University of Virginia Library

“Dearest Brother:—It is not my turn to write,
but I have been thinking of you so earnestly to-day,
that I've resolved, at last, to make a thought-bridge
of my little steel pen, and tell you about my reveries.
In the first place, though, you ought to see where I am
writing. Yes, you ought to see Mohawk Village now.
The dear, blue river glides along so gently between
its fringed banks, and the sweet green islets lie, like
summer children, in such a peaceful sleep upon its
breast. The willow trees, `always genteel,' are bending
over its waves, bowing to their own shadows, and
all the green things round look as if they were rejoicing
in the fresh air and the sunshine. But I will
tell you what is the prettiest sight which meets my

eye. It is a gnarled old oak, very large, and very
strong, round which climbs a perfect wealth of the
beautiful ivy. They are living things, I know; and
it takes all mamma's logic to persuade me that they
cannot think and feel. They always seemed to me to
have a history, nay more, a romance linked with their
two lives. The oak looks like some veteran soldier.
His life is not yet quite past its prime, but he has
grown old among the crash of contending armies, and
the fierce shocks of battles. He is scarred, and battered,
and now round this glorious ruin the ivy clings,
young, fresh, trusting, and so beautiful; laying her
long green fingers on his seamed and furrowed front,
hiding his roughness with the embrace of her tender
arms. Looking from my window, summer and winter
I see them, my beautiful emblems of strength and
truth. I wish sometimes, in a large charity, that all
the world could look upon them as I do, that they
could teach every one the same lesson.

“Surely tourists need no longer say, America
lacks the grandeur and beauty of ruins; unless, indeed,
the handiwork of God be less note-worthy than
the works of man—

“There, I know just how you are looking. You
are laughing, and crying, `Bravo! my silly little
Emmie a philosopher!' but it's not me, only the influence

of the scene around me. And I have not told
you all that my eyes behold. No words could ever
paint the serene glory of this summer sky—this clear,
deep, untroubled blue, with a white cloud sailing
slowly over, here and there, like the phantom ships we
used to read about in the long evenings, in those old
German tales. Then there are such sunny fields, such
green hills, where the sunshine swoons away in its
great blessedness, and goes to sleep; and, there is
Mabel. Oh, Dick! is she not heaven-sent and an
angel? I never can look at her, without feeling all
sinful thoughts melt away in the charmed atmosphere
of her purity. She seems so unconscious of her
affliction. Sometimes I think she is happier than any
of us. She whose outward eyes take in no sight of
nature, yet gazes inwardly on such beatific visions.
She tells us sometimes of the `Pleasure-land' wherein
her thoughts go roving, where there are thornless
flowers, and such bright-winged birds sing for ever.
The hills are soft and sunny, and the skies blue as
those of a poet's vision, and hither our Mabel wanders,
needing no guiding hand.

“She is sitting now just within view, as I raise my
eyes from this sheet. She is all in white, and nothing
else could possibly be so appropriate. Her little
straw hat lies on the grass beside her; the sunshine is
sifting down through the beeches upon her golden
tresses; her small, thin hands are clasped, and her

earnest yet sightless eyes are wide open, looking
toward the sunshine. You would think the Wonderland
whither they are gazing, must be heaven. Oh,
Dick, you know I never loved poetry, and yet I have
thought of late, that Mabel's whole life was a poem,
and I like it because it doesn't quite rhyme. I believe
there are a great many true, sweet poets I would like,
if, like Mabel, they didn't rhyme, but I can't fancy
that ugly `stop short' at the end of every line.

“But I haven't quite finished my picture. You
know just how it looks inside—this pleasant old sitting-room,
with its bay-windows, the bookcase, the
round table, the guitar, and your own especial nook,
just as you left it, with your writing-desk, and your
drawing-case. Then there is dear mamma, with her
sweet, pensive face, sitting just as you have seen her
a hundred times, at her little work-stand. She has
on a new black dress, the one you sent her, and the
widow's cap she wears is prettier, to my fancy, than
of old, because I made it.

“The rest of the family are scattered around.
Pussy has irreverently taken possession of Master
Dick Hereford's own chair, and our glorious old
Newfoundland, Bruno, is deliberately crossing the
fields in the direction of Mabel. Then, there are my
own especial pets—my plantation, I call them—the
geese, and ducks, and turkeys, to say nothing of the
dear little chickens that are lifting up their heads at

every mouthful, in a kind of meek thankfulness. I
have much happiness in them all, especially the
chickens. The peacocks offend my taste a little by
their absurd pride, and then there are flirtations,
each one with the wife of his neighbor, which I don't
quite like; but on the whole, they are a very well-behaved
plantation. They are just the things one needs
here. I do believe I am a born-housewife. I can feel
for a time the quiet, poetic beauty around me most
intensely, but I should get weary, without the life
that only living things can impart to the landscape.

“There, I have written more about this than I
meant. I only hope it will help to make you home-sick,
for we want to see you here more than even you
can guess, Yankee as you boast that you are getting
to be.

“Did I tell you, away back there at the beginning
of my letter, that I had been thinking of you to-day?
And not of you only, but I have been going back over
ten years of life. Did you think I could remember
so long? Do you know how I used to sit and sing
harvest-carols, in all the desolation of that tumble-down
house in Eliot street, and you and Warren used
to get vexed sometimes with silly little Emmie and
her noise, to think I could have a hopeful heart in the
midst of that freezing poverty? Mother was so sick
then, and every thing was so gloomy, I have wondered
since that my spirits could have been so light. But

I was only seven, and to my disposition, I do believe
troubles always seem lighter than they do to others.
They may talk all the wisdom they please, about sun,
moon, and planets, I hold that hope is the true sunshine
of life, and without it, the best day in all the
summer would be dark as the winter midnight of an
Esquimaux. It is true, I sung harvest-carols a long
time, and no relief came. The fireless hearth grew
colder and colder, and the garments thinner, which
wrapped us from the chill. What of that? The deliverance
is promised to those who wait. Our turn
came after a while. Oh what a light it made in that
old gloomy house, when the beautiful lady entered
with her rich robes; and after that, there was no more
darkness, nor cold, nor hunger. Do you remember
now we clapped our hands and rejoiced, when we
came in sight of this dear home? How the river
sparkled in the sunshine, and the little cottage, over-grown
with honeysuckles and climbing roses, looked
such a loving welcome, and how our Mabel lifted
up her fringed eyelids, and said, in her low, gentle
voice—`Are we part way to Heaven, mother?' Then
there was the pleasure of settling every thing, and
making it beautiful; and dear mamma grew better
every day, until she was quite well. I have been
thinking of all these things this morning. They came
to me like a sermon, and what do you suppose was the
text? Nothing else than a passage in your last
letter, where you write of the old bitterness, that
meeting with brother Warren in Broadway, nearly
four years ago. Dick, you were wrong, it seems to
me, in blaming him even `a little.' Through him
and the mother of his adoption, came all the blessings
we enjoy. But for them, we should never have
known even the good physician who introduced you to
your employers. And shall we complain, because
Warren felt bound, in honor, to observe to the letter
the conditions on which we receive all these benefits?
Such a feeling is not quite worthy of you, brother
Dick. The time may come when Warren will be
free once more to stand in our midst, and if it does,
I feel we shall never have cause to blush for our
brother.

“Every one sends love to you, at least mother
does, and before Mabel went out of doors, I asked
her what I should say for her, and she said, `Tell him
to come home when he can;' and she added, with the
tear-drops just glistening in those dear eyes, `any
place would be nice, where Dick is—where he could
come home every evening. Don't you think he will
let us come and live near him, when he gets real rich,
Emmie?'

“Of course I knew well enough, in the plenitude
of my practical wisdom, how far off such a time must
be, but I did not like to pain her; so I told her you
had very often promised this, and you were too good a

brother to disappoint us. There, Dick, you must give
me credit for good intentions. I did not mean to persecute
you with such a long letter, but I fancy my
best excuse is the very old one, `it wrote itself.'
You will remember, to the kind friend and room-mate
you so often mention, the kind regards of