watch for that; but a blossom never to die was
laid in my bosom. It has spread fresh greenness
over the soul.

Can it be possible that for four weeks I have
cherished this gem in my heart? Not like the
mother of Moses, hiding from the footstep of
foes, but amazed at the weight of my own great
happiness.

This new affection has awakened in the young
father an ineffable tenderness. It has opened a
deeper fountain in his manly nature. He is never
tired of watching the creature that to him seems
so wonderful. Scarcely will he trust himself to
touch it, lest he should disturb its velvet mechanism.

My mother almost fears to take her portion of
the heart's wealth that God hath given us. So
full has she been of apprehension for her darling,
that she can not at once lay it aside. Methinks
this maternal love hath ever an element of anxiety.

“Blessed is the house to which a babe is sent.”
So said our loved patriarch as he made me his
daily visit, asking that this child of the third generation
might be laid in his arms. As he bowed
his head in silence, I knew, by the saintly spirit
on his brow, that there was a pause of prayer.
May the petition of the righteous man for his
posterity prevail with God.

How precious is a nurse that understands her
duties, and is faithful to them. The health of a

young mother throughout life may depend much
upon wise care at such a crisis. The habitudes
of an infant are of such importance, too. I was
surprised, novice as I am in such matters, to see
how soon it might be led to that regularity in
taking food and sleep which promote its well-being
and the comfort of all around.

How wonderful the exquisite workmanship of
God in this miniature of humanity! Breathing,
moving, opening its eyes, unfolding its tiny fingers,
every change is a study of which I never
tire. The first night after his birth I could not
sleep for watching him. I had never seen so
young an infant before. I was not kept waking
by pain, but by the curiosity of wondering love.
I said to myself, “Am I in a dream? Is this
my baby?” I feared that the breath, heaving
the little breast, might stop, and, when any slight
sound stirred the lips, exclaimed, “God's mystery!
God's mystery!”

It is a nice time to be convalescent when Nature
also is recovering from her wintry gloom.
There is a sweet consent between her and the
heart in their song of gratitude. A warm spring

rain has just cheered the earth and tinted it with
fresh green.

A nurse of her own sex, in the most critical
period of their lives, if she has a knowledge of
her profession, should be clothed with authority.
She takes a fearful responsibility, and should be
obeyed accordingly. I have submitted to the wisdom
of mine, and found benefit. The entire reliance
which her knowledge and kindness inspire
keeps the mind in quietness. Her strenuous exclusion
of company, until a proper time, shelters
the nervous system. It is true that I have often
fancied myself able to bear effort and excitement,
but yielded to her experience, and reaped the benefit.
I have been obedient to the sway for which
now I thank her, though I might have felt at the
moment that I could fly through the window,
with baby in my arms, and follow the birds,
who, “singing, up to heaven's gate ascend.”

Henry is prouder of his baby for its being a
boy, that I can see. There is such a peculiar
ring to his voice as I sometimes hear him saying,
“We have a boy at our house. You must
come and see my boy.” I have discovered a new

beauty in the name of husband since it is associated
with that of father. Dignity and completeness
do they lend to each other. Around
them cluster all those images of protection, reliance,
and love, which our weaker sex needs from
the loftier.

Our first drive. Short and sweet. I did not
wish to return so soon. Every thing was so fair—
even the humblest shrub and grass-blade. Nurse
essayed to cover baby's head, thinking that at his
first exposure he might take cold; but he was
restless, and lifted up his little arms as far as his
blanket would allow, opening his eyes, large and
round, and seeming to say, “Let me see this
mighty fine world I have got into.”

The baptism of our child. How solemn the
service! This consecration of the gift lent us,
perhaps for a little while, has called forth the
deepest devotion of the soul. On his brow the
pure water of the covenant has rested, and over
him been uttered the great Triune name. Now
we more realize his immortality, and our own accountability
as guardians of a being dedicated to
God, teachers of what may be tempted to evil,

hostages for his appearance on the right hand at
the last day. Our duty as parents assumes a
weight and seriousness never before realized.
May we not fail. Lord, instruct us, that we may
instruct the child; for, if continued in life, how
soon will he emerge from this dream of infancy
into the chances and changes of that path which
passes “under the cloud and through the sea,”
until the pilgrim's staff is laid down at heaven's
gate.

I am so thankful that it was in the heart of my
husband to give our child my grandfather's name.
It was my secret desire; but, ere I had breathed it,
he kindly proposed it, saying, if we could thus
give pleasure to the living, he thought it our duty,
rather than to select from fancy, or even from
among names of the departed. The happiness that
this choice has imparted surpassed all my anticipations.
The heart of the aged saint expands with
fresh vigor. He identifies himself with the little
being as though it were a new edition of his book
of life. He is so affected that Henry should thus
have chosen him instead of his own ancestors.
Every returning day brings a new gush of delight.
Never can I sufficiently express my gratitude
for the tender consideration thus shown to
his venerable age.

My kind nurse has gone. I can not help
mourning as for a valued friend, though I was
fortunate that her engagements should have permitted
her to remain with me almost double the
usual time. The secret of her excellence, beside
her knowledge and native decision of character,
is a conscientious, consistent piety. I have discovered,
though she makes no boast of her doings,
and never voluntarily alludes to her own concerns,
a circumstance in her history worthy of remembrance
and honor. She had a brother in the
newly-settled states who suddenly died, soon
after his wife, leaving three young orphans. She
felt that it was her duty to receive and shelter
them. No one had she to send on this distant
and difficult embassy. Therefore she, who had
scarcely ever before passed beyond the limits of
her native county, set forth, a lone woman, for
the far, wild West. Traveling night and day by
public conveyances, or in all manner of vehicles,
she at length reached the new settlements, searched
out the forsaken little ones in their different
places of shelter, took them into her motherly
care, and, with the babe in her arms, turned homeward.
No trifle was it to perform this journey
of many hundred miles with those three helpless
creatures. Yet she trusted in God, and in all

danger he succored them. Safely to her own
house and to her sister she brought them, and
now, by her own industry, supports and educates
them. All this is without ostentation or allusion
to the subject, unless mentioned by others. It
is beautiful to find such heroic virtue in humble
life, and a self-denying piety that looks not to
this world for appreciation or reward.

Would that we might have a race of nurses
like her. Would that we had some institution
for their training, and such a teacher and example
at the head of it. Whoever should project
and sustain an establishment of that nature would
confer a greater benefit on the community than
by endowing a professorship of some science or
accomplishment, to be laid aside or forgotten
when the duties of domestic life supervene.

The first gleams of intelligence in babyhood
are so sweet, the mind beginning to look through
the sleep of the beautiful clay. I am sure Willie
spread out his little waxen hand to-day and looked
at it. His half-wondering eyes said, “Is that
mine?” Ah! and what are you going to do with
that hand, when time knits its sinews and reason
guides it? The good grandfather thinks that he
made him smile. Henry, in tossing him with a

strong arm, reports that he laughed aloud. I am
not so certain. Perchance the “wish was father
to the thought.”

The problem is at length solved. The long
incredulity is over. Steam has conquered the
ocean. It has been asserted by our cautious
ones that to take sufficient fuel and surmount
other obstacles to the voyage would be impossible.
But be it remembered that in this year
1819, and of the independence of these United
States the 43d, the steam-ship Savannah hath
passed prosperously from our own shores to those
of the mother-land. A great column of smoke
was seen moving up the Mersey, and the Liverpool
people, in dismay and pity, dispatched two
lighters to relieve the burning vessel. But when
the character of the pioneer messenger was comprehended,
cheers and acclamations swept in full
tide from the surrounding coast.

My poor, dear scholars have come back again.
During my sequestration, my loved Mary Ann
has taken charge of them, and has found Nancy
Dean, now fourteen years old, quite an assistant
in fitting their work. The diligent use of her

hands is some solace for the crippling effects of
the scarlet fever. How glad the affectionate
creatures were to return, and how thankful was
I to be able to resume their instruction! At the
close of the school they requested to see the baby.
Their welcome was touching, and their admiration
so profuse, that it was well those little ears
and eyes could not take it in, and be vain. He
has not yet had experience that “flattery is the
bellows which blows up sin.” Yet I was grateful
for the love that thus reflected itself upon an unconscious
infant. I feel now how precious is the
simplest offering of the heart to a teacher. More
and more do I realize that the right nurture of
the poor of my own sex is a benefit to the community.
If, instead of misery and crime, they
can be taught industry, and neatness, and virtue,
will they not be apt to carry those examples into
their own households when they have them, and
bless a future race as well as the present? At
any rate, I am cheered by the hope of making a
patriotic offering, however small it may be, to the
country of my birth.

What a touching scene this morning! A delicate
little baby, of the age of Willie, whose mother
has recently died, was brought in to see us.

Its large, sad eyes turned earnestly to every person
and place. Thus has it seemed to be searching
for its lost mother ever since she left it. She
was a gentle, good woman, and I had that kind
of acquaintance with her which nearness of seat
in church creates, and now and then a pleasant
smile or bow at passing. But now methought
she stood visibly before me, bespeaking kindness
for her child. The eldest daughter, a girl of remarkable
energy, takes charge of the family, and
tries, as far as may be in her power, to fill the
mournful vacancy. The babe is neatly and tenderly
cared for, but now, amid the trials of dentition,
will receive scarcely any nourishment, and
pines after that which the mother took with her
to the grave. With a burst of irrepressible tears,
I offered that proof of love which a mother only
can bestow. The enraptured eagerness of that
famished infant, and its look of intense wonder,
I shall never forget. The loving sister was filled
with a speechless gratitude. I told her to
bring it over for the present daily, at the same
hour. I hope I may be enabled thus to give this
poor little forsaken soul some shadow of content.
My heart overflows with joy for the comfort already
imparted.

Is it possible that a babe of a few months is
susceptible of jealousy? I should not have
thought it. Yet when wee Willie saw another
baby in what he counted his own peculiar place,
he opened his eyes large and round, until there
was a white stripe above the blue iris. Next he
knit his small brows, and distorted every feature,
and stretched his hands nervously to pluck the
intruder from the post of honor; then he uttered
loud, passionate cries, till my pitying mother removed
him from the trying sight. When he was
brought back he cast exploring glances into every
part of the room, so as to be sure that the disturber
of his peace was not ensconced in some
secret nook. Even after he was fully reinstated
it was not easy to pacify him, but he regarded
me with looks of reproach, as one who had
conspired with the invader of his rights. Indeed,
after he had been lulled to sleep on my
bosom, the long-drawn sobs attested his sense of
injury.

The happiness and caresses of a babe when it
wakes in the morning are inexpressibly endearing.
I can not make up my mind to banish
mine to a crib. Infancy is so short, I would fain
enjoy the whole of its blessed intercourse. The

varied sounds of Willie's voice after his long,
unbroken night's sleep, are different from what
they are during the day, more sweetly musical,
touching the chords of the parents' hearts like a
strain from heaven.

The only bequest of value to Henry from his
uncle was a large tract of land at the far West.
He is bound by the conditions of the will to dispose
of it to some person who will settle upon it
and improve it, unless he will do this himself.
The time has arrived for the decision, and he
feels that he can not understandingly make it
without a view of the premises; so he leaves
with little warning, that he may avail himself of
the company of an intelligent gentleman who
visits that vicinity for a somewhat similar purpose.
How can I part with him? How can I
be divided from him so long? The journey and
change of scene may be favorable to his health,
which is not very firm. Selfish heart, be silent.

Poor little Willie has entirely ceased to resist
our will with regard to the motherless babe. The
discipline seems perfect. Familiarity with the
daily visitor has ended in love. He smiles upon

it as they unhood and unblanket it, like a blossom
coming out of its sheath. To-day he would
fain kiss it and give it one of his toys; and,
strange to say, it has lost its marked sadness,
and grown plump and playful, so that we call it
the melancholy baby no more. How truly I rejoice
to witness its growth and improvement!

Letters from my husband. Prosperously on
his way and invigorated. Methinks regret for
his absence must be ingratitude to God. His
descriptions of the grand, bold scenery are beautiful.
An artist might make a picture from his
graphic sketch of a prairie:

The sorrows of dentition, the advance-guard
of those many ills that flesh is heir to, have come
upon the baby. He moans in his sleep, and is
feverish throughout the day. I am now much
interested in physiological works, treating upon
the welfare of infancy. With the aid of dear
mother's counsel and experience, I fancy myself
quite a doctress. To this I was inspirited by
my excellent and accomplished nurse, who says
a mother, best knowing the symptoms of her

child, has an advantage in treating them which
no other person can possess. If a true mother,
she is a sentinel always at her post, so that nothing
can escape her. Her wisdom lies in the early
discovery of every foe, in parrying the first indications
of disease, in prevention rather than in active
medicine. This is all I should venture to
do, and not cope with sickness in those acute
forms which belong to the province of the regular
and thoroughly-educated physician.

My beloved grandfather's delight in the baby
is surprisingly great. Every new gleam of intelligence
is watched and commented upon. He
evidently feels a right in him, as bearing his own
name, which gives, if not a new lease of life, at
least new brightness to its faded years. The
beautiful aged head and the fair infant one are
ever in close proximity, and, as all babies love to
be whispered to, I see the little form as still as
sculptured marble while the saintly voice breathes
into its ear loving words or holy precepts. Perchance
their spirit may tinge the scroll of the
heart ere slower Reason brings her pen to record
them.

It seems so long, so long, since my husband
went away. Just as I was feeling anxious for
letters, and fearing accident or illness, he arrived,
radiant with health and happiness. Every heart
under our roof overflowed with joy. The rapture
of the young father, who fancied his boy recognized
him, knew no bounds. How can I ever
express my gratitude to his and our Preserver?
Treasures of knowledge his observation has amassed
for our entertainment and instruction. The
quaint verse of an old hymn gushes up, and sings
like a hidden fountain in the silent heart:

So invariably good have been my scholars during
the past year that their Christmas gifts took
the form of merited rewards. We studied to
make them useful: a thick, good dress, a bag richly
furnished with working materials, a book containing
the Testament, Psalter, and Hymns bound
together, with the name of each in gilt letters on
the cover, were in addition to the parcels of cake
and fruits which they took home, and on which
the baby put his little hand as if he were the giver.
Their voices at parting, and those of the friends

present, mingled with Henry's magic flute in the
grand melody of Old Hundred, to the words,

As the closing hours of this most blessed year
fleet away, I sit at the still eventide by the cradle
of my sleeping child. The soft rays from the
shaded lamp gleam on the placid brow of innocence
in repose. Beautiful emblem of the rest
that remaineth for the people of God.

The Lord be with him, and guide him, when
my head shall slumber in the dust. Ah! why
do tears cover my face? Are they not tears of
joy?

Saturday, January 1st, 1820.

“Oh, my Lord, I know not what I should ask
of Thee. Thou only knowest what I need. Thou
lovest me better than I can love myself.

“Give to me, Thy child, what is proper for me,
whatever that may be. I dare not ask either
comforts or crosses. I only present myself before
Thee. I open my heart unto Thee. Behold
the wants that I am ignorant of. Behold,
and do according to Thy mercy. Smite or heal,
depress or raise me up.

“I adore all Thy purposes without knowing
them. I am silent. I offer myself in sacrifice.
I abandon myself to Thee. Henceforth I have
no will but to accomplish Thine.”

I have selected on my birth-day this prayer of
the saintly Fénélon, as an expression of the implicit
faith I would aspire to rather than that which
I have already attained. Sometimes I have felt
that my religion might be of doubtful root, having
had no trials to test its sincerity. Perhaps,
in my arrogance, I have wished that it should be
thus tested. Has that time come? If so, may

the perfect resignation of the form of words that
I have here chosen to utter enter into my soul,
and indue it with strength from above.

The first word of a babe! Is there any other
such music to the ear of a parent? The language
of our own, the dove-cooing of his love-moments,
the chirp and carol of his joy, have long been understood
by us. Those sounds shaped by imitation
were sweet, and constantly solicited; but
the application of the first words as a being of
intelligence, the call for the mother, the father,
the other kindred spirits, the outstretching of the
round, waxen arms, as on little, tottering feet he
hastens toward us, is a delight surpassing all power
of description.

My husband's heart has been much at the West
since his visit there. He desires to become a resident.
His only brother, who has been for several
years settled on a large tract of land, given
by their uncle on similar conditions with his own,
urges him by letters to the pleasures and independence
of an agricultural life. I tell him I have
no ambition for wealth; but he rejoins, “We
have a boy. We must legislate for him. Have

I any right to throw away his princely patrimony,
and leave him unprovided for, perhaps dependent?
Your grandfather's pension will expire
with him. When I am worn out with this galley-slave
business in the bank, what will become
of our child?” So work the seeds of ambition in
the strong soil of a father's love.

Alas! Henry grows thin and sad. He starts
from broken sleep, murmuring of the green West.
His toil at the bank is disgusting to him. His
dark eyes have lost their lustre, and evidently his
health fails. How can I distress my heart of
hearts? God knows I would lay down my life
for him. Not for myself do I hesitate a moment;
but oh! for those who live in our life, and whose
advancing years lead them to rest more and more
upon us. He has said to me, “Make them willing.”
I will try. Heaven help me.

My dear, blessed mother! I have spoken to
her with many tears, she from whom I have never
been separated since I was first laid in her bosom.
She anticipated me. Though nothing had
been said to her of this matter, her spirit seemed
to have had an indwelling with mine. She met

the subject with such self-abandonment, and
poured strength into my weaker soul. After
finding that Henry's preference was pervading
and persistent, she said, “Your vow at the altar,
my darling, was not the allegiance of a summer's
day, but for all changes until the last.” We
held each other in a long embrace, and then she
sank into the attitude of prayer, while I knelt by
her side. Her supplications for submission, divine
guidance, and strength according to our day,
will be answered. I feel already their holy influence,
and am fortified.

No one has yet spoken on this painful theme
to the aged grandfather, who seems garnering
himself up in the love of the child with an almost
fearful idolatry. I have told Henry that
this must devolve on him. Last evening I heard
him say, in an adjoining parlor,

“Will you counsel me, dear grandfather, on a
subject of great importance?”

“State your case, and I will endeavor to do
so.”

“You are aware that my only patrimony is a
broad expanse of land at the West, which, by the
written will of the donor, I am bound either to
settle upon or to sell at a certain time, which time

has now come. By my recent visit to it I have
learned its value, and that to part with it at
the present rates of sale would be a sacrifice
approaching madness. What is my duty to
do?”

“Is it possible that you are gravely asking
my opinion whether to remove or not to the far,
wild West?”

“Even so, my father, for such my heart calls
you, having no other since the death of my uncle.
He was full of enthusiasm about the settlement
of the newer portions of our country, and, had he
been younger, would have gone thither as a pioneer.
How happy I have been to live here, surrounded
by all that I love, you know; but, being
now a father, I am called to look beyond myself.
I must act for him who bears your name. Have
I a right to dispose of what will eventually be
his—what will secure him wealth and influence
—for a paltry consideration?”

“You argue as if you were sure that nothing
could befall him on the road to manhood. But
how do you expect to live in that wilderness?”

“The means of subsistence are more abundant
there than you in these worn-out states can conceive.
I have already established a practical
farmer on a part of the estate, and caused a
house to be erected in the simple style of that

country, which will afford comfortable shelter
until a better one can be obtained. These steps
I thought advisable, even if I should decide to
sell the premises.”

“Will you take away in my feeble age the
lamb that has grown up in my bosom? the little
darling that, as an angel, has newly come to our
house?”

“Oh, do not reason in that way. You will
break my heart.”

“If you are pressed in spirit to go, leave them
behind.”

“My blessed grandfather, you would not ask
impossible things.”

“Leave me, then, to my grave. It will come
all the sooner for this.”

“Ah! no. Life is still strong within you.
Nurtured in the athletic habits of the olden time,
you have more vigor, and a better prospect of
continuance, than many who are twenty years
younger. You will come and see that great,
glorious West. Your noble heart, that stood
out the war-tempest without shrinking, will rejoice
more in its prosperity than those who know
not the cost of its freedom. Yet, though I confess
that I long for the free, earnest life of a large
agriculturist, and believe it would also be congenial
to her whom we both love as our own souls,

do not suppose that we will go without your consent—your
full and free consent.”

“And this do you expect me to give?”

“When you were called forth to the battles
of the Revolution, did you say I would be excused?
My home is too pleasant? Let others
go; I am not ready; I am afraid? No; you
took in your hands your life and your sacred
honor, and God gave salvation to your native
land. The patriotism of your times was the
sword. Is not ours to build up the waste places,
to plant the unbroken soil with the right seed,
ere the wicked, entering in, shall sow tares and
destroy the harvest? Were Washington here,
would he not say go forth, and the Lord be with
you? And will not you, a disciple of Washington,
a follower of Jesus, say the same?”

“You have asked of me more than man ever
asked before—the apple of my eye, and the core
of my heart. Yet take them. I give my consent.”

“Oh, not consent alone. It must be a blessing.
We can not depart in peace except thou
bless us.”

“My son, you have conquered. The Lord
bless and keep you. The good Lord strengthen
me to say at all times, His will be done.”

This morning, when I came down to breakfast,
the beautiful old man took both my hands
and wept like a child. Then I sat long on his
knee, as he has loved to have me do from infancy,
and, leaning my head against his, comforted
his heart. As I whispered, “Our God loveth a
cheerful giver,” he said, smiling through his tears,
“I ought not to have allowed you thus to get
the advance of me. I should have told you that
myself. Long have I been in Christ's school,
yet babes and sucklings teach me.”

How blessed is the zeal of true friendship,
how sustaining its sympathy! Mary Ann, who
from school-days has been as a sister, now proves
herself one indeed. She has consented to take
charge of my scholars. My poor, dear scholars,
must I leave them? She will pursue the same
course to which they have been accustomed, and
be assisted by Nancy Dean, who is skillful with
her needle, and fully capable of fitting work, and
will be allowed a small regular salary for the
comfort of her feeble health and poverty. So,
in this respect, it seems that good will come from
my going, while in my vanity I was counting it
but as loss to those left behind.

I have implored those who are most dear not
to indulge grief in my presence at our approaching
separation, or allow me to do so in theirs. I
would not enervate myself with vain regrets. I
need their clear counsel, and all my own strength,
for the necessary preparations. I would not be
remembered by tears, but as a sunbeam, and pray
of Him who wisely appointeth every stage of our
pilgrimage that I may change my orbit like a
cloudless star.

It is decided now that we go when the season
shall have sufficiently advanced to render the
roads pleasant for traveling. We shall proceed
in public vehicles as far as their routes correspond
with ours, and at the point of termination
purchase a large wagon and horses, with such
housekeeping articles as we can not take from
here, the stage-coach admitting, of course, only
our trunks of clothing. Henry has written to
have the house in readiness, and some additions
to be made, which he did not direct while there
was a doubt whether we should ourselves occupy
it. He has recovered his health and spirits since
the ultimate decision has been made, and should
not I be grateful to have been the instrument of
restoring to him the brightness and energy of his
own noble nature?

Baby's first tooth. Take no offense, my good
journal, that I should make such an inscription
on thee. New cares bring us new pleasures, and,
in the maternal record, the item that I have chronicled
is one of grave importance; so count it no
derogation from thy dignity that the event should
be intrusted to thy keeping.

Good old George the Third has paid that debt
which Nature levies both on prince and peasant.
In the regal apartments of Windsor Castle, bent
beneath the weight of fourscore and two winters,
Death found and took him. Mental light had
been long extinguished, save in snatches and
gleams, which always revealed the tendencies of
a feeling and kind heart. In the domestic virtues
he set a good example for kings. Strongly
contrasted in structure, accomplishments, and
motives was he to Louis the Fourteenth, who
has been called the “best actor of majesty in
Europe.” No such ambitions had this venerable
monarch. His birth-day (June 4th) was, previous
to 1776, a glad festival among these colonies.
The succeeding war, which changed our
relations, created a bitterness which was expended
rather on the ministry than on the monarch.

Those who had been brought up, Sabbath after
Sabbath, to pray for him as the father of the people,
found it difficult to count him as their foe.
Thus there has been always among our older inhabitants
a lingering of filial feeling toward the
white-haired king, which prepared us all to pay
a gentle tribute over his honored grave.

Is it wrong that I do not wish to see the
spring blossoms? to listen to the murmur of the

bees? that I go not forth, as of yore, among the
early hyacinths, or to draw the first arbutus from
its hidden cell? It is not that I forget to admire
them, or to thank their Giver, but I would fain
avoid multiplying the charms and ties of a spot
I am about to leave. Already is it too strongly
incorporated with all my tenderest memories, so
that I am as one spell-bound when I wander
about it and think I may return no more.

Always is God better to us than our fears,
than our hopes. Mary Ann, my darling friend,
is to take my place. She will occupy my own
chamber, and be to those I leave behind a blessed
comforter. Her mother, who has several
daughters, most kindly permits this arrangement.
Edgar also, who aspires to the hope, at some future
day, of the dearest connection with my loved
substitute, will be often at the abode which I
said in my foolishness must be left desolate.
Now is the crushing load lifted from my inmost
soul. Now am I free to follow my husband and
not repine. With him I could be content to
dwell upon an Alpine rock, or a lone island in
the melancholy main; but to leave those alone
who, from my birth-hour, through the helplessness
of infancy, the waywardness of youth, have

never forsaken or forgotten me for a moment, to
cast them forth and leave them amid declining
years and sickness to the mercy of strangers,
would have uprooted for me all capacity of enjoyment.
Now I can intrust them to the tender
hand, the brave heart, and strike the key-tone
of undying praise to Him who has had compassion
on my weak faith, and permitted me to
see with my own eyes the blessed provision He
hath made for their protection and comfort.

Little Willie's foster-sister, no longer the pensive
baby, but the plump, merry child, is to be
brought over every day to amuse the household
after our departure. She is in advance of him in
the accomplishment of talking, as our sex are
wont to be. Nevertheless, she borrows his baby
appellatives of “greatie-papa” and “greatie-mamma,”
which he has always been strenuous in substituting
for “grandfather” and “grandmother.”
I find it pleases them to be thus addressed in
his dialect by her bird-like voice. Very likely
he may make these, his favorite titles, familiar
to the echoes of his Western home.

I have been considerably occupied, and found
much pleasure in preparing keepsakes for my

friends and acquaintances. I have made an accurate
list of them, and think not one has been
overlooked. The choice books of my library
availed for many, in some of which I put little
embroidered marks to designate passages worthy
of remembrance, or such as we had perused together.
Some of these marks were emblematic;
on others I wrought such phrases as “Dinna
forget,” “God bless you,” or simply my own initials.
For the most respected or intimate I embroidered
the chapter and verse of those exquisite
passages, Genesis thirty-first and forty-ninth, and
Philippians first and third. Articles of taste or
of nice apparel, which I could not take with me,
I also found recipients for, giving some attention
to the matter of adaptation. My pensioners, the
poorest, the oldest, the youngest, have also every
one received something that may be useful, or
quicken serious and holy thought. I would be
remembered by them all in some way to do them
good, if possible—lasting good. Perchance they
may sometimes, in their moments of devotion,
breathe a petition for the wanderer from the
graves of her fathers, who pitches her tent toward
the setting sun. At all events, I have had
great satisfaction in these gifts, and have realized
the truth of the inspired assertion that it “is
better to give than to receive.”

I have taken leave of every part of the home
in which I was born. Even the articles of furniture
that I had aided to keep in order had the
aspect of friends. In proportion to the care I
had bestowed on them, and not their intrinsic
value, was their power over me. I wonder if
woman's cares are not the secret of her attachments?
To each parlor, to the library, to my
mother's apartment, to my grandfather's, to my
own quiet writing-room, to the little oratory, my
soul's home, to the nursery, where my child was
sleeping in the cradle, I have made the lingering,
parting visit. I could not but thank those inanimate
objects for the happiness they have helped
to give my most happy life. In Amy's attic,
whose walls are adorned with a variety of framed
prints which had been given her, I found her
weeping, and said, “My dear, good friend, be to
my mother and grandfather what you have always
been. I could not leave them with an easy
mind but for you. I thank you for all your kind
offices to me. Let us both walk in the steps of
our Savior, that we may live together in heaven.”

I have taken leave of the conservatory, the
busy, singing bees, the nested birds, the great,
broad-armed elms. To the lowliest violet at their
feet I breathed “thanks” and a loving “goodby.”

Henry says we shall be here again in two
years. Such words are more easily uttered than
verified. Still, I bear with me the shadow of
this hope in every farewell. I bade adieu to all
home objects at the close of day, because we are
to leave quite early in the morning. Many
friends came afterward with good wishes and
loving words. It was a great comfort that our
good pastor staid and conducted for us our last
family worship. Our last did I say? I meant
only our last at this time. May the incense of
that parting prayer rise acceptably to our God
from the peaceful altar which He has so long
deigned to bless.

It is over. Would that the Lethe-stream
might ingulf that hour. And yet the scene will
be with me a soul-set picture till all remembrance
fades.

It was the early gray of the morning when the
stage-horn summoned us. There must be no
waiting. All things were ready. The baby,
roused from his usual slumbers, looked wonderingly
around. Let me not think again of the
parting embrace. No, never.

At our last glance my mother stood at the
door with that calm look which, I doubt not,
she would wear though soul and body severed.
Sweet Mary Ann's arm was around her. My aged
grandfather trembled like a bent branch shaken
by the wind. Edgar was near, and full of sympathy.
Poor Amy was of the group, and, though
I had cautioned her, was not able to restrain
her grief. Blessed wheels! that bore us so
swiftly away.

Alas! might not that last drop have been
spared in the cup of bitterness? The coach
stopped for a few moments at the post-office.
There stood all my scholars, though the sun had
not yet risen. I had bidden them farewell before;
I had given them my parting precepts and
gifts; I had commended them to our common
Father, the Maker of heaven and earth. Yet
there they stood again, to have, as they said, one
more look. They climbed upon the wheels; they
begged me to hold out the baby for them to kiss;
they pressed little keepsakes into his hand and
mine; they cried loud and passionately. What
mean ye thus to weep and to break my heart?

Through that day's journey I bent my head
over the child, soothing him, and anticipating his
wants. How could I note the landscape? How
could I converse? My husband did not require
it. He feels the weight of the sacrifice. His
heart is bowed within him. Yet I did not go to
be a clog or a self-seeker. As soon as possible,
I will be his aid and solace.

At our first night in a strange tavern I should
have wept but for distressing him. When, at
length, the deep breathing announced that he had
found rest, and Willie's home-sick moans were
allayed, the blessed tears gushed, and the suffocating
anguish subsided.

O faithful friend, kind old journal, thou hast
not been forgotten. But upon our long and
weary journey it has been impossible to find time
and conveniences for writing beyond the brief,
daily sketch in letters expected by the dear ones
at home. Many interesting localities have we
seen, and much glorious scenery, such as quickens
the heart with admiration of a country which
is stretching out its limbs like a waking giant.
Wonderful indeed is it in its resources and its
rapid growth. In safety have we been borne
onward, and in health. We have reached the

point where the public conveyances leave us, and
are resting for a few days, and purchasing some
of the necessary articles that we could not take
with us. Willie's little heart still turns backward
with sorrowful tenacity. Through the day
he is amused, but at night the great home-sickness
comes over him. Whenever he retires, he
cries, “Come, greatie-mamma! come, greatie-papa!”
and thus moans himself to sleep. These
are his last sounds at night, his first in the morning.
It is painful to see such constancy of grief,
and hear the long, quivering sobs from his little
heaving breast, even after slumber has overtaken
him. I had thought the troubles of infancy brief,
and more readily soothed.

We have been fortunate in securing in this
place almost every thing that we sought except
a servant. That, indeed, seems a sine qua non,
and we relied on finding it here, since none from
the older settled states could be tempted to what
they deemed expatriation. To our great surprise,
that feeling seems equally strong here.
Plenty of able-bodied damsels have presented
themselves in consequence of our inquiries, and
sturdy, middle-aged women, with square hands
and broad shoulders, looking as if they could fell

a forest. The rate of wages was attractive, and
all promised well till the remote location was
mentioned; then negotiation was at an end, and
persuasion powerless. One had “no notion of
going out into the wild woods;” another “was
not a bush-whacker,” with other expressions
equally significant and genteel. These jar provokingly
on Henry's nerves, with his romantic
views of our Utopia. There appears to be no
other way than to depend for the present on
Sandy, who is as good within the house as without,
and on the family of the farmer, whose dwelling
being within our own inclosure may be able
readily to render assistance. At all events, it
will not do for me to look back. No: onward
must be our motto, and I hope upward also.

We have purchased an immense covered wagon
and a powerful pair of horses. It is astonishing
how much may be stowed away in these
houses upon wheels, and yet leave space for our
persons. Henry has engaged another vehicle of
equally formidable size, with a practiced driver,
to accompany us to our place of destination, carrying
additional varieties of what the Scotch call
“plenishing,” and also a small tent, as we are to
pass one night on the way out of the reach of

habitations. That will give quite an Oriental
feature to our cavalcade.

What a unique and wonderful object is a
prairie! We have now a far better view of it
than we could have had in the rapidity of stage-coach
traveling. It is impossible to describe to
one who has never seen it the effect on the mind
of its interminable extent, its unbroken level, varied
only by waving grass, and coarse, gorgeous
flowers.

Little Willie is delighted in passing from one
carriage to the other, and taking note of the horses.
He fears no one, and is welcome every where.
He will make an excellent settler in the frank,
free West. Nothing subdues him but the periodical
home-sickness. That I think abates. I
hope so, for I know not how I should bear to
hear those beloved names stirring, in wild tones
of grief, the echoes of the wilderness.

In traversing the prairie we occasionally saw
the mirage, so alluring and so deceptive. Placid
lakes, with pure, glittering waters, fringed by

waving and woven shades, gleamed in the distance,
but fled away as we approached. This
visioned beauty so attracted us that it was difficult
to believe it not a reality. Sometimes, like
the star-gazing philosopher of old, who fell into
a ditch through his astrological researches, we
were not always aware of the marshy regions
that here and there intersected our route.

On one occasion, while Willie was enjoying a
pedestrian excursion in Sandy's arms, he pointed
to something in his near neighborhood with a
lively delight, shouting,

“See! see! pretty, pretty ribbon.”

Behold, this admired ribbon was a large,
gliding snake, who, with upraised head, regarded
our caravan. It is said they are quite fond of
living among the long prairie grass, and leave
their dens and caves in the mountains for these
lowland abodes. So it seems that even here
there are serpents among the flowers. I should
prefer to dispense with their company, not having
such a love of Natural History as to seek acquaintance
with thier snakeships, notwithstanding
their brilliance of color and costume, in which,
perchance, they imitate him who won our mother's
ear amid the shades of Eden.

We occasionally see one of the cone-roofed
wigwams of the Indians, but scarcely any marks
of their being inhabited. I have always felt a
great interest in our poor aborigines. A few of
the men have sauntered listlessly by us in the
course of the day. They had a sulky look, and
did not return our salutations. The guide said
that the remnants of the neighboring tribes were
at variance, and had recently had an affray which
put them both in bad humor. As evening approached
we passed from the prairie into a region
with more of the characteristics of a forest.
It was delightful to be again in the company of
the protecting trees. The road was sometimes
obstructed by fallen trunks or branches, so that
traveling was slower and more laborious, and, ere
the setting sun cast his last golden rays, we selected
a fitting place for our nightly encampment.
The tired horses were unharnessed and turned
out to forage, the poles planted, and the tent
pitched with great celerity. A fire was kindled,
tea made, a comfortable supper partaken of, and
a bed spread in our greenwood dormitory, with
proper precautions against the dampness of the
earth. Sandy and the guide were to act as sentinels,
occasionally taking rest in the wagon, and
Henry, sometimes in the tent and sometimes
without, took superintendence of the whole. I

perceived that each one put his gun in order. As
darkness deepened, they replenished the fire as a
protection against wild beasts, for we had seen
now and then the red eyes of the panther glaring
down upon us through the woven branches.

Oh, the solemn grandeur of that night in the
forest! Methought it was God's temple, and He
visibly near. We, poor emmets at His footstool,
cast out from the fellowship of our kind, from the
pride of a strong shelter with bolts and bars, were
still in the hollow of His hand, girt about with
His immutable strength. Through the dark,
lofty arches of interlacing trees, reddened by the
fitful flame, it might almost seem that there were
glancing wings, and a voice, “He giveth his angels
charge over thee. They bear thee up in
their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a
stone.”

Even the baby seemed to drink in some influences
from the sublimity of the scene. For the
first time at night since leaving our distant home,
he ceased to weep and mourn after its loved habitants.
He drew near to me with his gentlest
caresses, and joined his face to mine, so still, so

lovingly, as if fearing to break the pause by a
breath, and yet full of happiness. Were God's
thoughts within his innocent soul?

The watches of the night passed slowly. At
length I had fallen asleep, but suddenly awoke.
There was a sound of creeping footsteps around
the tent. Henry rushed out, and I knew that the
guns were all in readiness. Lifting the tent-curtain,
I exclaimed,

“Stay! stay your hands! I hear the moaning
of a child.”

At that moment something sprang by me
through the aperture, and, falling prone on the
earth, clasped my knees. It was a girl, crying
in broken English,

“Oh, white man, don't kill poor Orra!”

Our guide suggested that such decoys were
sometimes used by the natives, who were of late
more obnoxious to settlers on the new lands.
Sandy, shouting at the top of his voice, “Nae
doot it's a trick of the pizun Injuns,” would have
drawn her out by the arm. But I had seen by
the fitful watch-fire her streaming eyes and agonized
features. Oh, creature of God, of my own
helpless sex, His voice speaks through thee.

“Husband, husband, will you let me keep her?”

“My dearest wife, would you run such a risk?”

“God has sent her to us.”

“What could you possibly do with her?”

“I will find room for the poor outcast. Henry,
may I take her?”

He consented. I spread a blanket, and motioned
for her to lie down. But she continued
crouched on the ground, and, with head resting
on her hand, steadfastly regarded me.

With the first gleams of morning I saw that
our protegée was a well-formed girl of probably
twelve or thirteen. Her long black hair lay in
masses upon her shoulders, and she had that delicacy
of hands and feet, and sweetness of tone,
that distinguish the females of our aborigines.
She made me understand, partly by pantomine
and partly in broken words, that her father and
mother were both killed, and she alone had fled
away. I shall never forget the gratitude with
which the poor famished one received a piece of
bread and decent garments. Wherever I went
she followed me, as though a part of myself, or
as if she believed that in me was her protection.
When I looked kindly at her, a loving soul seemed
to leap out through her eyes. I put my child
into her arms, and her rapture knew no bounds.

She knelt down and embraced my feet. As for
him, he twined at once his little waxen arms
around her neck, and, gazing up in her dark face,
said, half incredulously, half exultingly, “Amy
come?”

Our day's journey, though a weary one, was
lightened by the hope that it was the last. We
were enabled frequently to walk, which relieved
the fatigue of a constrained position. Willie's
fondness for the stranger, and her tender care of
him, were pleasant features of our progress. The
declining sun was still bright in the heavens,
when Henry, falling on his knees in mock homage,
said, “Hail, my lady of the manor! Welcome
to your own!” for he had entered on the
bounds of his estate.

My husband, who had hastened on in advance
as soon as the blue smoke from his farm-house
was seen curling through the trees, returned with
unelastic step and a fallen countenance. His
own domicile was far from being in the condition
which he had ordered and expected. Some of
his letters had not been received; for, accustomed
as we have ever been to regular intercourse through

mails, we had not fully estimated the inconvenience
of residing at a distance from post-offices,
and other causes of interrupted intercourse. His
anticipated pleasure and pride in our triumphant
installation were therefore overthrown. He was,
in truth, highly exasperated, and the more so that
his farmer, with the ease of the free, Western
character, did not trouble himself to make elaborate
excuses, or consider it a matter of any great
import if a few animals had chanced to be occupants
before us. He did, indeed, say that his
wife had been ill, which should surely be admitted
as some apology. As it was, I cheered Henry
by telling him it only gave an opportunity for
Yankee ingenuity to operate. So, in a trice, the
wagon-covering was fitted as a temporary carpet
to the broken floor, a blazing fire surmounted by
the singing kettle, several boxes raised and covered
with a snowy cloth, on which suddenly appeared
tea, coffee, and other edibles. A cup of
fresh milk from a beautiful cow within the inclosure
made Willie as happy as a king, if kings
are any happier than other people, which, as a
Republican, I doubt. A few of faithful Amy's
biscuits and ginger-cakes were discovered lurking
in a secret hoard, and, notwithstanding undoubted
marks of antiquity, were easily soluble
in a cup of tea, and my first nourishment in my
new abode. The blessing of our Almighty and
Merciful Father be with that we have left behind,
and this to which He has led us.

I am reproved for what I fear is a deficiency
of gratitude by the perfect delight of my poor
Indian girl for the shelter of a roof and a bed to
rest upon. We have found a little cubby for her
own, which she occupies with thanks and gestures
of joy. To see the smile that lights up
her dark but comely countenance as, following
me like my shadow, she endeavors to aid in all
that I do, is like a perpetual sunbeam.

We supposed that we had bought every article
essential to our simple mode of life, as far as
the limits of two carriages would suffice for freight.
Yet, what should we happen to forget? Hear it
with horror, all ye in the shape of housekeepers.
A broom! Yes, that indispensable appendage
of all notable women. What was to be done?
Behold the Indian ingenuity! Orra, of her own
accord, was seen dividing thin slips of whitewood
into narrow, pliant splinters, which, after forming
into an even mass, she bound firmly around a
smooth handle prepared for her by Sandy, having

seen this work done by the women of her tribe
for market among the whites. Even the Scotchman
pronounced it “cannie,” and seems to be
laying aside some of his prejudices against the
“evil race of Injuns.”

My dear husband is overflowing with energy.
He is up with the lark, never weary, and seems
attaining a degree of health and vigor to which
he was before a stranger. Taking into view his
classical education, and subsequent sedentary life
in the bank, I am surprised at his practical knowledge
of agriculture, and the wisdom with which
he apportions to different purposes his extensive
domain. The man who accompanied us on our
last day's journey has returned, according to
promise, with three other assistants, to pursue
for a short time the farm-labor on a large scale,
making a band of six men, of which Henry is
captain. Such pursuits harmonize with his native
tastes, and I am grateful that I put no more
obstacles than my poor, weak heart could help in
the way of his physical welfare and happiness.

The farmer's wife, who has quite recovered, is
a strong woman, and ready whenever we require

her aid. In our small home, which will be enlarged
when we have leisure, the spirit of order
has already done much. The sleeping accommodations
are comfortably arranged, floors mended,
white curtains hung at each window, and that in
my own apartment is already clasped by the
green tendrils and fair bells of a morning-glory,
whose seeds I brought from my own dear, far-off
garden, and sprinkled in the rich mould immediately
after our arrival.

Time is sweeping rapidly on. Constant and
varied employment leaves no room for loneliness,
and less and less for those regrets which, at first
leaving the East, I feared might become a part
of my being. One of my sources of daily interest
is an immense flock of poultry, whose eggs
and chickens are important additions to a table
which can be supplied by no regular market.
We have also a small flock of sheep, Sandy being
conversant with the charge and welfare of
both these races. Willie is never tired of feeding
them, of calling his dog, and prattling with
his prime friend Orra, to whose name he pertinaciously
adds that of Amy. She proudly attends
his excursions, ministering to his every
want, and apparently finding her great capacity

for loving satisfied by the innocent fondness of
the fair child.

The time of bare, leafless boughs has come,
and of what the Scotch call the “sough” of the
melancholy winds. Cold weather promises to
set in here earlier than in our eastern home. My
husband is now hurried with preparations for it.
A large piece of ground at some distance is being
cleared and made ready for the sowing of
winter wheat. I feel something like indignation
when the great kings of the forest fall from their
primeval thrones to make room for a plebeian
race of short-lived roots and grasses.

To-day, in the absence of all our male protectors,
stealthy footsteps were heard around the
house. At length the heads of three huge Indians
were discovered, apparently reconnoitring,
but strenuously keeping behind the covert of the
trees. Orra was in an agony. Every feature
was distorted with terror, and her lips bloodless.
While I carefully secured every mode of entrance,
she clasped the baby with a death-like grasp.

“Orra can fire master's gun,” she exclaimed,
suddenly dragging it forth, examining if it were

loaded, and showing how she could poise it and
take aim, having had the training of a hunter's
daughter.

They drew nearer, a gray-headed man and two
braves, as they are called, hideously painted.

“Oh, mistress,” cried the girl, “they kill, kill!
Orra go out. Let them kill Orra. Then mistress
run—run with baby. Oh run—run to the thick
woods and hide. Fly! don't stop! they are
swifter than eagles.”

I said, “Pray to God in your heart. He will
be near us. He is stronger than they.”

The child was strangely quiet. He caught no
terror from the frantic girl. Came there into his
heart the spirit of that brave old man whose
blood is in his veins? or spake some angel unto
him? Still was he as a statue, with his eyes
fixed on mine.

A hand shook the barricaded door, and a fierce
red face glared through a curtained window.
Suddenly a change came over the girl.

“Oh, lady! blessed lady! let me go out to
them. Let me go; they are my own people.”

They had retired to a little distance, and, with
the swiftness of a deer, she stood among them.
She spoke with strong gestures in her native
language, and they listened as if transfixed.
Then the gray-haired one took her by the hand

and moved toward the house, followed by the
others. Breaking away, and preceding them,
her unbound tresses flying in the wind,

“Dear mistress! blessed mistress! it is my
own old chief. He will not hurt you. May he
come in?”

Never can I forget the expressive countenance
of that aged man as, throwing wide my door, I
welcomed him, and drew my arm-chair for him.
No word; but a strong soul looked through the
black, glistening eyes, a vanquished purpose of
malevolence melting away in wonder.

I placed food before him as a token of peace.
The two younger ones, exceedingly athletic, powerful
men, out of respect to their ruler would not
enter and partake with him. Seated outside of
the door, they were fed and served by Orra, on
whom they incessantly smiled. She, in a passion
of joy, was their interpreter. They had discovered
that this orphan of their tribe was under our
roof. With their national prejudice against the
whites, they had supposed her held in tyrannical
captivity; therefore they had come to her rescue,
and, if need were, to burn, and ravage, and destroy.
Other warriors, stationed in an adjoining
wood, awaited the signal to come on and do the
bidding of their leader. But her few words of
love had changed the lion to the lamb. They

had believed the pale faces always their foes, or,
what to a proud nature is still more bitter, holding
them in contempt. A new set of ideas seemed
to have interposed. Orra said they united in
giving me a new name, the “good white woman.”

The repast ended, the old chieftain rose to depart.
His lofty head almost touched our humble
ceiling. Bowing low, he gave me thanks in
his own tongue. Then he reached his hands for
the child. A mother's misgiving, with horrid imagery
of kidnapped and tomahawked babes, swept
for a moment over me; but Willie, to whom a
dark face seems a letter of recommendation, settled
the matter by determining to go to this tall
old lord of the forest, pleased with his nodding
plumes, like Ascanius in the arms of Hector.
Raising him high above his head, he uttered, in
deep intonation and in a devout manner, a form
of words, and restored him to my bosom. Orra
said with delight,

“He blesses him in the name of the Great
Spirit; he makes him his young white chief; he
says because of you there shall be peace between
us as long as the stars shine and the waters flow.”

Scarcely had we recovered from the excitement
of this scene when Henry returned with his farmer

and Sandy. His first impulse was to pursue
the men who had trespassed on his grounds
with a belligerent purpose; but, after due explanations,
he was content to remain. He makes
himself merry with my oathless treaty, and doubts
whether it will remain in force as long as that of
William Penn, ratified under the sacred oak at
Kensington. He says my enthusiasm for the
aborigines, which has been with him a matter of
ridicule, will now intrench itself anew since my
son is installed a chieftain. Yet the prevailing
sentiment in our souls is praise to Him who
averted a danger that might have left our happy
home a smouldering ruin of desolation and blood.
May the lives thus spared be more perfectly devoted
to the Giver of all our mercies.

Letters from our first far-off home are now
necessarily like angel visits, “few and far between.”
Every parcel is opened with a tremulous
hand. Still, they have all continued to speak
the sweet language of health and happiness.
Good news, and cheerful words of themselves
and to us, come from dear mother, and Mary
Ann and Edgar, her blessings, who do all in
their power for her comfort and that of the beloved
grandfather. Her last epistle had a postscript

from his own hand, bearing, amid all his
feebleness, traces of that clear, bold, elegant penmanship
by which in earlier years he was distinguished.

“When you drove away from our door (it
says), I thought you and the child the most
beautiful objects that my eyes ever beheld. You
drove away, and I shall never see you more in
this life. Your husband says he will bring you
to visit us. But I shall not be here. `Ye shall
seek me in the morning, but I shall not be.'

“Yet when I meet you among the angels of
God, I shall know you by that same smile of
love and grief which was on your brow when you
said farewell. The grief will have faded, but the
love will be there forever. By that shall I know
you. So give diligence, that we may meet no
more to part in the mansions the Savior hath prepared
for those who are faithful unto death.”

Monday, January 1st, 1821.

Almighty Creator, who never forgettest those
whom Thou hast made; compassionate Savior,
who for our sakes wert content to be crucified;
Spirit of light and power, prompter of right
thoughts in hearts unholy, accept the consecration
that I make of the whole frame of my nature,
this mortal body, this living mind, this undying
soul—the babe, dearer than all—deign to
accept the unreserved offering. Endue what is
thus yielded with new strength for thy continued
service. Let life mingle with every duty—such
life as the heart gives when it flows out and
quickens the deed.

Suffer us—my soul's companion and myself—
to cherish no undue expectations or anxieties for
aught that hath root in earth. Placed here to
do Thy will, to strive to conform ourselves to
Thine image, let us not swerve from the true
heavenward path. Teach us so to number our
days as to apply our hearts unto wisdom; so to
see and revere Thee in all things, in every passing
event, in every fleeting enjoyment, that the
year on which this first cloudless morning breaks
may be a blessed waymark amid the memories
of heaven.

To have but few books is an advantage. They
are better prized, more thoroughly read, more frequently
meditated upon and talked about, so that
their contents are more likely to be appropriated
or their wise suggestions adopted. What we
considered a privation, because we could bring
with us but a small selection, may therefore
prove a gain. From the luxury of periodical literature
we are indeed excluded; but important
intelligence reaches us after a while, and the habit
of much miscellaneous reading, though it may entertain,
does not strengthen or discipline the mind.
Whoever reads without the intention of remembering—indeed,
what it is impossible to remember
and logically arrange, will find his retentive power
growing inert, as masses of ill-assorted food
impair digestion.

How the magic of correspondence softens the
pain of separation. Every package of letters from
the East brings the loved circle around us. Rivers
and mountains no longer divide us. We sit
among them and hear their voices. We speak
and are answered. Our habit of writing a little
every day of whatever occurs, and sending the
sheets when they are filled, gives much of the

freshness of living intercourse, and an indwelling
with each other, as though we led our existence
in two places. Is not this sort of double life a
gain? a multiplication of sympathies? Continually
I bless my dear Father in Heaven for His
protecting care of our earliest home, and that His
mantle over all its inmates is love.

Is there any thing like the ringing laugh of an
innocent, happy child? Can any other music so
echo through the heart's inner chambers? It is
sympathetic, too, beyond other melodies. When
the father sits absorbed over his book, which
seems to concentrate every faculty, he hearts little
Willie laughing in his sports, and laughs also,
he knows not wherefore. The bright being, continually
gathering intelligence, casts around us
gems of thought and pearls of affection, till our
paths seem paved with precious stones from heaven's
treasury. No day of storms is dark where
he is, no wintry evening long. We had neither
of us fully realized what a full fountain of delight
a young child is to the house and heart until separated
as we have been this winter from accustomed
and extraneous sources of enjoyment.

Why do we not think and speak more frequently
of the invisible company around us? Are we
not assured that, hovering over us, they take
charge of us in all our ways? that they bear us
up in their hands, lest we dash our foot against
a stone? Stood they not by my dear Lord,
strengthening him amid the horrors of Gethsemane?
Shall we not strive to be in unison with
that heavenly host who watch for our good, with
“only this veil of flesh between?” Shall no
strain of gratitude flow forth to them for all their
ministry of patience?

We often speak to each other of that night
when we pitched our tent in the wilderness. The
strange, stirring events that marked it broke up
for the time its impression of sublimity; but it
has since returned to us like the imagery of a
grand, solemn picture. The primeval forest,
touching the black sky; the white, speck-like
tent, nestled at its feet; the red watch-fire, with
its glimmering shadows; the gliding forms that
fed it with fresh fuel, or stood as armed sentinels
at our postern. Once the great moon looked
through a torn cloud, as though she said, “What
do ye here?” and his herself. The life that was
around us seemed strange and unfriendly. The

cry of the boding owl, the bay of the prowling
wolf, and now and then a mysterious sound—was
it the blast smiting the gnarled branches, or the
distant whoop of the blood-seeking Indian? Yet
there we stretched ourselves to sleep and rose up
unharmed. We were girded with needful courage,
and God was near.

Orra, our dark-browed child, is exceedingly
useful. I scarcely see how we could have done
without this gift of the forest, or, rather, of Him
who planted the forest. She learns readily, and
promises to become expert with the needle. She
is desirous of being able to read, and her instruction
keeps up the pleasant old habits of teaching.
Her overwhelming love of the child, and his reciprocity,
with the gratitude for her home which
she continually evinces, gives her a place in my
affection, and in that of the whole family.

It is amusing to see with what miserable accommodations
some of the surrounding inhabitants
are satisfied. Almost like a mushroom the
log-house rises. The growing tree of to-day may
find itself to-morrow part and parcel of the roof
that shelters a family, a fixture in the wall where

the board is spread and the cradle rocks, or hammered
into the shrine of the Lares and Penates.
With the Eastern people, however poor, there is
a laborious effort to add to their internal comforts.
Compelled to bring but few with them,
they never rest until they have obtained more, or
conformed in some measure to the habitudes of
early life; but the native dwellers are content.
They are satisfied to take their food from maple
blocks, or to sit at the table on stumps of basswood.
Free and easy are they; and if any improvement
is suggested, they say, “This way
will do a while. I reckon we'll try it a section.”
Great are they at borrowing. Orra sometimes
brings their requests with amazement.

“Will mistress lend her rolling-pin, her chopping-tray,
her tea-kettle?”

A large woman came this morning for a washtub,
which she took upon her head as if it were
an egg-shell; but, suddenly returning, said,

“I forgot to borrie some knives and forks, and
a platter big enough to hold the meat and saase
too, cause we expect a stranger-man to dinner.”

With as much readiness as they request will
they oblige. The simplicity of their colonial life
induces a fellow-feeling not known where the ceremonious
and artificial prevail. Still, civilization
and refinement make advances, and progress, in

many respects, comes onward with such a whelming
tide that these regions can not long be called
young or new. What is entirely essential to the
women who emigrate hither is a spirit of bravery
and cheerfulness. The burden of the childrens'
quaint old song would be a fitting motto for them,
“Come with a good-will or not at all.” Come
with a determination to bear up boldly, to despise
trifles, to take part in every duty with a
smiling face, and, when things do not go to your
mind, see if you can not find a bright side, or
“some soul of goodness in them,” and all will
go well enough.

I have found a new, great pleasure — riding
on horseback with my baby. I can do it now
quite well, though it required a little practice to
keep him steadily balanced and feel at ease myself.
He is never so gayly happy as on these excursions.
He pats the horse's neck and kisses
his white nose ere we mount. Then his bright
eyes look on every object so inquiringly as we
pass along, and his clear tones weave themselves
into music. He seems as a brother to the birds
and the springing flowers. For my own part, I
was never half as happy in the most luxurious
coach. Oh no! Methinks the noble steed that

bears us onward has almost human intelligence.
The slightest expression of my will controls him,
and he seems to take part in our satisfactions.
Where wheels are unable to pass we career safely,
with an exulting consciousness of strength
and power. We make friendship with the trees
that overshadow us, through whose parted boughs
we see the blue, arching skies, and the fleecy
clouds, like a great unfolded flock, following the
crook of their shepherd. The fresh breeze that
uplifts us is but another name for health, and the
untamed earth speaks of Him who made it. Who
calls it solitude? More fully peopled is it than
the haunts of fashion. There, the heart, among
crowds, might feel alone; but not here, with the
happy young soul that is a part of your own,
and in the great, glorious temple of the beneficent
Father of the soul.

In one of our equestrian excursions—Willie
and I—we overtook a lady who removed hither
from the South, and resides within a few miles of
our habitation. Every body here knows every
body; so I told her my name and my baby's, and
we were as sociable as new settlers always are.
In every community where mutual needs keep the
tide of sympathy open, useless ceremony is thrown

overboard. She had been brought up amid refinement
and luxury, but conforms herself to their
absence with an unbroken spirit and a gayety that
borders on wit. She said that, for a long time
after their arrival, her very small house, with the
exception of two rooms, had no flooring save of
earth. The walls had no plastering, and over
head were the open rafters. Being at a great
distance from carpenters, they were for months
without even an outer door. A counterpane hung
up was their only barrier, and the mode of forming
partitions between the apartments.

One night, while her husband was from home,
she was kept waking by an unfamiliar sound.

“What is that?” said she to his sister, who
had been longer a dweller in this newly-settled
region.

“What's what? I don't hear any thing,” she
replied, slowly waking from a deep slumber.

“There is something. Listen! listen! It is
like the barking of a hoarse dog, and yet not
quite like it.”

Whereupon she imitated, as well as she was
able, a growling, suffocating sound, and the sister,
quietly turning to sleep again, answered,

“Oh, that's nothing but wolves.”

Nothing but wolves, indeed! and no fastening
to the fold. Who knows but what, in default

of lambs or chickens, they might make a meal
of the human inmates?

“At length,” said the lively lady, “winter
drew on, and it was right cold. I was told that
we should have our outside door by Christmas.
The day before Christmas came, but no front
door. My husband was absent, and the carpenter
lived several miles from us. I saw no way
but to go and stir up his memory. The snow
was deep, and I mounted an ox-sled and arrived
at his premises. It was not finished, but I told
him it must be, and should not go until it was;
then he worked right smart, and I helped him to
drive some of the nails. Before dark I reached
home, riding upon my front door; and I never
had a pleasanter Christmas gift in my life,” said
she, with a ringing laugh, as she parted from us
and cantered away on her homeward path through
the forest.

It was longer than usual since Willie had been
out on his favorite horse. Seeing him pass the
window, he so earnestly besought in his sweet
way, “Please, oh please, dear mamma,” that I
could not but indulge him. Noticing every passing
object, the playful lamb or the leaping squirrel,
he prattled in his own broken way to his

heart's content, and then relapsed into a quiet
reverie, varied by that tuneful, monotonous murmur,
the precursor of slumber. On our return
we were overtaken by quite a heavy shower.
Drawing up under the thick boughs of a lofty
ash, and throwing over our heads an extra shawl,
which I carried at my saddle-bow, we were comfortably
sheltered, and enjoyed the scene. The
child was pleased with our temporary umbrella,
and with the patter of the falling drops, whose
superflux the higher leaves shed down upon the
lower with a quivering pleasure, as if they had
discovered what man was divinely taught, that
“it is more blessed to give than to receive.”

Then came a rich red bird, and sat upon a
dancing spray, and poured forth the melody that
thrills those winged hearts after a fresh vernal
rain. Willie was delighted, and, while clapping
his little white hands and gazing upward, he espied,
through an opening in the thicket, the arch
of a glorious rainbow. The rapture that had
kindled his blue eye suddenly was mingled with
awe as he whispered,

“God's picture, mamma—God's greatie picture.”

Would that some limner or sculptor might
have caught the expression on that innocent face.
The holy delight of the upraised eye was sublime.

Methought He who had made that bow
the promise of hope to a drowning world was
touching with its penciled rays the admiring
new-born soul; and the mother's bowed heart
said to itself, “Behold! thou hast nurtured an
angel, and knew it not.”

Poor little Willie! Poor little Willie! I could
better have borne to yield him back whence he
came than to see him suffer. Might it but have
pleased his Heavenly Father to have taken his
own, like some transplanted flower, that I need
not have looked upon the struggle with the Destroyer,
and the ghastly white settling over those
cheeks of rose.

Short and sharp was the way, dear lamb, to
thy Shepherd and the fold of rest.

Fearfully rapid are these Western bilious diseases.
In perfect health, in the midst of his
plays, he was smitten. The remedies which we
brought with us, which had always been successful
in similar attacks, utterly failed. The nearest
physician was at the last township where we
paused on our journey. The distance, which
then occupied two days, was quickly surmounted

by Sandy riding at full speed, and not staying
for darkness. In the same manner they returned.
The first glance of the medical man was as a sentence
of death. He approved every measure that
had been pursued, but added, “There is nothing
more to be done.”

“Nothing to be done!” Indeed, there is much
to be done. To lay him in the arms of the Great
Being that reclaimeth him with undoubting trust.
Not without tears. That he requireth not. He
knoweth that we are but dust; yet, having said
in our prayers from the beginning that our babe
was a lent treasure, having signed him with the
baptismal water as belonging unto God, why are
we so little prepared to take this cup that He
giveth, and drink it in peace?

Can the last scene ever fade from my heart?
When light at noonday began to forsake his eyes,
he said in loud, clear tones,

“Orra, Amy, bring a candle.”

Supposing himself going to his nightly rest, he
began his accustomed prayer,

“Our Father, who art—” But breath failed
him.

Recovering himself after a while, he murmured,

“Good-night, mamma.”

Then there was a struggle and convulsion.
Life kept strong hold of the beautiful clay. He
gasped, with sorrow on his sweet brow,

“Don't cry, dear papa.”

His lips turned ashy pale. We thought them
sealed forever; but from the deep slumber he
opened widely once more those large blue eyes,
whispering his cradle epithet,

“Come, greatie-papa.”

An ineffable brightness passed over his face, a
blessed smile settled there, and the babe of two
summers was at rest with God.

Thy funeral, my own darling, nurtured at my
bosom. Thy funeral! And still I live.

We have chosen Willie's grave where he best
loved to play, an expanse of smooth, rich turf,
overshadowed by lofty trees. It is in sight of
my own window, just where he gathered the first
grass and buds of the season, and brought them,
a simple offering, to his mother. Would that she
might, with the same confiding love, lay her stainless
blossom upon the altar.

It was near the sunset of a cloudless day when
our small procession wound its way from the vine-clad
porch to the open grave. Faithful Sandy,
suffused with tears, bore the body in its little
coffin, white buds in the fair hands, white buds
on the pure brow and bosom. Following the
parents was poor Orra, the farmer and his wife,
and two families recently removed to this region,
who joined us in this our affliction.

Coming forward to the brink of the pit, the
beautiful face uncovered at his feet, the father
read the sublime burial service of the Church of
England. How holy was every word. How
touching the inflections of that voice, striving to
quell the tide of parental anguish, and reach the
majestic devotion of one called for the time to act
as a priest of God. A strength not his own upheld
him until the close. At the last words his
voice faltered, and, falling on his knees by my
side, he covered his face with his hands till the
last work was over. Orra, who had stood motionless
as a statue, listening to the blessed words
of the resurrection and the life, threw herself on
the finished mound with wild, passionate cries,
and long refused to leave it.

Oh, let us gather up the blessings that spring
from the grave of our child, that our hearts perish
not. It was a blessing to have had him with us so long, a type of what angels are. Was not his
an angel's ministry to us all, calling forth our
best affections—our most hallowed services?
“Burned not our hearts within us while he talked
with us by the way?”

It was a blessing to have enjoyed the comfort
of loving him—to have been able to love him so
much. Should we regret that we loved him as
our own lives? Would that I had been able to have loved him more. He was worthy of it; he
came from God to teach us this new, great love;
he has gone back to the land of perfect love.

Is it not a blessing that he has gone thither
ere the world had changed his innocent joy and
bowed his soul to sin? Ere the battle was fought,
in which he might have fallen, the victory has
been given him. “Thanks be unto God for His
unspeakable gift.”

I constrain my own grief lest it should increase
that of my husband. I had no idea before what
the mourning of a strong man might be. Sometimes
the tide of anguish swells so high that I
have feared it might sweep reason away. Through

the day he pursues his necessary avocations and
directs his men, though without his former interest;
but his nightly weepings are as one cast
out of God.

My poor husband gets but little quiet sleep.
I watch for the deep breathing that announces it,
as I used of old to listen for the music-strain.
Last night it fell gently on my ear, and I blessed
our Father in heaven; but at the rayless midnight
he started as from a terrific dream, exclaiming,

“I am a sinner above all men. Pride and the
spirit of accumulation ruled my heart. I called
it a father's prudence. It was not so. Now my
idol is broken in the grave, and my heart with it.”

I tried to vindicate the integrity of his motives,
and spoke of God's great goodness to us, and to
our child who had gone to Him.

“Let me speak out. Let me tell the whole
truth. Promising solemnly to protect and cherish
you, I have torn you from the paradise where
you were so happy, from refined society, from
hearts that are now bursting for your loss. I
have brought you to a waste, howling wilderness,
to a land uninhabited, and hardened with labor
those beautiful hands that were a model for the

sculptor. All this I have done to make my son
richer than others when I should pass away. I
have sacrificed you to my own unhallowed ambition;
yet you have never reproached me, no, not
by a look. If you had, perhaps this self-loathing
might be less deep.”

To my repeated assurance that I would go with
him to the world's end, and be happy if I might
but see him so—that what he calls privation is
counted as nothing by a love stronger than death,
he replies, in the same mournful voice,

“Always looking on the bright side, my own
love—always, like the angel standing in the sun,
having no shadow of earth. But I seem to have
given my hand to the powers of darkness.”

Then he goes on, speaking of every folly of
his past life, which he calls before him in full
array, magnifying them, and making himself as
blamable as possible. He seems to find relief
in this self-crimination. It is in vain to attempt
to stay its tide. The Everlasting Father, whose
mercies are over all His works, sanctify this agonizing
compunction, which He alone is able to
take away.

Among men, Henry is, as formerly, a man
clear-minded and of a ruling spirit. But when

we are by ourselves, and the excitements of the
day are over, his voice is so ineffably mournful
when he laments our lost son and his own unworthiness.

Great Ruler of our being, deign from this rayless
darkness to bring forth my beloved into Thy
marvelous light. My whole life is a prayer for
this.

That little billow upon the green sward!
White blossoms begin to crest it. I see it when
I rise in the morning. The moon silvers it with
long penciled rays. My child! my child!

After anguish that seemed interminable, a
blessed change has passed over my adored husband.
No longer he repines at the Divine allotments.
No longer he calls himself of all men
most miserable. A serene peace is in his soul
and upon his brow. Meekly he rejoices in those
daily blessings which for a time he had lost the
power to recognize. Night and morning he summons
his whole household to the heartfelt orison.
At every repast he bows his head for a blessing.
Continually he now seeks the spiritual as well as

temporal good of those around. This is the Lord's
doing; it is marvelous in our eyes. I would be
still, as one who had seen Him walking among
the tops of the trees, and sending down his white-winged
messengers with the gift of salvation.

The settlement is enlarging itself beyond our
most sanguine hopes. Here and there, sometimes
in spots where they might have been least
expected, rises the roof of the emigrant. Volumes
of blue, curling smoke mingle gracefully
with the solemn groves. I am amazed at the
mushroom vitality with which they spring up
and finish themselves. In less time than is allotted
to the digging of a Yankee cellar, walls
are upreared, floors laid, children's heads peep
out at the windows, and the bee-hive work of
busy life goes on. It is true, they do not, as the
Scotch say, “fash themselves” with much decoration
or any great array of what we call creature
comforts, but all the purposes of hardy,
healthful existence seem accomplished. In due
time there will doubtless be progress in what is
more refined. “First the blade, then the ear,
then the ripe corn in the ear.”

My husband has solaced himself by erecting
a little chapel. He felt that our increasing population
should not be without a place for the worship
of God. Its pointed roof among the dark foliage
is beautiful. It stands near our baby's bed,
and casts a protecting shadow over it. The renovated
father calls it the “first-fruits from his grave.”

The first Sunday in our new chapel. Henry
had arranged it with all the scrupulous neatness
and taste that the materials which we could command
permitted. With the most reverent manner,
and his perfect elocution, he read the service
of the Episcopal Church, and a simple sermon
from a volume in our small library. The audience
was larger than we expected, and deeply attentive.
The selected hymns were adapted to
familiar old tunes, and sustained by a few sweet
voices. We hope by practice to make this devout
music, and the chants also, sit on the lips,
and lift the souls of all who are gathered here.
My husband intends to continue this sacred service
every Sabbath, Deo volente, until a regular
clergyman shall be called to minister at the altar.
May a blessing descend upon his own soul from
Him who despiseth not the lowliness of the temple
or the worshiper, but looketh upon the heart.

Doth not grief ripen the character? Are not
some of the Christian graces watered by tears?
I have read of a gardener who, in cultivating a
pomegranate, found its strength was expending
itself too much in leaves, and, by cutting the
stalk almost through, caused it to bring forth
fruit.

A poor young Irish woman, who, with her husband,
came as farm-servants to a family recently
removed hither, has lost her babe. I went to see
the stranger, moved by the strong sisterhood of
a like sorrow. She was convulsed with weeping,
and told me at broken intervals how beautiful
he was.

“If he could only jist have been buried in his
own swate home, with the wake and the grandmother's
tears to keep his grave green, it would
not have been so bad. Och hone! but now here
he is in the wild woods.”

I suggested that it would be a comfort to her
to visit his little bed, which she could not have
done had he died on the voyage and been buried
in the deep.

“Then the fishes would have ate him; and
here 'twill be the crawling land-beasts. And we

got ye through all the throuble of the ship and
the bad storms jist for this, ye darlint. Oh!
what for did ye die?”

I began to despair of comforting her. But, as
I was going, she seized my hand as with a lion's
grasp, exclaiming,

“Oh, but ye're kind and good, so ye be; for,
indade, there's a tear in your own eye. I see it.”

With what a holy charm God's consecrated
day steals over us, like an angel's pinion. It
makes a pause in the world's discordant song.
To the throng of cares it says, like the kingly
patriarch, “Abide ye here, while I go yonder to
worship.” It uplifts from earth the powers that
were not lent to die there; it inspires new
strength for coming duties; it brings armor for
unknown trials; it soothes the spirit into patience,
that it may have victory. Never have I
so fully realized its influence as in this little unpretending
chapel, surrounded by humble companions,
divested of all pomp of ritual, confessing
with one voice to Him whom they worship that
“they have erred and strayed from His ways
like lost sheep.” Sometimes their earnest humility
of devotion suggests the thought that
“such the Father chooseth to worship Him,”

when not “many mighty, not many rich, not
many noble are called.”

Is it possible that I shall never look again
upon the beauty of that venerable brow? My
blessed grandfather, standing ever to me in the
place of a departed parent, how dear thou wert
to me! dearer for thy silver locks, the dignity of
thy saintly age, the child-like confidence with
which, in advancing years, thou didst rely upon
those whom once thy strength protected. Alas!
wherever I go, whatever I do, a voice of lamentation
is flowing through my soul.

His last letter was so cheerful, who could have
thought that the change was so near? He had
mourned much for little Willie, his namesake
and idol; but the sorrow had gone by, and he
spoke of him only as a lamb in the fold of the
Chief Shepherd. Life brightened until its latest
drop mingled with that River of God which is
clear as crystal. His transition was with brief
warning. So he wished it to be.

“Sing, my own daughter, sing! Give me
back, with the hymn that I love, to the God of
love. Gently hath He led me all my days.”

Sweet messages he sent us and other friends—
flowers cast back from heaven's gate as he entered.

“There is no fear in death. Perfect love
taketh it away. He maketh the valley light.
Henceforth there is no more darkness.”

Radiant grew his features, as if youth had returned.
Raising his eyes, he murmured for the
last time, like the tuneful cadence of a harp,

“Give praise! give praise!”

And so he departed.

Now my blessed mother will come to us. She
will dwell under our own roof. We shall be sundered
no more. Have I ever before written words
so full of joy? Shall not the whole of my life
below be one unmixed strain of gratitude to God?

My dear husband is so delighted at the coming
of my mother. Had he been nurtured at her
breast, he could not more perfectly participate in
my feelings. Continually he is forming plans to
promote her convenience and comfort. He is
constructing two additional apartments, that she
may have the consciousness that a portion of the
house is peculiarly her own. When she has
completed her necessary business, Edgar will accompany
her a part of the way, until Henry
meets and takes charge of her in the public
coaches as far as their route coincides with ours;
then faithful Sandy, in our own carriage, will
convey the precious travelers to this peaceful rural
abode. Constantly am I now devising or executing
something to accommodate or give her
pleasure. Is it indeed true that I shall see that
serene, heavenly face here, in this room, under
these trees? Fly swiftly, intervening moments!
Beating heart, be still!

I am thankful that we have been enabled to
do something to improve the premises, originally
so rude, ere my mother saw them. The inclosed
grounds in the immediate vicinity of the house
might seem to have really been under longer cultivation.
Fruit-trees have been set out, a garden
of esculents is in full prosperity, vines encircle
the rustic piazza and trellises, and a rich morning-glory,
from home-seeds, looks in at my window.
Immense flocks of poultry flourish in their
own proper domain; beautiful cows add healthful
luxuries to our table; fine horses are ready to bear
us wherever the still improving roads invite. On
every one of these objects I now look with an
interest unknown before, saying perpetually in
my heart, my mother will see, my mother will
share them.

Sandy, who has remarkable constructiveness,
has made, out of common boards, sofas, toilet-tables,
and a variety of seats, which, with the aid of
Orra's needle, I have covered with rich, highly-glazed
chintz. Recently, also, we have been able
to procure pretty paper for our walls; and Henry,
who determined, soon after our arrival, to have
carpets, procured them at a great expense of

transportation, so that I hope my dear mother
may find her Western home not comfortless, nor
wholly devoid of taste.

My blessed husband has left me to meet our
mother. I would fain have gone with him,
but he feared the fatigue for me. I count the
intervening hours, and talk with them. Every
parting one I thank, for it has brought them
nearer. Every opening one I charge to take upward
my supplication for their safety. I think
it was a rule of the excellent Bishop Taylor at
the striking of every clock to lift up the heart for
a blessing on the new-born hour, and for strength
faithfully to discharge all its duties in the fear of
God. Such a numbering of our hours would,
indeed, insure the growth of wisdom.

The last day of expectation. I keep myself
employed as much as possible in little services for
the comfort of the darling travelers. Still, I am
ashamed to say that the hours seem interminable.

As sunset approached, I walked forth, hoping
to meet them. Twilight found me thus roaming

and listening for the sound of wheels. At early
eventide, having assured myself for the twentieth
time that every article was in readiness for their
refreshment, I caused the whole house to be lighted,
that through the vistas and arches of the
groves every window might be to them as a star.

They have come! they have come! the two
dearest beings on earth — my all the world.
Paler and thinner is she, but with the same serene
brow and soul of love. Henry put us in
each other's arms, and wrapped his own around
both. It was no time for words. Poor, poor
words!

Faithful Amy stood waiting for some token of
recognition, the tears upon her cheeks. Warm
was our welcome of the good creature to her new
home. She and the kind forest girl will be congenial
companions. Sandy, too, who had borne
an active part in bringing these treasures, was
comprehended in our congratulations.

It cheered me that my mother was pleased
with the spreading of a Western table. With me

there is a certain sort of pride, and innate independence,
that most of its viands are of our own
production. I can now understand the exultation
of Dioclesian over the cabbages which he
had reared. We have, indeed, a commendable
variety; our sense of abundance is as limitless
as the soil we cultivate, and what we miss of foreign
luxury we perhaps gain in health. It gratified
our dear observer to see that we mingled
with the simple life of new settlers attention to
neatness and order, and some attempts at the
taste of those more refined habitudes in which
we had been educated.

Inexpressibly sweet was our united worship
that first night of meeting. Bowed down with a
weight of gratitude, chastened by a mutual grief,
bound together by links of love, sustained by
faith in Him who died for us, most precious were
“the means of grace and the hope of glory.”
Music was with us too, in her fervent simplicity.
Our small household had been duly trained to
the melody of the devout old tunes, and the voice
of my mother, on whose knee I learned them in
lisping infancy, had lost none of its warbling pathos.
We sang the hymn that our departed patriarch
loved, “There is a land of pure delight,”

and his favorite chant, “Blessed be the Lord God
of Israel, who hath visited and redeemed His
people.” The memory of those who were once
with us around our two family altars melted our
hearts; but the chastened tear had lost its bitterness.
Some above and some below, joined
they not still in the same symphony of praise?
A deeper lowliness had been gathered from our
sorrows, befitting creatures of the dust; yet,
guided by the Divine strength of our religion, we
could trust to be made heirs of glory when this
brief probation closes. At retiring, methought
there was on every countenance, in different degrees,
some expression caught from that passage
of inspiration so adapted to the weariness, the bereavement,
and the trust of our earthly natures,
“He giveth His beloved sleep.”

Exhaustless are our themes of discourse, my
mother and myself. Side by side we pursue the
employments of the day; hand in hand we seat
ourselves when they are over. Each hour supplies
some description of what occurred during
our separation, some bright sunbeam flashes over
the disk of memory, some silver ray of moonlight
lingers there, or some tearful cloud passes, leaving
its blessed rainbow. Even the silences that sometimes

settle upon us are understood and enjoyed.
This perfect confidence is precious. It seems always
due to the being who has borne so much
for us. I can scarcely imagine how it should
ever be otherwise between a mother and daughter.
Henry is unspeakably cheered by it. He says
he can now leave upon his necessary avocations
without anxiety for my loneliness or pressure of
care. When he returns, the gladness of a double
welcome awaits him, and his tender consideration
as a son heightens his honor as a husband; so a
new tide of joy flows over our peaceful habitation.
We know that its fountain is above. The heart
of our servants is made glad by it. We delight
to see their faces decked with smiles, and to know
that their willing aid is rendered from love. Can
we ever be unmindful of Him whose “mercies
are thus new every morning, fresh every moment?”

The good, kind creature, Amy, is teaching my
forest child all the best modes of household work
and attendance. I could not be myself so perfect
a trainer. She finds a docile pupil, and their
zeal is wonderful. They keep my house and table
in speckless sanctity, and every window as clear
as crystal. Not content with former limits, they

explore new ground with a sort of patriotic ardor.
They have obtained permission to take one of
the finest cows from the farmer, whose wife has
charge of the dairy, that the golden butter for our
own board may be made and stamped in the most
approved fashion. Moreover, they have set up a
spinning-wheel, of a wondrous brisk, monotonous
chorus, and a reel, whose sharp snap makes one
start like a pistol, to supply some deficiency in
what the Scotch call “napery.” It is pleasant
to see such an active partnership so amicably
conducted. It is founded on love, and that desire
for the general good that makes industry
thrice blessed. I trust, also, that the fear of
God mingles with their fidelity. We all feel it
a privilege to be served from such motives. Having
been through life thus indulged, it would be
to me a serious trial to depend on hirelings, where
pecuniary gain is the only acting motive, and who
mete out sullen service without a consenting heart.

We have stood together by the spot where
Willie slumbers. With him the bitterness of
death hath passed; with us, the keen anguish of
sorrow. Birds poured deep melodies from the
trees around. Oh, winged child, dost thou hear
and answer them?

A little stone of the purest marble marks his
rest. The loving father has caused to be engraved
upon it his mother's lines:

Through the influence of my mother's heaven-born
piety, we are learning to speak of our dead
not as the heathen do. Freed are they from the
temptations which life might have brought them,
from the misery of breathing on through weary
years after the light of mind has departed. No
“leap in the dark” have they made, but through
the lighted valley gone peacefully to the loving
Redeemer. They have exchanged earth's soiled
garments for the white robe of immortality. The
victor's palm has been given them. Would we
take it away? Would we force them back?
Would we repine that they have entered before
us the gates of the celestial city? Should we
not rather praise the hand that has earlier drawn
them from the tossing of the deluge, and which,
from the window of the ark, is still stretched forth
for us? Should we not give higher thanks for
that part of our family who are at rest, over whom

no change can pass, whose feet may never fall, nor
their treasures fleet away? Yes, let us praise
God for them, and take earnest heed so to walk
that we fail not to meet them at last, a family in
heaven.

The poetical element, like the religious one, is
a source of happiness. It may be so cultivated
as to soothe suffering, to refine enjoyment, and to
sublimate our whole nature. I speak of only the
very limited measure in which I have been enabled
to taste it. Those who have taken deeper
draughts can better set forth its Bethesda properties;
but often throughout my not yet very
long life have I thus apostrophized the spirit of
poetry:

Tuesday, January 1st, 1822.

Great Maker of the universe, all worlds, all
systems are Thine. They keep the order that
Thou hast established, and hearken unto the
voice of Thy word. All their countless habitants
are Thine. In Thee they live, and move,
and have their being.

Yet Thou dost not overlook us on this poor
planet—we who, like moths, flutter a moment and
disappear. Atoms of dust, how are we worthy
to come into remembrance before Thee? Not
worthy; but we have an Advocate with whom
Thou art well-pleased. We would hide ourselves
in Him. Not worthy; yet in the richness
of Thy great mercy Thou dost listen to our
supplications. Thou art even more ready to
hear than we to speak. Blessed be Thy name
that we are not left to build our faith upon the
shifting sands, the broken cisterns, the fleeting
dews of human goodness.

Oh, teach us to pray. What the disciples besought
of Jesus while still in His presence, within
the sound of His voice, much greater need
have we to ask, who are so far away from both.
Lord, teach us to pray with the concentration of

every faculty, with entire homage of the soul,
with love stronger than death.

We believe that there is within us a hope that
can not die. Thou hast planted it. Crown it
in Thine appointed time with the glory which
Thou hast laid up for those that love Thee, which
the eye of man hath not looked upon, nor his
heart conceived. So, uplifted by Thine immutable
promise, leaning on Thine omnipotent arm,
striving to leave nothing undone which Thou
hast commanded us to do, may we pass on this
beautiful pilgrimage till the whisper of the death-angel
summons us, and we are at home with Thee.

In the vision of an immense temple, which,
with its minute admeasurement, is described by
one of the prophets, he mentions, among the ornaments
upon the walls and massy doors, palm-trees
and cherubims alternately placed: “so that
a palm-tree was between a cherub and a cherub.”
Did these beautiful objects, in their fair order,
shadow forth the peace of earth and the music of
heaven? mutely enforcing that

Henry is busying himself with a good and
great plan. It occupies his thoughts and conversation.
It is to lease, at low prices, small
portions of his lands to industrious settlers, for
whom he will put up simple but convenient tenements,
keeping in view a pleasant degree of external
uniformity. Afflicted as he has been, he
says he renounces the desire of becoming rich,
but will enrich his country as far as he is able by
a thrifty, meritorious population. He is determined
to admit only such as have a correct moral
character, and are willing to work. His wish is
that they should derive subsistence for their families,
or the principal part of it, from their leased
lands, and to furnish employment on his own, at
fair wages, for such time as they can spare. To
that end he is to devote large expanses to the
culture of grain, lest their own element of bread
should fall short, and to cover his pastures with
sheep, whose fleeces will be salable in distant
markets. He contemplates, also, that each household,
according to its ability, should sustain domestic
manufactures for the supply of its own
coarser and necessary fabrics. Sandy is entranced
with delight at being told a Scottish
weaver has decided to come, and I have been almost
equally uplifted at hearing that a physician
and merchant from our own native region may be

expected, each of whom are also to take a glebe
for cultivation. Henry, with his ardent fancy, already
sees this Laconian community in full operation,
and intends to offer agricultural and horticultural
premiums at the earliest possible opportunity.
But his colony is not Utopian, for
applications have been already made, though he
wisely examines credentials so scrupulously ere
he accepts, that it will scarcely increase too rapidly
to be healthful. I tell my lord of the manor
that I have also some private ambitious views to
gratify, and foresee among the children who will
thus come together materials for such a kind of
school as cheered our dear old home. He assures
me that I shall be advanced to the honor
of domineering over them for one afternoon in
the week, but that his plan, when completed, comprises
a school-house and regular teacher, as well
as a clergyman and church. May God grant
him life and strength to mature his designs, for I
am sure they spring from unselfish motives and
a pure patriotism. If his purposes and prayers
could be perfectly illustrated, he would, in the
words of the eloquent prophet, “make the wilderness
an Eden, and the desert a garden of the
Lord.”

I believe home-happiness to be the secret of
national prosperity. Men who have not this
fountain of peace, this wing of love folded around
them, are more ready for “treasons, stratagems,
and spoils.” Herein is the patriotism of woman
and her privilege. Not to wrestle at the ballot-box;
not to shout in popular assemblies; not to
steer the ship through the blackening tempest,
nor sound the trumpet for the battle-field, but
to cheer and charm at board and hearth-stone;
to teach the sanctities of deathless affection; to
breathe heaven's melodies over the cradle-sleeper;
to fashion by holy example every soul under her
roof for a realm of harmony and peace. Homes
thus ordered, sprinkled over a land, are as dew-drops,
giving freshness and beauty; as the hidden
salt, preserving the great heaving ocean in
health and purity. Who can desire more honor
than thus to be priestess at the shrine of the
household affections till she finds her place among
“an innumerable company of angels, and spirits
of the just made perfect, whose names are written
in heaven?”

In my stated perusal of the Scriptures this
morning, I was impressed with the great beauty
of a promise in the Divine name which occurs

in the thirty-fourth chapter of Ezekiel: “I will
seek that which was lost, and bring again that
which was driven away, and bind up that which
was broken, and strengthen that which was sick.”
Methinks it would be an excellent text for a consolatory
sermon, as comprehending the prominent
varieties of human suffering with their merciful
antidotes. A passage in the thirty-seventh chapter
of the same book, at the sixteenth and seventeenth
verses, furnishes a natural foundation
for the structure of a discourse on national union,
should any dissension ever arise among these
banded states, this spreading, happy, and prosperous
family; which may our Almighty Protector
avert. The prophet from whom I have
quoted, though overshadowed in eloquence by
Isaiah, and surpassed in pathos by Jeremiah,
has occasionally great vigor and picturesque power.
He seems, also, to have been an observer
of dates, or of that minuteness in chronology
which I so much regard, as he thus records the
period of one of his visions: “In the five-and-twentieth
year of our captivity, in the tenth day
of the month, in the fourteenth year after the
city was smitten, in the self-same day, the hand
of the Lord was upon me.” Sometimes I find
striking texts which ministers seldom use. Would
not this from Kings, “Then he said, What title
is that I see? And the men of the city told him,
It is the sepulchre of the man of God,” be a good
one at the funeral obsequies of a distinguished
saintly person? And might not the solitude and
meditation which are salutary after any great affliction
be enforced by the description of Moses:
“While the cloud tarried upon the tabernacle,
remaining thereon, the children of Israel abode
in their tents?” The question of the lawless
Danites to the recreant priest of Micah, “What
makest thou in this place? and what hast thou
here?” might be made to rebuke that venal spirit
which counts the gain of money above the gain
of godliness; and the accepted prayer of Jabez,
“Oh that Thou wouldest keep me from evil, that
it may not grieve me,” shadows forth that elevation
of spirit above the ills of time which should
be sought for by those whose home and heritage
are in heaven.

People who enter on the roughnesses of Western
life will do well to divest themselves as soon
as possible of enervating associations. This is
not merely an accomplishment, but a species of
self-defense — a heart-shield. “Forgetting the
things that are behind” is essential to a brave
“pressing onward to those that are before.”

“Behold, all things are become new,” says the
wondering housekeeper, who, entering her rude
mansion, misses the carpeted floor and the marble
mantel-piece. Yes; but it is of no use to complain
or to compare. The direction to the nephew
of Abraham and his emigrating family, “Look
not back,” is appropriate to you; for, though
you might not, like his wife, in case of disobedience
be turned into a pillar of salt, you might,
perchance, become a stumbling-block to those
around, or be reminded of the regrets of the good
lady who said, “I'm a stumbling-block to myself.”
Go ahead and work. See where there is
any good to be done, and do it. Look aloft, and
gather strength, and wear the smile of the “angel
who came and sat under the oak at Ophrah while
they were threshing wheat,” or of him who found
Hagar a wanderer in the wilderness, and comforted
her.

In reading the touching narrative of the last-named
exile, who, when her slender store of water
was spent, “cast her son among the shrubs,
and sat down a good way from him, as it were a
bow-shot, saying, Let me not see the death of the
child,” I am sometimes troubled by an association
quite at war with the spirit of the scene.

It is of a picture I once saw, from a school for
embroidery, wrought out with much labor, and
many stitches in gay-colored silks. Of Hagar
and Ishmael I wish to say little, save that their
attitudes and perspective destroyed the pathos
of their condition. The principal figure was a
winged creature, descending with a huge cistern
of indigo-tinted water, whose immense curved
and twisted handles were done in a profusion of
gold thread. His back was crooked, as if in
jeopardy from the weight he bore, and under his
eyes was a thick stripe of purple, perhaps to
show that the blood settled there from over-exertion.
A distant view of a fine bay, with a
vessel under sail, completed the artist's idea of
desert scenery.

It is unfortunate when any ludicrous recollection
mingles with those sacred pages, which we
would fain regard with the highest reverence.
It is not enough that the art which seeks to illustrate
them should be honest in its purposes;
it ought to draw from a pure taste the ability
not to injure them, or debase the conceptions of
other minds; it should have some fitness and
consecration for the office, as the sons of Levi
were required to purify themselves, and put on
holy garments, ere, even in the humbler services
of the sanctuary, they were held worthy to “light
the lamps and bear the vessels of the Lord.”

In our own far home we were greatly interested
in a little deaf and dumb girl. Its babyhood
was singularly thoughtful, and the mother wondered
why it would not smile at her caressing
voice, or be soothed to sleep by her lullaby.
When old enough to speak, it mingled in the
sports of other children, but heeded not their call,
and when it was spoken to, answered not. The
poor mother was slow to admit what others discerned,
and what she perhaps inwardly believed.
To her it seemed a blemish to have borne a
child doomed to perpetual silence and ignorance.
When she could no longer conceal the fact that
the loved creature was indeed forever shut from
the world of sound and of speech, her agony was
intense. Our sympathy for her and for the little
one, who, though sprightly, was somewhat unruly
and wayward, caused us greatly to rejoice at hearing
that an institution for the instruction of deaf
mutes had been projected, and a philanthropic gentleman
sent to France to learn the system invented
by the Abbés L'Epee and Sicard. This
unique and ingenious mode of education commenced
a year or two since, under the Rev. Mr.
Gallaudet and Mr. Clerc, the latter a professor
from the Institute in Paris; and we were looking
forward with pleasure to the time when our

silent neighbor should be old enough to be sent
from home and share in its benefits. Recent intelligence
from the East announces that a fine edifice,
devoted to that purpose, has been erected at
Hartford, one of the pleasantest cities in Connecticut.
It was consecrated with solemn religious
services on the 21st of April. My dear mother,
who, warmly remembering all the circumstances
connected with the little deaf mute who had so
often sat on her knee, and whom we both vaguely
endeavored to teach by pictures and signs, exclaimed,
“The 21st of April, 1822, is a date that
should be ever bright in the annals of benevolence.”
Henry, whose mind is rich in historic
lore and its coincidences, said that the era had
been long since distinguished, the building of
Rome being announced by chronologers as on the
21st of April, 753 years before Christ. Differing
events, indeed, were those thus divided by
the solemn march of more than 2500 centuries.
One, the birth of that heathen empire, the clangor
of whose arms disturbed the world, and whose
tyrant foot trod upon the neck of kings, gathering
their meat under her table; and the other,
the quiet rising of that peaceful dome where the
dear Redeemer still says to the deafened ear and
the sealed lip what he once said when on earth to
the blinded eye, “Ephphatha—be opened.”

Cowper, in his “Task,” asserts that we might
learn, if not too proud, many good and useful lessons
from animal instructors. How true is his
remark! The dog and horse have long been authorized
teachers. To descend somewhat in the
scale of quadruped preceptorship, I have thought
that the quiet movements and noiseless footsteps
of a mouse might not be valueless models in the
nurse's chamber.

The needle, that sure friend of our sex, still
affords unabated pleasure. A stated part of each
day dear mother and myself enjoy it together,
engaged on a beautiful set of shirts for the beloved
husband and son, and reading alternately.
Orra considers it a privilege to be permitted to
sit with us and pursue her plainer work. She
also takes her turn in reading, having been diligently
instructed. She is readily adopting by
this practice a correct emphasis, without any direct
teaching except example. She is growing
a girl of rather striking appearance, with her
wealth of raven hair, a complexion not too dark
to show changes of color, a form rather more en
bon point than appertains to her race, and the
sweet, low voice, and delicately-shaped hands for

which their women are remarkable. Her mind
readily opens to knowledge, and her heart to religious
feeling. In speaking of the Author of all
our mercies and hopes, she prefers the epithet of
her own people, “The Great Spirit,” which she
always utters reverentially. Her warmth of gratitude
is intense, and might disprove the assertion,
so sweepingly made, that the “lower classes are
not susceptible of it.” I should like to have the
believer in this philosophy see her glistening eye
and expressive features when she says, as she
often does spontaneously,

“The Great Spirit gave me life. You saved
it.”

Her attachment to the memory of little Willie
is very touching. The sudden mention of
his name, the unexpected finding of any article
that he wore, or any toy he played with, calls
forth a burst of irrepressible sobs and tears.
Sometimes she steals silently to his grave, and
hides her face among the long grass there, as if
the love of that innocent being could never be forgotten
by her lone heart. These things endear
her to us, and we thank Him who enabled us to
throw our protection over this outcast daughter
of the forest.

Letters from our New England home some.
times come to cheer and keep our interests awake-Our
last convey information that dear Mary Ann
and Edgar, so long affianced in heart and congenial
in spirit, are soon to enter the holy estate of
matrimony. They have prudently waited until
he should have completed his medical studies,
and obtain a feasible prospect of establishment
in his profession. It is decided that in the course
of the present year he shall become an assistant
of his father, whose amount of business and declining
years render such a connection desirable.
Their wedding journey will be to visit us. Oh,
with what delight shall we welcome her whose
friendship from our school-days has known no
interruption or shadow of change, and who has
proved by services and sacrifices that this holy
sentiment is more than a name. Blessings be on
her true heart and that of her chosen life's companion.

Dear mother much enjoys our drives through
the forests and their fair openings, and to notice
the vigorous productions of this fertile soil. She
does not mind an occasional jolt, though Henry,
with his laborers, has made our favorite rides as
smooth as possible. One of our more distant excursions

is to the nucleus of a village, where, on
a fine, bold stream, a grist and saw-mill are in
busy operation. The latter transmutes with wondrous
rapidity immense trunks into the boards
that form our habitations.

In a small tenement adjacent is an old man,
who removed thither from New England with the
family of his son, and officiates as the Crispin of
the surrounding region. He is a happy Methodist,
and from his work-bench, which stands under
the trees, near the door, in pleasant summer days,
his voice may be heard ere you approach singing
the hymns of his sect. It is cheering to be met
in the primeval forest by the echo of such soul-strains:

He is greatly pleased when we stop to see him,
and ask for some story of his early days. To
talk is a luxury, since most of those around are
too hard-working to listen to him. He spontaneously
falls into themes connected with the
Revolution. The taking of Burgoyne, in which

he was a participator, is his chief and choice subject.

“Five-and-forty years will it be, come next
October, since that time. I was a smart young
fellow of five-and-twenty, with a long gun, which
spoke up pretty sharp and often, when there was
a good chance to take aim. To see them handsome
red-coats lay down their arms, polished just
as bright as a dollar! Oh, what a day for the
country!”

Down go last and awls, and up jumps he, if
not to “shoulder a crutch,” at least to “show
how fields were won.”

“I got a shot in my knee. I did not mind it
much, though I've limped some ever since. General
Arnold was a courageous critter, real Connecticut
born. Why, I've seen him in the battle
of Stillwater storm the enemy's works at the
head of his rigiment, and leap his horse first over
the breast-work, and fight like a dragon all alone
by himself till his men came up. The sogers
liked him, he was so darin; but he was a wicked
body, and come out at the leetle eend of the horn,
as he desarv'd to.”

One of his favorite forms of narrative is the
circumstance of some British prisoners being
quartered in his own town while he was remaining
at home in consequence of his wound.

“Fine fellows they was too, them British officers
and sogers, when you did not have to fight
'em. Plenty o' gold they had, and spent it as
free as water. The old king, George the Third,
paid his troops well, I'll say that for him. Why,
I guess the women-folks there took as much specie
from them for eggs, and chickens, and butter,
and sich-like, as their husbands got through the
whole o' the war-time; cause, you know, they was
paid in Continental money, which was no better
than rags, and finally dwindled down to nothin.”

We like to make his honest heart happy by
leading it through the past, as well as by gifts of
some article of apparel we have made for him, or
something for his palate, founded on its New England
fondnesses, which he always receives gratefully;
but the principal benefaction is that of
listening with a marked attention. They with
whom the old dwell should find time for their
recitals, for it keeps the mind from becoming
dormant; and should feel it a duty, not only to
have patience with, but to cherish the garrulity
of venerable age.

Dear little Willie! How often he glides before
me in dreams. I stretch out my arms, but
the vision mocks my embrace. I say, “Darling,

speak to mother,” but there is no sound. Yet
ever on the brow is that same sweet smile.

Oh, lamb of my bosom, still come to me,
though it be in silence and in mystery. Still
dwell beside me, though shadowy and impalpable.
When this sleep that we call life breaks,
shall we not meet, and be as one soul in thy
Shepherd's fold?

Is it not an unspeakable privilege to “live,
and move, and have a being” in God's beautiful
world? My heart is filled to overflowing with a
sense of the Divine goodness. How can I testify
the gratitude that it creates? Shall it not
be by doing good to His children according to
my ability? Are not all mankind His children?
the creatures of his power? the partakers of his
bounty? To the lowest, the most unrefined, the
maimed, the mendicant, the despised, the fallen,
I would turn with an aiding hand or a prayer of
pity, and, for my dear Savior's sake, who died to
save the lost, embrace all with the love of untiring
benevolence.

It was mentioned at our breakfast-table this
beautiful autumnal morning that it is the nineteenth

anniversary of the death of Herder. That
event took place on the 18th of October, 1803,
when he had attained the age of fifty-nine. While
composing a hymn to the Deity, every thought
uplifted and absorbed, the wheels of life ceased to
move, and he was summoned to His presence.
What a sublime transition! The last theme of
earth caught up and finished in heaven.

While conversing on this subject, a feature of
similarity was recollected in the passing away of
Poliziano, the Italian poet, more than three centuries
since. Smitten with sorrow for the death
of his munificent patron, Lorenzo de Medici, and
while fitting to his harp some elegiac verses he
had composed as a tribute to his memory, he
suddenly fell from a high flight of stairs, and received
such injury that he expired. He died at
the age of thirty-nine, the same year that America
was discovered. Though in the unwarned
departure of these poets of the Tiber and the
Rhine there is some resemblance, the contrast is
still more marked, inasmuch as the grief and
gratitude of earth are inferior to the aspirations
of saintly piety.

The circumstances in the life of Herder have
always been interesting to me. Self-made men
are especially so to us Americans, because we
have so many among us who have thus attained

distinction. The poverty of his father stimulated
his filial heart to do something toward his own
support. He sought the employment of copying
for his minister, who, discerning the talents of
the diligent boy, gave him gratuitous instruction
in the classics. The young hand, so faithful to
make every written character true and clear,
was in due time to be raised in the dignified explanations
of the professor's chair, and in the
strong eloquence of the pulpit, where he received
the appointment of court preacher. As an author
as well as theologian, he occupies a high
place in the literature of his native land. His
works on Nature have her own vividness and life;
his philosophy breathes a hopeful spirit; and
his poetry bears the varied impress of genius.
One of his most popular volumes, the “Voices
of the Nations,” has been called by a critic from
his own clime the “great song-book for all mankind.”
From the Scandinavian ices, from the
sands of Arabia, from the islands of the sea, from
the long-veiled shores of the Western world, he
has gathered characteristic harmonies, opening to
the ear of Germany the choral heart of all the
world. Among those lesser lyrical pieces I have
been pleased with the tender simplicity of an
“Esthonian Bridal Song,” which thus closes:

The wise monarch of Israel spoke to me this
morning as I perused the inspired page, and,
among other sublime teachings of the Great Being
whom we worship, said,

“He hath made every thing beautiful in its
time.”

In our highest requital of earthly hope, our
fullest measure of joy, there seems to me a hidden
proof of immortality. We are still conscious
of capacities that aspire to higher gratification.
Something that the world gives not, the soul
reaches after. Woud it thus reach if there were
nothing beyond? Would He who so wisely and
kindly proportions means to ends have implanted
such desires if there were no state of existence
in which they could be satisfied?

With me, the argument of future, unending life
is not derived so much from what is called the

insufficiency, the infirmity of human happiness,
for it often seems as if our finite nature could
bear no more than is here given us; but from a
conviction that we possess innate powers, pressing
toward a larger development, for which this
sphere of action has neither space or permanence.
What can I ask to render my lot of happiness
more complete? Nothing. Nothing, save a heart
more gratefully and intensely to appreciate it.
Yet is there a fixed and glorious trust of a higher
condition of being, where, through the merits
of the Almighty Intercessor, the cup now so full
shall be enlarged, and overflow with “all the fullness
of God.”

A blessed Sabbath has this been. The employments
and meditations of that hallowed season,
prized from early life, grew more and more
dear. Their tranquilizing, sublimating influence
becomes every year more apparent. Its various
departments, in the closet, the family, the loved
little chapel, impart from week to week a heightened
joy. One cause may be the reciprocity in
the household. My mother's time-tried piety is
ever an example; my husband evidently makes
progress in the Divine life; every one under our
roof concur, according to their ability, in calling

“the Sabbath a delight, the holy of the Lord,
honorable.” Its balm-drops are with us throughout
the week, and, ere they are exhaled, it again
returns.

All the way in which God has led me from my
birth has been full of love. All the discipline I
have had has been but for my soul's good. Already
I can see it has fitted me more rationally
to enjoy earth's happiness. Ever in view, as a
consummation, is God's reserved happiness. In
the glimpses of that noontide glory, how beautiful
to walk through this silvery moonlight below,
admiring the foundation and the columns of the
“temple not made with hands,” catching even
in its vestibule some echo of its high celestial
symphony, “Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty,
heaven and earth are full of the majesty
of Thy glory.”

She whose intimacy we have so long shared
through these pages thought not to write in her
journal, “These are my last lines.” Prescience
was not hers.

He, the utterly bereaved, is as one amazed—
one whom God hath forsaken. Ever before him,
as if still in life, is an image paler than marble,
the upraised eyes beaming with ineffable brightness.
Ever in his ear are the last faint tones,
like a harp's cadence,

For this lightning stroke that hath scathed him,
for the blight and blackening of all earthly hope,
what we call language hath no tint nor pencil.

Who can realize that to her home, where she
was the tutelary spirit of gladness, she returneth
no more? Instead of that sweet voice, the echo
of the soul's harmony, instead of the holy hymn
at morn and eventide, is the wail of two new-born
infants, left by the angel in her heavenward flight.

She, with the few threads of silver in her hair,
whose loss is irreparable, murmurs not. Her lip
trembles, but her trust is above. Where her
treasure has gone, there is her heart also. Ever
wrapped in her arms or clasped to her bosom is
one of those motherless babes. The loving, dark-browed
woman, so long comprised in the circle
of home-charities, the poor forest girl, her raven
locks disheveled on her shoulders, with tears perpetually
dropping, watch over the other. Helpless,
unfledged birds, there is still a nest of love
for you.

She lingered not to press the mother-kiss on
those innocent brows. For her the parting scene
had no terror. She saw in death only the moment
when the soul draws near to its Father, the
stream returns to its Source.