■"V 
 
 ..n^vO 
 
 Book .0:7^1^4-- 
 
LEAYES 
 
 Jfrcnt nu Inlialiir's |ff«nial, 
 
 AND 
 
 POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. E. N. GLADDING 
 
 PROVIDENCE: 
 GEORGE H. TVIIITNEY, 3 WESTMINSTER ST, 
 
 1858. 
 

 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1857, 
 
 By Mrs. E. N. Gladding, 
 
 In the Clerk's OlBce of the District Court of the District of Rhode Island. 
 
 35xcharige 
 Brown University LilDrary 
 
 APR 1 9 1940 
 
 KXOWLES, ANTHONY & CO., PSINT. 
 
 Prov. R. I. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page. 
 
 Dedication vii 
 
 Introduction ix 
 
 LEAVES FROM AN INVALID's JOURNAL. 
 
 No. 1 1 
 
 2 4 
 
 3 8 
 
 4 12 
 
 5 16 
 
 6 19 
 
 7 22 
 
 8 26 
 
 9 30 
 
 10 33 
 
 11 , 35 
 
 12 38 
 
 13 39 
 
 14 49 
 
 15 57 
 
 16 62 
 
 17 63 
 
 18 66 
 
 19 68 
 
 20 70 
 
 21 73 
 
 22 78 
 
 23 82 
 
 24 87 
 
 25 92 
 
 26 95 
 
 27 102 
 
 Minnie. A Temperance Tale 105 
 
 Alice; or, The Victim of Revenge 127 
 
 A Dialogue on Peace 137 
 
 1* 
 
IV. CONTENTS. 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Pag:e. 
 
 To My Mother 143 
 
 To My Children 147 
 
 Newport 150 
 
 The Greek Slave 153 
 
 To Lady Franklin 154 
 
 I Think of Thee 15G 
 
 The Angel Visitant 158 
 
 The Mother's Prayer 161 
 
 To C. A. S., on hearing her sing, "Oh ! cast that shadow from thy brow'MGS 
 
 Lines, suggested on reading "Home," set to Music by Edward liohu- 
 
 cewicz Ifi4 
 
 Spring 105 
 
 EchooS 107 
 
 To A W , in answer to " Spiritual Presence," and "A Lay of 
 
 Sadness" 109 
 
 An Appeal to Woman • 171 
 
 In Memory of 173 
 
 To Mrs. W. S 175 
 
 To 177 
 
 To one who had been bereaved of her youngest and only remaining 
 
 sister 178 
 
 To 179 
 
 To Mrs. 180 
 
 To the Hutchinson Family 181 
 
 Lines written in illness 183 
 
 ToC C 185 
 
 Lines, in answer to "I'd have thee think of me," by Mrs. C. W. H 186 
 
 To one who said, " I am a withered and seared leaf" 188 
 
 To one who said, " Why don't you write " 189 
 
 Lines written in an Album 191 
 
 To the Champions of Liberty 193 
 
 On seeing the "Head of Christ," painted by Guido 195 
 
 To 196 
 
 Written after reading " Uncle Tom's Cabin " 197 
 
 To , on returning a Miniature 200 
 
 To Mrs. 201 
 
 Hopedale 203 
 
 To 205 
 
 To Mrs. S. C. E. Mayo 206 
 
 To one who brought me flowers, in mid-winter 207 
 
 To R. L 209 
 
 To M. E., written on Christmas Eve 210 
 
 The May Queen's Address 211 
 
CONTENTS. V. 
 
 Page. 
 
 To My Daughter 212 
 
 To ,on the death of her little son 213 
 
 To , on the death of her little daughter 216 
 
 To Mrs. 217 
 
 To Mrs. 218 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 To Longfellow 221 
 
 To Mrs. Hemans 222 
 
 To Elihu Burritt 223 
 
 On the death of Prof. E. Bohuscewicz 224 
 
 To J, B 225 
 
 Lines to 226 
 
 Suggested on reading the writings of Fanny Kemble Butler 227 
 
 On the death of Mrs. Jenkins and her daughter 228 
 
 Lines to 229 
 
 To Mrs. 230 
 
 To 231 
 
 To 232 
 
 To Louise 233 
 
 To my infiint son, on his birthday, 19th April 234 
 
 To 235 
 
DEDICATION 
 
 This volume is affectionately dedicated to the friends of E. N. G— ; 
 because it would never have come into being, had not their unchanging 
 love and true sympathy oftentimes kindled the ashes of a dead hope, and 
 encouraged her to renewed exertions, both in the inner and the outer 
 world; because they first suggested the idea of her collecting those little 
 stray leaves, that she thought the breezes had scattered too widely apart, 
 for her ever to trace their wanderings; and by instilling the spirit of 
 faith and trust in her brothers and sisters, that should enable her to rise 
 above that/mr which had paralyzed her, whenever she thought of laying 
 aside the veil of private life, Avhich had heretofore proved as a shield, and 
 of which one constituted like herself, shrinking from publicity, ever stands 
 in need; — for, " life has been a hard battle with her, and like a bird with a 
 broken wing, she would seek the covert of shady places." But she has 
 grown strong. She has asked herself, what right had she to hope to 
 escape severe criticism, if not unjust censure, when those most highly fa- 
 vored of the Muse — those who have gained the Olympian heights, and 
 are soothed by the divine harmonies of that upper region — are often sad- 
 dened by the tumult and jargon from below; and they are charged with 
 "plagiarism," "lack of common sense," of being " foolishly romantic," 
 and "hopelessly imbecile." Because, when weary and discouraged, she 
 has ever found a resting place in their homes and their hearts. They 
 have been " like stars clustering near and shining brightly upon her path- 
 way. They are among the exceeding great and precious gifts, for which 
 her heart would daily offer up its gratitude to Heaven. They have made 
 
Till. DEDICATION. 
 
 life beautiful. They are more to be desired and prized than kingly dia. 
 dems or crowns of fame, or abundance of golden treasure." " Shall she 
 thank God for the green summer, and the mild air, and the flowers, and 
 the stars, and all that makes this world so beautiful, and not for the good 
 and beautiful beings she has known in it? Their presence has been 
 sweeter to her than the flowers. They are higher and holier than the 
 stars;" and to them she brings this simple off'ering — knowing that they 
 lovelier too well to have advised her to do aught, that their highest judg- 
 ment -would not have sanctioned. Thus, fearlessly she lays these heart- 
 throbs, iipon the altar of friendship, 
 
 E. N. G. 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 *•■ I had to live, that therefore I might work; 
 And being but poor, I was constrained, for life, 
 To work with one hand for the booksellers, 
 While working with the other for myself 
 And art. 
 
 Having bread. 
 For just so many days, just breathing room 
 For body and verse, I stood up straight and worked 
 My veritable work. 
 
 I labored on, alone ; the wind and dust 
 And sun of the world beat blistering in my face; 
 And hope, now for me, now against me, dragged 
 My spirits onward. 
 
 Behold, at last, a book! 
 If life-blood's necessary, — which it is, 
 If life-blood's fertilizing, — I wrung mine 
 On every page of this. 
 Shall I fail ?— Measure not the work 
 Until the day's out and the labor done ; 
 Then bring your gauges. If the day's work's scant, 
 Why call it scant; affect no compromise; 
 And in that we have nobly striven, at least, 
 Deal with us nobly, women though we be, 
 And honor us with truth, if not with praise. 
 
X. INTRODUCTION 
 
 Be sure, no earnest work 
 Of any honest creature, howbcit weak. 
 Imperfect, ill-adapted, fails so much. 
 It is not gathered as a grain of sand, 
 To enlarge the sum of human action, used 
 For carrying out God's end." 
 
 Aurora Leigh. 
 
 "In early years, when, though so frank as to the thoughts of the mind, 
 I put no heart confidence in any human being, my refuge was in my jour- 
 nal. I have burned those records of my youth, with its bitter tears, and 
 struggles, and aspirations. Those aspirations were high, and have gained 
 only broader foundations and wider reach. But the leaves had done 
 their work. For years to write there, instead of speaking, had enabled 
 me to soothe myself; and the Spirit was often my friend, when I sought 
 no other. Once, again, I am willing to take up the cross of loneliness. 
 Resolves are idle, but the anguish of my soul has been deep. It will not 
 be easy to profane life, by rhetoric." 
 
 Margaret Fuller. 
 
f tabes front an |nbaIiVs |ournal 
 
 NO. I. 
 
 " Oh! ask not, hope thou not too much 
 
 Of sympathy below; 
 Few are the hearts whence one same touch 
 
 Bids the sweet fountain flow; 
 JFew — and by still contiicting powers 
 
 Forbidden here to meet; 
 Such ties would make this life of ours 
 
 Too fair for aught so fleet." 
 
 Hemans. 
 
 Friday, July 3d. 
 Wednesday afternoon, I left for New York. Oh ! 
 what a dreary day that was to me. I employed every 
 moment of my time in arranging all that would add to 
 my children's comfort during my absence. God only 
 knows with what anguish of heart I bid them farewell ! 
 I feared I was gazing upon them for the last time. 
 After kissing them fervently, and praying that the all 
 wise Father would keep them in the hollow of his 
 hand, I stepped hastily into the carriage, and was 
 driven far from my home, and all that made earth 
 
2 LEAVESFROMAN 
 
 beautiful to me. Our ride to Stonington, in the cars, 
 was cheerless ; for it was a stormy night, and I could 
 not banish from my mind the thought that our children 
 would be thrown upon the cold charity of the world, 
 in case of any serious accidents, and I could not think 
 of one relation on either side, who could be bur- 
 dened with our treasures. The fog was dense, and. 
 we were obliged to stop at Stonington till the next 
 morning. We listened to some sweet music — a mod- 
 est, pretty little Grerman woman played the harp, and 
 her husband accompanied her with his flute, while 
 her sister sang, and played the guitar. I had some 
 conversation with her, and found her heart was far 
 away in her native land, where she had left her only 
 child, and she had not seen it for many a long month. 
 No wonder her face was sad while she was playing 
 the gay tunes that were called for by the heartless 
 crowd around her. 
 
 We arrived in New York about four or five o'clock, 
 Thursday afternoon, and just as I was stepping from 
 the boat to the carriage, I heard a cry of anguish ; and 
 then a man crossed my path, holding in his arms a lit- 
 tle boy, about the age and size of my little R., and 
 as he stumbled over the stones, a girl of about ten or 
 twelve years of age came running after him with bare 
 feet and swolen eyes, exclaiming all the while, — 
 
 " Oh ! he will kill him ! he will kill him !— he is 
 drunk, he don't know what he is doing. Oh ! stop 
 him, stop him." 
 
 Then I perceived that the man was hardly able to 
 stand, but was running, as drunken men will some- 
 times, to keep from falling. Hastily I joined the chase, 
 
invalid's journal. 3 
 
 and laying my hand upon the shoulder of the girl, 
 said, — 
 
 " What is it, my poor child ?" 
 
 She repeated it over again that her father was 
 drunk — that he had taken the child from her, with the 
 determination of killiDg him. The poor girl sobbed 
 aloud, and I wrung my hands in agony, and begged the 
 men to hasten and save the child. Never shall I for- 
 get that moment, as I saw the wretched man standing 
 on the very verge of the wharf, trying to unclasp his 
 little son's hands, that were clinging fast to his neck 
 for safety. It was my own child, for the moment. My 
 husband dropped the trunks and came after me ; his 
 own soul was moved with pity, for he comprehended 
 the whole at a glance, but as he saw others engaged 
 in securing the child, he said " you must come, the man 
 is waiting ; in this tumult and confusion we shall lose 
 our baggage." " I cannot go till the child is safe," I 
 replied, and my tears fell fast. Some kind men ap- 
 proached, and very respectfully told me the child was 
 safe. Then I ran forward again, and entreated the 
 girl to be good to the child, and oh ! how my heart 
 went forth in prayer for that little Suffering girl her- 
 self, with no one to counsel, no one to guide, and that 
 little helpless brother to look after. I thought how I 
 had murmured at a short separation, from my healthy, 
 happy children, and felt condemned. I rode through 
 the splendid streets of New York city, and although 
 many things were pointed out to interest me, I could 
 see nothing but that brutal father, that motherly, self- 
 sacrificing sister, and the little chubby limbs of that 
 three years old boy. Sobs would come from my heart, 
 and I could not repress them. 
 
LEAVES PROM AN 
 
 "We arrived at our destination, and whilst taking tea 
 tried to give a description of the scene we had 
 
 witnessed. They smiled, looked at me, and said : 
 "Such things aifect persons who have weak nerves, 
 very much." Weak nerves ! I wonder if the rum- 
 seller's wives and daughters would not have been af- 
 fected by that scene, even if they had been possessed 
 with strong nerves. 
 
 But my memory, as Mrs. Child says, is a '' Daguer- 
 reotype machine," taking instantaneous likenesses of 
 whatsoever comes in its way, whether it is beautiful 
 or not, and this scene is indelibly imprinted, and I 
 cannot efface it. Would that I could. 
 
 NO. II. 
 
 " Say, is there aiiglit 
 Like the tried friendship of the sacred dead? 
 It cannot hide its face; it changeth not; 
 Grieves not, suspects not, may not fleet away. 
 For, as a seal, upon the melted heart, 
 "Tis set forever I" 
 
 SiGOURNEY. 
 
 Tuesday, April 10th. 
 In looking over the leaves of my journal, my eye 
 rests upon this sentence : — '^ Nannie bade me farewell 
 to-day, and I shall not probably see her again before 
 she starts for F." Ah ! how well do I remember that 
 day. I was lying down ; for I was very, very weak, 
 and was unprepared to see any one : but the door 
 
invalid's journal. 5 
 
 opened, and Nannie, she whose presence always filled 
 me with delight — stood by my bedside. She saw my 
 surprise for it was Tuesday, and I thought she was in 
 her school — and said, " You did not know that I had 
 
 left school to have a good long rest ! Doctor 
 
 called and told me, if I would save myself from a fit 
 of sickness, I must leave immediately and go into the 
 country ; but you know it is a very unpleasant season 
 of the year, to visit the country, and I have concluded 
 
 to go to P ". Every thing grew dark around me 
 
 as she uttered these words. How could I live with- 
 out her ? — she, whose coming I looked for as the sick 
 child looks for its absent mother. Oh ! Nannie, I ex- 
 claimed, you must not leave me. What shall I do when 
 you are gone ? She kissed me, and kept smoothing my 
 hair with her little trembling hand, as she said — " It 
 will be but a short time, and it will pass so swift- 
 ly, that before you can think it possible for six weeks 
 to have flown by, I shall be with you again, and then 
 our separation will be as though it had never been ; 
 only I shall have so many things to tell you of all 
 that I have seen, and you will have much to relate to 
 me of all that has transpired to interest you during my 
 absence. Cheer up dearest, let us hope for the 
 best." 
 
 " I will try to do so," I said — " I know I am very 
 selfish." But the dark cloud was still there. We parted 
 — she imploring me to take care of myself, and to be- 
 lieve that she would soon be with me again. I prom- 
 ising that I would, and resolving in my heart that not 
 an idle moment should make me wretched but at the 
 same time feeling that there would be no true enjoy- 
 1* 
 
6 LEAVES FROM AN 
 
 ment, and that I should be in a hurry for those weeks 
 to pass. This was wrong. I feel it ; I know it. We 
 never met again ! A letter came, but it was short and 
 unsatisfactory ; and then another, in which she said, 
 '^ If you could see my pale, blue face, you would not 
 wonder that I cannot write more — but do not be 
 alarmed, the canker is not dangerous, you know." 
 
 A third letter, in an unknown hand, 
 Told me she'd left me, for the Spirit Land. 
 
 I will not speak of the bitter anguish this separa- 
 tion caused me. I knew she was happy, and I would 
 not have had her back, if, by raising my hand, I could 
 have done so. It was for myself I mourned. Our 
 communion had been so perfect, so unalloyed. How 
 many things do I remember since her departure, that 
 were hardly thought of at the time. Her health had 
 been failing for two years, and she was subject to fre- 
 quent attacks of illness. At such times, I acted as 
 nurse, and often read aloud to her. One day, I was 
 reading ^Hamlet's Ophelia,' from "Mrs. Jameson's 
 Characteristics of Women." A short, quick sob in- 
 terrupted me. I looked at N ; her eyes were 
 
 filled with tears. Laying aside the book, I knelt be- 
 side the sofa, and kissing her cheek, said, " Do not feel 
 sad, dear Nannie ; you will be well soon." " I am not 
 sad," she replied, smiling through her tears — " but I 
 was thinking, should I be called to the better world, 
 and leave you still toiling and struggling here below, 
 could I be happy without you, even though I were in 
 Heaven !" Ah ! yes, beautiful and holy was the love 
 that lay shrined in her heart, for her poor, erring 
 friend. 
 
invalid's journal. 7 
 
 She was chosen to read the original contributions 
 of our little circle ; wherefore, those who have listened 
 to that sweet voice, can best tell. These were the 
 closing lines of the last piece I e^er heard her read — 
 
 " Life is the sultry day, parched by the wind and sun; 
 
 And Death, the fresh, cool night, when the weary day is done." 
 
 Little did I think that the sultry day of her exist- 
 ence here, was so soon to end ; that even then, " the 
 fresh, cool wings of death," were fanning her fevered 
 brow. I could never plan a bright future in this world 
 for my friend ; for whenever I attempted it, I would 
 be stopped as by an invisible hand, and I would say — 
 " Her Heavenly Father can do it far better than I 
 can." And how true was the language of a mutual 
 friend, who wrote me, soon after he heard the sad 
 news of her death, when he said — "And oh ! may we 
 not believe that He who rules the world in love, saw 
 the little one in all her trials ; that she had already 
 approached near to the nature of higher beings ; in 
 mercy resolved to make them short ,* and hath taken 
 her away unto himself." " There was a fair and deli- 
 cate flower : — it seemed an exotic, though it flourished 
 and bloomed for a while in the rough soil where it 
 grew ; but just as it began to droop and fade, the 
 watchful Gardener carried it to a milder clime, that 
 nourished by more congenial skies, it might live and 
 bloom in immortal beauty." And again, and oh ! how 
 soothing was this language to my tortured heart, for 
 many months after her departure. In the day time, 
 and in the still, holy night, I would find myself repeat- 
 ing it. " Oh my Nannie ! how can I bid thee a final 
 
8 LEAVES FROM AN 
 
 farewell ! If in thy serene abode, tliine eye extends 
 to this our troubled sphere, thou knowest that I loved 
 thee with a pure regard ; that I mourn for thee with 
 a sincere affection. Whilst I was away from thee, 
 thou hast departed. I shall see thy face and hear thy 
 voice no more. Shade of my departed Friend, fare- 
 well ! When this twilight of existence shall end, may 
 we meet where twilight shall have become day. Yale, 
 Vale, Amica !" 
 
 Her remains lie in that sweet resting place for the 
 dead, "Laurel Hill Cemetery;" and when the fair 
 moon, and the quiet stars, shed their soft radiance 
 over that hallowed spot, there, too, the friend she 
 loved so well, often wanders in imagination, and as 
 she bends over the grave, the language of her heart is, 
 " Father, I thank thee, for thou " gavest me one who 
 taught me how to live, and how to die." 
 
 NO. III. 
 
 " We pine for kindred natures 
 
 To mingle witli our own ; 
 For communings more full and high 
 
 Than aught to mortals known." 
 
 Then did my heai't in lone faint sadness die, 
 .As from all nature's voices one reply, 
 
 *But<©ne was given : 
 ''^^Earth has no heart, fond dreamer! with a tone 
 To give thee back the spirit of thine own — 
 
 Seek it in Heaven!" 
 
 Hemans. 
 
 October 6th. 
 Again I turn over the leaves of my Journal, and 
 although there are many that are blotted with the 
 
INVALIDS JOUBNAL. V 
 
 tears I shed while penning them, there are also those 
 that are bright with the sunbeam of Hope. They 
 were recorded after the thick dark clouds had passed, 
 and the angels' faces that peeped from them were clear- 
 ly to be seen, as were those that environed Jean Paul. 
 
 " Sorrow may endure for a night, but joy cometh in 
 the morning." A few pages back and every line 
 breathes forth despondency. There I say, " I liave no 
 more a wish to meet with one who can love me. and 
 whose love I can return." But here my heart gushes 
 forth in words of gratitude and love to the All Wise 
 Father, and I say, " God is too good to me ; for as 
 soon as he has removed one loving, gentle heart, he 
 sends two to fill its place." 
 
 To-day, I am anxiously looking for L. Ah ! her 
 coming makes my heart glad. We shall have some 
 music, and then translate a page from Corinne, it will 
 be so delightful with such a teacher. L. has such a 
 charming manner in teaching — it is as though you 
 were conferring a favor instead of receiving one. Did 
 I think six short months ago that Time's soothing in- 
 fluence would be so efficacious in healing the wounds 
 that were bleeding afresh ? But now I can say with 
 Shelley :— 
 
 " Xo more alone, through the vrorld's wilderness, 
 I journey now; no more companionless." 
 
 For have I not found one, as the same gentle poet 
 says : — 
 
 "Whose A'oice is like the voice of my OAvn soul 
 Heard in the calm of thought ?" 
 
 I prize her, but as one would prize a beautifal bird, 
 who, standing upon the bough of a tree, is wailing 
 
10 LEAYESFROMAN 
 
 only for its wings to become sufficiently strong to 
 take its upward flight far, far away in the clear blue 
 ether ; and when the thin clouds shall hide her from 
 my view, I know that strength will be given me to 
 bow my head submissively ', for I shall know that one 
 of earth's beautiful but tried ones, has been trans- 
 planted to a fairer clime, and I think I shall hear her 
 glad song as she passes the portals of this world, and 
 her freed spirit is welcomed by the angels who are 
 are waiting her approach. A little note, in her deli- 
 cate hand writing, lies before me, in which she says : — 
 
 " Long have I sought, and vainly have I 3'earned 
 To meet some spirit that could answer mine — 
 Then chide me not, that I so soon have learned 
 To talk with thine." 
 
 And there is another: — her presence has brightened 
 my home and her counsels have led me to look from 
 the actual sufferings to the future rest. Again, there 
 are two beings who love me far better than I deserve. 
 One said, " I will do all that is in my power to supply 
 her place," and nobly has she fulfilled her promise ! 
 The other stands ever read}', and her sympathy and 
 love often make the rugged paths smooth. Oh ! how 
 desolate must that heart be who traverses the journey 
 of life, uncheered by the sympathy of loving souls! 
 What have 1 done that I should be beloved ? If they 
 should see me as God sees me, would their love con- 
 tinue the same ! But friends, friends, ye are mine ! 
 Let my future course be what it may, I am sure of 
 your love. You may grieve and mourn, but you will 
 still love me ! 
 
 The grave may come between us, but it cannot sepa- 
 rate souls that are bound together with the bands of 
 
JOURNAL. 11 
 
 love ! '' The Dead are ever holier than the living," 
 and I shall turn to you in the still watch of night, and 
 feel that ye are near ! Life is like a grand staircase, 
 and there are different orders of mind, from the lowest 
 to the highest; but may we not speak cheering words 
 to all, and learn something from each? It has always 
 been my good fortune to have those, who were far 
 above me, look down smilingly upon me ; and clasping 
 my hand, they have aided me to rise higher, but they 
 were still above me ! And shall I not do the same, if 
 there are any lower down than myself? 
 
 The cold and prosaic may live without sympathy,. 
 and they may think it sinful for me to prize it as I do,. 
 but I cannot think so. Did Jesus rebuke John when 
 he laid his head trustingly and lovingly on the bosom 
 of his master ? Was he not always called the " disci- 
 pie whom Jesus loved" — but did not Jesus love themi 
 all? And was there another among his disciples,, 
 think you, whose bosom would have been so fit a rest- 
 ing place for the meek head of Jesus, as was the gen- 
 tle, loving John's ? There was congeniality, there 
 was true sympathy ! And so it is, and ever will be, 
 and all must acknowledge there is deep joy in leaning; 
 upon the bosom of a friend. 
 
 "All love is s'.veet, given or returned, 
 And its familidr voice wearies not ever!" 
 
 We can embrace the whole world with our love,, 
 and also single out those peculiarly loving spirits,. 
 who can respond to our own, in a measure, but not as 
 God can ; therefore, in the language of the beautiful 
 writer quoted above, we say : — 
 
 " Earth has no heart, fond dreamer! with a tone, 
 To give thee back the spirit of thine own ; 
 ( We must) Seek it in Heaven." 
 
12 LEAVES FROM AIT 
 
 KO. IV. 
 
 August 2T. 
 
 Yesterday, I passed nearly tlie whole day at 
 ^' Greenwood Cemetery/' that retired and quiet rest- 
 ing place of the Dead ; and what a world of memories 
 are connected with that hallowed spot ! We took the 
 stage for Brooklyn ; and as soon as we arrived at 
 Fulton ferry, the usual cry of " Greenwood Cemetery 
 770-^^ away,^^ saluted our ears. 
 
 The exchange was made in a few moments, and we 
 were again jogging on as fast as the poor horses could 
 carry us. It was a glorious day, — not a cloud to be 
 seen in the blue sky. The heat would have been 
 oppressive had not the gentle breezes every now and 
 then fanned us, as they passed on their way. They 
 were most gratefully welcomed, and as we bade them 
 farewell, we turned to receive their companions, who 
 could only give us a fragrant kiss in passing, and has- 
 ten on to fulfil their mission. The stage was full, but 
 I noticed only two particularly. One was a young 
 mother, with a bright eyed little babe of some four 
 months old, with whom she was evidently delighted, 
 and thought every body else must be. The other was 
 an old man, whose countenance I shall never forget. 
 Whenever the eyes of strangers are upon us, we al- 
 ways repress the kindly feelings of the heart; and how- 
 ever much we may desire to speak to those who look 
 sad, we shrink back : and those very persons may look 
 upon us and think us proud and unsocial: — but this 
 good old man gave utterance to the feelings of his 
 
invalid's journal. 13 
 
 kind and trutlifal heart. He praised the bright eyes 
 of the baby, and modestly asked us if it was not an 
 uncommon lovely child. He spoke of everything that 
 was beautiful and worthy of note, as we passed along, 
 but the little one within claimed the largest share of 
 his attentions, and I knew he would gladly have taken 
 it on his own knee, had it been possible. I loved him 
 from the moment he spoke to the child. When we ar- 
 rived at the grounds, he left us, and I saw him, with a 
 friend by his side, passing along one of the avenues. 
 
 How cheerful, and yet holy, was that place to me ! The 
 sighing of the breezes through the tall forest trees, the 
 glad sunshine, the blue azure sky that overarched the 
 whole, the pure white marble — all had a language of 
 their own, and my heart responded to it. We wan- 
 dered round for souie time, but had not yet seen the 
 grave of poor MacDonald Clark and the quiet little lake 
 that I had heard so much about. Fatigue had crept ov- 
 er me by degrees and I was obliged to rest before wo 
 started in search of them. A pleasant seat was found 
 under a tree, and there my friend left me. How im- 
 pressive was the silence that reigned around ! For a 
 moment a feeling of awe took possession of my mind. 
 Alone with the dead ! I repeated softly — but it soon, 
 passed away, and my soul was in harmony with nature. 
 I could not believe that this place had once been the 
 scene of warfare and blood shed ; that, perhaps, on the 
 very spot where I was then resting there had been an- 
 gry combatants and dying groans. Then, I thought how 
 different would have been our feelings when we visited 
 the places where our departed loved ones were laid, if 
 the Saviour had never lived and suffered and died. I 
 2 
 
14 LEAVESFROMAN 
 
 closed m J eyes, and that true and deep sympathy which 
 shone out so conspicuously in his character, for all who 
 sorrowed, filled me with delight. 
 
 Suddenly a group of mourners were before me, and 
 as they bowed their heads and looked into the graves, 
 a tall figure approached. In soothing tones he in- 
 quired, " Why seek ye the Jiving among the dead ?" — 
 then he raised his arm and pointed upwards, and with a 
 firm voice he uttered that majestic and sublime truth, 
 ^' They are cot here^ they have risen!''' Then they, who 
 wept, arose and dried their tears, and said. — ''We will 
 bring flowers and decorate the graves where their mor- 
 tal remains lie. We shall no more sorrow as those 
 who have no hope. He has made our hearts glad ; and 
 although there is an aching void, still, is it not deep 
 joy to know that they are not Aere, they have risen !" 
 
 My friend returned, and just then the old gentleman 
 came in sight. Leaving his companion, he drew near to 
 where we were seated, and with an animated face gave a 
 most glowing description of many parts of the grounds } 
 but when he spoke of Macdonald's grave, and the young 
 Indian girl's, and the Sylvan Lake, and the Gondola, 
 his language was not only eloquent, but poetical. I said 
 he is ''growing old gracefully" and his presence will 
 make glad the hearts of those who journey by his side, 
 as the little Oasis in the desert, cheers the faint and 
 thirsty traveller ; and his own soul will be watered by 
 its refreshing streams : this would be a fit resting place 
 for him. Some would have smiled, and said he was in 
 his dotage. Ah ! should I live to be as old, may I be as 
 enthusiastic, and as ardent an admirer of the true and 
 the beautiful ! And I ask not for greater wealth. He 
 left us and we saw him no more. 
 
invalid's journal. 15 
 
 We started again, and soon reached the Lake. There 
 we found the " Mad Poet's" grave, as he was called, 
 and a little farther on we saw the grave of poor Do- 
 Hum-Me, the young Indian Bride, who died about two 
 weeks after her marriage. How many, many thoughts 
 rushed through my mind whilst standing beside these 
 two graves ! She was cut off in the spring time of life. 
 Young, buoyant, loving, and trusting; and I envy not 
 those who would turn away, and think that because 
 she had a colored skin, she could not also possess a 
 true woman's heart. And poor Clark's touching life 
 and sad death passed in review before me ;— his desire 
 to relieve every form of suffering, and his inability to 
 do so, his lonely boyhood, his childlike, guileless cred- 
 ulity. I rejoiced that his Fatlier had called him home, 
 for this is indeed a cold world to one, who, like poor 
 Clark, '' had a nerve protruding at every pore." Peace 
 be to his memory ! 
 
 I took a seat in the Gondola, and did not wonder 
 that the old gentlemen grieved that there had not been 
 something arranged to have sheltered it from the 
 weather. I gathered some of the tiny wild flowers 
 from the graves of those two beings whose fate I had 
 pondered over so much. There was an unfinished 
 monument of one who was the idol of her fond pa- 
 rents, and who was suddenly deprived of life without 
 a moment's warning. How unutterably bitter must 
 have been that poor mother's anguish ! In imagination, 
 I instinctively clasp my own dear daughter to my lieart, 
 and pray heaven to shield me from a like trial. 
 
 Yes, these marble monuments all speak of love and 
 remembrance, but they are cold marble after all. Could 
 
lb LEAVESFROMAN 
 
 tliey tell of one half that the motionless forms beneath 
 them had suffered and felt during their worldly pilgri- 
 mage, how fearful would their revelations be ! 
 
 It was with reluctance I turned to depart, and I trust 
 I am a better, and a wiser being for the hours I was 
 privileged to spend there. I shall gladly avail myself 
 of another opportunity to visit it again, for long shall 
 I I'em ember tnat cheerful Green Wood. 
 
 NO. V. 
 
 June 7th. 
 Months have passed since I turned over the leaves 
 of my Journal, yet I do not open it now to fill the 
 blank pages — though I could well do so, for I have 
 passed through much, since my eyes last looked on 
 these blotted characters. But I cannot write of the 
 present. Notwithstanding the poet I love so well has 
 said, •' Let the dead past bury its dead," — I find myself 
 turning often to that " Past," and saying over and 
 over, "So sad, sojre.^h, the days that are no more!" 
 Yet this present will soon become the past, and then 
 I shall turn to it, and tears will fall while I am con- 
 ning it over ; but they will be gentle showers, serving 
 only to water the drooping plants — not surcharged 
 with the bitter agony they would be, were I to at- 
 tempt to peruse them now. How many times have I, 
 while scanning these pages, turned hastily away, stu- 
 diously avoiding the one so indelibly imprinted on my 
 memory. ^Yhy is this ? surely it cannot be because I 
 
invalid's journal. 17 
 
 am not resigned to that event. Oh ! no, for I have 
 sounded my heart many times, and have said, " I would 
 not alter it if I could." Then why this shrinking ? It 
 was my first grief — ah ! no, not my Jirst grief, for the 
 heart of childhood has many griefs, such as never fall 
 on it in after years, with such overwhelming force — 
 rather say my first real experience o^ death; and it was 
 my little soul flower, the treasured child that God had 
 given me to teach me the infinity of love. This is one 
 reason, but there is another. I worshiped her. She 
 was my heart's idol — I forgot the giver ! But, 
 
 "A blight had found 
 The crimson velvet of the unfolding bud; 
 The harp strings rang a thrilling strain and broke, 
 And that young mother lay upon the earth 
 In childless agony." 
 
 I will read that page to-day — it will do me good. 
 
 Wednesday, June 7th. — -^ Little Mamie is dead :"-— 
 
 oh! how that word struck upon my ear, as -called 
 
 to Mrs. to come quick. Dead, dead ! what did 
 
 that mean, I said, and shrieked the word aloud. Such 
 a strange hollow ivord — what did it mean ? and I 
 looked upon that loved form, so motionless ! A smile 
 was wreathing those sweet lips, where the last breath 
 had just fluttered away, and the large life-like looking 
 eyes were gazing iuto my own. What could it mean — 
 were they going to take her awaij from me ? She, who 
 would cause the heart to throb with such a strange, 
 mysterious delight, taken from 7ne, who had never giv- 
 en up the care of her for one moment since her birth — 
 for when I left her I carried her sweet burden on my 
 heart, and my friends would playfully ask me, " if I 
 2* 
 
18 LEAVES FROM AN 
 
 had left lier done.'' And then with what joy would 
 I hasten back, feeling I had the whole world to go 
 to — to clasp in my arms — and she would lie there 
 so silent, looking at me with those wonderful eyes ! 
 I had entered splendid parlors ; I had seen beautiful 
 things ; and I would look deep into the eyes of those 
 to whom they belonged, and bless them in the fullness 
 of my overflowing heart, wondering if they could con- 
 ceive of the world of wealth, of beauty, of delight, 
 which God had so bounteously bestowed on me ? Ah 1 
 yes, in my humble home I had a rare flower, and I 
 watered and tended it till it died — died while my 
 tears were falling fast upon it. 
 
 "Gone to God — what could a mother's prayer. 
 
 In all the wildest ecstasy of hope, 
 
 Ask for her darling, like the bliss of Heaven?", 
 
 I would not call thee back, my precious one — it is 
 best as it is. Thou wouldst have enjoyed much, but 
 suffered oh ! how much more ! Thou wouldst have 
 been one of earth's gifted ones ; I read it even then. 
 Thy delicate soul would have intuitively detected the 
 beautiful, however obscured by earthly dross. No 
 flower in thy pathway wouldst thou have passed heed- 
 lessly by ; and to thy holy nature, their perfume would 
 have been as heavenly angels, unseen, but felt, and hal- 
 lowing the atmosphere around. The song of the night- 
 ingale would have opened to thee the very gate of 
 Heaven ; and night — what would night have been to 
 thee with its unutterable liarmonies ? This would 
 have been a world of beauty, of wonder, of worship, 
 to thee, my darling; but God in his infinite wisdom saw 
 fit to usher thee into the holy of holies, ere sorrow had 
 
INVALID S JOURNAL. 19 
 
 dimmed tliy innocent brow. Hadst thou lived, thou 
 wouldst have been a high souled delicate maiden, and 
 thou wouldst have felt the wrongs of woman most 
 keenly. 
 
 " Her lot would have been on thee — silent tears to weep. 
 And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour. 
 And sumless riches from affection's deep, 
 To pour on broken reeds — a wasted shower! 
 And to make idols, and to find them clay/' 
 
 Thus would it have been with thee, my darling. 
 But now thou art safe — it is well ! 
 
 NO. VI. 
 
 August 7 th. 
 My mother's birth day ! No, I cannot turn from 
 the " Past " entirely, however hopefully and trustfully 
 I may be looking forward to the Future. I would not 
 if I could. It is a part of my existence, and though 
 unsatisfactory and imperfect each act, viewed from the 
 present, may appear ; they none the less existed, weav- 
 ing a web of sombre colors, which now binds itself 
 tightly around me, and I cannot unfetter myself if I 
 Y/ould. Ah ! yes, the present is what the past has 
 made it ; and the future will be what the past and 
 j)resent will make that. I will read all these blotted 
 leaves once more ; then, with a chastened heart for the 
 " duty that lies nearest," I will turn from these sorrow- 
 ful records, and patiently read tlie the pages of to-day. 
 Mother! my own mother, can I outlive your memory? 
 
20 LEAVESFROMAN 
 
 Even the writing of that holy name, has unsealed the 
 fountains of the past, and the pent-up waters come 
 rushing, foaming and bubbling up, all the more frantic 
 for having been so long checked ! I pause to read the 
 name. There is nothing in each of those little letters, 
 taken separately 5 but joined together, as I have just 
 written it, is it not a magic word ? There are none 
 like it. Some may say that " wife," "sister," "friend," 
 are as magical — oh ! no, no ; each of these are sweet, 
 hallowed names ; but " mother," is holy, " devotional." 
 Ah ! yes, thou wert right there, poor Edgar Poe, if 
 wrong in all else. These flowers were gathered from 
 my mother's grave, the last of August, 18 — • The 
 thistle was in full bloom — and the little flower, look- 
 ing delicate and pure as heaven, was directly on the 
 top of the grave. As I plucked the thistle, I said, 
 " this shall be a memento of the thorns that were ev- 
 er in her pathway whilst here on earth : and as I gath- 
 ered the star-like flower, I said, " surely I may hope, 
 that she is where flowers without thorns, bloom nev- 
 er to fade, and where tears are wiped from all eyes." 
 The blue sky was bending lovingly down upon me, 
 and a few white clouds floated tranquilly and slowly 
 by, as if loth to leave me alone. I gazed long into 
 the deep sky, and all the glory above me ; then down 
 upon the green grave by my side. I saw — I felt all 
 these things ; but there was no mother's voice to break 
 the solemn silence, and a deep sadness stole over me. 
 I questioned aloud, "mother — mother, art thou near 
 me ? dost thou know thy youngest born, thy own loved 
 one is standing by this green grave, that covers the 
 earthly remains of that cherished form that was once 
 
invalid's journal. 21 
 
 so dear to me ? Oh ! mother, would that I could lay 
 my head upon thy faithful bosom, and shed tears that 
 would relieve this bursting heart ! Would that I could 
 hear that soothing language from thy lips once more, 
 that so often lulled life's early fever ! '' Do the best 
 thou canst, and angels can do no better ;" and with fast 
 flowing tears I retraced my footsteps. 
 
 That was the last time I visited her grave ; and dur- 
 ing my homeward walk, how vividly the dying scene, 
 and every particular of the last day of her sojourn 
 with us liere, rose before me. 1 was alone with her, 
 the most of that day, from choice — little dreaming 
 however that her end was so near — yet I have felt all 
 the more grateful for that privilege. She breathed her 
 last breath out on the shoulder of her youngest born 
 — the youngest of ten children ! It was over : — I spoke 
 to her, but there was no answer. Then I clasped my 
 arms tightly around her, and putting my lips close to 
 her ear, that had ever been open to my cry, I whis- 
 pered "mother." There was no motion: and that ter- 
 rible silence revealed the whole extent of my misery. 
 For the first time since I existed, I was cut oif en- 
 tirely from that being, who loved me so tenderly, and 
 who would at any time, have laid down her life for my 
 own. '-Alone ! (I cried aloud) alone in the wide world, 
 without a mother !" Since, I have felt grieved for those 
 lamentations, for who shall say that the echoes of those 
 crios did not fall on the spirit's ear, and hinder its up- 
 ward flight ; for every wail of sorrow struck some chord 
 in that large sympatliising heart of her's, while dwell- 
 ing here below. Poor mother ! thou are not forgot- 
 ten. Years have rolled on — the burdens of life have 
 
22 LEAVESFROMAN 
 
 fallen heavily on tliy child. Sickness, sorrow, and suf- 
 fering have been her portion. She is still, as of yore, 
 thy " pale faced one ;" but to this paleness, is added 
 deep scars : — canst thou see them, mother dear ? They 
 speak of a sad, sad experience, that has descended with 
 many other things into the past; but the scars remain! 
 She has not murmured at these things, for often times 
 they come to us as blessings in disguise ; though doubt- 
 less they tinge the character. Thou knowest how 
 abhorrent the thrall of fashion is to her, but oh ! 
 mother, answer thy child — has she made any progress 
 toward that higlier life that God has graciously be- 
 stowed upon us all, if we will but enter in, notwith- 
 standing our external circumstances ? Yes, it is indeed 
 true, that "we are all, here in this life, subject in a cer- 
 tain degree to circumstances ; but above these, there 
 stands unshaken, an eternal order. To go into this, to 
 to find our ijlace in it, is the problem given to us all ; 
 and it is possible to all to solve it." Dear mother, 
 when weariness and disgust creep over thy child, be 
 thou her guardian angel, and enable her with fresh 
 courage, to plume anew her wings, and endeavor most 
 earnestly to soar into that "eternal order;" to strive 
 with her whole soul to solve the problem of life. 
 
 NO. VII. 
 
 Saturday night, Sept. 10th. 
 " What shall I say of my child ? All might seem 
 hyperbole, even to my dearest mother. In him 
 
JOURNAL. 23 
 
 I find satisfaction, for the first time, to the deep wants 
 of my heart. Yet thinking of those other sweet ones 
 fled, I must look upon him as a treasure only lent. 
 He is a fair child, with blue eyes and light hair j very 
 affectionate, graceful, and sportive." 
 
 Thus wrote Margaret Ossoli, of her little Angclo ; 
 and I placed these words at the head of this leaf, that 
 I had written in my journal, some years before. 
 
 My little cherished son lies asleep on the couch. 
 He is as beautiful as an artist's dream of a cherub. I 
 gaze upon him, and while listening to his quiet breath- 
 ing, I ask myself the question, "What has the future 
 in store for my precious one ?" My heart beats quick, 
 and a suffocating sensation oppresses me, when for a 
 moment I picture to myself that possible future ; but 
 I try to drive back and repress these anxious fears, 
 and say, "sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." 
 
 He is so beautiful, and so wayward ! wished me 
 
 to send his likeness, but it has never been transferred 
 to canvass ; yet it is indelibly painted on my heart. 
 Here is his picture. Fair alabaster skin ; light ringlets 
 (that were flaxen in early infancy, but are now a shade 
 or two darker) parted on the forehead, leaving the 
 little calm, placid brow, and the meek, earnest, ques- 
 tioning blue eyes exposed to the beholder ! the oval 
 face and dimpled chin ! the mouth is of surpassing 
 sweetness, combined with a degree of roguishness 
 which is at times irresistible. The features are small 
 and delicately chiseled — the most infantile face — the 
 entire character of it is innocence. Some say it is the 
 face of a girl, others say, " no, it is the face of a boy ;" 
 but to me it is the face of an angel ! He is manly 
 
24 LEAVESFROMAN 
 
 both in form and independence of character ; but he 
 has never loved to be called a boy. You can make 
 him as gentle as a lamb, by calling him " Little Luty." 
 And then, when the evil spirits draw near — for they 
 do sometimes draw near my beautiful one — I have 
 only to press him closely to my heart, and repeat that 
 exquisite little poem of Hender's, translated by Mary 
 Howitt, about the image of the Yirgin and the Child, 
 that was placed in the woods, where a mother and 
 her little son often rambled at sunset ; and when I 
 pause at the close of these lines — 
 
 " Thus spake the tender mother; 
 
 And on an evening bright, 
 "When the red, round sun descended, 
 
 'Mid clouds of crimson light — 
 Again the boy was playing; 
 
 When, earnestly said he, 
 " Oh! beautiful Lord Jesus, 
 
 Come down and play with me! 
 
 I will gather flowers the whitest, 
 
 And weave for thee a crown, 
 I will give thee ripe, red strawberries, 
 
 If thou wilt but come down! 
 Oh! holy, holy mother; 
 
 Put him down from off thy knee, 
 For in these silent meadows 
 
 Tliere are none to play with meJ"^ 
 
 the little breast will heave, and the blue eyes fill with 
 tears, and though there are no words spoken, I read 
 the language of that little swelling heart, and pleading 
 face, and it says as plainly as words can say, '^ WonH 
 he come down ? I have no one to play with me !" 
 And after a silence, the little quivering lips part, 
 and, *' tell it again, dear ma-ma," falls gently on my 
 ear ; and &o I have repeated it three or four times 
 
invalid's joubnal. 25 
 
 over. The good angel of my darling returning, even 
 before I had finished the first stanza. * ^ 
 
 In reading over this leaf, written years ago, I am 
 reminded of a letter I received not long since, from 
 
 my dear friend -,* and in speaking of R., he says, 
 
 " I always remember with much pleasure his first days, 
 and the divine way in which you used to regard them. 
 What a Paradise this earth would become, if all 
 mothers were to enjoy the same feelings. I hope 
 that your teachings may enable him ever to perceive 
 the divine harmony of all things. Does he still re- 
 member me, or have I been blotted from his memory ?'* 
 R. has not forgotten him, and never will. He has a 
 very clear and vivid memory, and among the many 
 reminiscences of his early days, the pleasure that 
 dear friend's presence gave, stands out as a little green 
 " oasis," that gladdened his young spirit many and 
 many a time, and although it has passed from before his 
 eyes, it has left its own fragrance and refreshing per- 
 fume behind. There were, indeed, many things inde- 
 scribable in those first days, and it makes me happy to 
 know that one dear friend, and that one so near my 
 heart, noticed these things, and has treasured them up. 
 That letter brought the past so vividly before me, when 
 I used to sit by his side, and gaze into those eyes, so 
 holy and calm, yet mysterious in their gladness ; as 
 though the infantile, yet mature spirit, possessed a 
 world of knowledge and joy, which it had brought from 
 a higher, and purer sphere, into which the erring mother 
 had not been permitted to enter. I have never spo» 
 ken of them to others, for I felt they would deem them a 
 mother's foolish partiality. 
 2 
 
26 LEAVES FROM AN- 
 
 NO. VIII. 
 
 T met Eliliii Burritt, a few evenings since, and had a 
 deliditful conversation with him, on the subject that is 
 ever uppermost in his mind, now that he has succeeded 
 in obtaining a " little knowledge ;" the yearning de- 
 sire to possess the same, at one time absorbinghis whole 
 being. lie is, emphatically, the apostle of Peace ; and 
 his views of woman's efforts in that blessed cause, 
 were intensely interesting. He wished me to set 
 about establishing a "peace league" to be the "nucleus" 
 of a little circle of friends and neighbors, whom I 
 might gather around me, for the purpose of dissemi- 
 nating those glorious truths, that were Christ's pre- 
 cious legacy to his children, but of which they have 
 taken so little note. He was to correspond with me, 
 and put me in communication with some highly culti- 
 vated ladies in England ; but my timidity overpowered 
 my benevolence, and I dared not make any promise. 
 My many cares loomed up before me, and the constant- 
 ly recurring thought,— " could one, hitherto so useless 
 do aught, however earnestly she might desire it, to- 
 wards spreading any truth," — made me shrink back, and 
 propose another instead. But my conscience is yet 
 tender, and when I do not perform that which the 
 inward monitor, tells me is my duty to do, regrets fol- 
 low me like my shadow. Christ came to instill 
 Jove in our hearts, and that yeace is the offspring of 
 love, surely none can question. I have not written 
 him as I promised to do, but I hope and trust, that he 
 will not think it is indifference that has caused my si- 
 lence. 
 
INVALIDS JOURNAL. 27 
 
 All, lie could not think tJiat, if he could but know 
 how deeply iuterested I have been, even from a little, 
 child, in this matter. I remember at a very early age 
 what agony of mind I endured, and the feeling of des- 
 pair, that would literally darken the whole world to me, 
 to think that the rulers of the land, and all good people 
 did not see it in the light 1 did. Child as I then was^ 
 the inconsistency of christians, or those professing- the 
 spirit of the meek and blessed Jesus, to be in favor of 
 icar, I could not conceive of; and throughout my life, 
 that has been one of the stumbling-stones in my path- 
 way. The intense desire to convert the soul to God, 
 the prayers, the tears, the entreaties to flee from the 
 wrath to come; the worth of the immortal soul; — all 
 this we daily witness : but let these same earnest work- 
 ers for the soul, know that their land is invaded, their 
 rights threatened, their proper/^ in danger, and their 
 cry is, " to arms !" The work of the immortal soul is 
 then forgotten, the temporal reigns supreme ! 
 
 It is painful to me to see so little interest on this 
 subject. I feel that it would be useless to speak to 
 most of our ladies, their minds are preoccupied : 
 dress, company, and frivolities, leave no room for peace 
 leagues ; and if one, from a sense of duty, should introduce 
 the subject, they would look suspiciously, and ever af- 
 ter, when speaking of that person, would say, -' she i^ 
 a good sort of a woman, but she has such queer no- 
 tions." Now it seems to me this is peculiarly woman's 
 field of action. Who is not interested in war, if she 
 is not? I have looked upon the beautiful face of my 
 sleeping boy; I have clasped him to my heart as only 
 mothers can clasp their God-given oflspring; feeling 
 
28 LEAVESFROMAX 
 
 that a new world had sprung into beauty all around 
 me, because I was permitted to know the height and 
 depth of a mother's love ! I have watched his daily 
 growth; I have striven to educate the heart aright 
 while attending to the wants of his physical nature ; 
 and now if he should live to be a man. would it be 
 nothing to me if there should be a war ? When beset 
 on all sides with the false honor, that it was his duty 
 to defend his country, could I expect him to be 
 stronger than his neighbors, especially when heads of 
 churches, and learned Professors looked coldly upon 
 him, if he refused to join their ranks ? Would it be 
 nothing to me that the babe I had tended, the youth 
 I had watched over, the manhood I had rejoiced in 
 was suddenly snatched away, and impiously taught 
 that it was dutij to send death and desolation into 
 the homes of others, even whilst it was returning 
 with tenfold force back upon the head of his broken- 
 hearted mother, who could she have shielded him 
 would have done so with her heart's blood ? Yf as 
 it for this, I had labored and prayed, and consecrated 
 him to the Prince of Peace ? Had my noble boy lost 
 his life in the cause of Christ, what different feelings 
 would be mine ! lost did I say ? would he not have 
 gained a hundred fold in the life to come ? I have 
 thought I could follow him to tlie stake and soothe 
 his dying moments, blessing him and blessing God the 
 while, that I liad been the mother of such a son ; and 
 though the effort might have been too much for my 
 feeble frame to bear up under, and death might have 
 come to my rescue, still it seems to me, that with my 
 dying breath I would sing a song of praise. The sense 
 
invalid's journal. 29 
 
 of man's injustice being lost sight of in the contem- 
 plation of the disinthralled spirit of my boy, ascend- 
 ing to the throne of God, dying fov righteousness sake ! 
 But to have my beautiful one die on the battle field, 
 knowino' that he too had been an anoTv combatant, ah, 
 how could I endure that ! If he lives to be a man, oh ! 
 may he ever feel and say, with the good "Pierponf : — - 
 
 " no, no— let me lie 
 Not on a field of battle, when I die! 
 
 Let not the iron tread 
 Of the mad war-horse crush my helmed head: 
 
 Nor let the reeking knife, 
 That I have drawn against a brother's life, 
 
 Be in my hand. 
 
 From such a dying bed — 
 Though o'er it fioat the stripes of white and red, 
 
 And the bald eagle brings 
 The clustered stars upon his wide-spread -^ings, 
 
 To sparkle in my sight — 
 O, never let my spirit take her flight! 
 
 No; let me die 
 Where the blue heaven bends o'er me lovingly, 
 
 And the soft summer air, 
 As it goes by me, stirs my thin white hair. 
 
 And from my forehead dries 
 The death damp as it gathers, and the skies 
 
 Seem waiting to receive 
 My soul to their clear depths! 
 
 And in my dying hour. 
 When riches, fame and honor have no power 
 
 To bear the spirit up. 
 Or from my lips to turn aside the cup 
 
 That all must drink at last, 
 O, let me draw refreshment from the past! 
 
 Then let my soul, run back. 
 With peace and joy, along my earthly track, 
 
 And see that all the seeds 
 That I have scattered there, in virtuous deeds, 
 
 Have sprung up, and have given, 
 Already, fruits of which to taste in heaven!" 
 
 2* 
 
30 LEAVESFROMAN 
 
 NO. IX. 
 
 May 2d. 
 
 I received a letter from dear to day, and read 
 
 it with feelingb of deep satisfaction ; for a longer time 
 than usual had elapsed, since I had heard of her wel- 
 fare. Not that I for one moment doubted her truth, 
 her affection, or her willingness to write me whenever 
 it were possible, for her to do so. We may care to cor- 
 respond, we may not even hear, or know of the other's 
 destiny ; but we shall never cease to love ; because we 
 fondly trust. Like that dear one, I too have had to 
 give up letter writing nearly altogether, and the de- 
 privation weighs more heavily upon my heart, than most 
 people would imagine, who seek pleasure and amuse- 
 ment in the world. I fear some of my correspondents 
 think me dilatory. But I can write only when it is 
 quiet, and so wait thinking and hoping, that time will 
 come ; but the blessed season never arrives, and some 
 
 who do not know me as well as does (I mean the 
 
 tenacity of my nature to cling, where the heart has been 
 touched) may think I forget them, because my pen is 
 silent. I have many things to distract and trouble 
 me, and I suffer almost constantly, both in body and 
 mind^ but my letters have been such a source of deep 
 enjoyment to me, that I know not how to be deprived 
 of it. In this letter dear S. tells me of her approach- 
 ing marriage, and says, ^^ The feeling you mention dear 
 Elise, only gives me more convincing proof of your 
 love, and therefore endears you the more ,' whatever be 
 my fate, I shall always be " toujour le meme'^ to you ma 
 >chere.^^ After I had finished reading 's letter aloud, 
 
invalid's journal. 31 
 
 — — -wished me to describe Miss , so I commenced 
 
 with her height, the color of her hair and eyes, the 
 mouth, the manners, finally her loved image was before 
 
 me. I was silent, entreated me to go on. It is 
 
 useless, I replied. I can see her, but I cannot transfer 
 her features, that are graven upon the tablet of my 
 heart to you: that certain, indefinable something that 
 the soul transposes into every feature, must be seen, to 
 be felt. Mr. Mayo says truly, -^ The soul does not wil- 
 lingly sit for its portrait, but punishes the artist by 
 giving him back a somewhat distorted expression of it- 
 self." I have been reading the memoir of his wife, 
 written by himself. She was the Sarah S. Edgarton 
 who edited the '^ Rose of Sharon," for several years. 
 
 wanted to know if I had seen Lamartine's ^^Memo- 
 
 ries of my Youth." I have not, but have read his " Ra- 
 phael." I want to read it again carefully, and then I 
 shall be better prepared to speak of it : all I can now say 
 is, that the world is not worthy, cannot appreciate such 
 a book : that whenever and wherever such beings as Ra- 
 phael and the lady he loved exist, they will be generally 
 misunderstood. It was like an electric shock to me, 
 coming in contact with such a mind as hers, and on 
 one particular subject, if I understood her aright, I 
 feel she was laying my own heart bare to the world. 
 I do not see why Lamartine with his clear intellect, 
 and pure heart, should have given it to the world, if 
 its tendency is evil. I cannot see the utility of the 
 book : it seems to me too sacred to be exposed,and rude- 
 ly handled. I am glad that felt free to give me 
 
 some of her past history, it was very, very sad ! Would 
 I had known her then, how gladly would I have be- 
 
32 LEAVESFROMAN 
 
 stowed my poor sympathy. Bat in the wayward paths 
 of life we have been brought together, could we care- 
 lessly have passed each other by, after that meeting ? 
 I think not : the electric chain was struck, and our hearts 
 vibrated. I often think of our first meeting, and her 
 dear mother too ; how delighted I should be to see her I 
 They both came to me when my heart was thirsty, when 
 I yearned for the presence of truthful, loving souls. 
 Sick, and alone ; surrounded by the selfish and narrow ; 
 was it strange that when the cool, refreshing water 
 sprang up in the desert, that I should have drank long 
 and freely, and ever after turned back to it with the 
 liveliest feelings of gratitude ? I have also been read- 
 ing beautiful tribute to departed worth, and know 
 
 not when any thing has given me more satisfaction. It 
 is such a blessed thought, that although the lovely and 
 the good are misjudged, and their sayings, and doings 
 reprehended by the many, there are some, a chosen few, 
 who can appreciate and understand them. It is the 
 high prerogative of the inire in heart, to recognize pu- 
 rity wherever it may exist. It is sad to talk to those 
 who wish us to explain the meaning of our words, when 
 we have finished speaking ; and very pleasant to con- 
 verse with those, who understand us, and respond to 
 the sentiments we may utter ; but more, far more de- 
 lightful to be near, and commune with those, who, when 
 we raise our eyes to theirs, read our souls by an intuitive 
 perception, and comprehend our thoughts, without the 
 aid of language. Such, I conceive, was the relation 
 
 that existed between and the lamented Mrs. 
 
 would tbat all who are worthy, had such interpreters I 
 But though clouds will fold themselves thickly around 
 
invalid's journal. 33 
 
 us, wliile talking to those who do not, and cannot un- 
 derstand us ; we must be content with the fact, that it 
 is so, for we might as well attempt to dispel the thick, 
 dense fog of morning, before the sun has risen^ as to 
 make them believe that our motives are pure. Alas I 
 alas ! if we were to stand before man's tribunal in- 
 stead of our heavenly Father's, what would our des- 
 tinv be ? 
 
 NO. X. 
 
 Monday. 
 
 In reading the Nov. number of the " Una," I have 
 been strangely moved. It is, indeed, rich in articles, 
 calculated to cause every woman's heart to vibrate. I 
 derived much satisfaction and pleasure from each, but 
 the whole souled letter from the Toronto correspon- 
 dent, was especially welcome, coming as it did from 
 one, not crushed and down trodden by the husband 
 who promised to cherish and honor, but who feels 
 that she possesses all that her woman's heart craves. 
 
 How refreshing was this, because of its rare occur- 
 ence. How vividly, too, it brought to mind a conver- 
 sation I had with a dear friend. I loved her, for she 
 was good and true, but her warm sympathies had nev- 
 er been allowed to extend farther than the church, of 
 which she was a member. She was regretting that 
 one of whom she thought highly — one, whose Christi- 
 anity she could not for a moment doubt, was so much 
 
34 LEAVESFROMAN 
 
 engaged in such raoyements as " Anti Slavery/' and 
 ^^ woman's rights." She looked in my face and said; '^ I 
 have all the rights I desire, have not you?" I could 
 not answer her for a moment, so overwhelmed was I 
 by a contemplation of woman's real position — feeling 
 perhaps, it were better to be wronged, to suffer, than 
 to have one's eyes and ears closed to the wrongs and 
 sufferings of others, because their peculiar experien- 
 ces, had never been our own. 
 
 Then, there was the letter from a correspondent in 
 England, with its keen sarcasm, and out spoken manly 
 truth. His remarks on Mrs. Norton's case, were ex- 
 ceedingly interesting, for from a child, I have sympa- 
 thised deeply in her wrongs. And that noble " dis- 
 course of Victor Hugo !" I had read it before, but 
 was glad to read it again. Mrs. D's remarks on war, 
 struck home to my heart, and I echo back her noble 
 sentiments. I have copied a little poem, that was 
 written for Burrit's paper, but as it is particularly ad- 
 dressed to woman, I thought it might be republished 
 just at this time, perhaps to advantage, and should 
 they think best to give it a place in the " Una," it is 
 at their service. I have not time to write any tiling 
 new at present, though they have my vvarmest sym- 
 pathies, and best wishes ; and I doubt not, if woman is 
 true to her higJicr nature, if she does not quench tlie 
 spirit that is struggling for utterance, she will yet have 
 all the rights she desires ; and, oh ! may the time be not 
 far distant, when thousands may make a hcttei' use of 
 those which they already enjoy. 
 
invalid's journal. 35 
 
 NO. SI. 
 
 Sunday, March 25th. 
 AccoEDiNG to my promise, I have made a beginning 
 
 in those " series of letters," which desired me 
 
 to forward him from time to time, as the " spirit" 
 should prompt. I feel it would be selfish in me to 
 turn aside from this appeal, (however much I may 
 shrink from any publicity,) when I remember by whom 
 it was made. I cannot forget, if I would, the early 
 and tried friend, who found me in comparative dark- 
 ness, and who so kindly took me by the hand, — aiding 
 me in my slow and toilsome ascent, tenderly removing 
 the stumbling stones that would have proved impass- 
 able barriers to one possessed of so little physical 
 strength; cheering and and encouraging the timid one, 
 till she, too, at last, gained a view, a far off view, (but 
 only the more desired and yearned for,) of the green^ 
 waving fields of Literature and Science. And now, 
 when a trifling boon is asked, as a slight compensa- 
 tion, shall I turn away, and not even make an attempt 
 to prove my gratitude ? Knowing, as I well know, 
 that even should I fail, I have only to take refuge in 
 the large charity of the same kind friend. No, no, I 
 am ready to try, even should Ifail. I will not be dis- 
 couraged, when the whole current of my being sets 
 toward this outward expression of the interior thoughts 
 and emotions of the soul, and in which I am as anx- 
 ious as he could wish me to be, to utter worthily, if 
 at all. But the great hinderance is this mechanical 
 drudgery; I have shrunk from it, all my life long. I 
 
36 LEAYESFEOMAN 
 
 can send him, and other dear ones, spiritual letters by 
 the score, and feel no exhaustion, but rather exhilira- 
 tion in consequence ; but this plodding pen and ink 
 communication is an exertion and a weariness to both 
 body and soul. But I have not forgotten the lectures 
 I have received in times past, and I wil strive to be 
 patient with this mode of communication, since no 
 better I fear, will ever present itself to me in this 
 life. Then, out of the flower gardens of the heart, 
 let me cull for him whatever of bitter or sweet they 
 may have to oifer ; knowing that however off-hand these 
 letters may appear, not a thouglit had been written 
 out, that had not taken root, and budded and blos- 
 somed in that heart of which he, very naturally, might 
 have doubted, whether flowers (sweet scented at least) 
 had even found a fitting soil. Had I been guided by 
 advice, given years ago, in regard to these things, I 
 feel I should have been a great gainer ; for these beau- 
 tiful evanescent visitations, like the cloud draperies of 
 the sky, vanish as swiftly, never, perhaps, to return 
 again, in the same form and color; and unless we 
 grasp them, (as it were,) weaving them into some tang- 
 ible shape, so that we may gaze upon them ever after, 
 with the consciousness, that at such a season, we had 
 embalmed them in our heart of hearts, with the deep- 
 est and holiest emotions of the soul, they will be lost 
 to us forever. I can only regret the past, and resolve 
 to do better in the future. 
 
 But to return to the present. There was a feeling 
 of sincere happiness, and deep satisfaction in my heart, 
 
 in finding so grounded in the truth, the power of 
 
 which; had harmonized his whole being, demonstrating 
 
JOURNAL. 37 
 
 clearly to ray mind; the great fact, that the life of God 
 ill the soul, is the only thing whereby the immortal 
 spirit can regain its lost wings, and soar Heavenward ! 
 That such is the fact, I cannot for a moment doubt, 
 and I bless G-od that his weary and wandering feet 
 have at last found a resting place. I care not by what 
 name they call it, or by what paths we journey, so that 
 we have the all-satisfying result, — the spirit sccldng its 
 home, and finding it. I have re-read his article of 
 March 10th, under the head of '^Circumspections." I did 
 not wish to speak of it, till I had given it a thorough 
 persual. I like it exceedingly. Thou say'st truly my 
 friend, that the most " serious and protracted labor" 
 the earnest struggling spirit has, in this world, is to 
 ^* love the hating; to be just to the unjust; to ac- 
 knowledge, with all candor and frankness, whatever is 
 good and beautiful in the lines that assail us ; to seek 
 not the spoil of our enemies, but to make their virtues 
 our own ; to win to truth and to be won to truth." 
 Ah ! this is the great conquest, we are placed here to 
 
 achieve. wishes me to speak of Mrs. E. B, 
 
 Browning's poetry, in my next; and I will endeavor to 
 do so, if I can gain courage to approach that subject. 
 I shall need all the preparation, outwardly and in- 
 wardly, that he told me his friend required, ere he at- 
 tempted the reading of Shakspeare. But my time 
 has expired, and I must lay aside the pen. Will it ever 
 be to me, what the Artist's chisel is to him ? — the deU 
 icate instrument whereby the ideal thought and feel- 
 ing that lie hid in the soul, shall be transferred to the 
 formless marble, causing it to become instinct with 
 life and symmetry, '• a thing of beauty, and; a joy forev- 
 
 4 
 
38 LEAVES FROM AN 
 
 er r' If it is indeed true, as tlie poet Shelley has 
 said, that, " inspiration is already on the decline, when 
 composition begins," alas, what can I ever expect to 
 accomplish with the pen ? 
 
 NO. XII. 
 
 " When beings, •uho are destined to be blessed with real friendship, 
 meet for the first time in the world, does it not seem that they find and 
 recognize each other, as if an indistinct presentment had announced them 
 to one another? It is because each finds in the other some traits of that 
 excellence, which was already the object of his devotion; and on the 
 friend thus chosen, is bestowed a portion of this devotion." 
 
 '' He who rightly trusts, shows that he has seen the deity face to face; 
 and there is, perhaps, no higher, moral gratification on earth than this — 
 if sense and testimony attack the friend in j'our heart to hnrl him thence, 
 even then to stand 1)}' him with the God in you, to preserve and to love him, 
 not sls formerly, but more deeply." 
 
 Tuesday Evening, Oct. 30th, 1855. 
 My own dear Julia ! — for she is still mine, even 
 though she may have passed into the spirit-land, as I 
 have sometimes felt she had, when such longings have 
 taken possession of me, to see her dear face once 
 more in this world ! To-day, I have such a yearning 
 to hear of her welfare — to know whether she, or any 
 of her dear ones, have been swept away by the " chol- 
 era," that has been raging in Pittsburg and Alleghany, 
 as I have seen all along by the papers. Her last let- 
 ter is lying by my side. I have read it over and over, 
 and while doing so, I have felt as though I must/?/ to 
 her ! It is very hard that I cannot sit by her side, and 
 look into her sweet face, giving and receiving the kiss 
 
invalid's journal. 39 
 
 of love ! I am so occupied with lionseliold cares and 
 duties, that I have to postpone from time to time, what 
 I would gladly be doing now. Such has been the case 
 with my writing to her. I would have written her every 
 day, had it been possible, and I should have been more 
 than repaid, could I have known it had given her a mo- 
 ment's satisfaction. I hope I may hear ere long, if it is 
 only a line j but so fearful am I of taxing her little 
 strength, it would not pain me as much as I once thought 
 it would, to see another hand-writing, instead of her 
 own ; telling me all about the dear one, who in times past 
 could tell me every thing herself, and whose precious let- 
 ters are among my choicest treasures. I wrote her a 
 week ago, and I trust it has reached her, ere this. When 
 I read her last, I thought I would write often to her 
 in the form of a journal, but I have been suffering from 
 a difficulty of the heart, and I could not use my arms, 
 without producing the pain ; consequently, writing was 
 out of the question. Oh ! darling, day after day, I have 
 wished that some spiritual communication might reach 
 thee, breathing out all the love and regret, that lay in 
 this poor, beating, throbbing heart, that has given me 
 so much trouble. 
 
 NO. XIII. 
 
 Leaves have their time to fall, 
 
 And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, 
 
 And stars to set; — hut all, 
 
 Thou hast all seasons for thine own, ohi Death 1 
 
 Hemans. 
 
 November 2oth. 
 Since writing the last leaf, I have received a paper 
 containing a long, and beautifully written Obituary, in 
 
40 L E A V E S F R M A X 
 
 wliich these words occur : ''The time has come which we 
 thought we had been expecting for years ] the time when 
 
 we should say, '^Died on such a day, Mrs, J B 
 
 P , and left none like her in all the world from 
 
 which she was taken." It is here now, and we cannot 
 believe it." This sad intelligence, darkened all of the 
 day and many hours of the night. I had been expect- 
 ing it for a long time, and had striven to prepare myself 
 to meet it, but is it possible for us ever to be prepared 
 for such losses ? And then, the bitter regret, that I 
 could not have seen her o7ice more in this world ! And 
 oh ! how I wish that I had made extra exertions to 
 have written her every week, during the past summer, 
 but I feel that she comprehends it all now ! We loved 
 and trusted each other so entirely, that if years had 
 elapsed and not a line had passed between us — not a 
 shadow or doubt could have risen in the mind of either ; 
 for had not our souls been bound together by a holy tie, 
 never to be sundered throughout time and eternity? 
 I was very miserable for a season, after I knew the 
 worst; but I began to thhiJc of her; of all that she had 
 been to me from the day we first met ; of our last par- 
 ting ; of her inspired words, and graceful motions ; and a 
 sweet peace a holy calm fell upon me, and I felt that 
 she was near — nearer than when her loving and yearn- 
 ing spirit was fettered by the frail tabernacle of clay. 
 I asked no questions, but welcomed the angel of resig- 
 nation, and sleep fell upon my heavy eyelids. Yes? 
 terday, I read all her letters — long, tender and beau- 
 tiful epistles; faithful transcripts of her own true wo- 
 man's heart. I have always felt, wlien with her, and 
 when reading her letters, (and now more than ever,) 
 
invalid's journal. 41 
 
 that she gave to her friend, too exalted a position ; and 
 I think, now that the veil has been removed, she will 
 see me in a different light. But surely I should bo 
 willing that she should see me as G-od sees me ! There 
 was a feeling of surprise and chastened awe, while 
 reading some of those letters. I quote from one writ- 
 ten more than seven years ao'o — and I bad foro-otten 
 entirely, that such words had ever been penned to me. 
 She says : — " We have formed a society, which is to 
 include both music and reading. I only wish you could 
 be one of our number. It is such a blessed privilege 
 to have such a friend as you, dearest, — one to whom 
 I can open my inmost heart, and feel sure of finding 
 sympathy and congeniality of feeling. Oh what a 
 strange world this is, where all our best thoughts and 
 feelings — our truest, purest affections, must be re- 
 pressed or crushed. Oh ! Elise ; my dear, dear Elise, 
 how I wish I could talk with you — have only one quiet 
 day with you ! You never misunderstood me, and 
 from you I always get courage and strength to go on." 
 And again, ^^ Oh ! I do sometimes so long to be away, — 
 " To be a pure,//ee mind, and dwell with God." I 
 should then only be withdrawn from the eyes of my 
 friends on earth, I should be near them still^aud there 
 are some with whom I might yet hold sweet commun- 
 ion. If I should die, dearest, before you, do not feel 
 that I have left you. Think of me, and love me still ; 
 and doubt not that I shall be often with you, especially 
 in those moments, when sad and weary, the heart wants 
 sympathy and companionship, and fails to find it here. 
 Oh ! that it might be my mission to cheer such lonely 
 ones. Elise, do you not believe that departed spirits 
 
42 LEAVESFROMA^ 
 
 can make themselves felt, (their presence felt, I mean,) 
 by those they have loved and left on earth ? If so, 
 dearest, and if you should go first, will you not come to 
 me sometimes, and soothe and cheer, when I am weary 
 and sad ? But you must not die ; I cannot be deprived 
 of my sweet sisto' spirit, yet ! How much I have thought 
 of you this summer. IIow much I have talked with 
 you. Do you never hca?' me ? It seems as if my ear- 
 nest thought must almost have reached you, sometimes." 
 I might go on quoting from these precious letters all 
 night ; but was it not strange that those venj icords, 
 were there that I so much stood in need of? 
 
 In the first letter I ever received from her, it will 
 be seen, by her own words, how truly the key-note of 
 our souls was struck, even in our earliest intimacy. 
 Listen to its vibrations. "Do you remember that when 
 we were alone that afternoon, an acquaintance of mine 
 called ? A social, lively, little lady she was, but I shall 
 never forget the entire change of feeling that her pres- 
 ence produced in me. I felt as if I had been suddenly 
 transported, from a warm genial clime, to one of icicles, 
 which though they were dazzlingly bi'ight in the sun, 
 and had a sort of ringing music of their own, yet 
 threw a freezing spell over me, and I felt that it was 
 .an efi'ort for me to speak one word. The thought 
 came into my mind then, that w^e might spend a whole 
 lifetime in daily converse, and yet not know each oth- 
 er as well as you and I, after one hour's conversa- 
 tion." And in the last one, the grand diapason was 
 reached, and her spirit went forth with that clear, 
 fi-weet, music-tone trilling on her lips, Listen again. 
 '• For two years, dearest, that inner life, to which you, 
 
JOURNAL. 43 
 
 my spirit's sister, are more closely allied than any 
 other human being, has been closed, sealed, some- 
 times I think almost dead ; but I find ijour voice still 
 has power to rouse it, and I hope when this life's work 
 is over, that life will be restored to me again." How 
 shall 1 address her mother, in her bereavmcnt and 
 desolation of spirit? There is wo fitting language. I 
 can only send up a voiceless prayer, whenever her 
 poor, sorrow-stricken form comes up before me, and 
 pray that our Father may give her the strength to 
 to feel that her loss is our dear one's exceedino; o-ain ! 
 
 "The good die first," shall I outlive all my loved ones ? 
 ^ ^ -jf -jf -:f -Jf- -f -^ 
 
 The writer of the obituary, speaking of my dear 
 friend's personal appearance and character, says, — ''her 
 motions were graceful as the rolling of weaves ,* and 
 her whole appearance touchingly beautiful and winning. 
 Her voice was of surpassing sweetness ] and she was 
 complete mistress of the piano and guitar. We have 
 never heard such tones given out by a piano as those 
 her touch awakened, and even in our city we have per- 
 formers of rare merit. Professor Ehobock, in his 
 better moods, makes the air vocal with the triumph- 
 ant anthems of the Redeemed. Harry Kleber awakens 
 in his instrument, a whole orchestra of birds ; but Mrs. 
 P. sang the hymns of the angels." 
 
 '' None of the every-day cares or hopes, or fears or 
 loves, or interests of her friends and neighbors, were 
 matters of indifterencc to her ; and yet we have never 
 met any one with more comprehensive views of re- 
 ligion, philosophy, literature, reformatory movements 
 and all the great interests of our common humanity. 
 
44 LEAVESFROMAN 
 
 Her intellect was of a very high order. She was a 
 hard student ; one sure to bring reputation to a teacher 
 and a school. Teachers are seldom slow, to profit by 
 such schoolars ; and she was pressed on and on, through 
 sciences, languages and accomplishments, after giving 
 all of her days and the greater part of her nights to 
 study. 
 
 A member of the Protestant Episcopal Church, from 
 early youth, she died in its communion, and had ever 
 the largest love and sympathy for all that was Christ- 
 like in any denomination or individual. 
 
 For some years before her death, she was unable to 
 attend church ; and in this time appeared to have been 
 so directly taught of God, that her opinions on relig- 
 ous subjects were like inspiration : the practical teach- 
 ings of the New Testament were all in all, the theo- 
 ries built upon them as nothing ; and when deprived 
 of the use of the institutions of religion, she lost the 
 need of them. When asked, near the close of her 
 protracted illness, if she would like prayers offered 
 for her, in the church, she said, "Oh, no ! I have no need 
 of them ; for the Saviour is so near. He answers my 
 petitions before I can utter them. He does not wait to 
 be entreated." When asked if she was not anxious to 
 die a happy death, she answered, " No, but I am anx- 
 ious to live a good life. Let my life testifiy that I 
 belong to Christ, and my Father may send me what- 
 ever kind of death pleases Him. The time of dying 
 is but a little while, and I know that it is all happiness 
 after that." Once, she said to us, "It is so pleasant to die 
 now, with father, mother and the doctor all here to go 
 to the very gates with me j and then all the darkness 
 
ixvalid's journal. 45 
 
 will be over !" A few days before her last, slic said, 
 "Oh ! mother, when 3'ou come, I shall sing and play for 
 you as you never heard me sing or play here." She 
 requested that her body might be prepared for the 
 grave, in a muslin shroud, because this was a dress the 
 the industrious poor could afford for their loved dead, 
 without injury to the living. Thus, in all her calcula- 
 tions and opinions, shono forth her appreciation of the 
 brotherhood of man, of the greatness of a human soul, 
 which raises the possesor above all fictitious, earthly 
 distinctions. With her central idea fixed in heaven, 
 she was with us as one of us ; not as an enthusiast or 
 an abstraction ; but as a sister ; so much like an angel 
 of light, and yet so unconscious of any superiority." 
 
 Such, was my precious and beloved friend, as viewed 
 by another. What she was to me, her written words can- 
 not even tell, though they are such faithful transcripts 
 of her own purified spirit. I said, I always felt that 
 she placed me too high that she gave to me a spiritual 
 life and beauty, that I did not possess, or at least was 
 unconscious of. Especially would I realize this, when 
 she spoke of my letters, I, who never wrote a letter 
 (as it seems to me) in the true acceptation of the term, 
 who only gave out now and then, a few fragmentary 
 inarticulate heart-throbs. — how strangely would her 
 language fall upon my ear, and with what an humbled, 
 chastened spirit, would I pray that it might indeed be 
 true ! My letters ! How gladly would I look them all 
 over, to see what I wrote to the dear one, but I keep no 
 copies ; consequently, it is out of my power to do so. In 
 one of hers, she says, "I wonder that a heart that loves 
 
46 LEAVESFROMAN 
 
 you so truly and so much, could keep its warm affections 
 pent up so long, and by so doing, deprive itself of that 
 manna food, for which it so often yearns, and which 
 your pen alone affords. I wish I could, in one word, 
 express to you the delight your letter gave me ; the 
 joy and elevation which I felt as your spirit communed 
 with mine, and gave back to me the thoughts and 
 feelings which had lacked the power of expression. 
 There is so much in your letters dearest — so much 
 more than meets the eye — that I feel a kind of despair 
 at the idea of attempting to answer them. To my 
 spiritual perceptions, they speak volumes of the heart's 
 history; of a heart purified by suffering and filled with 
 higher, purer aspirations than this world can ever sat- 
 isfy. Oh ! my beloved Elise, if such an imperfect me- 
 dium of communication can afi'ord such inexpressible 
 delight, what will it be when all these earthly clogs 
 are removed ? When, with every holy affection quick- 
 ened, every grace and beauty of the mind purified and 
 invigorated, we stand wholly revealed to each other ; 
 BO longer " seeing through a glass darkly", but know- 
 ing as we are known, by Him who now, alone, sees the 
 inmost depths and recesses of our souls. Why is it 
 that thoughts of you, and communion with you, always 
 lead me directly away from earth to heaven ? Is it 
 not because there is to be perfected this little germ of 
 earthly friendship ? Because the?'e we shall enjoy in 
 full fruition that of which this is but the feeble earn- 
 est ? Two spirits so nearly allied as yours and mine 
 must; I think, belong to the same sphere; and will it 
 not be pleasant, dearest, to dwell in the same home, to 
 have the same teachers, to learn toa'cther the same 
 
JOURNAL. 47 
 
 things and to be employed in the same blest pursuits ? 
 In reading, and re-reading your letters, Elise, I am 
 struck with the entire similarity of our thoughts and 
 feelings, our tastes hopes and wishes ; and I feel, when I 
 sit down to write to you, that I can only repeat what 
 you have said. To every line and sentence, I want to 
 say, " yes dearest, my heart echoes every word." And 
 again, " I wonder why it is, my own dear Elise, that 
 my letters to you are always written with eyes full of 
 tears. They cannot be tears of sadness, for love and 
 joy are certainly not sorrowful emotions ; and indeed 
 I have not room for such when communing with you. 
 I feel so entirely at rest — so perfectly at home with 
 you — I have no fear of being misunderstood ] no fear of 
 being thought insincere, visionary, and foolishly ro- 
 mantic. I can give you my thoughts and feelings just 
 as they are, warm and glowing from the heart, and 
 they ever find ready sympathy with you; and whether 
 I write of the inner or outer man, of this world, or 
 our own dear home, I am sure to draw from you an 
 answering chord of kindred feeling. Sometimes, even, 
 when the idea that I would express fails to find utter- 
 ance, you seem to catch the germ of thought by intui- 
 tion, and send it back to me a lovely, blooming flower, 
 so soothing and cheering in its fragrance and quiet 
 beauty. Oh ! ought I not to be thankful that God has 
 given me such a friend, that He has revealed to me 
 one human heart so like my own ?" 
 
 A few more quotations, darling, (the writer of the 
 obituary, said it did not seem natural, to call thee any 
 thing but darling,) and then these precious letters will 
 be put away ; but I can turn to these pages, often and 
 
48 LEAVESFROMAN 
 
 often, and read the very words, thy dear hand penned 
 me. ''How shall I answer that letter of yours, my dear, 
 dear Elise ? How can I express upon paper the deep, 
 earnest thoughts, the warm overflowing love which it 
 calls forth from my inmost soul ; the longing which it ex- 
 cites for a more intimate communion than actual pres- 
 ence, even, and words and looks can give ? I know 
 not why it is, but your letters afiect me like wild 
 sweet melodies, interspersed with those deep thrill- 
 ing tones, that make my very heart strings vibrate 
 with trembling emotions." 
 
 In a long letter, written December 22, 1848, she 
 writes ; — "your dear little messenger, ma chere Elise, 
 was most joyfully received. It bore the impress of your 
 own sweet spirit, and the perusal of it gave me more 
 pleasure thani can express. It came like a stray moon- 
 beam, with its soft and gentle influence, to awaken with- 
 in me sweet memories and pleasant thoughts. I wonder 
 why it is thati always associate you with a moonlight 
 eve in summer, or with the sweet, sad strains of an 
 seolian harp ; or that kind of poetry, which, though not 
 sad in itself, yet has a touching, half mournful influ- 
 ence upon the feelings : — its exquisite beauty awaking 
 within us a yearning for something above this life ,• 
 something higher, holier, and purer than our present 
 existence ] a longing to be freed from the fetters which 
 so cramp our souls, and paralyze their heaven-ward 
 flight. Who is it that has said : — " These aspirations 
 and desires are given us, that, like a swallowed dia- 
 mond, they may slowly cut through our earthly cover- 
 ing ?" That word " slowhf^ is a torturing word, is it 
 not ? and yet how necessary is the suffering, to purify 
 
intalid's journal. 49 
 
 strengtlien and prepare us for our home on high. I 
 was sorry to learn from your letter, dearest, that you 
 were still suffering from ill health, and '^ must suffer" 
 you say, '^ all your life". If so, may God comfort you, 
 my own one, for He only will know how much you en- 
 dare." And now, how is it my, beloved friend? Now 
 that the veil has been removed, and thou hast passed 
 into the holy of holies." Dost thou love thy Elise as 
 truly as of yore ? or has a bitter pang bowed down 
 thy spirit, even in thy heavenly home, to find thou wert 
 deceived in her, while dwelling in that frail temple of 
 clay ? God grant that it be not so ! Let her feel that 
 thy tender, pitying eyes are still bent on her with their 
 wonted affection ; and that if her written ivords had 
 power to draw such thoughts from thy inmost soul, they 
 were indeed from Heaven, and have returned with thee 
 thither-ward ! And let her bless God that she was en- 
 abled to write ; for He only can know how great is the 
 exertion for an invalid to set about doing anything 
 
 and how tmsatisj actor y, her letters have always been to 
 her ! 
 
 "And thou, oh Heaven! keep keep what Thou hast taken, 
 
 And with our treasure, keep our hearts on high! 
 
 The spirit meek, and yet by pain unshaken; 
 
 The faith, the love, the lofty constancy; 
 
 Guide us where these are with our sister flown — 
 
 They were of Thee, and thou hast claimed thine ownl" 
 
 NO. XIV. 
 
 February 2oth. 
 Yesterday, I wrote to dear M. I am sorry I could 
 not have written her before. I thought it doubtful 
 
50 LEATESFR0 5IAN 
 
 T^-lietlier I sliould be able to do so, when she requested 
 me to. I aoi always hurried, but have been more 
 than usually so of late. I have finished — for the pres- 
 ent, and that is such a relief! but work, worhy is still 
 
 all around me. I have not seen 's mother, since 
 
 her departure : thought of going up to-day, but felt so 
 weary and exhausted, I had to give it up. I attended 
 
 's examination and should have stopped there, but 
 
 that miserable headache which is broudit on by beins; 
 in a heated, crowded room, made me feel 50 sick, I had 
 
 to hasten home and lie down. Dear has been 
 
 with us some part of the time, and we all enjoyed it 
 so much ! M. has been much in my thoughts, since her 
 departure, especially the afternoon and evening of her 
 journey ] — it brought so vividly to my mind, the day my 
 poor darling left us, for her new home among strang- 
 ers. I have been looking over some of the letters I 
 wrote her, during that absence. She left them, (the 
 old ones,) at home, knowing well that ih^neiv ones would 
 take up all the spare room. When I glance at the 
 the tame, common place remarks with which we com- 
 mence our letters, I think of what dear J. P. said in 
 one of her epistles to me. " What is it that always 
 chokes my pen, and chokes my poor throat till the 
 tears come, whenever I attempt to write to you ? I 
 think it must be because of the multitude of thoughts, 
 feelings and emotions which come rushing along at 
 once, — all struggling to get out first, and so gorging 
 the narrow channel of communication that the waters 
 must of course overflow their banks. Oh ! I have so 
 much to say to yau, dear friend ; so much that words 
 of pen or tongue cannot express. I want to clasp you 
 
invalid's journal, 5i 
 
 to my heart, and look into your soul, the joys, soii ows 
 and aspirations of my own." This is always my ex 
 perience, when I begin a letter to one I love. We 
 struggle to repress, and endeavor to pen a few sinqde 
 sentences, and instead of their proving the " prelude" 
 that shall open the way, we find them barriers which 
 only serve the more to obstruct. Tfelt this in a pecu- 
 liar manner, when I took up the pen to write to 
 
 There was so rmtch I wanted to say, but I knew not 
 where to begin ! It would not be a difficult task for 
 
 and I envy her the beautiful mechanical case 
 
 with which she turns off letter after letter. Every 
 thing I do, is done laboriously. 
 
 Wednesday, Mrs spent the afternoon witli me, 
 
 and we enjoyed it much. She came for me to go 
 home and spend the night and next day with her. but 
 I could not go, and we were both disappointed. I 
 
 was at Mrs. and stayed all night, so I saw 
 
 before and after the "Ball." M. knows my feelings 
 in regard to these things, and has for years ; yet I do 
 not think there is any more sin connected with tbem, 
 than there is in fashionable members of churches, giv- 
 ing large parties, where there is as much pride, extrav- 
 agance, frivolity and gossip, as there could possibly 
 be at a more public entertainment. Dancing is a 
 healthy, graceful accomplishment, when not carried to 
 excess. I would have both boys and girls learn to 
 dance. It is the heated rooms, late hours, and exposure 
 to health, to say nothing of the time it takes, and the 
 petty rivalries and jealousies oftentimes engendered 
 there, that I object to, though these are not necessarUu 
 
52 LEAVESFROMAN 
 
 connected with dancing. I would miicli rather my 
 children should never attend such places. I have 
 never considered it wise, however, on the part of pa-- 
 
 rents, to entirely forbid these things, and knows 
 
 why. The one prayer of my heart, since I have been 
 a mother, has been, ^' let them be 'pure in heart." I 
 have not asked for temporal blessings, or worldly 
 honors, but I have striven and agonized for this. That 
 my prayer has in a measure been granted, I acknowl- 
 edge with deep gratitude ; for the better I become ac- 
 quainted with 's inner self, the more do I bless 
 
 God that she is, what she is. If, in the future, she 
 should feel that it would be an aid to her spiritual 
 growth, to become a member of a church, God grant 
 her grace and strength to do so, but never for Jashion's 
 sake, or to run from cne extreme to another; for I 
 think there is as much sin committed, in running to 
 church too much, to the neglect of one's health, and 
 social, or home duties, as there is in seeking worldly 
 pleasures. One, whose thought is at all times deep and 
 wise, because simple and true, has said, " obedience is 
 better than sacrifice ;" that the way to benefit our fel- 
 low-creatures most, and cultivate best our own natures, 
 is by knowing and obeying all the laws of God ; for 
 those laws are in perfect harmony each with the 
 other, and we are never required to sacrifico the real 
 well being of our own souls in order to do good to 
 others, nor will such a sacrifice of ourselves be a real 
 benefit to others." -^f ,^f * ^ * 
 
 I have listened to several conversations on Solger's 
 lecture on woman, that were very interesting. I re- 
 gret, now, that I did not hear it, the better to judge 
 
invalid's journal. 53 
 
 for myself. In regard to the inferiority of "wonian. or 
 her equality to man, that question does not disturb me, 
 except when I hear it argued upon fooiishl3\ As dear 
 L. says : " I am satisfied in regard to that point, vrith 
 the belief, that among the greatest and best men who 
 have ever lived, there have been none so superior, that 
 woman could not understand and sympathize with 
 their highest and noblest conceptions." I believe God 
 created man and woman to be one though I acknowl- 
 edge, with deep humiliation, that they have become 
 widely sundered ; yet such was the original design of 
 the All-wise Father. It seems to me, no true gentle- 
 man would arrogate to himself or to his sex, a supe- 
 riority over the other half of the race, whom God cre- 
 ated to form a ^' whole," and it is only in this Yvilit 
 they can be viewed or spoken of. I understand that 
 Emerson and Parker have told him that he must not 
 deliver that lecture again ; and that he has since said, 
 that had he thought more on the subject, and had the 
 conversations, he has since had, with several true and 
 noble-minded women^ he surely should not have given 
 it to the public in that form, but should have qualified 
 very muck I doubt whether Robert Browning would 
 take that view of the sex, if he judged of them bv that 
 " perfect wife" of his, who is ever by his side. Let 
 man be the head but woman must be the heart. God de- 
 signed the heart-throbs to send the blood to the brain : 
 one cannot exist without the other, and let woman seek 
 no higher glory. -Jf ^ * ^ -J^ ^ 
 
 I should love to write so much of my thoughts and 
 feelings to-day, about Tennyson's "Maud" and Brown- 
 ing's "Men and Women/' and Thackeray's^'Newcomcs ;" 
 
 5* 
 
54 LEAYESFROMAN 
 
 but I suppose I shall have to curtail, and leave tlie 
 greater part unwritten, or wait till a more convenient 
 season. I liave not read a word about "Maud," or 
 Browning's new book. Though I know the former has 
 been severely criticised; yet to me there is a perfect 
 charm in and through the whole poem. I do not 
 think those persons who cry out against it so, have 
 a clear idea of the poet's conception in regard to the 
 work. I look upon it as a portraiture, or a series of 
 pictures, of the internal workings or states of mind of 
 one who has been outraged from his birth, and who has 
 become sensitively morbid, and suspicious of every 
 thing around him, yet whose noble and delicate nature 
 abhors all wrong and injustice. Compared with other 
 poems of Tennyson's, it will not stand so high as a 
 work of art, and such was not the intention of the au- 
 thor, it seems to me ; but if he has been true to what he 
 aimed at, that is all we have to do with. We may 
 quarrel with the subject, but surely it seems to me if 
 we look at it impartially, not with the way it has been 
 handled by the poet. People are very apt to inveigh 
 against love^ as though there could be no such thing in 
 the world ; and when a skillful operator lays bare its se- 
 cret springs, giving a faithful transcript of the tortured 
 heart's hopes and fears, they call it " maudlin." I want 
 
 to copy so many passages, but have not time. shall 
 
 read it for herself, and for me too, on her return. I was 
 
 told did not like Browning's new book j thought 
 
 there was no sense in it or in many parts of it. I am 
 not personally acquainted with but I am surpris- 
 ed. I do not know that I am capable of judging of it, 
 as a work of art, or whether Browning is a poet or not.; 
 
invalid's journal. 55 
 
 but this I can say, that though there are many things I 
 do not understand, there is much that fills my whole 
 being with delight. In this respect, I am (indeed) like 
 the poet : 
 
 " Contented if I may enjoy 
 
 The things which others understand." 
 
 Mrs Browning could not have written such a poem 
 as " Saul," neither do I think Robert Browning could 
 have written the " Seraphim" or " Lady Geraldine's 
 Courtship," yet each can appreciate the subtile and del- 
 icate points of the other. It makes my heart glad 
 when I think of two such natures coming together, 
 where the husband can say, from the depths of a full 
 heart; such words as these. 
 
 "My own, see where the years conduct ! 
 
 At first twas something our two souls 
 Should mix as mists do ; each is sucked 
 
 Into each now ; on, the new stream rolls, 
 Whatever rocks obstruct. 
 
 Think, when our one soul understands 
 The great Word which makes all things new— 
 
 When earth breaks up and Heaven expands — 
 How will the change strike me and you 
 
 In the House not made with hands ? 
 
 Oh ; I must feel your brain prompt mine, 
 
 Your heart anticipate my heart, 
 Tou must be just befoi-e, in fine, 
 
 See and make me see, for your part; 
 New depths of the Divine I" 
 
 And again, in his address to E. B. B. : 
 
 " Pray you, look on these my men and women. 
 Take and keep my fifty poems finished. 
 Where the heart lies, let the brain lie alsol" 
 
 But I must stop quoting. I thiuk there are some of 
 the best thoughts on true and false, marriage in Thack- 
 
56 LEAVESFROMAN 
 
 eray's NeTrcomes, tliat I have ever met witli. And do 
 we not stand in need of them ? Marriage, to me, is the 
 most awfully solemn act of our lives. Yet we cannot 
 but judge from the reckless manner in which hun- 
 dreds enter upon it, that they feel little and think less. 
 It has always been my firm belief, that there is not 
 that man living, who can comprehend, to its full extent, 
 the position of woman, when she surrenders her earth- 
 ly all to the keeping of another : when she consents to 
 become the wife of one, even whom she loves better 
 than life, and whom her own heart had chosen from all 
 the world beside. If genuine love continues to the 
 end ; if sympathy, which is dearer than all, cements the 
 bond ] sickness, poverty, and all, things may be cheer- 
 fully borne for each others sake. But, ah, it is a del- 
 icate flower, that cannot stand in the burning rays of the 
 sun, with no gentle dews to water it, without drooping. 
 
 I told if he thought I looked too much on the dark 
 
 side of marriage, he must think of my suffering life, my 
 small hope, and the many sad experiences, that have 
 come under my observation. 
 
 I have written to dear because I thought it 
 
 would be a comfort to her, and surely she stands in 
 need of comfort. I cannot tell how near and dear 
 she has ever been to me ; but more particularly so of 
 late, since we watched the death-angel's approach, and 
 strove so earnestly to realize that the angel of life was 
 just beyond ! I have felt such an anxiety for her since, 
 that I have sometimes doubted whether it was not my 
 own dear one I was thinking of and waiting for. I pity 
 her, but we must suffer. The blessed Fenelon says, 
 *'When God deprives us of any bles-sing,he can replace 
 
S JOURNAL. 57 
 
 it either by otiicr instruments, or by himself. When I 
 
 I think of I am often so indignant, but, ^'It is only 
 
 imperfection that complains of what is imperfect. The 
 more perfect we are, the more gentle and quiet we be- 
 come towards the defects of others." How many 
 times have I pondered over that sentence, but have I 
 profited any by it ? God knoweth. 
 
 NO. XV. 
 
 " How can I bear to think on all 
 The dangers thou must brave! 
 My fears will deem each gale a storm, 
 While thou art on the wave." 
 
 Miss Landon. 
 
 Tuesday, March 20 th. 
 I arrived safely home, where I was anxiously ex- 
 pected ; but never before in my life, did it seem so like 
 a tomh, — such an intense gloom, surrounding and perva- 
 ding all things! 's partiug advice was of little 
 
 avail, for I did feel very, very sad, as the thought con- 
 stantly recurred to my mind, that I was returning 
 home, alone I and in spite of all my efforts to the con- 
 trary, I could see nothing but one dark vessel toss- 
 ing about on the deep angry waters, and the loved one 
 in it, sick and pining for the wonted care and atten- 
 tion of the absent mother. I kept repeating these 
 exquisite and mournfully true lines, which I had cop- 
 ied from 's journal, and all the more cherished by 
 
 me, that d^Jather's heart had uttered them. 
 
58 LEAVESFROMAN 
 
 " Our daughters die to us, even in the hour 
 They open to the Avorld. If Death, who sits 
 A constant guest in all our homes, should spare, 
 (Contented with the wife we loved,) should spare 
 Awhile the daughter; she no sooner blooms. 
 Than comes the licensed spoiler with his suit, 
 His open theft, and the new family 
 Begins by rooting up from out the old 
 Its choice, perchance its solitary flower. 
 Such nature's course. Torn from the bleeding side, 
 Is ever the fair Eve, that is to form 
 The next year's Paradise." 
 
 As soon as the boat started, I went upon deckj 
 straining my eyes to see if that vessel was still in 
 sight. I asked a gentleman who was standing near, 
 which was the " Bark." He politely pointed to one, 
 asking me if I had any interest in it. I replied, " I 
 did not know but the largest share of my heart was in 
 it." He seemed surprised ; we had some pleasant 
 conversation ; he told me he was from the ^^ Tropics," 
 and was most frozen to death; that he would not live 
 in New-York, if they would give him the whole 
 city. He had no sympathy with the fashionable places 
 of resort, during the summer seasons; thouglit them 
 altogether too exclusive ; contrasted the life at New- 
 port, and other watering places, with the social gath- 
 erings of the South. We spoke of Fanny Kemble, 
 and her views of the " best society" of N. Y. and 
 other American cities. He seemed to sympathize 
 truly in her untoward fortunes ; said he was present at her 
 first performance in this country, and he thought her 
 at that time, the most beautiful woman he ever saw ; 
 thought her possessed of wonderful genius, and strength. 
 He was born at the North, but left it at the age of eight 
 years. I asked him if he had any sympathy in Northern 
 
invalid's journal. 6^ 
 
 aiitliors. He replied, ''Yes, when tliey do not meddle 
 with what does not concern them." Did he refer to 
 the "peculiar institution" of the South ? He said "yes, 
 to slavery." Then we talked freely on the subject. I 
 told him I thought every true woman's heart must be 
 opposed to the whole system. He said we knew 
 nothing here, at the North, of the institution of 
 slavery, as it really existed ; that they would have 
 slaves in Massachusetts if the soil was suited for them. 
 I told him, I thought all who possessed the true spirit, 
 acted conscientiously in striving to do unto others, as 
 they would be done by ; having that passage of script- 
 ure in my mind : " Remember those in bonds as bound 
 with them." " Yes, yes," he replied, "that's it. Let 
 them take a few of those simple phrases, containing 
 so much, and be guided by them, and they would do 
 very differently." I saw he had mistaken my mean- 
 ing. I then spoke of the deleterious effects it has 
 upon man and woman, — causing them to become savage 
 and tyrannical in nature, from believing themselves 
 possessed of absolute power. He said this was some- 
 times the case, but not often. He had known instances, 
 where, if either were abused, it was their own children j 
 because, the slave being injured, they felt their prop- 
 erty was at stake. Ah ! yes ; the poor chattel was 
 looked after, because it was a chattel; but the im- 
 mortal part of both children and slaves, was over- 
 looked, and 1 thought this told more against the sys- 
 tem, than other things we had spoken of. I handed 
 him Mrs. Howe's "Passion Flowers," and pointed to that 
 little poem entitled, " The Heart's Astronomy." He 
 read it with evident pleasure, and spoke of its beauty 
 
60 LEAVESFROMAN 
 
 and peculiar style. That would apply to all white 
 mothers, but not to the poor slave mother ! He intro- 
 duced me to the Captain, and then took his leave. 
 I bade him farewell Avith sorrow and regret in my 
 heart, that one so courteous in manner, and seemingly 
 possessed of many noble virtues, could be so entirely 
 blinded on the great question of human freedom ; re- 
 cognizing, and justifying an institution, that not only 
 tramples upon the physical organization, but often 
 times denies that those men and women have souls 
 that are to exist throughout the countless ages of 
 eternity. 
 
 Captain F. is a true gentleman, if outward manner 
 is a sufficient guarantee of inward refinement and gen- 
 tleness. He took pains to speak to the chambermaid, 
 charging her to attend to my comfort ; and ihat if he 
 were not up, when I should leave, (which he hoped to 
 be,) she must see me to the cars. But his kindness in 
 this instance, proved a misfortune : for he no sooner 
 had spoken to her than she seemed to have a spite 
 against me. She did not answer him, but turned to 
 another person near, and said, " half past seven is not 
 very early." This was in reply to his remark that he 
 hoped to be up himself. In the morning, I might have 
 slept an hour longer, if I could only have got an an- 
 swer from her in regard to the time. I was so fearful 
 of being left^ I could not be quiet. When the cars 
 were ready to start, she turned to those passengers 
 who were in the other part of the cabin, and said, 
 " all you have to do, is to take your seat in the cars ;" 
 so I took my carpet bag and followed them. The 
 other chambermaid was pleasant, and accommodating, 
 
invalid's journal. 61 
 
 but she was asleep, and I could not bear to wake her. 
 I was told that some persons liked "Lousia" the best; 
 but they surely could not be those, whom the kind 
 Captain had entrusted to her " tender mercies." I felt 
 it to be an outrage, a direct contradiction to the Cap- 
 tain's wishes and orders, and which he would not for 
 a moment countenance, did he know of the fact. Cen- 
 erally speaking, they have assumed an authority that 
 does not belong to them ; much as though we were 
 prisoners, and they our keepers. These things ought 
 not so to be. What are they there for, but to add to 
 the comfort and accomodation of the passengers, as I 
 understand it, and to take care, and perform their part 
 of the work. 
 
 I have just received a letter from requesting 
 
 me to tell her of the welfare of the ^^ absent one ;" but 
 there are "no tidings from yon vessel, proudly bound- 
 ing o'er the main," and all that I can do, is, to strive 
 to be patient, and hope I 
 
 "In ray dreams last night, 
 
 B}^ holy sleep beguiled, 
 In the fair moonlight, 
 
 My child upon me smiled." 
 
 She has been with me each night in my dreams, and 
 for this I am deeply grateful. I hear the wind con- 
 tinually, and it suggests but one image to my mind : — 
 a frail barque, with the unfathomable depth below, and 
 the infinite height above I 
 
62 LEAVESFROMAK' 
 
 NO. XVI. 
 
 We left p., Tuesday eve, for , and had a delight- 
 ful ride through the country, by the light of a most 
 glorious moon. I was sad and tired, but a dream-like 
 feeling stole over me, and it seemed like riding through 
 fairy-land. It is so seldom that I have a chance to 
 see the moon in all its glory, and to lay aside the 
 cares of this working-day world, that the capacity for 
 enjoyment seemed intensified by this unlooked for 
 pleasure. All fear of danger — all thought of the mor- 
 row — was forgotten ; and I revelled in the emotions of 
 quiet joy that pervaded my spirit. Yet ever and anon 
 the " shadow on the way," came between my soul and 
 its soothing rest, and I would have to face it, and then 
 strive to banish it by drinking in the unutterable 
 beauty in which I was enveloped. 
 
 "What is it, then, amid this light. 
 
 That stands upon the road afar, 
 Both in the day and through the night, 
 
 Outwatching every star ? 
 
 A thing of dimness and of shade. 
 
 The hidden face I cannot see; 
 Bat only feel my steps waylaid. 
 
 And know it waits for me." 
 
 The grand old elms greeted us, as they had done 
 many times before, but there was a magic spell on all 
 around, that language must ever fail to describe. The 
 moon-lit sky above, and the soft, silvery shadow of 
 that moon's light, " sleeping" on the green carpet be- 
 neath our feet ; the " voices of the night," breaking in 
 upon this mystic silence ; while those giant old senti- 
 
invalid's journal. 63 
 
 nels of the past, spread their immense branches over our 
 heads, and swayed to and fro, with a gentle murmur ; 
 and every now and then, the moon peeped through 
 the thick foliage, and I compared it to God's good 
 angels, who, though hidden for a while, are still as near 
 as when their holy faces first made glad the darkened 
 hours. L. said it seemed wrong to shut out all that 
 beauty ; but Nature's laws are unalterable, and if we 
 trample upon them, we must pay the penalty. Thus 
 far, shalt thou go, and no farther, even in thy love of 
 the beautiful and the true. My heart was full of grat- 
 itude, and I breathed it out in voiceless prayers, for 
 the welfare of the absent ones ; and then the angel of 
 sleep softly folded its wings beside me, and I forgot 
 the " shadow on the way," for a few short hours. 
 
 XO. XYII. 
 
 Wednesday Morning, we took an early ride in the 
 country. At times, passing through narrow paths, 
 just wide enough for our carriage to enter. There is 
 something so delightful to me, in this ; a sense of pro- 
 tection, and yet of out-going life ; a calm satisfaction 
 that I cannot describe. There are no precipices to 
 startle, no fear of collision. The muffled sound of the 
 horse's hoofs, and the rustling of the leaves, bring 
 nought but a sense of quiet enjoyment. In the"afternoon, 
 we went to the " Shore, '^ passing through the woods on 
 our way, listening to the soothing music of the tall 
 pines. There were birch, maple, juniper, and other 
 
64 LEAVESFROMAN 
 
 trees. But the pines ! wliat is the peculiar charm of the 
 pine, that makes us single it out, above all other trees 
 of the forest ? I know not. Perhaps it would not 
 make such an impression on us, if it stood alone. How 
 harmonious are all God's arrangements ! Who could 
 alter to improve ? Would that I lived where I could 
 spend whole days in the woods. There are the fernS; 
 the mosses, the laurel, and many other wood plants, 
 that I never tire looking at. And there, too, for the 
 first time in my life, I saw the sensitive plant. There 
 is a wonderful charm connected with this delicate, 
 shrinking little plant, both in the leaves and flowers. 
 There was such an upspringing life in it, as it stood 
 there, in its green beauty, that T shrank from touching 
 it, — having an intuitive feeling that it would be pained 
 by the contact. Yet I could not leave it ; so we gently 
 dislodged the roots, and I was rejoicing in the pos- 
 session of my treasure, when, lo ! as I looked upon it 
 it had been suddenly transformed. The exquisite 
 leaves were contracted ; its green beauty had vanished j 
 and it lay there, like a crushed and heart-broken wo- 
 man, whom the world had dealt harshly with, and who 
 had been foully betrayed, by those in whom she had 
 fondly trusted. I put it in a tumbler of water ; but 
 all of the next day it remained the same, and it spoke 
 to my heart of those delicate Imman plants, who had 
 been as suddenly crushed, by some rude hand. To 
 my surprise, however, the morning following, it was 
 clothed in all its former life and beauty. I rejoiced 
 at this, and to make sure of its longer sojourn, I added 
 more water, not touching it in the least; but it imme- 
 diately drooped; to revive no more. 
 
invalid's journal. 65 
 
 And there, too, lay tlie river, in its quiet beauty, 
 reflecting back the blue heaven, above ; and although 
 there was a sad event connected with this same river, 
 yet it was hard for us to realize aught of death, while 
 looking upon its still waters. Is it not often so with 
 human faces ? Do we not see them exteriorly calm ? 
 but we know that at times the waters have been dark 
 and turbulent, and the poor human heart has sunk 
 down, down, till that, too, had been engulfed in the 
 dark waters of despair. But the stranger would not 
 think this, for the troubled waves had passed over ; 
 the sunbeams rested on the chastened and subdued 
 face ,* and that face, like the river, reflected nauo'ht 
 back, but the image of Heaven ! " How many have 
 yearned to penetrate some mystery connected with the 
 last hours of a loved one, to learn the manner and 
 form of his meeting with the death angel. Not pro- 
 fanely to tear the veil which hides their future, but 
 reverently and tenderly to scatter the darkness which 
 hangs, yet, over their pathway, through the dark val- 
 ley. There is one we wot of, standing on the thither 
 shore of the death flood, over whose departure hano-s 
 a painful mystery. Buoyant with life and hope, he 
 went forth on a bright, holy, Sabbath morning.,* but his 
 footsteps were not heard returning over the threshold 
 and after a search, his form was lifted from the dark 
 waters which had quenched his life. None living has 
 told us how the deed was done ; perhaps none can tell : 
 but if it were permitted, he might dissolve the cloud 
 which hangs over the spot where he fell. He might 
 tell us whether he saw the dread messenger, and quak- 
 ed with fear ; or whether he was launched suddenly, 
 6* 
 
QQ LEAVESFROMAN 
 
 without pain, into that other realm." But the river 
 winds on in its calm, noiseless beauty, with the great 
 mystery in its depths, and its echo in our hearts ! 
 
 NO. XVIII. 
 
 Thursday, I made my first visit to the " Crystal 
 Palace." I cannot begin to speak of the world of 
 things I saw there ; — not because I did not notice and 
 admire them greatly, but because the building, itself, 
 took me captive. As I stood in the center, directly 
 under the dome, I fancied that some magic spell had 
 conveyed me to the Eastern land of " Aladdin," and 
 that this fairy-like building, unique in its entire con- 
 struction and arrangements, had suddenly dropped 
 down, or risen up in the night-time, to make us have 
 more faith in the marvellous stories that we drank in 
 so eagerly in our childhood. 
 
 Next to the charm of the building itself, was my 
 surprise at the room, the freedom every one could 
 enjoy there. I had shrank from going ; having a secret 
 dread of being in a crowd, and if any accident should 
 occur, the impossibility of extricating one's self from 
 it ; but it was just the reverse of all this. I never 
 realized, for a moment, that it was a place where thou- 
 sands resorted. There was no eagerness, no rudeness, 
 no noise. We spent nearly the whole day there, and 
 although weary and exhausted after the extra exer- 
 tions, I went home in a kind of clairvoyant state, un- 
 
invalid's journal. 67 
 
 conscious of getting in and out of carriages, of pass- 
 ing over the ground; of every tiling unpleasant, as I 
 always do, after attending one of the " Germania" 
 concerts. The sense of beauty had been so complete; 
 so perfect; that it had harmonized the inner with the 
 outer world ', and I floated along, it seemed to me ;as 
 the clouds float; unconscious of any impediment. There 
 was but one thing that disturbed me, in the arrange- 
 ment of the articles; and that was " Power's Statu- 
 ary" being placed just where it was. I felt it ought to 
 have had a little nichC; that would have been conse- 
 crated by its presence, as Thorwalsden's was. I had 
 seen the " Greek slave," shielded in this way before, 
 and at one time, for nearly an hour, alone, and it seemed 
 to me the sacredness of her grief, demanded this se- 
 clusion. It could not, however, detract from the exquis- 
 ite conception and mechanism of this, to me, unrivalled 
 statue. We stayed till evening, and saw the building 
 illuminated, and heard the rushing noise of the foun- 
 tain, whose cooling, feathery spray sparkled in the 
 gas-light. But when the glorious music burst upon 
 us ; wave upon wave of harmony, tumultous, and sub- 
 lime J the charm was wonderful beyond any thing I had 
 conceived of. It was too much for our little boy, who 
 sank down, trembling from head to foot j weeping and 
 gasping for breath. We carried him out into the fresh 
 air ; and as soon as he revived, took our seats in a 
 stage for home. I have visited it several times, since, 
 and each time, have been more conscious of the beauty 
 of its architecture, and of the rare gems of art that 
 have been collected from every nation. 
 
68 LEAVESFROMAN 
 
 I stood beneath thy mighty dome ; 
 
 Yet, fairy -like, it seemed to me, 
 Where winged thoughts at will might roam, 
 
 In love with faultless symmetry ! 
 
 Thy fair proportions filled my soul, 
 With a new joy unknown before; 
 
 Bearing me back, without control. 
 To my young days, and dreams of yore. 
 
 There, fancy's wing, bathed in the light 
 Of eastern romance, soared aloft ; 
 Now, bursting on my ravished sight 
 The longed-for actual, grand and soft! 
 
 All know thee by thy high, pure name; 
 
 A " crystal palace," sure thou art; 
 But henceforth I shall for thee claim, 
 
 A name that's dearer to my heart. 
 
 For there's a music all thine own, 
 A mighty anthem grand and full; 
 
 Breathed ever in thine undertone. 
 Thou "Temple of the Beautiful!" 
 
 NO. XIX. 
 
 Sunday Afternoon. 
 How many passages of scripture fasten themselves 
 on the mind and heart, and come before us, when 
 we stand most in need of them. In deep affliction, or 
 when the storm rages, this awe inspiring sentence is 
 ever with me — an unseen presence, but mighty in its 
 influence — rising above all the din and uproar of the 
 elements. " Be still, and know that I am God." Again, 
 when I hear the roar and moan of the ocean, my spirit 
 in deep sadness, repeats the soothing declaration, 
 " There shall be no more sea." Many times have I 
 
JOURNAL. 69 
 
 been present, but a silent listener, when theological 
 questions have been earnestly discussed ; and as the 
 cloud gathered around me, and I became bewildered, 
 these memorable words have fallen on mine ear, so 
 quieting in their marvellous beauty : — ^' Let not your 
 heart be troubled ; ye believe in God, believe also in 
 me. In my father's house are many mansions ; if it 
 were not so I would have told you. I go to prepare 
 a place for you." And when the heart is full, and the 
 bitter waters come bubbling up,tliough we strive so hard 
 to repress them, the angel whispers. " Jesus wept," — 
 then are we more patient with ourselves, and the tears 
 flow freely. But there is not a passage more emphatic, 
 and at the same time more cheering and comforting to 
 the afflicted soul, than this : — " It is I, be not afraid." 
 In the hour of trial, when the clouds of adversity dar- 
 ken our path, and there appears not one ray of light 
 to guide our steps ; when the tempest roars, and death, 
 that grim tyrant, stares us in the face ; then it is that this 
 sublime and soothing passage comes with all its force, 
 and calms the troubled soul of man. What a blessing 
 these words of comfort have been to mankind,ever since 
 they were uttered by our Saviour ! The child, when in 
 the dark,hears a footstep approach; its little heart beats 
 faster ; but the mother's voice falls upou the ear, '^it is I, 
 love, be not afraid," and all is peace in the infant's 
 bosom. Oh ! is it not beautiful to contemplate the child's 
 reliance on its mother, but infinitely more so, to see the 
 young leaning with that same reliance on the bosom 
 of their Saviour. And when sickness comes, with its 
 withering blight, and the mother sits beside the cradle 
 
70 LEAVESFROMAN 
 
 of her idolized child; watching for the last breath, yet 
 hoping, praying, (oh ! such prayers as that agonized 
 mother pours forth, none but those who have suffered 
 can know,) that God will hear, and spare her child. 
 Suddenly it gasps — it breathes once more, and all is 
 over, and that wretched mother sits almost distracted. 
 In her despair she cries, "My child ! my child ! who has 
 taken it from me ? was it not mine own ?" But a light 
 breaks in upon her, and a voice whispers — "Thy child is 
 not dead, but sleepeth ; it is I, be not afraid." 
 
 Again we kneel beside the death bed of the loved 
 one, and ever and anon a shade of doubt and anxiety 
 passes over the pale face as the shadow of death falls 
 upon it ; and like the mariner, tossed upon the ocean 
 wave, without compass or a guiding star, so is the 
 loved one, until we rouse the scattered senses by whis- 
 pering the blessed assurance of our Saviour, " Though 
 you pass through the valley and the shadow of death, yet 
 will I not leave thee ; it is I, be not afraid." And we 
 have the satisfaction of knowing it is all sufficient. 
 The eye brightens ; there is hope beyond the grave. 
 The immortal part has winged its way to the spirit- 
 land. Oh ! may I ever call to mind these words of 
 our blessed Saviour — " It is I, be not afraid" — and I 
 think I may bear the ills of lifC; and the approach of 
 death, without a murmur. 
 
 NO. XX. 
 
 December 12th. 
 Dear, good, genial hearted Jean Paul ! I have been 
 reading his new work on Education, entitled " Levana 
 
invalid's journal. 71 
 
 or, the Doctrine of Education ;" and I felt, when I closed 
 the book, that his wife must be a happy woman, and his 
 child, a happy child ; for the mother could not but be 
 happy, who found herself united to one in the indissolu- 
 ble bond of marriage, who had such noble, true and 
 just views, in regard to rearing the young. I could 
 quote from this, and his other writings all day ; but I 
 will do as Margaret Fuller said she would, in regard to 
 Richter's writings, " I will make me a book, or as he 
 would say, bind me a bouquet from his pages, and wear 
 it on my heart of hearts, and be ever refreshing my 
 wearied inward sense with its exquisite fragrance. I 
 must have improved, to love him as 1 do." But a few 
 words " to mothers," I cannot forbear quoting for my 
 journal. " If you once believe that every thing depends 
 on education, what name do you deserve, when, pre- 
 cisely as your position is high, you entrust the educa- 
 tion of your children to persons of lower rank; and 
 while the children of the middle class, have their pa- 
 rents, those of the higher classes have only nurses and 
 maids, as the directors of their path in life ? It is true, 
 that the sacrifices you make for the world, will be little 
 known by it. Men govern and earn the glory ; and the 
 thousand watchful nights and sacrifices, by which a 
 mother purchases a hero, or a poet, for the state, are 
 forgotten, not once counted; for the mothers them- 
 selves do not count them ; and so, one century after 
 another, do mothers, unnamed and unthanked, send 
 forth the arrows, the suns, the storm-birds, and the 
 nightingales of time ! But seldom does a Cornelia find 
 a Plutarch, who connects her name with the Gracchi. 
 Twice, however, you will not be forgotten. If you 
 
72 LEAVESFROMAN 
 
 believe in an invisible world in whicli the glad tears of a 
 thankful heart are more valued, and shine more bright- 
 ly than worldly crowns set round with the petrified 
 tears of sorrow; if you believe this, you know your fu- 
 ture ! And if you have educated rightly, your child 
 knows you. Never, never has one forgotten his pure, 
 right educating mother. On the blue mountains of our 
 dim childhood, towards which we ever turn and look, 
 stand the mothers who marked out to us from thence 
 our life. The most blessed age must be forgotten ere 
 we can forget the warmest heart." I feel deeply grate- 
 ful towards those who first led me to read, and soon, 
 very soon to appreciate the literature of Goethe, Schil- 
 ler, Richter, Herder, and many others. I remember from 
 
 this distant date, how came to me with a package 
 
 of books, and said, " If you were invited to enter a gar- 
 den, where you would see every thing beautiful in na- 
 ture and in art; rare flowers, fine paintings, and ex- 
 quisite statuary ; but, now and then, interspersed, you 
 would meet with something that would offend your 
 taste, and give you momentary pain, what would you 
 do, — go in, or stay out?" " Go in, I replied." Then 
 read " Wilhelm Meister," (said he) and the three vol- 
 umes were laid upon my table. But shall I ever love 
 Goethe so well as I do Schiller ? I fear not ; yet it may 
 be because I am only a child in knowledge, as yet. If 
 I ever live to be a woman, I may think and feel diffrent- 
 ly about these things. I have a little " bust" of each 
 of them, and the members of the family have settled it 
 in their minds, that the cold marble even of Schiller's 
 is dearer to me than the lighter parian of Goethe's j 
 and says it must be " lightly touched" for it is 
 
JOURNAL. 73 
 
 one of my "liouseliold Gods." It is indeed very dear 
 to me ] dear for its own sake, and dearer for the giv- 
 er's. I never look at it, but the tender hearted Schil- 
 ler rises before me ; — he, who, from infancy, struggled 
 with disease ; the disease which is so plainly stamped on 
 every feature of this little marble image ! But I have 
 spent too much time already, and I must leave Jean 
 Paul and his delightful book, which has made me forget, 
 for a season, the pain that is my daily portion, and 
 the cares too, that weigh so heavily upon me. I never 
 take the pen in my hand, or take up a book, but I feel, 
 as I fancy a child must feel, who is conscious of doing 
 something that would be condemned if it were found 
 out ; and when my heart is full — when I have looked 
 upon beautiful objects, or listened to the relation of a 
 noble action, or been overpowered by the magic 
 strains of music — then, when that mysterious thrill 
 creeps over me, and the tears spring to my eyes ; oh ! 
 how longingly do I yearn to give vent to the thoughts 
 and emotions that oppress me. But I have to turn 
 away from the temptation. I dare not look upon the 
 blank paper, or the fascinating page. Ah ! how blessed 
 those beings must be, who feel perfect freedom to write 
 when they please, and as long as they please. But do 
 they realize this blessing ? 
 
 NO. XXL 
 
 January 1st. 
 Once, again, have I read Carlyle's " Heroes and 
 Hero-worship," and if I prized it at the first reading, 
 I prize it none the less now. It seems as if there is. 
 
74 LEAVESFROMAH 
 
 no language wlierewitli to express the far-reacliiag 
 perception — the all-comprehending knowledge he has 
 of the soul. His " Life of Schiller" was written 
 (Goethe says) as only a German could have conceived 
 of, and written out the German character. Then came 
 his " Miscellanies j" and what could give greater de- 
 light to all genuine lovers of the Scottish Bard, than 
 his article on Burns ? His " French Revolution" is a 
 rare poem ; few such have ever been written out. His 
 ^' Sartor Resartus" is all Gilfillan says it is. His " Past 
 and Present" was just the book that was needed at 
 the time it was written. Yet, if he had never written 
 any other than this, " Heroes and Hero-worship," it 
 would stamp him, to my mind, one of the most won- 
 derful men and writers of this or any age. When he 
 fastens his far-seeing, fathomless eye, upon an indivi- 
 dual, it is to set about ploughing furrow after furrow, 
 till he gets to the deepest deep of the spirit that is in 
 him ; and then, with that large charity which is the 
 crowning characteristic of those persons who have 
 the power of reading the poor human heart's hopes, 
 fears, and struggles, he gives a faithful portraiture of 
 that being, so that others may draw near and admire j 
 but who would have passed heedlessly by, perchance, 
 lacking the genius and godlike power of penetrating 
 the inmost of man's spiritual nature. I remember, 
 some years ago, of reading an article on Carlyle, and 
 his writings, in a quarterly review, where the author 
 said, you would turn page after page over, expecting 
 and hoping that some thought or idea was coming, 
 but it never came ! I cannot conceive of any person's 
 saying this in honesty and good faith; but if that fact 
 
intalid's journal. 75 
 
 is indeed true, lie must first have bound thick leathern 
 spectacles over his eyes, and then endeavored, vainly, 
 as it seems, to get at Carlyle's spirit, through his 
 written word. But the most satisfactory book to me, 
 that Carlyle has written, is his "Life of Sterling." 
 What other biography ever penetrated and grasped 
 the whole spiritual being, as that has done ? There, 
 you get at the genuine tenderness, and true pathos, 
 that, after all, is the foundation stone in Carlyle's own 
 character ; and you feel, after reading this book, that 
 your knowledge of him would have been one-sided, 
 had he not set about the " duty," which he felt it to 
 be, to give to the world the true life of John Sterling. 
 Does Emerson's calmness proceed from greater 
 strength, or does it arise from a different physical 
 and mental organization ? Calmness is born of suffer- 
 ing, it is said ; but is Emerson capable of suffering as 
 keenly as Carlyle ? I know not, but it seems to me 
 that he is invulnerable, while Carlyle is open at all 
 points, and has to struggle with a giant's strength, to 
 turn aside the poisoned shafts. He sees " the death- 
 less sorrow and pain" everywhere; but he sees, too, 
 the " victory which is also deathless." What he says 
 of Dante's portrait, applies to himself — his spirit face, 
 as I conceive it. " To me, (he says,) it is a most 
 touching face ; perhaps of all faces that I know, the 
 most so. I think it is the mournfullest face that 
 was ever painted from reality ; an altogether tragic, 
 heart-affecting face. There is in it, as foundation of it, 
 the softness, tenderness, gentle affection as of a child.; 
 but all this is as if congealed into sharp contradiction, 
 - — into abnegation, isolation, f-roud, hopeless pain. A 
 
76 LEAVES FROM AN 
 
 soft, ethereal soul, lookiag out so stern, implacable; 
 grim, trenchant, as from imprisonment of thick-ribbed 
 ice ! The face of one wholly in protest, and life-long 
 nnsurrendering battle, against the world. The eye, 
 too, it looks out as in a kind of surprise, a kind of in- 
 quiry, why the woi'ld was of such a sort ? This is 
 Dante ; so he looks, this " voice often silent centuries," 
 and sings us " his mystic, unfathomable song." Again, 
 he says, " I know not in the world an affection equal 
 to that of Dante. It is a tenderness, a trembling, 
 longing, pitying love, like the wail of Eolian harps, 
 soft, soft; like a child's young heart; — and then, that 
 stern, sore-saddened heart ! These longings of his 
 towards his Beatrice ; their meeting together in the 
 Faradiso ; his gazing in her pure, transfigured eyes — 
 her that had been purified by death so long, separated 
 from him so far; ah! one likens it to the song of an- 
 gels ; it is among the purest utterances of affection ; 
 perhaps the very purest that ever came out of a human 
 soul." 
 
 Carlyle thinks and writes of individual souls — Em- 
 erson, of Soul ; and that is the reason, perhaps, in our 
 imperfect state we draw nearer Carlyle; yet I cannot 
 but feel that every soul has the power of arriving at 
 the truth ; and when once there, it is all harmonious, 
 and we lose sight of the individual, in the grand and 
 sublime whole ! Margaret Fuller suffered, as it seems 
 to me, unnecessarily, when she first made Emerson's 
 acquaintance, from this peculiar characteristic of his 
 nature. She compared him to a tall palm, that had 
 grown too high to shade the weary traveller at its 
 foot. Speaking of G-eorge Sand, she says, " I saw, as 
 
invalid's journal. 77 
 
 one sees in her writings, the want of an independent in- 
 terior life; but I did not feel it as a fault, there is so 
 much in her of her kind." Had Margaret possessed 
 this in its fulness and purity, she would not have felt 
 as she did when she first met Emerson; nor would she 
 have hastened into a marriage, that caused dark fore- 
 bodings to knock at the door of her heart ; — making 
 her question (from the unfitness, as she herself could 
 not help feeling it to be, of her choice,) the strength 
 and durability of her husband's love. Poor Margaret ! 
 it is to be hoped that she found the " living spring," 
 at last, as she says the weary pilgrim did : and that 
 he rested, and refreshed himself, and looked back 
 with less pain at the unsympathizing palm, which yet 
 towered in the distance. When reading her ^-Me- 
 moirs," and thinking of her world-wide celebritv, I 
 ever ask myself, if those things have been any balm 
 to her mother's heart ! Sootliiug, and gratifying, it 
 could not but be, to a sensitive and loving nature, to 
 have the dear ones beloved and respected by the noble 
 and the good ; but is not the sad refrain — the tragic 
 end — ever present in that mother's heart ? Oh ! my 
 Grod, preserve me from a like experience and heart- 
 ache. How well do I remember the morning she 
 sailed from New York for Europe. A young German — 
 the music teacher in the academy where I boarded — 
 gave me an account of her leave-taking, and her ap- 
 pearance on the occasion. I thought of that mother, 
 then, and wondered if she or Margaret had questioned 
 whether she would ever step her foot again on her 
 own native land. I said, it must be so. '' I am going 
 out — shall I ever return," must have been the burden 
 ^7 
 
78 LEAVES FROM AN 
 
 of lier thouglits at that hour. And then to die in 
 sight of that land ! — all of it is so, so bitter to uS; 
 who knQTf her not personally — what must it have been 
 to her nearest and dearest ones ? But I am inter- 
 rupted ; so, farewell, Carlyle, Emerson, and Margaret j 
 but only for a season. 
 
 NO. XXII. 
 
 "Millions 
 Of spiritual beings walk the earth, 
 ■JJnseen, both when we wake, and when we sleep/' 
 
 Milton. 
 " If the spirit ever gazes. 
 
 From its journey ings back; 
 If the immortal ever traces 
 
 O'er its mortal track; 
 Wilt thou not, O brother, meet us 
 
 Sometimes, on our way, 
 And in hours of sadness greet us, 
 As a spirit may?" 
 
 Whittier. 
 
 «' Pleasant dreams !" — is the usual valedictory of my 
 
 dear friend . That seems to be the greatest good he 
 
 can desire for those most dear to him. My spirit has 
 been refreshed in meeting him, after the lapse of 
 years, and finding him the same guileless, genuine 
 trusting nature as of old. He seems to be blessed 
 with " eternal youth," too, for he does not look a day 
 older, than when I last saw him. He has a firm con- 
 fidence that no evil thing can come near him, while 
 his spirit is earnestly seeking for the good and the 
 true. He has gone out, once more, alone ; and oh I 
 may God's good angels watch over him^ ever — even as 
 
invalid's journal. 79 
 
 lie feels and believes they do. I have quite a vivid 
 picture of hiin in his little room ; seated before the 
 1 ooking-glasS; so that a smiling face may greet him 
 whenever his eyes are raised ; surrounded by those 
 silent, but soul-cherished friends, whom death can 
 have no power over ; his time profitably employed ; 
 morning and evening inhaling fresh draughts from na- 
 ture's ever-gushing fountains ; striving to tune the 
 chords of that delicate and mysterious lyre, the human 
 soul, so that it may be in perfect harmony with the 
 infinite choir, whose songs burst forth with renewed 
 joy, whenever a pure spirit joins the mighty chorus, — 
 adding beauty to beauty, by its own individual melody. 
 It would be quite natural, to have pleasant dreams,, 
 after spending an evening with him, in unreserved 
 conversation ; and his last night's farewell wish was 
 granted. I did indeed have 'pleasant dreams. One of 
 the early loved ones, whose home is in the spirit land, 
 came to me, or rather, I went to her — how, I know 
 not. I only realized that I was with her, looking back 
 over the dark waters, that I must recross, and wait 
 patiently, till I was summoned thither again, by the 
 angel of death. There was my dear friend, the same 
 as when standing by my side on earth. I knew she 
 was a spirit, and I restrained the desire of my heart to 
 throw my arms around her, and tell her of the deep joy 
 that filled my soul, in being permitted to converse with 
 one who had lived, loved, suffered, and died, and who 
 knew the secrets of the life beyond the grave. There 
 seemed, at first, no need of language, so perfectly did 
 I comprehend the meaning of her soul-speaking looks 
 and motions ; but at length, her lips parted, and these 
 words fell on my ear: — "Pure love is only found 
 
80 LEAVESFROMAN 
 
 where true principle exists : without it, God's children 
 are living in vain ; there is only mock harmony. Like 
 the outward smoothness of Vesuvius ; but the internal 
 strife is ever going on; they cannot conceal it always. 
 There will come a season when all around must hear 
 the thunders of explosion. Live thou only in the light 
 of a pure conscience, open to the influx of heavenly 
 dews : so shall thy spirit, surrounded by darkness, rise 
 to the light. As flowers take root in the dark soil of 
 earth, ere they can bud and blossom ; so the soul, must 
 even have the earth roots and soil, ere its rare and 
 many-hued blossoms spring upward to the light. 
 Dearest, strive earnestly to realize that God's minis- 
 tering angels are ever near thee ; loving with a love 
 that knoweth no change ; clinging with a faith which 
 never falters ; longing, with the whole spirit, for thy 
 spirit to rise to the light. Heaven is within ; do not 
 hope to find it without. Seek ever the calm that 
 bringeth calm, wherein all Heaven may be reflected; 
 then shalt thou see the spiritual world opened, and 
 feel the joy which cometh from such vision. Oh ! lov- 
 ing and yearning one, bear up under the burden of 
 earthly sorrows — learning each day the lesson of 
 trust ; and be brought into closer communion with the 
 All-loving Father. Give long and diligent labor to 
 every thing pertaining to the spiritual life. Beloved 
 and cherished friend, thou hast striven to strike the 
 trembling strings, and to listen to their vibrations j 
 but earth drowns the tones. Yet thou hast the golden 
 key, wherewith to unlock Heaven's portals. Put up 
 thy petitions in the right spirit ; then listen lovingly^ 
 and thou shalt catch the "still, small vaice, which 
 
invalid's journal. 81 
 
 will reveal the truth, and bring all things into har- 
 mony." 
 
 This language came from one who, while on earth, 
 strove earnestly to elevate my spirit, to purify my 
 heart, and to give me nobler and truer views of 
 woman's aims and destiny in life. Has her mission 
 ceased? It seemed as if the dear friend on earth, 
 who wished me pleasant dreams, and the treasured 
 one, in Heaven, had combined to make me serene and 
 happy, for a season ; and I sit here to-day, penning 
 these lines, with the love of both in my heart, and the 
 remembrance of that calm vision floating before me, 
 which came to me in the holy night-time. It is very 
 rare, but this morning, every thing seems harmonious. 
 There is a soft strain of music in the next room, fall- 
 ing on mine ear, and a sweet voice singing a touching, 
 plaintive song ; and raising my eyes from the page, 
 they rest upon one of the most beautiful of God's crea- 
 tions — a vase, filled with the little delicate, lilies of 
 the valley; sparkling in their whiteness, drooping in 
 their purity, from aught that could sully them, behind 
 the broad green leaves, which their creator had set 
 as a guard around ; forming a cool retreat, where 
 those tiny gems may bud, blossom, and breathe their 
 sweet life away, unscorched by the noon-tide sun, and 
 unmolested by the rude gaze of those who never seek 
 for the beautiful. A holy perfume comes floating 
 around me, permeating through my whole being; pro- 
 ducing a divine repose ; as if the very breath of God 
 rested upon me. 
 
82 LEAVESPROMAN 
 
 NO. XXIII. 
 
 " We never speak our deepest feelings; 
 Our holiest hopes have no revealings, 
 Save in the gleams that light the face, 
 Or fancies that the pen may trace. 
 And hence, to books, the heart must turn, 
 When with unspoken thoughts we yearn. 
 And gather, from the silent page, 
 The just reproof, the counsel sage, 
 The consolation kind and true." 
 
 Mrs. Hale's Vigil of Love. 
 
 "The place that does 
 
 Contain my books, the best companions, is 
 
 To me a glorious court. Can I then 
 
 Part with such constant pleasures, to embrace 
 
 Uncertain vanities ? No! be it your care 
 
 To augment a heap of wealth : it shall be mine 
 
 To increase in knowledge." 
 
 Fletcher. 
 
 "Books are sweet unreproaching companions to the miserable; if they 
 cannot bring us to enjoy life, they will at least teach us to endure it." 
 
 Vicar op Wakefield. 
 
 My dear wishes me to tell lier of my reading; 
 
 but I can only glance at the world of books in which 
 I have been living, this winter. I have been delighted 
 with Dr. Kane's book, every page of which is instinct 
 with genius ; that true and unconscious genius, that is 
 '^ ever a secret to itself" How much I should love 
 to write what I feel, and think, of this rare specimen 
 of a full grown man with a child's heart ; but I must 
 not. I have also read Lamartine's " Lives of Cele- 
 brated Characters;" Hudson's "Lectures on Shaks- 
 peare," again, with great pleasure ; Mrs. Jameson's 
 
 '^ Characteristics of Women," which I remember 
 
 was so delighted with, and many others, which made 
 
JOURNAL. 83 
 
 me think of her, but I have not time to speak of them 
 now. There were two, however, that we both read 
 years ago, and liked so much, — that little poem by 
 Lowell, '- The vision of Sir Launfal," and " Angela," 
 by Mrs. Marsh. 
 
 Mrs. Jameson's " Characteristics," is one of the 
 " gold books," to me. I never think of her, without 
 a thrill of pride and delight. She is, indeed, won- 
 drously gifted with subtile powers of analysis, with 
 strength and far seeing vision ; but more than all to 
 me, is that crowning glory of sweet womanliness, 
 which, like a bridal veil, falls gracefully around her ; 
 so pure and transparent, you can see the guileless 
 workings of her heart beneath. 
 
 Margaret Fuller says, '^ Sex is but an accident of 
 birth." I cannot think so ; I believe there is a deep 
 meaning in this manhood and womanhood. I have 
 always blessed God for the woman's soul, which He 
 bestowed upon me, notwithstanding my life of suffer- 
 ing ; and I cannot remember a time, even from my 
 earliest childhood, when life was not a burden — when 
 I did not ha^e to struggle to live. 'Tis true, I feel 
 woman's wrongs most deeply, and it is ever a source 
 of bitter anguish to me, that she can, but rarely, be 
 free and spontaneous in her manner and utterances, 
 without having her words and actions misconstrued 
 by man, who, at all times, should be her supporter, 
 and encourage the living out her true life. 
 
 This, at times, has been a barrier to me in my in- 
 tercourse with the other sexj and it has made me 
 look yearningly forward to the spirit home, where no 
 such obstacles can exist. But I have been blessed in 
 
84 LEAVESFROMAN 
 
 this respect. I have, with a few exceptions, ever found 
 (even in life-long friendships) men, noble and good 
 enough, to comprehend a woman's ivhole nature ; and 
 with my erratic spirit, which is so apt to fly from one 
 extreme to another, how necessary it is, that I should 
 come in contact with those only, who can read aright 
 that spirit and its moods. Margaret Fuller, too, was 
 greatly blessed. She was surrounded by noble souled, 
 liberal, cultured men, who could appreciate her na- 
 ture, notwithstanding all her eccentricities, and rev- 
 erence it. But I was thinking of books and authors, 
 and I ought not to forget -'Alton Locke." I have not 
 read either of Kingsley's other works ; but this, I 
 have read several times. I sympathize so deeply and 
 truly, with poor Alton, in all his trials ! Eleanor 
 Staunton is a noble woman in thought and action; 
 though I blame her, as she blamed herself, for not 
 dealing more openly with Alton. She should have 
 been more tender and thoughtful, toward that almost 
 idolatrous worshiper of the beautiful. Her love and 
 veneration for Carlyle, meets my approbation entire- 
 ly ; and her views of the church and the clergy, are just 
 and true. 
 
 Those were all old books (with the exception of Dr 
 Kane's, and Lamartine's,) which I had read before, but 
 the new book that has given me the most satisfaction, 
 is ^'Dred," by Mrs Stowe. It is worthy the author of 
 '* Uncle Tom." In this last work, she has taken the 
 subject up, just where she left off in the former, and the 
 argument is perfect. The most painful chapter, judg- 
 ing from the hints I have heard dropped here and there, 
 I did not read. I wish I could gain more nerve where 
 
invalid's journal. 85 
 
 suffering is to be depicted, but I cannot. At present, 
 however, I do not think it well for me to persevere in 
 reading anything that will have a tendency to leave 
 a lasting impression where the effect is painful. I re- 
 member when reading the death of the child wife, in 
 Dickens " David Copperfield," how it overpowered me. 
 It was no longer a picture, but a living reality ; and for 
 a week or more, I felt as though a personal calamity had 
 befallen myself. But there was one scene in that book, 
 that I could never turn to again. It was where the 
 cruel Murdock was putting blows, thick and fast, on 
 poor little David, who had crept noiselessly away, with 
 his sorrowful heart, to the lonely attic. I was almost 
 suffocated; and I could not restrain my indignation 
 against that weak ,and, as it seemed to me at the time, 
 wicked mother, for placing herself in a position, that 
 would give such a being authority over her tender 
 hearted little son. Dickens, more than any other au- 
 thor, has the power of descending into the heart of a lit- 
 tle child ; of reading the whole spiritual nature, with all 
 its hopes, fears, and disappointments. But " Dred," — 
 I had put off reading it for some time, thinking and 
 fearing that I should be disappointed, as I had been in 
 reading " Shirley," and "Villette;" not that Charlotte 
 Bronte failed in those volumes, had she written them 
 before writing " Jane Eyre. " The chief charm to me 
 in " Dred," was the way in which the author treated 
 the subject of love. I had been heartily sick of the 
 whole tribe of heroes who felt it a duty to mould and 
 to make those beings, who in process of time were to 
 become their wives, forgetting that God caused a deep 
 sleep to fall upon Adam, while He was fashioning Eve ; 
 8 
 
86 LEAVES FROM AN 
 
 and perhaps such heroes, would lay the charge ofher sin 
 and fall to that account. Had they had the moulding 
 and making, she would have behaved better ! There was 
 Mr. John, in the " Wide Wide World" — and there was 
 the miraculous " Winthrop," in a book by the same au- 
 thor. And there was St. John, in Jane Eyre — on a 
 broader, nobler scale, because of marble j while the 
 others were of doubtful flesh and blood. The only 
 thing that gave me patience to read St. John to the 
 end, was, that he found it beyond his power to make 
 over our little "Janet." Her God-given instinctS; 
 her own individuality, stood by her in her hour of ter- 
 ror and weakness, — giving her strength to rise above 
 the yearnings ofher heart, the loneliness of her situa- 
 tion ; but more than all, over that fearful spirit who was 
 using all his power and will to overpower her. The 
 man who does not reverence the individuality of the 
 woman he is endeavoring to win for his wife, is not wor- 
 thy to have a wife. If he succeeds in finding one who 
 has no more character, than to lay aside her individu- 
 ality for the purpose of pleasing another fallible being, 
 his whole after life will be a comment on his choice. 
 Man wants a helpmate ; woman wants a helpmate ; they 
 do not wish to marry their echoes. They think to 
 sanction these things, by calling it religion ; but to me, 
 it seems like cant, and nothing else. The more truly 
 a man is a christian, the more truly is he a gentleman^ 
 But, I was thinking and writing of Dred. Clayton 
 is the christian gentleman. He is noble in nature ; there- 
 fore he deals nobly with all of God's creatures, little 
 Nina among the rest. It is not derogatory to his dig- 
 nity to be attracted to one who is seemingly frivolous 5 
 
invalid's journal. 87 
 
 but lie studies the spirit, and respects its moods. He 
 watches its development; and while he is anxious as to 
 the growth of his own soul, is willing to ivait for hers. 
 This is beautiful to me ,* all the more beautiful because 
 so rare. How deeply grateful am I to Mrs. Stowc, for 
 this true, and genuine picture, of conjugal love. 
 
 NO. XXIV. 
 
 I have been reading " Aurora Leigh." The first 
 time, I read it through hastily ; yet was conscious of 
 deep satisfaction and gratitude and delight, inter- 
 mingled with feelings of disquiet, and a dim forebo- 
 ding that either I was incapable of comprehending the 
 height and breadth of the author's philosophy; or that 
 she had sent out a book, which, instead of being an 
 aid to strengthen woman in her lonely and toilsome 
 life, was to make her feel that it was impossible for 
 her to live alone, and not repine at her fate. There 
 was a vague sense of unfitness in its having been writ- 
 ten in blank verse ; that it would have been better had 
 the story been told in prose ; that, as a work of art, it 
 was very faulty. I judge entirely from feeling, as I 
 know nothing of the rules of Art ; but throughout, 
 the strength, far reaching thought, and at times the 
 masterly execution of that thought, astonished me. 
 When I finished the book, the predominant feeling 
 was dissatisfaction and regret; for it seemed to me 
 that the beautiful (as far as principle was concerned) 
 superstructure Mrs. B. had been rearing for our admi- 
 
88 LEAVES FROM AN 
 
 ration and benefit, had been suddenly overturned, — she 
 herself removing the foundation ! If the author meant 
 to say that she had " failed," because she had cher- 
 ished a willful pride, and had sinned in constantly de- 
 nying her love for Romney; then I can understand 
 her, as there "is nothing truly great but humility." 
 But it seems to me she does not think, nor write, for 
 those beings who may never have an opportunity to 
 make known their love — who love hopelessly. Is the 
 highest life shut out from the thousands of men and 
 women who never marry; and from those sorrowing 
 ones, upon whom the burdens of life have fallen heav- 
 ily, who bear about in their bosoms aching hearts, yet 
 whose very sorrows have led them to the fountain of 
 all love, and they have risen to the light ? The script- 
 ure injunction, " Seek^rs^ the kingdom of Heaven, 
 and all these things shall be added unto you," has 
 been tested in their cases, and has not been found 
 wanting. Is it not possible, if we have sought and 
 found this kingdom of Heaven within, to realize by the 
 fullness of our love, all external relations ? are there 
 any limits to this divine love ? It seems to me we 
 stand greatly in need of books that should prove as 
 aids to strengthen and encourage those whose destiny 
 it is to live alone, whether married or single ; for there 
 are those who are alone in spirit, though externally 
 married, and to whom (it seems to me) as full, as rich, 
 and as true a life is opened, as to those favored few, 
 who have found their spirit's mate and are united to 
 them in this world. Let us have books that shall 
 teach us never to barter the highest within us, for the 
 sake of any external advantage. Does the author 
 
invalid's journal. 89 
 
 mean for us to throw aside all of those truly grand 
 (grand because true) philosophical views that she ad- 
 vanced throughout all the first part of her book, be- 
 cause one woman finds out that she cannot be happy, 
 without humbling her pride enough to confess that 
 she does indeed love one who had tendered his love 
 to her, many years before ? It seems to me that it 
 must have been a proud and happy moment for a true 
 and noble minded woman, with the humblest heart 
 beating in her bosom, and deeply conscious of having 
 failed in realizing her highest ideal; of having missed 
 of that peace and contentment that she ought to have 
 arrived at, whatever the outward circumstances of lier 
 life might have been ; but, alas ! so few of us ever do 
 arrive at. To have the man whom she secretly loves, 
 but whom she could not conscientiously marry, at length 
 standing before her ; telling her earnestly that her icrlt- 
 ten ivords had been the means of enabling him to stand 
 on higher, broader ground, and to have a clearer vision 
 of all things ; and for this he had sought her presence 
 to make known his gratitude. If Aurora had succeeded 
 in proving to Romney that he was mistaken; that 
 there was no reality in the new life and beauty that 
 had at last dawned upon his spirit, and which her 
 "writings had been the means of imparting; it would 
 have rendered him weak to the last. Without any 
 compromise of womanly delicacy or dignity, it seems 
 to me, she might have made known her love for him, 
 instead of advising another to wed him, simply be- 
 cause Romney was strong enough to be a good hus- 
 band, and could surround his wife with every exter- 
 nal comfort, rather than resting upon the true and 
 
90 LHAVESFROMAN 
 
 only foundation of marriage, mutual love ; and when 
 appealed to, her answer should have been, " If he 
 loves thee better than all beside, and thou lovest him 
 likewise, then art thou truly married, and it is wise 
 and proper to seal it by an external sign." Could 
 we have loved or respected Aurora, had she married 
 Romney, on that June day ? Was she not more worthy 
 to be his wife, after all those years of " endless toil 
 and endeavor ?" I think she had reason to thank God 
 for having been a medium of truth to others, if for 
 nothing else ; and I, for one, would be willing to suffer 
 much, could I at last know that I had been the hum- 
 ble instrument of good to others ; of awakening in 
 one of the lowest of God's creatures, truer and no- 
 bler views of the life on earth, which is only the pre- 
 lude to the life eternal ! Is it not true, that the 
 greater part of the miseries now in the world, spring 
 from false views of marriage ? that the existing state 
 of things, grows out of mothers rearing their daugh- 
 ters to believe that in marriage alone can they suc- 
 tceed in the world, and that it is a failure, if they do 
 •not get a husband, at whatever cost ? And after read- 
 ing this book, " Aurora Leigh," carefully, three times 
 through, I can come to no other conclusion, but that 
 it will have a tendency to confirm mothers in their 
 already insane ideas on this subject of marriage ; in- 
 stead of arousing them to greater exertions to instil 
 truth and honesty in the youthful minds of their chil- 
 .dren, and in teaching them that every thing which 
 pertaineth to their highest well-being, will be theirs, 
 if they seek aright, whether married or single. Fred- 
 jericka Bremer has done a good work for her sisters in 
 
invalid's journal. 91 
 
 this respect. She exemplified it in her own life, and 
 with true, God-given instinct, has striven to impart it 
 to the suffering tried ones around her. Marrion, is 
 the chief charm of the book, and it is in connection 
 with her, that the true strength and beauty of Auro- 
 ra's character is most conspicuous. She may be 
 thought by some to be too intellectual for one born 
 and brought up under such circumstances ', but we must 
 remember her thought is clothed in Aurora's language. 
 Believing as I do, that the most unlettered child, if 
 true to the divine intuitions of wisdom, can instinc- 
 tively detect the highest spiritual truths, — though he 
 or she may not be able to solve a single mathemati- 
 cal problem, — Marrion's far-reaching thought, and deli- 
 cate intuitive perceptions of the true and false in ev- 
 ery thing, does not seem to me over-drawn ; and in 
 this respect, she is far above Aurora. She has given 
 up Romney ; she will never be married ; but will her 
 life prove a failure ? Is not God still within, and 
 Heaven all around her ? It may be said that she had 
 a child to live for ; but Aurora had not only Marrion's 
 child, but poor Marrion herself, to solace and to cheer; 
 and is not God's world full of little children waiting 
 and watching for the true sisters of charity to succor 
 and to save ? If I have failed in getting at the au- 
 thor's true meaning, I trust I may yet read her book 
 with different feelings, and do homage to the strength 
 of thought, lofty genius, and purity of intuition, as I 
 have heretofore always done. 
 
92 LEAVESFROMAX 
 
 NO. XXV. 
 
 " Sorrow and sin, and suffering and strife, 
 
 Have been cast in the waters of my life ; 
 
 And they have sunk deep down to the well head, 
 
 And all that flows thence is embittered. 
 
 Yet, still, the fountain up towards Heaven springs, 
 
 And still the brook, where' er it wanders, sings ; 
 
 And still, where' er it hath found leave to rest, 
 
 The blessed sun looks down into its breast; 
 
 And it reflects, as in a mirror fair, 
 
 The image of all beauty shining there." 
 
 Mrs. Butler. 
 
 All ! yes ; such has been my life— aud my journal ! I 
 have turned to it when my heart was sad — when I 
 could not talk to others ! The thoughts, feelings, emo- 
 tions, hopes and fears of my spirit, have been trans- 
 ferred to its leaves, and I have never profaned them by 
 penning that, which was not native to the soil. But, al- 
 though I have turned to it at all times, dipping the pen 
 into my heart's blood, there have been only a few drops 
 caught from the great ocean of life, that goes rushing 
 and foaming on, and on, forever ! As well might we at- 
 tempt to set down every heart throb, as to try to give 
 out all of our lives, so that others can look upon them, 
 and see them as they are ; for we can neither speak nor 
 write when the heart is overflowing with either grief, 
 or joy. A prized and honored friend once said to me, 
 " If music soothes and blesses you, as it does me, seek 
 it every where." I have availed myself of every oppor- 
 tunity to do so. I have listened to the wonderful mu- 
 sic of Beethoven's Symphonies ; but there is nothing, on 
 all these pages, of the emotions, that master artist's 
 
invalid's JOURNAL. 93 
 
 tones called forth. That was one of the unapproachable 
 subjects ! But ah ! how truly, how gratefully, and tear- 
 fully, has my heart responded to the glorious sentiments 
 of Mr. Story's poem, delivered in the Music Hall of Bos- 
 ton, at the inauguration of Crawford's noble statue of 
 Beethoven,when he says ; — 
 
 "Never is a nation finished, while it wants the grace of art: 
 
 Use must borrow robes from beauty, life must rise above the mart. 
 
 Faith and love are all ideal, speaking with a music tone; 
 
 And without their touch of magic, labor is the devil's own. 
 
 Therefore are we glad to greet thee, master artist to thy place; 
 
 Forwc need in all our living, beautv and ideal grace, 
 
 Mostly here, to lift our nation, move its heart, and calm its nerves, 
 
 And to round life's angled duties to imaginative curves. 
 
 Mid the jarring din of traffic, let the Orphic tone of art 
 
 Still the barking Cerberus in us, soothe the cares that gnaw the heart. 
 
 "With thy universal language, that our feeble speech transcends, 
 
 Wing our thoughts that creep and grovel; come to us when speaking ends; 
 
 Bear us into realms ideal, where the cant of common sense. 
 
 Dins no more its heartless maxims to the jingling of its pence; 
 
 Thence down dropped into the actual, we shall on our garments bear, 
 
 Perfume of an unknown region, beauty of celestial air. 
 
 Life shall wear a nobler aspect, joy shall greet us in the street; 
 
 Earthy dust of low ambition shall be shaken from our feet; 
 
 Evil spirits that torment us, into air shall vanish all. 
 
 And the magic harp of David, soothe the haunted heart of Saul!" 
 
 Inspired words, and true ! worthy of him who ut- 
 tered them, and of that master spirit who called 
 them forth, and who is the impersonation of music, 
 that "universal language," wliich transcends all speech ! 
 Let us seek it every where, and its twin-sister poesy, 
 — for " Poetry is, indeed, something divine. It is at 
 once the centre and circumference of knowledo-e : it is 
 that which comprehends all science, and that to which 
 all science must be referred. Poetry, and the princi- 
 ple of Self, of which money is the visible incarnation, 
 are the God and Mammon of the world. The culti- 
 
94 LEAVESFROMAN 
 
 vation of poetry is never more to be desired than at 
 periods when, from an excess of the selfish and calcu- 
 lating principle, the accumulation of the materials of 
 external life exceed the quantity of the power of as- 
 similating them to the internal laws of human nature. 
 The body has then become too unwieldy for that 
 which animates it." "What would our aspirations be, 
 if poetry did not ascend to bring light and fire from 
 those eternal regions where the owl-winged faculty of 
 calculation dare not ever soar?" But where am I go- 
 ing? Thou art indeed a blessed resource to me, my 
 journal ! I have been so weary to-day ; so weary and 
 sad ! and many times have wished that I had the 
 wings of a " dove," that I might flee away, and be at 
 rest. 
 
 " Wild wish and longing vain, 
 And brief upspringing to be glad and free! 
 
 Go to thy woodland reign, (thou bii*d,) 
 My soul is bound and held, I may not flee. 
 
 For even by all the fears 
 And thoughts that haunt my dreams untold, unknown; 
 
 And by the v/oman's tears 
 Poured from mine eyes in silence and alone; 
 
 Had I thy wings, thou dove! 
 High midst the gorgeous siles of clouds to soar. 
 
 Soon the strong chords of love 
 Would draw me earthwards, homewards, yet once more ! " 
 
 How truly didst thou read a woman's loving heart, 
 Felicia ! Oh ! no ; if rest was oflfered me, I could not 
 accept it at such a sacrifice. But this " war of tem- 
 peraments ; that cannot be reconciled by words ; but, 
 after each party has explained to the uttermost, it is 
 necessary to fall back on those grounds of agreement 
 
invalid's journal. 95 
 
 which remain." "But I must not let these things dis- 
 turb me. There is an only guide — the voice in the 
 heart — that asks, " Was thy wish sincere ?" We need 
 great energy, faith, and self-reliance, to endure to-day. 
 My age may not be the best ; my position may be bad j 
 my character ill-formed; but Thou, 0, Spirit! hast no 
 regard to aught but the seeking heart ; and, if I try 
 to walk upright, will guide me." 
 
 " And when that fainting heart 
 
 Desponds and murmurs at its adverse fate, 
 Then quietly the angel's bright lips part. 
 
 Murmuring softly—" wait." 
 
 " Patience," she sweetly saith, 
 
 " The Father's mercies never come too late; 
 Gird thee Avith patient hope, and trusting faith, 
 
 And firm endurance; — wait!" 
 
 And, oh ! Father, may I be enabled to say from mine 
 inmost heart ; — 
 
 "Angel, behold, I wait; 
 
 Wearing the thorny crown through all life's hours; 
 Wait, till thy hand shall ope the eternal gate. 
 
 And change the thorns to flowers." 
 
 NO. XXVI. 
 
 " Thy heart was made too sensitive. 
 
 Life's daily pain to bear; 
 It beats in music — but it beats 
 
 Beneath a deep despair." 
 
 L. E. L. 
 
 That was thine own heart's history, thou child of 
 song; for thou wert one of earth's sorrowing, tried 
 
96 LEAVES FROM AN 
 
 ones. Thorns pierced thee, at every step ; the gift 
 of Q-enhis was thine. 
 
 " For what is genius, but deep feeling 
 "Wakening to glorious revealing? 
 And what is feeling, but to be 
 Alive to every misery!" 
 
 Thus was it with thee, poor L. E. L., throughout 
 thy life ; — bearing thine own woes, and feeling keenly 
 the woes of others. Yes : thou, too, like Felicia, 
 ^' didst learn, in suffering, what thou hast taught in 
 song." A painful mystery hangs over thy death, even, 
 that time seems powerless to unravel ! But, oh ! there 
 are many like thee, to whom life has been a torture; 
 and to whom the crown of martyrdom would be wel- 
 come, so that their conflicts might cease. But this 
 baptism of suffering has its lioly uses. Jesus '^ was a 
 man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief." Yet, 
 though tortured, and, at times, ready to despair, we 
 can strive for love ; for, when we love, '^ the height is 
 gained, the mist has fallen. We stand as in a bloom- 
 ing landscape, girt by immensity. A purer sunshine 
 has illuminated all our conceptions. If we hate, we 
 depris^e ourselves of something ; if we love, we are 
 the richer by what we love. Pardon is the recovery 
 of an alienated possession ; human hatred, a pro- 
 longed suicide. Ah ! yes ; let us perceive excellence, 
 and it becomes our own. Let us plant beauty and 
 joy, and we reap the same. Be ye perfect, even as 
 your Father in heaven is perfect, said the Founder of 
 our faith. Weak humanity recoiled at this injunction j 
 therefore he expressed himself more intelligibly ; — 
 ^^ove one another y I received a letter, a few days 
 
invalid's journal. 97 
 
 since, from poor , and her sad and lonely life 
 
 is constantly before me. How hard, how very hard 
 
 it iS; to live cut off from that sympathy, our spiritual 
 
 and intellectual nature demands ! Let us pray for 
 
 strength to struggle on alone, if it needs must be, 
 
 and do our duty: and if more than this is required 
 
 of us, and our consciences and moral natures rise up 
 
 in rebellion against these things, — then, even then, 
 
 we can have no other resource, no other aid, only as 
 
 we draw strength from the Father of our spirits, whO' 
 
 knows all our trials, and whose pitying eye sees the 
 
 internal conflicts, that, at times, nearly deprive us of 
 
 our reason ! 
 
 * * -jf -jf * -jf 
 
 I sent the poems she desired ; but in present- 
 ing any thing of mine, I am not unconscious of my ca- 
 pacities, my wants, and my needs. We can only give 
 of what we possess ; therefore, we ought not to ex- 
 pect, from the clinging vine, the strength of the sturdy 
 oak ; but it is as beautiful to the beholder's eye, when 
 fulfilling its heaven-appointed mission, of twining around 
 the trunk of that giant of the forest, whose wide-spread 
 branches tower towards heaven : and who shall say 
 that the delicate touch of that little vine at its 
 base, did not impart fresh vigor and buoyancy to its 
 sap, — so that it was enabled to spring up higher and 
 higher; but not so far, that it ever forgot or lost 
 sio-ht of the clinging tendrils below ? If there are a 
 few simple flowers blooming in our hearts, and our 
 loved ones desire to examine their hues, and inhale 
 their fragrance, shall we withhold them, because they 
 could never be arranged in the same vase, with the- 
 9 
 
98 LEAVES FROM AN 
 
 rare and more beautiful ones of a richer soil? Or 
 shall we, with that humility which would enable us to 
 rise above pride and false shame, present them, for 
 just what they are worth, and with no other apology, 
 than that, in as far as we have spoken, we have been 
 true to ourselves ? Bat to some, the ideal is so high ; 
 the infinite surrounding them so mysterious ; worlds 
 of thoughts crowd upon them 5 and when they would 
 utter somewhat of all that had been so silently be- 
 stowed, they strive in vain ; they can never bring the 
 ideal within the compass of words ! Perplexed and 
 dismayed, they retire within themselves; they know 
 there is no language ; theirs must be a wordless love ; 
 infinite wishes ; boundless aspirations — and all voice- 
 less ! Yet Channing says, ^'' One of the great laws of 
 our nature, and a law singularly important to social 
 beings, is, that the intellect enlarges and strengthens 
 itself, by expressing worthily its best views. In this, as 
 in other respects, it is more blessed to give than to re- 
 ceive. Great thoughts are never fully possessed, till he 
 who has conceived them, has given them fit utterance." 
 Like Paganini, I have " played always on a single 
 string ;" but, lacking the God-given genius of that great 
 master, I have failed in " drawing from it, its peculiar 
 music,"- — of " bringing wild beauty from the slender 
 wire, no less than from the deep-sounding harp string." 
 The sun shines brightly this morning ! I know that 
 the angel of Hope dwells in the sunshine ; for it al- 
 ways imbues me with fresh courage, in spite of the 
 ever present spirit of sadness, that whispers of the 
 clouds and the storms which have preceded, and of 
 those that surely will come, notwithst-anding all our 
 
invalid's journal. 99 
 
 prayers and protestations. I love my dear ones so 
 well, that I can aiford to have them remain silent, and 
 not look upon their dear faces ; but I love them so 
 well, I cannot face their suffering and danger, without 
 suffering deeply — too deeply for their well-being, per- 
 haps, and for my own peace of mind. Yet I have striven 
 to rise above self, for the sake of the loved ones, and 
 I sometimes think I have, in a measure, succeeded; 
 for many come to me with their joys and sorrows. 
 " Others lean on this arm, which I have found so frail." 
 Strangers come, too, sometimes. The other day, a 
 gentleman called, and requested me to write a " Dia- 
 logue on Peace," for a Sabbath school exhibition 1 It 
 seemed so strange to me — I, who never planned any 
 thing in my life ; who only write a line at a time, 
 and never know what the next will be. But I have 
 always felt so deeply on this subject, that it seems to 
 me the '' spirit may prompt;" and if so, I shall obey 
 her mandate. The oldest boy is to be in his sixteenth 
 year, and the younger thirteen. But, as some one 
 has said, " When I look at my papers, I feel as if I 
 had never had a thought that was worthy the atten- 
 tion of any but myself; and my verses, — I fear there 
 is scarce a line of poetry in them : however, such as 
 they are, they have been overflowing drops from the 
 somewhat bitter cup of my existence." " No wonder 
 God made a world, to express his thought. Who, that 
 has a soul for beauty, does not feel the need of cre- 
 ating, and that the power of creation alone can satisfy 
 the spirit? When I thus reflect, the Artist seems the 
 only fortunate man." Yet, I presume the true artist 
 is never satisfied ; there is ever a thought beyond — a 
 
100 LEAVES FROM AX 
 
 gleam of beauty which eludes his grasp ; and that fact 
 is enough^ in itself, to convince us of our immortality. 
 
 •5f # -Jr -Jf- -^ -Jf- 
 
 Oh, when will this tension — these buffetings, these 
 conflicts — end ! In the rush of life's fitful fever, how 
 often do I forget that the reservoir is to be replen- 
 ished from the great fountain of life ! I pour out on 
 all around me, forgetting, in the excitement of the 
 moment, till the light burns dimly, and I am made 
 aware of this great necessity of my being. Then my 
 spirit turneth to thee, my Father, and the light bright- 
 ens. The very thought of thee, is as the one drop of 
 oil to the dry wick. This is a glorious fact that 
 nothing in the world can deprive me of. " Yet I have 
 long days and weeks of heart-ache ; and at those 
 times, though I am busy every moment, and try to cul- 
 tivate every pleasant feeling, and look always up- 
 wards to the pure ideal region ; yet this ache is like a 
 bodily wound, whose pain haunts, even when it is not 
 attended to, and disturbs the dreams of the patient, 
 who has fallen asleep from exhaustion." 
 
 There is, too, with me, at times, a sensation, or ex- 
 perience, which Margaret Fuller has described more 
 clearly than any other. It is momentary, and comes 
 not often. '' This is the dart within the heart, as well 
 as I can tell it. At moments, the music of the uni- 
 verse, which daily I am upheld by hearing, seems to 
 stop. I fall like a bird when the sun is eclipsed, not 
 looking for such darkness. The sense of my individual 
 law — that lamp of life — flickers. I am repelled in 
 what is most natural to me. I feel as, when a suffer- 
 ing child, I would go and lie with my face to the 
 
invalid's journal. 101 
 
 ground, to sob away my little life." But always, in 
 these darkened, fearful moments, quick as a fright- 
 ened child turns to seek its mother, my spirit turns 
 back to that oasis in my desert life, and which, she, 
 too — Margaret Fuller — has described, — oh ! how truly 1 
 '• I was in a state of celestial happiness, which lasted 
 a great while. For months, I was all radiant with 
 faith, and love, and life. Night and day were equally 
 beautiful, and the lowest and highest equally holy. 
 Before, it had seemed as if the Divine only gleamed 
 upon me ; but then, it poured into and through me, a 
 tide of light. I have passed down from the rosy 
 mountain, now; but I do not forget its pure air, nor 
 how the storms looked, as they rolled beneath my 
 feet. I have received my assurance ; and if the sha- 
 dows should lie upon me for a century, they could 
 never make me forgetful of the true hour. Patiently 
 I bide my time." And, oh ! from the depths of a full 
 heart, how grateful am I, that I can so truthfully add, 
 with her, '' Above all, blessed be the Father of our 
 spirits ! My aims are the same as they were in the 
 happiest flight of youthful fancy. I have learned, too, 
 at last, to rejoice in all past pain, and to see that my 
 spirit has been judiciously tempered for its work. In 
 future, I may sorrow, but can I ever despair ?" 
 
 For do I not know that when God withdraws 
 from us any blessing, he usually sends a richer one. 
 When he takes away the pleasures of sense, he often 
 fills the heart and mind with love and beauty ; im- 
 parting to the inner man an enlarged capacity for 
 enjoyment, and quicker perceptions, by which he may 
 discover a new world of joys and pleasures — higher, 
 
102 LEAVES FROM AN 
 
 more exalted, far, than those which the earthly nature 
 was wont to grasp. And, then, in the twilight of this 
 life, how brightly beam the glories of the heavenly 
 world upon us. In the stillness of the suffering heart, 
 how sweet and soothing are the angel voices that 
 whisper of that dear Friend, '• who can be touched 
 with our infirmities ;" whose everlasting arms of love 
 are round about us ) and who is, even now, preparing 
 a place of rest for us, in those heavenly mansions 
 where " there shall be no more pain ;" where " the 
 inhabitants shall no more say, I am sick ;" where 
 God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes. 
 
 NO. XXVII. 
 
 October. 
 
 " 0! I do love thee, Autum. There is a beauty, a chastening influence 
 in thy decay, which makes thee so lovely, and throws such a breathing 
 holiness over all thy scenes, that thou art endeared to me as a cherished 
 sister, and I think of thee and speak of thee with all the tenderness that 
 associates itself with the memory of a departed friend. I love to hear the 
 rustling of the faded leaves, as they bid adieu to the parent tree and throw 
 themselves upon the bosom of the gentle gales to follow their bidding. 
 I love the splendid drapery of thy forests; the thousand glorious hues in 
 which they are decked; though I know that this is but the lighting up of 
 the spirit of beauty for a moment, ere its final extinction. Oh! how many 
 times have I breathed the wish that thou mightest be near me when I 
 am dying ! I never feel so willing to go, as when my spirit has drunk in 
 the sweet and soothing sadness of thine own. O, come then, gentle Au- 
 tumn, when my time is arrived; come, take me by the hand, and I will 
 go with thee, willingly." 
 
 T. B. Thatee. 
 
 Yes ; thou art here, most soothing, most glorious sea- 
 son to me of the whole year I The bright and beauti- 
 
invalid's journal. 103 
 
 f'ul summer has departed, but its brightness was pain- 
 ful to me, I was so desolate, so sad ! "Alone ! alone !" 
 was the bitter cry of my spirit. 
 
 Oh! God, the fearfal shrinking of the heart, 
 In which no earthly friend may share a part; 
 The sickening hope, the paralyzing fear. 
 Which makes us e'en forget that Thou art near! 
 Who can know these things, save Thou? 
 
 And yet I was not alone ; for weak and ailing ones 
 were depending upon me, and what was I, alas, but a 
 frail being, too physically weak to earn my bread ! 
 No wonder the cry of my spirit was so bitter ; for I 
 well knew it would be a living death to me, to have 
 to be dependent, even upon those tried and true ones, 
 in whose homes and hearts I had so often found a 
 resting place. I roused from the lethargy into which 
 I had fallen, and strove so earnestly to help myself; 
 but noway opened to me. Then my friends said — "you 
 must collect your scattered pieces, and give them, 
 bound together, to the world. " I cannot !" was my 
 constant reply. If there are any who have stood 
 aloof, deeming me presumptuous in this undertaking ; 
 may they never know the deep anguish of my soul, in 
 being compelled to launch my little bark out upon the 
 broad ocean. I shrank so from it ! I feared I could 
 not guide it. But I have embarked, and I lay my 
 hand upon the rudder, with my eyes turned Heaven- 
 ward ! " It is the first and only thing for you to do," 
 said they, and I will not turn back, though difficulties 
 and disappointments spring up all around me. 
 
 " What I must do, is all that concerns me, — not what 
 the people think," says Emerson; and I send forth my 
 
104 LEAVES FROM AN 
 
 leaves culled, almost at random, from the thick foli- 
 age, (not of the bay, or laurel tree,) but from the 
 quivering, trembling aspen. 
 
 The bright summer has gone, and the glorious Au- 
 tumn has come to soothe and quiet my spirit. Oh ! may 
 strength be vouchsafed me to accomplish my task, and 
 then I, too, will " willingly" depart. 
 
 The author was advised not to alter, or strike out the "quotations," 
 from her departed friend's letters, which she had copied in these leaves. 
 They appertain exclusively to the spiritual, and not to the externals of 
 life; and the beauty of the language and elevation of thought, were 
 deemed sufficient reason to justify their publication, notwithstanding 
 their frequent allusions to the author; who fears that her friend's too par- 
 tial eye, and own spiritual emanations, caused a halo to encircle her, and 
 that dearly loved one looked upon it admiringly, unconscious that it pro- 
 ceeded from her own beautiful and purified spirit. She felt it would be 
 a wrong done to herself, to send out a book of her heart histories, yet 
 withhold, or disconnect it, fi'om that precious friend, whose affection and 
 aspirations had occupied so large a share in that heart's spiritual life and 
 experience; and in those quotations which she has selected, the peculiar 
 relation which existed between them, could most clearly be seen. She 
 also feels that those "extracts" cannot but reflect more beauty on the 
 " freed spirit" that uttered them, than on the " fettered one" which still 
 remains behind, 
 
 E. N. G. 
 
Stinnte — % Cenipci'jriite Cale. 
 
 " Dear mother; wliy do you look so sad every day, 
 and night too ; and why do you keep looking out of 
 the window ? And when I ask you questions, you do 
 not hear me, but sometimes say, ^^ yes darling;" and 
 then you sa}^, " mother did not understand you;" and 
 often I see tears on your cheek — but you try to hide 
 them from me. You did not use to cry ; and when 
 dear father carje home, we used to be so happy ! — 
 Now, he does not laugh and talk, and take me on his 
 knee, and let me lay my head upon his shoulder. 
 Once, when I looked up in his face and kissed him, and 
 said, " dear father," he would kiss me, and always call 
 me his precious little Minnie. And little Charlie does 
 not now creep up to him and say, " Papa," as he used 
 to. Why is all this, dear mother ? I cannot go to 
 sleep after you have kissed me and bid me good night ; 
 what is it dear mother ? do tell your little Minnie." 
 The mother clasped her child to her bosom, with a 
 convulsive grasp, and the tears would force their way 
 through the closed fingers, as she said, " My precious, 
 
106 MINNIE, 
 
 precious child ! have I indeed betrayed the bitter an- 
 guish of this tortured heart? I had hoped that thy 
 childhood would be as sunny as was thy mother's ; so 
 that, in after life, it should be to thee ever as a beauti- 
 ful dream of sunshine and of flowers. I have no right 
 to drop pebbles into the pure and guileless fountain 
 of thy innocent heart, and I have struggled hard not 
 to do so ; but thou art like that delicate plant that 
 shrinks and trembles at the slightest approach, and 
 closes its little petals even before the rude hand is 
 laid upon it. 1 cannot deceive thee, my little cherished 
 flower." Then, the mother put back the soft curls 
 from her child's forehead, and gazed into those mild, 
 thoughtful eyes, — thoughtful beyond their years, — and 
 said, " what if thy fate should be like thy mother's !" 
 And she clasped her close to her heart, and shuddered. 
 She held her there, for a few moments, in silence, and 
 then said " Minnie, my first-born darling — my precious 
 one, I cannot tell thee what makes thy mother sad, 
 and why a change has come over our once happy 
 home, but thou wilt know it soon enough, for it comes 
 on apace. I would not have a shadow darken thy 
 pathway ; but stern duties are before us both, and in 
 stead of being refreshed with the flowers, thou wilt 
 feel nothing but the thorns. Tis hard for me to think 
 this, much more to speak it; but thou art old beyond 
 thy years, and you and little Charlie are all I have in 
 the world, — now, now that I cannot." — She paused, for 
 she could not speak against the father of that trusting, 
 loving little being. Ella Howard was an only child; 
 the idol of her parents, the bright cherished flower that 
 for seventeen summers, bloomed in their elegant and 
 
A TEMPERANCE TALE. 107 
 
 tasteful mansion. But, although it was adorned with 
 rare paintings and statuary ', to their fond hearts, and 
 to the hearts of their visitors, Eila seemed the most 
 worthy of admiration. Simple in manners, and aflfec- 
 tionate in heart ; without one particle of coquetry, or af- 
 fectation; she grew up beloved by all who knew her. 
 Ella was a christian — thus following the example of her 
 good and excellent parents. It seemed impossible for 
 one constituted like herself, so thoughtful and affection- 
 ate, to pass through life and not look above and be- 
 yond it. She reverenced all she looked upon ; the low- 
 liest flower was a mystery to her mind ; but, still, it 
 spoke to her heart of the goodness of God. Ella had 
 many suitors, but she loved one, and one only. They 
 had grown up together ; he was ever by her side, even 
 in her childhood, when he watched every expression of 
 her guileless face, and was eager to gratify her every 
 wish, ere it was uttered. As she grew to womanhood, 
 he regarded her as a holy and pure being, and the ear- 
 nest wish of his heart was, that he might be worthy of 
 her affection. All who looked upon the manly face of 
 Charles Arnold, and who were acquainted with his fo^ 
 mer life, said, " He alone is worthy to be the husband 
 of the beautiful Ella ;" and the fond parents thought so 
 too — and though they gave her away with tears, they 
 felt he was worthy to be entrusted with their treasure. 
 Such was the father and mother of our little Minnie, 
 when they stood before the altar, and plighted the 
 marriage vow which was registered in Heaven. But 
 how had that vow been kept ? We shall see. 
 
 Soon after thei.' marriage, Ella was called upon to 
 witness the departure of that dear mother^ who had 
 
108 MINNIE, 
 
 watched over her with such sedulous care. It was a 
 hard blow; but she endured it as only the christian 
 can bear up, under such overwhelming trials. Not 
 many months after, her father followed ! A fever, 
 that proved fatal to many, deprived her of her last 
 earthly parent. Poor Ella ! — the death of her father 
 and mother had come upon her so suddenly and un- 
 expected, that she would have sunk under it, had it 
 not been for the untiring love and sympathy of her 
 husband ; and she blessed God, that he had bestowed 
 such a priceless blessing upon her. And, at that time, 
 he was worthy of her love. He possessed that intuitive 
 sense of the beautiful — that ready sympathy, which 
 is rarely to be found in man — united to a childlike 
 submission to the will of his heavenly Father, that 
 you sometimes look in vain for, in the older and more 
 advanced christian. Charles Arnold was sincerity it- 
 self. But it was fashionable, among the higher circles, 
 to have wine on their tables, and handed round when 
 callers came. He had early imbibed a taste for it, 
 and was in the daily habit of drinking it ; but never, 
 ^or one moment, did he think that he should become 
 the slave of that habit. He was a promising lawyer ; 
 but, as there were many of that profession, in his na- 
 tive city, he thought it best for them to remove to 
 the beautiful town of N. Ella bade farewell to the 
 home of her childhood, and accompanied her husband, 
 with a resigned heart. For a few years, all was 
 peace, in their happy dwelling. Little Minnie came, 
 to gladden their hearts with her winning smiles ; and, 
 three years after, the little, prattling Charlie. But a 
 change, (almost imperceptible, at first,) by degrees 
 
A TEMPERANCE TALE. 109 
 
 took place. Ella often perceived that her husband's 
 face was flushed, and his eyes were unusually bright ; 
 but she laid it to over-exertion and excitement in his 
 business. Yery soon, however, it became too appa- 
 rent, and she could hide the horrid truth from her 
 heart no longer. I need not describe the agony of 
 that moment ; it was far, far worse than death. Step 
 by step, he trode the downward path, and his fine 
 mind each day became more obtuse. For a time, he 
 was invariably kind to his gentle wife and winning 
 children ;— but what will the accursed alcohol not 
 change ? They had lived a very retired life, as ill 
 health had been her portion, for the last few years ; 
 and now, in her utter desolation, she had none to look 
 to, unless she could look for comfort in her little Min- 
 nie, whose discerning eye had detected the change,, 
 and could bear it no longer; and the conversations 
 ensued, with which our story commenced. Passing- 
 over a few years, in which his business was, at first^. 
 neglected, and finally given up entirely ; their prop- 
 erty was all gone, and extreme poverty had come* 
 upon them. Many a sleepless night, poor Ella passed' 
 in watching: and waitino; for her now wretched hus- 
 band. Once in a while, he would revive a little, audi 
 would seem to have still the milk of human kindnesS' 
 in his heart. At such times, he would say, " Oh, Ella ! 
 if I could once go where rum was not, your husband 
 would yet be restored to you; but I have lost all 
 power over myself !" Tiien she formed the resolu- 
 tion of going to all the rumsellers, to implore them to 
 save her husband. She who had been so tenderly 
 
 nurtured, was alone ; with no servant ; destitute of the 
 10 
 
110 MINNNIE, 
 
 bare necessaries of life, and in feeble health; for her 
 continued watching had worn down a frame naturally 
 delicate, to a mere shadow; — but what will not woman 
 endure and suffer, for the husband of her youth? Be- 
 hold her, then, wending her steps to the grog-shops ! 
 It was of no use — she might as well have appealed to 
 the stones. Time rolled on, but brought no change 
 to the sufferers : starvation often stared them in the 
 face. The mother did all she could, and Minnie as- 
 sisted. She had sent them to school, for she did not 
 feel adequate to the task of teaching them ; but the 
 finger of scorn was continually pointed at them, even 
 by the rum seller's sons and daughters — they, who 
 lived in their splendid houses, that had been built 
 with the groans and tears of the suffering thousands : 
 and the mother could not bear that they should suffer 
 this, when they had so much to endure at home; and 
 she withdrew them from school. All the while, the 
 heart of Minnie was almost bursting with suppressed 
 emotion. She had endured the harsh treatment of 
 her father, oh! how many times; and, although she 
 felt a deathly sickness creep over her, and she trem- 
 bled like an aspen, wdien she heard his step approach, 
 still, she thought she could suffer all — every thing — 
 rather than see her angel mother and her darling 
 brother, the objects of his hatred. At such times, she 
 would almost lose her reason, and she would exclaim 
 constantly, " What can I do ? Oh ! my Father in 
 Heaven, what can I do for my suffering mother ? Oh, 
 show me some way to aid her !" 
 
 One night, after one of these bitter conflicts, she 
 threw her little weary body on the pallet of straw — 
 
A TEMPERANCE TALE. Ill 
 
 striving to think how she could crush the hydra-head- 
 ed monster. She fell asleep, and dreamed that God 
 had given her power to destroy every drop of spirit- 
 nous liquor that was in the world — and it covered a 
 space much farther than the eye could reach. And a 
 lighted torch was handed her 5 and, as she touched it, 
 the flames reached to heaven ! Then she clapped her 
 hands, and shouted for joy ; and she called aloud, (and 
 her voice floated all over the earth,) — Come, suffering 
 mothers, and broken-hearted wives ; come, despond- 
 ing sisters, and despised children; come, and see the 
 great conflagration. The monster is crushed ; not 
 anotlier drop can be on this earth, whilst God reigns 
 in Heaven ! And they came, with their pale faces 
 and sunken eyes, and experienced a joy they had not 
 known for years. Suddenly, her ear was arrested by 
 the most unaccountable sounds ; they were like the wait- 
 ings of the damned. She turned, astonished ; for at 
 that moment, she thought there was not a heart in 
 the world, but was bounding for joy. There was a 
 multitude of grira-visaged beings ; and, to her eager 
 inquiries, of who they were, it was shouted, on all 
 sides, — ^' They are the rumsellers ; their day is up. 
 Woe ! woe ! to the defeated rumsellers." Then Minnie 
 awoke, and found it all a dream. '^ Oh ! (said she,) 
 if this had been true, to what a different world should 
 I have opened my eyes this morning !" — and tears fell 
 fast on her pillow. But she thought the dream had a 
 meaning. She believed that her earnest and oft-re- 
 peated inquiries of what she should do, had, at length, 
 been answered, and that henceforth it was her duty to 
 destroy all that it was in her power to get at. She 
 
112 
 
 never mentioned the subject to her mother; for she 
 thought she would not see it in the same light that 
 she herself did; but her resolution was taken. Ah! 
 Minnie, herein was thy great mistake. Thou shouldst 
 have consulted with that wise and good mother; and, 
 surely, one who had ever been so dutiful and obedient, 
 would have listened to her counsels. She would have 
 taught thee that it is far nobler to endure affliction, 
 t'lan to do " evil" that good may come. It was an 
 error of the head, not of the heart. Enthusiastic she 
 was, to a degree that separated her from the children 
 around her ; and she had witnessed nothing but suffer- 
 ing, from a child ; but revenge could not, for a moment, 
 find a resting place in the heart of one so tremblingly 
 alive to the sufferings of others. Physical prostration, 
 and intense mental excitement, had produced a sort 
 of monomania on this subject; and it would have 
 been impossible, perhaps, to haA^e convinced her that 
 it was not the finger of God, that had pointed out 
 her duty ; and it was this view of it, that gave that 
 naturally timid girl, strength to perform that, which 
 would have caused many a stout-hearted man to trem- 
 ble. She was well acquainted with many places in 
 the town, where it was kept ; for, as she traversed it 
 often, in search of fuel, to keep them from freezing, 
 the fumes of the liquor she could trace for miles. One 
 place, in particular, she remembered. It was a long, 
 red building, standing on a wharf; and she knew that 
 it was filled with the deadly poison. She had several 
 times been in it herself, when she saw children going 
 in and out ; and she was drawn thither, she knew not 
 whv. Once, when they had been repairing it, she 
 
A TEMPERANCE TALE. 113 
 
 ventured in, and asked permission to gather tlic chips 
 that were lying around. She looked at the barrels, 
 and thought, if it had not been for rum, our home 
 would have been as happy as we could have wished. 
 My father would have been beloved and respected, 
 I should have honored him, and looked up to him. He 
 would have provided us with fuel, and I should not 
 have been here; my poor mother would — "but her 
 heart was too full, when she thought of her, and she 
 hastened out of the building. It was owned by the 
 
 wealthy Mr. N , the wealthiest merchant in the 
 
 town. She knew that he sold it to the rumsellers, 
 and they dealt it out to her father and to thousands 
 of poor wretches beside. " This," said she, " shall be 
 the place where I will commence. It is alone ; no 
 dwelling is near; no one can be injured by the 
 laames." At night, when her mother slept, for a vrhile. 
 that young girl crept from her bed ; wrapped a sliawl 
 hastily around her, and, with the materials in her 
 hand, stole forth. Her heart beat fast ; but, at the 
 same time, she was conscious that she was stronger 
 than she had ever been before. She reached the spot ; 
 drew out the shavings, and placed them where she 
 thought they would do best ; then applied the match. 
 She never looked behind till she reached the street 
 that led to the room where her mother and brothers 
 were sleeping. Then she turned, and saw the flames 
 rising; and it seemed to her that her dream was 
 about to be realized. Just before she reached her 
 home, the cry of '' Fire .'" fell on her ear. She ran 
 faster ; gained the door ; glided in, and lay down on 
 her bed. Her mother was asleep, but soon roused. 
 9* 
 
114 MINNIE, 
 
 Springing up, she exclaimed, " It is fire ! where are you, 
 my children ?" Minnie answered, as calmly as she would 
 have done at any other time, " We are here, dear 
 mother. Do not be alarmed; we have nothing to fear." 
 In the morning, there was not a trace of the building 
 to be seen, save the blackened mass of burnt timber 
 that was strewn over the ground. It was effectual. 
 Every drop of the fir e-ivater was consumed. Several 
 times, Minnie succeeded in carrying out her work of 
 destruction; but she was, at last, detected! They 
 rushed in, and tore her from her mother, who lay 
 stretched upon a bed of sickness, and left her, as one 
 dead. Charlie — a noble-hearted boy, who had now 
 reached his thirteenth year — was distracted. He 
 wanted to follow his sister, but could not think of 
 leaving his apparently dying mother. He looked at 
 her pale face, as she lay there in a swoon, unconscious 
 of what was going on around, and, kissing her fore- 
 head, said, '- Oh ! ray injured mother ! thou hast ever 
 preached forgiveness ; but if they ill-treat my sister 
 it shall no longer be peace, but a sword." 
 
 It was near night when they took Minnie from her 
 home, and conveyed her to prison. They thrust her 
 into a narrow cell, and turned the key upon her. But 
 she trembled not ; she shed no tears. At that moment 
 she felt that she could suffer even death itself. She 
 was unconscious that it was dark around. At length 
 she thought of her mother, and the flood-gates of her 
 .heart were opened, and tears rushed to her eyes. She 
 dropped on her knees, and implored the Father of 
 mercies to watch over that mother. " Oh ! my God, 
 (she said) thou wer* near me in my dream ; thou 
 
ATEMPERANCETALE. 115 
 
 not forsake me now. "Whatever punishment they may 
 see fit to inflict, may I bear it cheerfully — but they will 
 not separate me from my mother ; Oh, Father, they 
 will not do that !" and the poor girl wept and prayed 
 till morning. Then she fell into a troubled sleep, but 
 was awakened by the sound of whispering voices, and 
 the gentle pressure of a kindly hand rested upon her. 
 She thought this, too, was a dream, — -a dream that would 
 be dispelled as the other blessed vision had, all too 
 soon, vanished ; but she was mistaken. They were 
 friends, who had heard her strange story, and had 
 wept and pondered over it, and had resolved to do 
 all that lay in their power, to bind up the bruised 
 reed, and make her prison life comfortable. They 
 had read the heart of Minnie, and therefore had min- 
 istered to the wants of the sick and suffering family, 
 first. These were the glad tidings that greeted Min- 
 nie on awakening. Her mother had been tenderly 
 cared for; they had searched and found her wretched 
 father ; and the heart of Charlie had been comforted 
 by the assurance that no harm should come to his 
 dear sister, other than the separation that must ne- 
 cessarily continue for some time longer. Thus days, 
 weeks, and months wore away, and found our Minnie 
 still a convict in the prisoner's cell. But new friends 
 were daily added, and she bore up bravely under all 
 the crushing thoughts and feelings that oppressed her 
 delicate and sensitive spirit. The family had been 
 removed to a neat and comfortable cottage, and a 
 good and efi&cient nurse had been procured to take 
 care of them. A long and protracted fever, brought 
 on by exposure, had completely prostrated her father, 
 
116 
 
 and brought liini to the verge of the grave. Her 
 mother was unable to leave her bed. The constant 
 anxiety and yearning desires of her heart, retarded 
 that progress toward health, she so earnestly coveted, 
 so that she might once more look upon her darling; 
 yet for that dear one's sake, she struggled hard 
 to be patient. Each day their wants were abund- 
 antly supplied ; and that blessed sympathy which gold 
 cannot buy, was now hers, an ever present angel in 
 their house of mourning. At length, the day of trial 
 came, and Minnie was led out to face the multitude. 
 The house was crowded, for it had created a great 
 sensation throughout the neighboring towns, and they 
 all thronged to see one who had dared so much. It 
 was buzzed on all sides that it was the daughter of a 
 drunkard, but they were astonished when they beheld 
 Minnie. She was just turned of fifteen; rather tall, 
 but slender ; nay, almost fragile in form. There was 
 the noble dignity of mien, that had characterized her 
 father, united with the exquisite grace and gentle- 
 ness of the once beautiful Ella. Her hair was glossy, 
 and of a rich brown color ; her face was pale, but the 
 features beautifully moulded; the mouth small, and 
 the sweet expression of that mouth was never for- 
 gotten by those who had once seen her smile ; the eyes 
 were hazel, but there was a world of pity and be- 
 seeching tenderness in those soft, dark, liquid orbs, 
 and a high, holy expression, that awed the beholder. 
 No unbeliever in a future state, could look into the 
 depths of those eyes, and not feel that there was a 
 Heaven, and thither the poor, forsaken child of scorn 
 was bound- The witnesses were examined; Minnie's 
 
ATE MPERANCE TALE. 117 
 
 counsel plead long and ably; he forgot all but the 
 wrongs tliat had maddened and driven to the verge 
 of insanity that delicate, tender hearted little being 
 before him. He portrayed the agony that must have 
 wrung the heart of one so constituted. He plead for 
 her as he would have pleaded for his own sister ; for he 
 was young, and his heart had not yet become hard- 
 ened by contact with the selfishness that is in the 
 world. He spoke of her extreme youth ; of her doubts 
 and fears ; of the intensity of her emotions ; of the 
 delicate heart-chords that vibrated to every wail of 
 sorrow. He pictured the all absorbing thought that 
 took full possession of her mind after her dream, — 
 that it was a duty she was called upon to perform ; 
 that she could not turn aside from it, from the fear of 
 consequences, without trampling upon the highest and 
 holiest dictates of her spiritual nature. She knew 
 that God had forbidden us to put the cup to our 
 neighbor's lips ; that we are commanded to feed the 
 hungry, and clothe the naked ; but they had been 
 stripped of all they possessed in the world. Her 
 broken hearted mother was constantly before her ; and 
 she remembered a time when that mother went forth 
 a suppliant, imploring those men not to give her hus- 
 band that,which would deprive him of his reason. She 
 had asked the question, — what right had they to turn 
 the morning of her mother's days into one long, dark, 
 cheerless night ? What right had they to reduce her 
 and her little brother to beggary, and after they had 
 covered them with rags, let their children point the 
 finger of scorn at them ? Then he drew a comparison 
 between the sin of the dealers in the rum traffic, and 
 
118 MINNIE, 
 
 those who were considered by law, criminals. All 
 these things, said he, have they done, but they arc re- 
 spected; the law cannot touch them ; nay, it is on their 
 side; but if a half starved wretch takes but enough 
 to satisfy his hunger, you straightway condemn him 
 to imprisonment. If the angry, but kind hearted man, 
 who would scorn to deprive children of their bread, 
 commits a deed, in an unguarded moment, that his 
 very soul abhors, and he would give worlds to undo ; 
 you condemn him to death, and think you have done 
 a christian deed. Oh ! he exclaimed, how much rath- 
 er would I clasp the hand of such a man, dripping 
 with blood, though it be, than come in contact with 
 Ms, who deals out death every hour; death not only 
 to the body but the soul, and feels no compunction ! 
 Throughout the whole of this speech, Minnie's eyes 
 were riveted upon the speaker, with that intense and 
 fixed gaze that showed the spirit, for the time being, 
 had entirely lost sight of its earthly surroundings. 
 
 Then the counsel for the state arose with the inten- 
 tion of overthrowing all that had been said; but it was 
 not an easy task, in this instance, for he, too, was young^ 
 and he had felt the truth of all the preceding re- 
 marks ; but it was his profession. He had to look 
 away from Minnie, and endeavored to take a practical 
 view of the matter. He showed how absurd a thing it 
 would be, for reasonable people to be beguiled by 
 dreams and visions ; that if an exceptio n was made 
 in her case, the country would be flooded with similar 
 cases; that our lunatic asylums would be crowded 
 by persons fancying they had certain missions to per- 
 form, that had been divinely communicated. But this 
 
ATE MPERANCE TALE. 119 
 
 part is too sad to dwell upon. Suffice it to say^ that 
 Minnie was found guilty, and sentenced to three years 
 imprisonment. Before the judge had pronounced her 
 doom, she was asked if she had any thing to say why 
 sentence should not be passed upon her, and was com- 
 manded to rise. As she did so, a murmur ran through 
 that crowded audience ; the sympathies of all were 
 excited in her behalf, except a few of the most har- 
 dened and selfish. It was with difficulty she could 
 stand; for she had barely tasted food the day before, 
 and the bitter night of suffering had almost deprived 
 her of strength. She supported herself by leaning on 
 the railing which hems the prisoner in ; then she raised 
 her eyes and gazed on the multitude. She wondered 
 if there was one in the wide world, so desolate, so ut- 
 terly forsaken as herself. Where was the father who 
 should have been near, if danger had assailed her ? 
 There was a breathless pause ; the heads of all were 
 bent foward, and the hearts of the sympathizing beat 
 fast. It was evident she was suffering much. She 
 gasped for breath. Some one near, put a glass of water 
 to her lips ; she made one or two efforts more to speak ; 
 then, raising her head, and pointing to her counsel, 
 said, in a low, but distinct voice, " That gentleman has 
 spoken truly, he has read my heart aright ; I was un- 
 conscious of crime, I did it for poor humanity's sake. 
 It did not seem to be myself, but a power superior, 
 that controled and guided my spirit. If I have sinned 
 and trampled upon the laws of God and the land, then 
 ought I to suffer the penalty. I will throw myself upon 
 God's mercy, which is never withheld from his erring 
 and repentant children ; but from the experience of my 
 
120 MINNIE, 
 
 short and sorrowful life, it would seem worse than use- 
 less to hope for any mercy from man." The last words 
 were scarcely audible, and she sank down exhausted. 
 As the ojficers approached Minnie, for the purpose of 
 conveying her back to prison, there was a murmur of 
 dissatisfaction among the crowd, and several sprang 
 forward. In the tumult of strange noises, the terrified 
 girl knew not where to look for help ; but a kindly 
 arm was thrown around her, and she was drawn out of 
 the crowd. She had fainted, and many ladies sobbed 
 aloud when they saw that pale, beautiful face borne 
 along in the arms of the gray-headed gentleman ; and 
 hard visaged men brushed the tears from their cheeks. 
 When Minnie opened her eyes, her head rested on the 
 shoulder of the kind old man. He spoke in soothing 
 tones and said, "Fear nothing, my poor child, I am go- 
 ing to be thy father." ''Father, (said Minnie) I have 
 no father." " I know it, but I will be thy father." 
 '' Where is my mother ? my poor mother ! — oh ! take 
 me to her." He assured her that pleasure should soon 
 be hers ; that they would use every means in their pow- 
 er to have her sentence repealed. At that moment 
 the carriage stopped, and Minnie was once more an in- 
 mate of the prisoner's cell. 
 
 The old gentleman was the wealthy Mr. N., whose 
 property Minnie had first destroyed. He had been in- 
 terested in the case, and had often assisted the family 
 without their knowing from whence the aid came; 
 but not until he looked upon Minnie, did the whole 
 extent of their misery rise up before him. He visited 
 her daily, and wa s engaged heart and soul in her cause. 
 In the mean time, great changes were going on around 
 
A TEMPERANCE TALE. 121 
 
 them ; the most influential men of the place rose in a 
 body, and declared it was time to do something in the 
 cause of Temperance. 
 
 The people of N. had been notorious for holding 
 out against all reforms, and they had heretofore laugh- 
 ed at temperance pledges and tetotallers ; but now 
 they said, — we will have a " pledge/' — and. they wrote 
 one, and hundreds signed their names to that pledge — 
 Mr. N. leading the way. Such a tremendous excite- 
 ment was nev^er known in the town of N. before. Some 
 of the rum sellers even brought out their casks and turn- 
 ed the liquor into the streets. Many remembered the 
 fine looking lawyer when he first came among them, 
 and they said ; ^' if he could fall, there is no safety for 
 any one," Again it seemed as if Minnie's drea7nwixs. 
 about to be realized. 
 
 But to return to that sufi'ering one. From the mo- 
 ment she entered the cell, though surrounded by weep-- 
 ing and kind-hearted beings, an apathy gradually stole 
 over her, and in a few hours she seemed unconscious; 
 of the presence of any one. By night, the delirium 
 of fever had fastened itself upon her prostrated frame ; 
 and her unconscious cries for her mother, for release 
 from bondage, for rest and freedom from pain, were- 
 heart-rending to hear. Her mother had to be ap- 
 prized of her condition, and Mr. N. set out to per- 
 form that painful duty ; and painful, it was,, indeed, to 
 him. The kind hearted old man wept like a child. 
 On that bed, lay one worthy to grace a court ; for the 
 true nobility of the soul will shine forth, let the out- 
 ward surroundings be what they may. There was no 
 alternative j the mother must go to her child, even if 
 11 
 
122 MINNIE, 
 
 death should be the result. We must pass over that 
 meeting. It was well, perhaps, that one was uncon- 
 scious. Hours, days, and weeks passed, and the fe- 
 ver still raged. It was on the brain, and Minnie's life 
 hung by a slender thread. Those long nights of bit- 
 ter agony. — who can describe them ? When the spirit 
 is swayed to and fro, now on the verge of precipices 
 with no power to retreat ; now poised on loose frag- 
 ments, high, high up, with no arm to snatch us from 
 falling, and we sink down, down, our cries for help 
 lost in the fathomless depth below; then the hor- 
 rible sense of suffocation, when we struggle to free 
 ourselves; to cry for aid; with the faculty of percep- 
 tion, intensified tenfold ! Oh ! ye fathers, who tarry 
 long at the wine cup, bringing disgrace and sorrow, 
 not only to your own souls, but to the tender, hap- 
 less beings whose lives ye have invoked, come, look 
 upon this picture ! It is only one of a thousand, but it 
 is a faithful transcript. We will not linger. Suffice 
 it to say, that the time came, when the magnetism of 
 the mother's touch, was distinguished from all others ; 
 when the mother's voice — 
 
 " had power to quiet 
 The restless pulse of care. 
 And came like the benediction 
 That follows after prayer." 
 
 The death-angel had passed by, and it was Minnie's 
 destiny, (she who was born with the martyr spirit,) 
 to live ; to live, though, Promethian like, chained to a 
 rock, with the vultures gnawing at her vitals, — she, 
 meanwhile, striving to conceal the wounds, smiling 
 sadly upon the loved ones, and speaking gently to 
 
A TEMPERANCE TALE. 123 
 
 all. But there was one now often near, wlio had 
 watched and waited with the anxious mother ; one 
 whose presence had become dear to the youthful con- 
 valescent. She listened for the approaching footsteps, 
 while a new world of joy sprung up in her heart, and 
 irradiated that hitherto sad little face ; and this new 
 world of love transfigured every thing around her, 
 causing a halo of peace to rest, even upon the walls 
 of her prison. Arthur P., the young and promising- 
 lawyer, who had labored so earnestly in Minnie's 
 cause, had found it impossible to banish from his 
 mind, her form and face. In the midst of business, 
 sleeping or waking, those tender, pleading eyes were 
 ever before him. For a time, he struggled against 
 what some would have deemed a weakness, but his 
 nature was noble, and he was not ashamed to follow 
 the dictates of his higher nature, when thus prompted. 
 He resolved to see her, whose untoward fortunes had 
 called forth his truest sympathies, and whose touching 
 face, and guileless spirit, had taken his own soul cap- 
 tive. Thus, day after day found him by the side of the 
 mother, tenderly nursing the sick, and watching with 
 intense emotion, every change of that disease, which 
 was to cause new buds of promise to spring up, or 
 to dash those new and heaven inspiring hopes, sud- 
 denly to the earth ! But the death-angel passed, as 
 we said before, and Minnie lived and loved ! Arthur's 
 had been a thoughtful, reflecting mind, even from his boy- 
 hood ;and he could not but feel, that Minnie was the 
 instrument that God had raised up to strengthen those 
 principles, to enlarge and sanctify those aspirations. 
 Passing over long months of weariness and suspense, 
 
124 
 
 of ^' hope deferred, that maketh the heart sick ;" the 
 friends of Minnie at length succeeded in obtaining 
 her release, and they bore her in triumph to her 
 home. With a chastened heart, she knelt down, and, 
 burying her face in her hands, sobbed out a prayer of 
 gratitude to God, for freedom to roam over the green 
 earth once more, and to be ever near the loved 
 ones ! 
 
 Those scenes, and the emotions they produced, were 
 never effaced from her memory. Mr. N. had taken 
 the necessary measures to make Minnie his adopted 
 child, while she was yet a prisoner. He had no chil- 
 dren of his own ; and a prouder man was not in the 
 town of N. than he, when he took Minnie by the hand, 
 and imprinted a kiss on her fair young cheek, and 
 called her, daughter. He never forgot the first 
 time her friendless head rested upon his shoulder, 
 when he was bearing her through the streets, all un- 
 conscious on whose bosom she leaned. The presence 
 of Minnie imparted new life and strength to each 
 drooping member of that little family ; and she tend- 
 ed, with assiduous care, her now repentant father, — 
 ministering to his wants, day and night. He was re- 
 joiced to know, a change had taken place in the for- 
 tunes of his gentle wife and dear children ; but remorse 
 was like a vulture at his heart, and he could not be 
 happy. It was hard, very hard for him to rise above 
 his besetting sin ; but his guardian angel wab always 
 near, even at midnight, to strengthen a.nd encourage ; 
 and he would say, " You see, dear Minnie, what a 
 slave I am, even with the fear of God before my eyes." 
 He was desirous to put his name to the pledge, 
 
A TEMPERANCE TALE. 125 
 
 and did so. He slied tears of sorrow and re- 
 pentance ; and said, that if it was the will of God 
 that he should remain in this world, still longer, he 
 felt that he should lead a different life ; but he could 
 not retrieve the past ! It was evident, however, that his 
 hours were numbered. He lingered for a few months 
 after Minnie's release ; and then, Ella closed the eyes 
 of her once idolized husband. Bitter tears she shed 
 over him ; for she remembered all that he had been 
 to her in her youthful days. She thought of his sym- 
 pathy and untiring love, when she was bereft of her 
 parents ; and of his tenderness, and joy, and delight, 
 when their little Minnie was born ; and how proud he 
 was of his little Charlie. She dwelt upon his good- 
 ness and kindness to all around, until he became the 
 slave of alcohol. She forgot those long years of suf- 
 fering; or, if she thought of them, only pitied the poor 
 slave of intemperance, the more. After Ella had 
 looked upon her husband, for the last time, she turned 
 to Minnie, and, clasping her to her heart, said, " My 
 first-born darling ! my precious one ! thou hast been a 
 blessing to us all. Thou didst err ; but God has over- 
 ruled that evil for our good. Little did I think, when 
 I told thee that stern duties were before us, that thou 
 would'st finally triumph so gloriously. I said thou 
 would'st feel nothing but the thorns, but thou wilt be 
 refreshed with the flowers ; and surely thou hast rich- 
 ly deserved it !" Charles, the noble minded Charles, 
 was ever an apostle of Temperance., He had suffered 
 so much himself, that he could never forget the suffer- 
 ings of others, particularly the children of intemperate 
 parents. He had a house built, and thither he would 
 11* 
 
126 MINNIE. 
 
 have all poor, street drunkards carried. There they 
 were fed and clothed, and when the mania came on, 
 stimulants comparatively harmless, were given them 
 instead ; and he saved hundreds in this way. 
 
 Several years have elapsed since Minnie quitted her 
 narrow cell, and the affianced lovers are of one heart 
 and mind. They have striven to make life beautiful 
 and sublime, by doing cheerfully the duty that lies 
 nearest, and by being always active in every good 
 word and work. Theirs was not the mad haste that 
 would lead them to " sacrifice the palm-tree for the 
 temporary draught of wine," as alas, thousands have 
 done and are constantly doing. Arthur had but one 
 purpose and aim in life, and the gentle, but heroic 
 being was ever by his side, as an angel of patience 
 and of hope — of endurance and trust ! 
 
 The long, dark, starless night had vanished, and the 
 morning star shone brightly in the heavens, — its pure, 
 tender light, falling on all around. While the behold- 
 ers were gazing upon it, it gradually disappeared from 
 their view, obscured by the stronger light of the rising 
 sun ; for its mission was to usher in that glorious orb 
 whose warmth should fertilize the earth, and whose 
 bright beams, were to make glad the hearts of the 
 sorrowing ones. Thus, slowly, and noiselessly drops 
 the curtain, before the advent of the true marriage of 
 Love and Wisdom ! 
 
%\m ; or, C|e l^ittim of ^eknge. 
 
 Reader, will you allow me to introduce you to that 
 gt-oup of young girls who are standing in a summer 
 house, which is covered with vines, with here and there 
 a flower peeping from among the green leaves. They 
 are in the spring time of life,— that joyous season which 
 comes but once, with its bright hopes and boundless 
 expectations ; when they open their eyes upon a world 
 that is all beauty, and they are sure you know nothing 
 of life, when you tell them that their dreams and anti- 
 cipations can never be realized. 
 
 These girls are all pretty, and each has her own 
 peculiar charm ; but a stranger would be particularly 
 struck by the face and figure of Alice McLane ; and 
 next, you would single out her companion, Julie Gra- 
 ham, as most worthy of observation. Alice was an 
 orphan, and she had drank deep of the cup of sorrow ,* 
 but you would not have thought it, for her face beamed 
 with smiles of affection, and she was ever ready to 
 speak cheering words of sympathy to all who " faltered 
 by the way. " Julie's father had taken her when she 
 
128 ALICE ; 
 
 was a cliild, into his own family, for she was the daugh- 
 ter of his early friend and classmate. The two girls 
 were as unlike in character as in personal appearance. 
 Alice was winning and gentle ; Julie was imperious and 
 haughty. Alice was fair, with soft, grey, loving eyes, 
 that expressed every emotion of the soul ; very small 
 in person, and every motion betraying a nervous tem- 
 perament. Julie was dark, with piercing black eyes, 
 and hair of the same color ; tall and finely proportioned. 
 She could look any one down, and never lost her self- 
 possession. All who were acquainted with them pitied 
 the little trembling Alice, and thought there could not 
 be much congeniality of thought and feeling between 
 them. That they could not sympathize in each other's 
 pursuits is true. How could they ? Julie had chosen 
 this world, and looked no higher for pleasure and hap- 
 piness ; whilst, from a child, Alice had felt that this 
 was not her home. She labored to perform the duties 
 that were imposed upon her, and to make every thing 
 more beautiful by cheerfully doing for others what they 
 could not do for themselves ; for she well knew that 
 only as heaven was developed in her heart here, would 
 she be prepared to enjoy the Heaven hereafter. She 
 possessed far more strength, moral courage, and deter- 
 mination of purpose than Julie ; no one would have 
 thought it, who looked only at the outward. We will 
 not speak of all that Alice had suffered from the una- 
 miable and tyrannical disposition of Julie. Suffice it 
 to say, that the parents thought their daughter could 
 do nothing wrong; and Alice would turn from the 
 disagreeable, and strive to find only the good. She 
 was called the " Peacemaker, " by the young girls of 
 
OR THE VICTIM OF REVENGE. 129 
 
 the village, and well she merited the name. Even Julie 
 allowed that Alice had patience without end ; and she 
 surely should have known, for she taxed it to the 
 utmost. Not that Alice was perfect ; for she often found 
 the spirit of resentment rising within, and the warm 
 blood mantling her cheek ; but she had only to close 
 her eyes and behold the crucified one gazing upon her, 
 and the bad spirit would vanish like clouds before the 
 sun. 
 
 Alice took great delight in her village school. The 
 little children would surround her as she entered the 
 school-room, or as they ran out to meet her on her way 
 thither; and she had a kind word and a smile of 
 approval for each little grateful heart. She also visited 
 the sick, and destitute, and ministered to their wants : 
 and the look of delight with which her presence was 
 welcomed, more than repaid her for the time and 
 strength it required. And then, there was a little pre- 
 cious one at home, too, that she loved with a mother's 
 tenderness. From the moment little Grace had opened 
 her eyes and smiled upon her, Alice felt it a joy to 
 watch its growth, as one watches a tender plant ; detect- 
 ing the weeds as they spring up, shielding it from the 
 chill breezes, and placing it in the warm genial sunshine 
 and each morning anxiously looking for the little buds 
 of promise ; and the child returned that love. She ran 
 to Alice, with all her joys and sorrows. 
 
 About this time, a stranger preached in the village, 
 and Mr. G. invited him home to dine ; and he became 
 much pleased with the appearance of the family, but 
 was particularly interested in the unobtrusive manners 
 
130 
 
 and soul-lit face of Alice. Each succeeding interview 
 only strengthened his reverence for her character. 
 
 Frederick A. possessed a mind of no common order ; 
 an accomplished scholar, with a pleasing exterior ; and, 
 though stern, uncompromising integrity of character 
 was written on his manly face, yet he was not devoid 
 of sympathy. He had been in the ministry some six 
 years, but had never met with one whom he could 
 choose as a companion for life. A year before, he was 
 obliged to resign his pastoral charge on account of ill 
 health, and he was travelling for its recovery ; but his 
 strength had returned now, and being well known to 
 some of the members of the church in the village, he 
 was invited to fill their pastor's place, for a few months ; 
 he being unable to preach. 
 
 Thus, a way was opened for him to become better 
 acquainted with Alice ; and before the time of his 
 engagement had expired, they were betrothed. Alice 
 was only too happy now. She felt that she had found 
 father, mother, brother and sister in her noble-hearted 
 Frederick. The tears would often steal silently down 
 her cheeks, and when he detected it, he would say, 
 " Alice, are you unhappy ? " and she would answer, " Oh, 
 no ! it is because I am so happy that these tears flow. " 
 
 It was arranged that as soon as he was permanently 
 settled again, their marriage should take place. But 
 where was Julie all this time ? She had been a silent, 
 though not unmoved, spectator. She had had offers 
 of marriage, but the gentlemen did not suit her, and 
 she gave them decided refusals. She did not love 
 Frederick ; but her vanity was wounded, and she re- 
 solved, be the consequences what they might, that Alice 
 
OE; THE VICTIM OF REVENGE. 131 
 
 McLane should never become the wife of Frederick 
 A. The time had arrived for Frederick to leave the 
 village ; but he knew not yet where they should find a 
 home. He intended visiting several places, and they 
 were to correspond during his absence. The evening 
 before he started, he entered the sitting-room where the 
 family were assembled, and Alice scarcely recognised 
 him, he was so pale. In alarm, she was hastening to 
 him to enquire the cause ; but to her surprise, instead 
 of welcoming her with a smile, he gave her a look — 
 such a look ! the remembrance of it. even, was sti- 
 fling — and then left the room. Alice was completely 
 stunned ; — but what did it mean ? She waited till late 
 in the night, thinking he would return and explain 
 all ; but she waited in vain — he came not. Then she 
 sought her lonely chamber, and shed such tears as she 
 never shed before. She was not in the habit of tell- 
 ing her sorrows and disappointments to others, ex- 
 pecting sympathy in return ; and she retired, this night, 
 without speaking of the subject that had almost de- 
 prived her of her reason. She passed a sleepless 
 night. 
 
 At daylight, a carriage drove to the door ; she lis- 
 tened, raised the sash, saw Frederick enter it and 
 drive away. She had not power to articulate a word — 
 and the opportunity was lost. Had he heard the 
 tones of her voice, and seen that pale, haggard face, 
 he would have desired an explanation ; but he thought 
 her guilty and he hurried on. Poor Alice watched the 
 carriage with straining eye ; she felt it was a hopeless 
 case ; there was a pain, as though an arrow had pierced 
 her heart J she tried to call for aid, but no sound came 
 
132 
 
 from her lips ; she struggled as a drowning man strug» 
 gles with the waves, for she was suffocating ; then she 
 gave a piercing shriek, and sank sensless on the floor. 
 Julie was near at hand, for sleep had forsaken her 
 pillow, and, as she heard the poor girl pacing the room 
 with hurried steps, and listenod to the sobs of repres- 
 sed anguish, her heart smote her, and she would have 
 recalled Frederick, but her pride would not allow her 
 to confess her guilt ; but when she saw that pale, life- 
 less one stretched beside her- — her face as white as 
 the robe that shrouded her sweet form'— oh ! what 
 would that guilty girl not have given to have undone 
 the work of the last few hours. Alice had always 
 been so patient, and borne up under suffering with so 
 much calmness, that she thought she could not feel as 
 acutely as others 5 but now she witnessed the depths 
 of feeling that that calmness was the very offspring of, 
 under less trying circumstances, and she realized what 
 it was for a strong nature to love. Alice never raised 
 her head from the pillow, after she was laid on the 
 bed ; it seemed that the dreadful shock had deprived 
 her of the power of motion, but her mind was as clear 
 as ever. They did not know which route Frederick 
 had taken ; but Julie, unbeknown to Alice, wrote and 
 directed to where she thought he might be, entreaat- 
 ing him to come back to them, for Alice was dying. 
 But no answer was returned. His name had not been 
 mentioned in her presence, and Julie could not gain 
 courage enough to ask her if she knew aught concern- 
 ing his movements. The wretched girl could not 
 bring her mind to confess her guilt; but she thought 
 if Frederick only returned. Alice would live, and then 
 
OR, THE VICTIM OF REVENGE. 133 
 
 slie could confess all. Little Grace sat beside the 
 bed, the tears coursing each other down her clieeks ; 
 she could not understand why dear Alice was sick, and 
 why she did not smile upon her. 
 
 One day, when Julie was in the room, Grace said, 
 I* Cousin Alice, did any one hurt you, that you were 
 sick ?" 
 
 Alice thought a moment, and then said, " No, dar- 
 ling, not in the way you mean." 
 
 '' I am glad," little Grace replied, " for T am sure I 
 could never love any one who could hurt you." 
 
 " Then you are not good, my darling," said Alice ; 
 '^ do you not remember how much Jesus loved those 
 who were wounding him. Have you forgotten his last 
 prayer, Grace ? Was it not ' Father, forgive them, for 
 they know not what they do.' " 
 
 ^' But dear cousin Alice," said the child, " if any one> 
 should wound you, and make you very, very unhappy, 
 you could not surely forgive them ? 
 
 " Then I should not be a disciple of the meek Sa- 
 viour, whom you love to hear so much about. "VYe 
 must learn to forgive our bitterest enemies, and the 
 greater the injury, the more they stand in need of our 
 pity and forgiveness. I know, my dear little Grace, it 
 is the hardest of Christian injunctions to fulfill, but it 
 must be done, or we are none of His." 
 
 Julie sat silent throughout the conversation, but 
 every word fell upon her heart, scorching it like coals> 
 of fire. A moment after, she rose from her seat, and 
 approached the bed; she gazed into the eyes of the in- 
 jured one, and felt it was true — the meek spirit of for- 
 giveness was there. She dropped on her knees, audi 
 12 
 
clasping the liand of Alice, said, " Alice, I am that bit- 
 ter ENEMY !" A spasm passed over the face of the dy- 
 ing girl, and there was a motion as though she would 
 have withdrawn her hand, but she did not. 
 
 " I do not ask you to forgive me ;" said Julie, " that 
 would only add to the pangs I already endure ; but jus- 
 tice demands this confession. Alice, I made him be- 
 lieve you were not worthy of him ; that you bad de- 
 ceived him ; that you were engaged to another ! and, in 
 the phrenzy of the moment, he waited not to examine 
 the truth of the statement, but has gone. But he will 
 return ,• oh ! I know he will return. Live, Alice ! do 
 not let me be your murderer !" 
 
 There was silence for a moment; Julie buried her 
 head in the bed clothes ; then Alice said, '' I forgive you 
 as I hope to be forgiven. You did not know the bit- 
 ter suffering it would cause, or it would not have been 
 done." 
 
 Every effort was now made to find Frederick ; but 
 in vain. Alice sank rapidly : her constitution was nat- 
 urally delicate, and it needed but this last blow to pros- 
 trate it. Just before she breathed her last, she called 
 Julie to her bedside, and said, " I am too weak to 
 write, but if you ever see him, tell him I loved him next 
 to my Creator. It was too bright to last ! God's will 
 be done ; and Julie, prepare to me^t me in that bet- 
 ter world, where there is no envy and strife, but where 
 all is peace forever more." A few moments after, her 
 pure spirit took its flight, and the friendless one had 
 found a home. 
 
 Frederick had been as one in a dream ; he travelled 
 unconscious of his destination. " If she is false, then 
 
135 
 
 is iiHitliing true in the world," was ever uppermost in 
 his mind. Nearly a week had elapsed before he could 
 reason calmly^ he then thought there might be some 
 mistake^ then he resolved to seek her, and see if she 
 
 could justify herself. He arrived at the town of , 
 
 and unconsciously stepped into the Post Office. There 
 was a letter for him. lie broke the seal hastily, and 
 only read that Alice was dying. He rested neither day 
 nor night, till he arrived at the house ; but it was onlj^ 
 to look upon the pale, calm face of Alice, as she lay 
 shrouded in the habiliments of the grave. 
 
 Julie stood beside the coSin, and as Frederick en- 
 tered the room, she raised her head and said, " I mur- 
 dered her. Why did you leave her ? You knew she was 
 as pure as an angel in Heaven. I was the foul one. 
 She said, ^ Tell him, I loved him next my God,' and she 
 loved you only." Then she shrieked aloud, and they 
 bore her from the room. Frederick was alone with 
 the dead. Bitterly did he upbraid himself; and as he 
 bowed his head over the coffin, and imprinted a kiss 
 on the cold forehead, he said, " Oh ! Alice, I wandered 
 over the earth in search of a kindred spirit, and wlien 
 I had found it, I thrust it rudely from me, at the first 
 breath of suspicion, instead of holding thee to my heart 
 all the closer, that thou wast belied. I would not call 
 thee back, for well I know this world was not thy 
 home : and surely one who was so ready to believe 
 aught against one so pure, could not have passed a 
 long life by thy side, without planting many thorns in 
 thy pathway. I am justly punished !" 
 
 The remains of Alice were laid in the village grave- 
 yard. The children were there, and tears were in 
 
136 ALICE, 
 
 their eyes, and sorrow in their hearts, for they knew 
 they had lost their best friend. Julie had a simple 
 slab of pure white marble placed over the grave, and, 
 at her urgent request, these words were cut deep in 
 it — "Here lies Alice Mc Lane, the yictbi of re- 
 venge." Years passed, and all who had shrunk from 
 Julie as something impure, now felt that she was a dif- 
 ferent being. She seldom spoke, and none saw her 
 smile ; but she went about doing good. The " divine 
 origin" of the gospel, was manifested in her case. 
 Alice had heaped coals of fire on her head, and she be- 
 came the Saviour's friend. Frederick left his native 
 land, but continued to labor in his Master's field, 
 among the heathen. Little Grace was all that Alice 
 could have wished : the good seed, sown by her own 
 hand, had taken root, and bare fruit. The villagers 
 hailed her coming with delight; for they said it seem- 
 ed as though the spirit of Alice came with her. And 
 whenever there was a disturbance among the children, 
 and one little " peace-maker" rose to entreat them to 
 ^' love each other," then they who heard it, would say 
 " The gentle, meek spirit of Alice is still amongst us 
 ^ and, though dead, she yet speaketh.' " 
 
% dialogue on f eate. 
 
 Henry. Oh ! how glad I shall be when I am a man, 
 Frankj for then I shall be a real soldier and shall not 
 have to make believe I am one, as I do now. Say, 
 Frank, do you not long to be a man, so that yon can 
 be a soldier, a real soldier. 
 
 Frank. I do long to be a man, but not a soldier. 
 
 Henry. Why not ? You do not mean to say that 
 you would be a man and not be dressed in a fine uni- 
 form, and shoulder a gun, and have a sword by your 
 side ? Why I would not care to be a man if I did not 
 think I should be a soldier too. It is a foolish notion 
 you have got into your head, cousin Frank. Do all 
 the boys in the country think and feel as you do, on 
 this subject ? If so, I am glad I was not brought up 
 there. Come, tell me what objections you can possi- 
 bly have to being a soldier. 
 
 Frank. In the first place, I do not believe that 
 
 God intended we should be soldiers. Henry, do you 
 
 know what the buisness or trade of a soldier is — 
 
 what all this training and drilling is the prelude of? 
 
 It is to blow out our brother's brains; to butcher 
 *12 
 
138 A DIALOGUE ON PEACE. 
 
 those who are made in the image of God; to make 
 children orphans ; and make happy homes desolate. 
 I know gay uniforms are pleasing to the eye. and mar- 
 tial mnsic thrills the soul. The music is perverted; 
 and all the rest lead to misery and despair. 
 
 Henry. I know very well that when men go to 
 war, they have to shoot and slay their enemies, and 
 although it may be a hard and disagreeable task, still 
 it is our duty, for what would become of us if we did 
 not defend ourselves ? 
 
 Frank. Where do you find that it is our duty to 
 shoot and slay men for the purpose of defending our- 
 selves? 
 
 Henry. Where do I find it ? Why — why — it has 
 been so ever since the world began. Do we not read, 
 in the Bible, of battles that were fought, and of glo- 
 rious victories won ? Ever since I can remember 
 anything, this becoming a soldier has been uppermost 
 in my mind. Yes, when I was a mere baby, my moth- 
 er would make paper soldier-caps and place them on 
 .mj head ; and the mimic gun was put into my hand ; 
 -•and the wooden sword was fastened to my side ; and 
 'W^hen I was all equipped, she would call me her brave 
 llittle soldier 1 
 
 Frank. But dont you think her heart would have 
 :been torn with anguish could she have followed you 
 to the field of battle, and seen the child of her bosom 
 writhing in the agonies of death ; with not a drop of 
 >water to cool his parched lips ; with no mother's 
 •hand to wipe the death damp from his pallid brow ? 
 1 know you read in the Old Testament of battles that 
 were fought; but the Prince of Peace had not then 
 
A DIALOGUE ON PEACE. 139 
 
 been welcomed by the song of the angelS; and men 
 were comparatively in the dark. The Saviour's teach- 
 ings are all opposed to war, and the spirit of war. — 
 Did he not say,— " A 7iew commandment give I nnto 
 you, that ye love one another." And again, " If my 
 kingdom were of this world, then would my servants 
 fight." And, " Ye have heard that it hath been said, 
 an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth ; but I say 
 unto you that ye resist not evil ; but whosoever shall 
 smite thee on the right cheek, turn to him the other 
 also." And does not the apostle James define, clear- 
 ly, the nature and spirit of war, when he says, " From 
 whence come wars and fighting among you ? Come 
 they not hence, even of your lusts that war in your 
 members ?" And are we not commanded to forgive, 
 as we hope to be forgiven ? Oh ! yes ; the New 
 Testament is full of this glorious doctrine. And our 
 Saviour did not intend that his teaching and preaching 
 should be a beautiful theory, that people would look 
 at and admire, but would find it impossible to prac- 
 tice. No ! when he bowed his meek head upon the 
 cross, and breathed forth that touching prayer, " Fath- 
 er, forgive them, for they know not what they do," he 
 well knew that only as they imbibed His spirit, would 
 they be enabled to carry out His sublime precepts. 
 
 Henry. But how came you to know so much about 
 these things, cousin Frank ? Your father died when 
 you were an infant, and aunt Fanny was sick many 
 years, before her death. 
 
 Frank. 'Tis true, my father died when I was too 
 young to feel his loss, and my dear mother was always 
 an invalid j but that did not prevent her from sowing 
 
140 A DIALOGUE OX PEACE. 
 
 the seeds of eternal truth and divine love in my heart. 
 For many months before her departure, I used to sit 
 by her bedside, and the lessons I there received can 
 never be effaced from my memory. She taught me that 
 he alone was the true conqueror, who, when he was ill- 
 treated, nobly forgave, and harbored no bitterness in 
 his heart against his short-sighted enemy. " I say unto 
 you, love your enemies, and do good to those who 
 despitefully use and persecute you," stands out in bold 
 relief, and we cannot turn aside from it. 
 
 Henry. But do you never get angry with your 
 playmates ? And do you not like to have your own 
 way? 
 
 Frank. Oh yes, often. And then I am so wretched : 
 for I know that I have sinned against God, and grieved 
 my mother's spirit ; for then I can see her pale face, 
 and her tender eyes looking so mournfully upon me, 
 and I feel that she is near me, even as she said she 
 would be. But I gain strength every effort I make to 
 overcome evil with good, and each day I live, I realize 
 more and more that the divine law of love is omni- 
 potent. 
 
 Henry. Well, my mother has always told me never 
 to strike first ; but when I am struck, to strike back 
 again, till they get enough of it. 
 
 Frank. And in so doing, I suppose you have always 
 got enough, before you got through, have you not? 
 
 Henry. Oh yes, but I always feel bad and blame 
 myself more than I do the others ; but I thought there 
 was no other way. 
 
 Frank. Well, Henry, there is a first rate little book 
 I wish you would read, and after you have carefully 
 
A DIALOGUE ON PEACE. 141 
 
 perused it, if, when jou are struck, you give a " Kiss 
 Jot a Blow, " you will sit down happy, even though you 
 may be covered all over with bruises ; and you will 
 find that it brings its own reward. And whenever you 
 glory in the prospect of becoming a soldier, just ask 
 your own heart how you would like to have those 
 dearest to you in the world, slaughtered, and made the 
 victims of war ; and remember that no being is so iso- 
 lated, but that some human heart beats for its weal or 
 its wo ; and you will find that real heroism does not 
 consist in mere animal courage, but will learn to rev- 
 erence those who never shed a drop of blood, but who 
 have fought many battles, aye, even the '' Battle of 
 Life." Yes ; such was Howard, Clarkson, Wilberforce, 
 Wesley, and Elizabeth Fry, and many, many more. — 
 They were the truly heroic of their age, and such spir- 
 its are the truly heroic of every age. 
 
 Henry. Well, cousin Frank, I do feel that what you 
 say is true, and my boyish dream has lost much of its 
 brightness ; but I will strive to be a noble warrior, not- 
 withstanding, and war againt the only enemies we 
 must not love, viz : sin, ignorance, narrowness and in- 
 justice. 
 
POEMS 
 
 " De toutes mes facultes la plus puissante est la faculte de souffir. Je 
 suis nee pour le bonheur, mon caractere est confiant, mon imagination est 
 animee; mais la peine excite en moi je ne sais quelle impetuosite que 
 peut troubler ma raison, ou me donner de la mort. Je vous le repete 
 encore, menagez-nioi ; la gaiete, la mobilite ne me servent qu'en appa- 
 rence: mais il y a dans mon ame des abimes de tristesse dont je ne 
 pouvais me defendre qu'en me preservent de I'amour. Oh ! mes Amis, 
 rapelez vous quelquefois mes vers; mon ame y estempreinte."-CoRiNNE. 
 
 TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 "I miss thee more, each year, mother! I miss thee more to-night, 
 As thoughts of thee rush o'er my soul, with vivid memory's might; 
 The death-bed and the mourning friends, the last farewell and kiss 
 Are present, as if scarce an hour had passed since that and this." 
 
 Oh ! mother, mine ! twelve years have fled since thou 
 Pressed that last kiss upon my throbbing brow ! 
 Twelve weary years — yet " Memory's angel " still, 
 At " holy night-time," forges, at its will, 
 Those " golden links " that bind us to the past, 
 Howe'er so " world-w^orn" — fresh e'en to the last. 
 
144 POEMS. 
 
 Mother ! — That sacred name has power to raise 
 Vision on vision, of ray childhood's days ; 
 Bearing me back to those dim, mystic hours 
 'Ere the young buds had opened into flowers ; 
 To that fresh morning time when life was new, 
 And tender soul-leaves bathed in night's sweet dew. 
 
 Ah ! w^ho may know the intense world of hope 
 Swaying God's young immortals, while they grope, 
 With their small reason — boundless wishes vast — 
 'Till disappointments all their sky o'ercast ? 
 None but those beings who bear with them, aye, 
 The recollections of that early day ! 
 
 Then, if on errand thou hadst gone from home, 
 How desolate thy little one would roam, 
 From room to room — feeling a blank, the while, 
 Without the blessing of the mother smile ! 
 And with strange restlessness of joy and fear. 
 Hush her heart-throbs, to list if iliou wert near. 
 
 Then came the school-days, fraught with woe to those 
 
 Whom only love can teach : the Winter snows 
 
 Chill not so keenly as that teacher's voice. 
 
 Untuned to pity. They may well rejoice. 
 
 Who can look back, with ever fond delight, 
 
 To the dear/newc?, who made their darkness, light ! 
 
 Ah ! those were sad, sad days, though thou wert near, 
 To shield and pity ; for a nameless fear. 
 Like a dark mantle, was around me thrown ; 
 And, though surrounded, I seemed all alone : 
 While terrors of the night would chill my heart. 
 Causing large drops upon my brow to start ! 
 
POEMS. 145 
 
 I woke from those dark dreams, to a new life ; 
 Rising far, far above the din and strife ; 
 Like bird, that, soaring npward, onward, free, 
 Is conscious of a new, deep ecstasy ; 
 So God had given my spirit wings to soar 
 Into a holy calm, to doubt no more ! 
 
 The seasons passed, and girlhood's fairy dreams 
 Made earth an Eden, whose low-murmuring streams 
 And beauteous flowers, green fields, blue skies above, 
 Seemed, to my tranced gaze, a heaven of love, 
 Where nothing mean or evil dare intrude : — 
 I had not clasped life's solemn. Mystic Rood ! 
 
 While those sweet dream-spells were around me cast, 
 
 Another sought my love. From the dim past 
 
 I hastened to the future — my brow, the while, 
 
 Crowned with hope's flowers, which drooped, when thy sad 
 
 smile 
 Fell on my heart ; for well I read thy fears, 
 And knew those smiles were forced, to drive back tears ! 
 
 I journeyed on ; but, in mine hour of need. 
 
 My spirit pined for thine ; the broken reed 
 
 Watched for thy coming, as in days of yore ; 
 
 Feeling thy presence could alone restore 
 
 The fleeting courage, for that fearful strife 
 
 In which Death battles, hand to hand, with Life ! 
 
 And thou loert with me, in each trial hour ; 
 Giving new strength to thy frail, drooping flower f 
 While sympathizing tears, like dew would fall 
 Upon my fevered brow — thy smiles recall 
 The faith and hope, that cankering cares well nigh 
 Had shut out from my heart, and veiled my sky ! 
 13 
 
146 POEMS. 
 
 But tliat sad hour arrived, which had, for years 
 
 Anticipated, brought fast-flowing tears ! 
 
 Upon my shouhler thy dear head was laid : 
 
 The youngest of the flock was not afraid 
 
 To clasp thee close, and watch the fleeting breath, 
 
 "Which brought to us that cold, dread victor, Death ! 
 
 Then, then I clasped the closer ; but the fear 
 That thy enfranchised spirit still might hear 
 The bitter wail, — I smothered that wild grief. 
 And prayed that God would give thee sweet relief. 
 A sickening sense of loneliness then fell 
 Upon my heart. It was the last farewell! 
 
 Since, I have stood beside thy grave, alone, 
 And heard the music of that far-off tone ; 
 And felt the kindly pressure of the hand 
 That cooled life's fever, as by breezes fanned ; 
 "While something soft and shadowy round me stole, 
 Hallowing the bitter conflicts of the soul. 
 
 And flowers, too, were there : the purple bloom 
 Of the wild thistle, added to the gloom. 
 It spoke of thorns, that pierced thee every hour, 
 *Till trickling life-drops formed the purple flower; 
 Yet, tiny, star-like ones bloomed on thy breast, 
 And breathed of triumph — of the spirit's rest. 
 
 I gathered both ; and they have been to me 
 The symbol of the soul's high destiny ; 
 The history of thy life is written there — 
 Thy birth, thy marriage, and the wild despair 
 That sometimes bowed thy spirit. Mother, dear ; 
 Tliou 'rt unforgotten, by thine earth child here ! 
 
POEMS. 147 
 
 TO MY CHILDREN. 
 
 ** ' How many are yeu, then,' said I, if those two are in Heaven ?' 
 The little maiden did replj^, 'Oh, masteri we are seven.' " 
 
 My summer child, to thee I owe the boundless world of love 
 That poured into my heart of hearts — a fountain from above ; 
 Pure, undefiled, it still Sowed on, 'mid sorrow, care, and pain ; 
 It made the earth a paradise ; Eve's Eden bloomed again. 
 
 My summer child, my eldest born! thou wert a welcome 
 
 guest, 
 When first 1 clasped thee in my arms and held thee to my 
 
 breast — 
 A little, trembling, fluttering dove, with folded wing and eye, 
 The slightest touch of mortal hand called forth thy feeble cry. 
 
 Years have flown by ; but thou art prized as fondly as of yore ; 
 
 For love, like God, is infinite — a sea. without a shore. 
 
 Then tread life's pathway still, beloved, with Hope's wreath 
 
 on thy brow; 
 For surely none can seek to harm one good and true as thou. 
 
 I cannot read thy future, with its untried hopes and fears ; 
 But shouldst thou err, or lose thy way, I'll dry thy falling 
 
 tears ; 
 If thou shouldst be a wanderer, and others say, " Depart I" 
 Oh ! come to me — for then, as now, thy home is in my heart ! 
 
 Next came the little timid fawn, whose magic glance could 
 
 wile 
 The hearts of all who gazed upon that rare, unearthly smile ; 
 While I, her mother, felt, each hour, that worlds on worlds 
 
 were mine ; 
 And, turning from all outward things, I worshiped at that 
 
 shrine- 
 
148 POEMS. 
 
 A little harp that God had given, I clasped with restless fear, 
 And trembled while I pressed its chords, the Giver was so 
 
 near ! 
 Oh ! had I loved him more, I know my love for her had been 
 As full, as deep, as infinite ; yet all unstained by sin ! 
 
 Those large, soul speaking eyes were closed ; that silvery 
 
 voice was hushed, 
 And none but he who gave her, knew the idol I had nursed. 
 'Tis well. Our sinless child now lives in a home not far away : 
 An angol visitant, she comes and cheers me on life's way. 
 
 And thou, my little nameless one ! what shall I say of thee, 
 Who lingered onlj^ one brief hour, then vanished like the bee, 
 After the choicest sweets are sipped from out the rose's heart, 
 Yet bearing precious food the while ? — 'tis thus thou didst de- 
 part. 
 
 Thy little waxen form was laid within that hallowed grave, 
 Which erst had opened to receive what I had died to save ! 
 I yielded thee without a sigh, for thou hadst never known 
 One pang of earth ; yet tenderly we claimed thee as our own. 
 
 Two buds of promise gone to God ! and it was joy to know 
 That side by side those two would dwell — on heavenly manna 
 
 grow. 
 A tiny sister-angel called to share her home above, 
 So our two little flowerets bloom where all is light and love. 
 
 ]My April child, my only son ! born in that month of tears. 
 Of smiles, glad sunshine, threatening clouds, v/hich call forth 
 anxious fears : 
 
POEMS. 149 
 
 Capricious, whimsical and mild, bj turns, I know thou art ; 
 Yet this same xvajwardness, perchance, has chained thee to 
 my heart ! 
 
 Yet, there are seasons when I gaze into a cloudless sky ; 
 The blue, far-reaching azure, fills my soul with ecstasy ; 
 But clouds creep on, the leaflets sigh, and the large rain-drops 
 
 fall— 
 We know not wherefore, but we feel a change is over all. 
 
 A child of nature, scanning still her ever-changing face — 
 The tiniest insect, grass, or flower, he hails with childish 
 
 grace ; 
 And shade, and form, and velvet leaf are traced and analyzed ; 
 The curious pebble, rainbow, cloud, each in its turn is prized 
 
 I know not what his life will be ; but tremblingly each ds.y, 
 I'll strive to guide my wayward one into the narrow way ; 
 And oh ! I'd gladly lead him forth from the pent city's mart, 
 To the green fields, where he should know the sunshine of the 
 heart. 
 
 Yes, there are four ; my eldest-born and youngest one dwell 
 
 here : 
 Four, though my other two now live in a higher, holier sphere — - 
 Two upon earth and two in heaven : ay, darlings 1 it is well. 
 We would not call our blessed ones back, in our Earth-home 
 
 to dwell. 
 
 13^ 
 
150 POEMS. 
 
 NE-WPORT, 
 
 Home of ray cliildhood — native land ! 
 
 Once more I gaze on thee, 
 While Memory's magic Avand awakes 
 
 The slumbering past for me. 
 Long intervening years have flown, 
 
 And Sorrow's drooping wing 
 Has fanned my brow, yet now my heart 
 
 Bounds as in childhood's spring. 
 
 Old Ocean's anthems aye peal forth- 
 Resounding o'er the land — 
 
 The glad, the bright, the sparkling waves 
 Still break upon the strand. 
 
 I sit, as then, with wondering eyes. 
 Looking out o'er the main. 
 
 And echo, with her wizard tones, 
 Makes me a child again. 
 
 Yet, not as then, alone — alone— 
 
 With ocean's endless roar ; 
 For fashion's votaries in throngs 
 
 Now gather on the shore. 
 I miss the holy silence here. 
 
 Where Nature spake alone ; 
 While the rapt, listening soul drank in 
 
 Her mystic undertone. 
 
 A mighty change Jias fallen on thee, 
 
 Mine own, mine Eden fair ! 
 Yet, powerless 'gainst Nature's spells, 
 
 They meet me everywdiere. 
 
POEMS. 151 
 
 And now, as then, witli stammering tongue, 
 
 I bow before her shrine ; 
 Feeling God's omnipresent love 
 
 Thrillinof this heart of mine ! 
 
 There's classic Redwood — still the same 
 
 As, when an awe-struck child, 
 I stole with noiseless step within, 
 
 Breathless with longings wild. 
 To have the fount of knowledge ope 
 
 To me its hidden store. 
 Alas ! alas ! my yearning soul 
 
 Thirsts as in days of yore ! 
 
 Haunted — ah ! is it not to me. 
 
 While phantoms gather round ? — 
 The mighty spirits of the Past 
 
 Whisper — " 'tis holy ground !" 
 The antique form* of by-gone days 
 
 Still aids me in my quest. 
 The searched for tome he handeth me, 
 
 Adding the kind behest. 
 
 The past and present here are met. 
 
 As in a ma";ic rin"; ; 
 The silent faces on the wall 
 
 Look down upon their King f 
 
 * The late Robert Hogers, for many j^ears, Librarian. 
 
 1 1 had the pleasure of being introduced to Mr King, while at the Li- 
 brary, and of meeting him several times subsequently; and each interview 
 served to increase ray respect and admiration for this true scholar and gen- 
 tleman of the " old school." I refer to the Artist, who painted most of 
 the paintings, on the walls of the Library. 
 
152 POEMS. 
 
 A King in nature, as in name, 
 
 I gladly tribute pay ; 
 For sweet and sunny memories 
 
 He strews around his way. 
 
 And thou, gray sentinel of eld ! X 
 
 Unscathed by wind and storm, 
 Resistless in thine eloquence. 
 
 Who reard thy silent form ? 
 Thou relic of the olden time. 
 
 What is thy mission here ? 
 The " drowsy sphynx replieth not," 
 
 For " heavy is her ear." 
 
 " The ages" have thy secret kept, 
 
 And centuries shall roll, 
 Ere one is gifted with the power 
 
 To read thy mystic scroll. 
 But old and young shall gaze on thee, 
 
 As, silent and serene. 
 Thou stand'st a monument of art, 
 
 On this free spot of green. 
 
 I've stood beside three grassy graves, 
 
 In the old burial ground ; 
 And wandering through the new, I caught 
 
 Progression's onward sound. 
 The Old and New— ah ! it is well. 
 
 For we are bidden to bring. 
 From out our store houses, the new, 
 
 "While of the old, we sing 
 
 } The old Stone Mill, 
 
POEMS. 153 
 
 Mine Eden home, thou'rt rightly named, 
 
 For Paradise is here ; 
 And glen, and cave, and rock, and hill, 
 
 Now as of old appear. 
 Oh ! dwellers of this fairy land, 
 
 To whom much hath been given. 
 Sell not your birthright here below. 
 
 But Grarner it for Heaven. 
 
 THE OREEK SLAVE. 
 
 ** Messenger to her Mother land — 
 Gem for her gorgeous nave— 
 
 What hath the home of shivery, 
 More fitting than a slave ?"* 
 
 Gather round the Grecian maiden — • 
 
 Fearless, though the rude may stare ! 
 And with chastened souls, ye'U whisper, 
 
 " 'Tis indeed a place of prayer." 
 Ye who yearn for truth and beauty, 
 
 Falter not and ye will find 
 Gazing on that chiselled marble, 
 
 God is present to the mind ! 
 
 What though some may seek her presence. 
 As of yore the Turkish mart ? 
 
 Fear not, though no words are spoken, 
 She has touched each traitor heart ; 
 
 ^Powers' Greek Slave at the Crystal Palace, [London,] is the gem of 
 the whole collection. 
 
154 POEMS. 
 
 And they own their wretched bondage, 
 Strive to rend their cursed chains ; 
 
 Feeling they are slaves degraded, 
 While a thought impure remains. 
 
 Young and old, go gaze upon her, 
 
 And with reverential awe, 
 While ye marvel at the artist, 
 
 Still the artist's God adore ! 
 Though the brightest gem in woman, 
 
 Be your portion, and your guide. 
 Shrink not, there are unseen angels, 
 
 Guarding her on every side ! 
 
 There are those who sneer and trample 
 
 On the holiest. Heed them not ! 
 Though they taunt us long and often, 
 
 We will seek that hallowed spot ; 
 Owning there are gleams of heaven, 
 
 In that pure and holy face, 
 Calm with sorrow — and acknowledge 
 
 Grief has sanctified the "place 1 
 
 TO I.ADY FRANKLIN. 
 
 Lady Franklin, worn out with " hope deferred," is at length seriously- 
 indisposed. — Providence Journal. 
 
 " Does she still hope ?" my heart has often questioned, 
 Whene'er I thought of thee, and thy sad fate ; 
 
 And voiceless prayers were breathed, that Heaven in mercy. 
 Would shield, and yet restore thy bosom's mate — 
 
 For life would be a cheerless desert wild, 
 
 Shorn of his love, though clasping his fair child ! 
 
POEMS. 155 
 
 And I have listened to thy holy pleadings, 
 And felt the beatings of thy throbbing heart, 
 
 As in thy lonely midnight vigil weeping, 
 
 I saw thy grief, and yearned to share a part. 
 
 This was thy soul's appeal, breathed low to Him, 
 
 Before whose eye the rising sun is dim. 
 
 " Have I not striven, oh ! my God, my Father ! 
 
 Daily, and hourly, with this load of woe ? 
 Has my heart faltered, though this fearful darkness 
 
 Hides the loved star, that taught its founts to flow ? 
 E'en when cold ice bands chilled its chords around, 
 Throbbed it not high, deeming the lost one found ! 
 
 Have I not laid my aching head down nightly. 
 
 Planning new means to save — breathing his name, 
 
 Yet looking unto thee — so sleep has fallen 
 Upon my heavy lids : then angels came 
 
 And whispered sweetly in my listening ear, 
 
 ' Despair thou not, he comes, that friend so dear.' 
 
 And then my dreams were sweet ; I had arrayed me 
 
 In my pure bridal robe that once I wore. 
 And clasping to my breast his orphaned darling 
 
 Hastened to greet him on the sea-girt shore : 
 But oh! the vision changed, and terror rife 
 O'ercame the broken hearted, lonely wife ! 
 
 Thou — Thou alone, canst know the soul sick anguish, 
 I've struggled hourly with, since last we met ; 
 
 Not the dear friend who daily sits beside me, 
 Whom I love fondly, and can ne'er forget, — 
 
 She may not know — 'tis thou, 'tis thou alone. 
 
 Hast heard the inward sigh, the smothered groan ! 
 
156 POEMS 
 
 Now hope is past ! Father, the cup is bitter : 
 Must I, then, drink it foaming to the brim ? 
 
 Oh ! then, as to thy son in his deep anguish, 
 Let angels minister to me as unto Him ! — 
 
 Giving me strength to saj, ' Thy will be done,' 
 
 Though he return no more — the lost — lost one /" 
 
 Lady, dear lady — there are wives and mothers 
 In my own native land, who weep for thee ; 
 
 To whom the sight of thy sweet name awakens 
 Sad memories of home, and of the sea ; 
 
 Who read with breathless interest all that's known, 
 
 With moistened eyes, as though thou wert our own ! 
 
 With heart-felt sympathy, though seas divide us, 
 We greet thee, suffering one, in this dark hour ; 
 
 While in our hearts we cherish the sweet picture 
 Of his last eve beside his drooping flower ! 
 
 Thy hope is gone — all human aid is vain ; 
 
 But in that better world, ye two shall meet again ! 
 
 I THINK OF THEE. 
 
 "Thou art not here! 
 Yet memory brings thy softly beaming eye, 
 
 And thy sweet voice, with cadence low and clear, 
 Steals o'er my spirit, like an angel's sigh !" 
 
 " The sonl of my was itself an apparition upon this earth, and 
 
 never forgot its native world. At this moment, I think I see her; and 
 from the abyss of distance and of sumless elevation, she appears not 
 more radiant or divine than she did here below; and I think of her, far 
 
POEMS. 157 
 
 aloft in the heavens and behind the stars, as in her natural place, and as 
 of one but little altered from what she was, except by the blotting out of 
 her earthly sorrows." 
 
 I tliink of tliee ; I think of thee, 
 
 When flowers are blooming bright ; 
 Of thee, the dearest human flower 
 
 That cheered the darkened night. 
 I wait thy coming, as of yore. 
 
 Hear tliy low thrilling tone. 
 That murmurs ever in mine ear, 
 
 " Hive ; still, still thine ownP 
 
 It was thy care my vase to fill 
 
 With spring's first fragrant bloom ; 
 Thou'rt mindful of me now beloved, 
 
 Though mouldering in the tomb ! 
 Oh ! didst thou know, my tried, my true, 
 
 That yearly to my home 
 They'd come, the roses from that vine, 
 
 Planted by thee alone ! 
 
 They breathe a language none can hear 
 
 Save her who loved thee well ; 
 Their presence wakes new thoughts of Heaven, — 
 
 Thoughts that I may not tell. 
 Surely each tiny, half-blowai bud. 
 
 Round which my heart-strings twine. 
 Knew, ere it opened to the light, 
 
 Its mission was divine ! 
 
 Thou bad'est earth farewell, dear friend. 
 
 In the rich month of June ; 
 Yet the perfume of thy bright-hued flow^ers 
 
 Filleth my little room ! 
 14 
 
158 POEMS. 
 
 I'm gazing on them now, beloved, 
 While children gather round, 
 
 Still dear to thee ; but do thej know 
 They tread on hallowed ground ? 
 
 I think of thee ; I think of thee 
 
 When stars are in the sky ; 
 I single out the tiniest one 
 
 That twinkles far on high ; 
 I whisper thy sweet name, beloved^ 
 
 And, lo ! thou'rt by my side ; 
 The pressure of thy spirit hand 
 
 Calms the tulmultuous tide 1 
 
 I think of thee ; I think of thee 
 
 An angel up on high ! 
 Thy mission still to soothe, and hear 
 
 The faint heart's lonely sigh ; 
 A living presence, sure thou art. 
 
 Though dwelling with the blest ; 
 Not severed, though my home is here ; 
 
 Thine ; — vjhere the weary rest ! 
 
 THK ANOEL VISITANT. 
 
 TO MRS. C. C. E. 
 
 "Sure 'tis weak to mourn, 
 Though thorns are at the bosom, or the blasts 
 Of this bleak world beat harshly, if there come 
 Such angel-visitants at even-tide. 
 Or midnight's holy hush, to cleanse away 
 The stains which day hath gathered, and with touch 
 Pure and ethereal, to sublimate 
 The erring spirit/" Sigournet. 
 
POEMS. 159 
 
 *' The mother felt in her trembling breast, 
 Tiiat the angel's presence was o'er her; 
 And she shook with a nameless fear distressed, 
 As she bowed like a reed by the dews oppressed. 
 To guard the dear one before her," 
 
 At twilight's calm and tranquil hour, 
 
 She called her children near, 
 And clasped them in her loving arms 
 
 With trembling hope and fear. 
 But ask that anxious mother, \vhy 
 
 Her eye rests en her boy, 
 With more of deathless tendernesSj 
 
 With more of fear than joy f 
 
 She hears a voice you cannot hear ; 
 
 Oft-times it whispers low, — 
 *Art thou prepared to give him up 
 
 When God shall deal the blow ?' 
 They knew not then, at that same hour 
 
 An a7igel near her stood. 
 Questioning that deep and earnest soul 
 
 To make it strong and good. 
 
 And when death laid her darling low, 
 
 They said that she was calm, 
 And wondered why that sudden shock 
 
 Had not caused wild alarm. 
 Ah ! little do the thoughtless know, 
 
 That strength from grief is born ; 
 That many waters passing o'er, 
 
 Prepare the soul for storms> 
 
 That pale, calm face, I've gazed upon, 
 And tears could not restrain ; 
 
160 POEMS. 
 
 The aching void, I too have felt, 
 
 And soon may feel again ; 
 But could I to that mother speak, 
 
 I'd say, ' Thy child has gone 
 To yonder fair and glorious world, 
 And found its heavenly home. 
 
 ' The little tenement of clay 
 
 Has passed from out thy sight ; 
 A casket exquisitely fair. 
 That shrined a gem of light ; 
 But still have faith, thou stricken one ! 
 
 There's more of joy than woe ; 
 His spirit-eyes look on thee still. 
 And thou to him shalt go.' 
 
 And I would often stand beside 
 
 That little lowly grave, 
 And listen to the words of Hiil 
 
 Who died thy child to save. 
 His tears of sympathy do fall 
 
 When'er thy heart o'erflows, 
 He feels its depths of agony, 
 
 That mortals cannot know : 
 
 And says, ' No plant on earth can bloom 
 
 In constant sunshine warm : 
 It needs the rain, it needs the clouds ; 
 
 Sometimes, the driving storm. 
 And Oh ! at twilight's tranquil hour, 
 
 Let no dark thoughts alloy, 
 But take thy daughter to thy heart. 
 
 And think upon thy boy. 
 
POEMS. 161 
 
 * Ha's near tliee at this holy hour ; 
 
 The angel-guest has flown 
 To whisper in another's ear 
 
 The words breathed in thine own ; 
 The spirit of thy little son 
 
 Is in the angel's place, 
 Drawing thee up to Heaven and him, 
 
 With his sweet, cherub face. 
 
 ^ And that angelic smile which told 
 
 He was not of this earth, 
 Will leave its impress on thy soul, 
 
 To holy thoughts give birth. 
 Then let not cares, nor custom's thrall, 
 
 This precious hour beguile ; 
 Turn from them all, take the same seat, 
 
 And clasp thy angel-child !' 
 
 THE MOTHER'S PRAYER. 
 
 * Lead her not into teraptation, but deliver her from evil.'* 
 
 Father, watch o'er my child ! 
 Uphold her through the slippery paths of life ! 
 
 Keep her all undefiled. 
 From the dark world's consuming, feverish strife. 
 
 Let not the tempter's wiles 
 Lure her young spirit from its childhood's truth. 
 
 Oh ! may those artless smiles 
 Play on the face of age, as now in youth. 
 *14 
 
162 POEMS. 
 
 Let that warm heart expand, 
 And listen to the wail of sorrow's child ; 
 
 And open be that hand, 
 To all who, pining, plead in anguish wild. 
 
 Oh ! give her strength to bear 
 The sufferings that attend her " Woman's lot," 
 
 And may theb reath of prayer 
 Cheer the dark hours : — oh ! be not Thou forgot. 
 
 Into thy hands, O God ! 
 My first-born darling, I, with faith, resign ; 
 
 And may that trust afford 
 The lasting joy to know she's thine — all thine ! 
 
 Upward, I turn my gaze. 
 Refreshed in spirit, though in body weak ; 
 
 Through the dim, distant haze, 
 I read a promise, that with joy I seek. 
 
 And there I leave the loved ! 
 .No bitter anguish should this bosom swell. 
 
 For in that Ark, the Dove 
 Of promise waits, — " He doeth all things well'' 
 
POEMS. 163 
 
 TO C. A. S., 
 
 On hearing her sing, " Oh! cast that shadow from thy brow." 
 
 Is there a shadow on the brow thou lovest ? 
 
 Despair thou not, though joy be fled, the while ! 
 Deem not the music from thy song has vanished ; 
 
 That the sweet spell has flown from Leha's smile ! 
 
 Take not the roses from thy glossy tresses, 
 
 When spring and morn are in their glorious bloom, 
 
 Though their sweet fragrance fall on Mm, unheeded, 
 Love is not dead — thy sun sets not at noon. 
 
 Oh ! take thy lute again, for songs of gladness 
 
 Thou still shalt sing, though thy heart has been wrung ; 
 
 Those wild, sad notes, by many prized, far dearer 
 Than when, enraptured, o'er those notes he hung. 
 
 Though his words mock thy heart, thou wilt not falter ; 
 
 For faith can bid new flowers of hope to bloom, 
 When those who fondly loved are rudely parted, 
 
 To meet no more on this side of the tomb ! 
 
 Droop not — despair not, though thou hast awakened 
 From that sweet, fairy dream, to feel and know 
 
 That all is false and fleeting, save the Heaven, 
 Our father's home, to which his child shall go ! 
 
164 POEMS. 
 
 LINES, 
 
 Suggested on reading " Home," set to music by Edward Bohuscewicz. 
 
 Wayworn and weary, thy " sweet home" is found 
 The bright, fairy land, where thy spirit was bound, 
 When that song, with its touching words, first met thine eye, 
 And thou clothed it in beauty, with notes from on high. 
 
 I know thou hadst learned, on that bright land to gaze 
 With the look of a lover, for beauty always 
 Lay hid in the depths of thy delicate soul, 
 And the current of feeling was hard to control. 
 
 Say, was it the home of thy childhood thou mourned ; 
 Or the glorious one where the holy are borne ? 
 Oh ! who, who shall tell us, thy spirit has flown ? — 
 But thy memory lives in the hearts of thine own. 
 
 Now, the sense of thy hearing, forever is charmed ; 
 
 The love, so endearing, is music embalmed ; 
 
 The vows truly plighted, forever are thine ; 
 
 The hearts so united are surely divine. 
 
 Oh ! well may'st thou say, " Of all things most dear," 
 
 In the " sweet home" I've found, /or Heaven is here. 
 
POEMS. 165 
 
 SPRINO. 
 
 " Spring still makes spring in tlie mind, 
 When sixty years are told; 
 Love wakes anew this throbbing heart. 
 
 And we are never old." 
 
 Emerson'. 
 
 Spring has come ! once more I hear 
 Singing birds and voices dear : 
 " Darlings of the forest"* peep 
 Through the winter's snow and sleet, 
 And their perfume, oh ! so rare, 
 Fills the soul with voiceless prayer. 
 
 Fleecy clouds float overhead, 
 Noiseless as the angels' tread ; 
 Sparkling water flowing still, 
 " Murmurs at its own sweet will," 
 And the consecrated air 
 Makes a Sabbath everywhere. 
 
 Know I not that Spring's attire 
 Wakes the heart-strings of the lyre ? 
 Know I not, from this dead earth 
 Forms of beauty spring to birth ; 
 That from out the damp, cold clod. 
 Bursts anew the life of God ? 
 
 Yet, a mantle seems to fall 
 
 O'er my spirit, like a pall, 
 
 Bidding me to flee away 
 
 From the garishness of day, 
 
 To that spiritual light 
 
 Where the moonbeams hallow night ! 
 
 * The trailing arbutus. 
 
166 POEMS 
 
 There, a strange delight and awe 
 Fill my being's inmost core : 
 Wide the curtain seems to roll, 
 While I read the mighty scroll ; 
 And the heavens, serene and clear, 
 Waft sweet music on mine ear. 
 
 Swiftly did my spring-time pass, 
 With its boundless hopes, alas ! 
 Destined ne'er to reach the goal. 
 Ah ! thou weary, exiled soul. 
 Didst thou deem that such would be 
 Ever thy sad destiny ? 
 
 Galling chains are round thee cast ; 
 Blossoms withered in the blast ; 
 Perfume from love's-flower flown ; 
 Naught left but the music tone 
 Of thiile aspirations high — 
 Reaching far beyond the sky. 
 
 Thou hast pined for that loved voice 
 That made thy young heart rejoice ; 
 Thou hast lost the magic spell 
 That could all thy passions quell ; 
 Fanning with hope's wing thy brow, 
 That with clouds is shadowed now. 
 
 Therefore turnest tliou aside 
 From the Spring, in all its pride, 
 To the soothing solitude 
 Of the murmuring autumn wood, 
 Where a mystic spirit weaves 
 Lullabies through all the leaves : 
 
POEMS. 167 
 
 Canst thou not, when thus apart, 
 Feel her near, whose gushing heart 
 Had a power to soothe thine own, 
 With its low, mysterious tone ? 
 Whispering, " Do thy best, my love ; 
 Angels do no more, above ." 
 
 Yes ; methinks thou still art near, 
 With new words of hope to cheer ; 
 And I snatch the sinking oar 
 That shall raw to that blest shore 
 This frail barque, tost on life's main, 
 There the loved shall meet aorain. 
 
 KCHOES. 
 
 " The spirit is sometimes veiled in shadows, and there are times when 
 the heart is sad and the soul is dark; — seasons, when the light that shines 
 in the inner sanctuary, burns but dimly. AVe almost fancy that weeping 
 angels are our ministering Spirits, and a strange influence is around 
 us, like an atmosphere of sighs. Then, to us, the earth and all but heaven, 
 is changed. But the hour of gloom, when the unquiet spirit feels that 
 its pinions are heavy with earthly vapors, is consecrated to a holy use. 
 The light of earth is withdrawn, that the soul may seek companionship 
 with the invisible. Long had ignorance sought the kingdom of light and 
 the liome of the angels far away ; but Heaven's great Messenger of peace 
 on earth, revealed the kingdom that is within. Sit thou by the gateway 
 of that heaven, and bright beings shall come and go, and be thy com- 
 panions. When no wind of passion moves the mental deep, and the 
 soul is calm as an unruffled sea, the stars are disticntly mirrored in its still 
 depths. Oh! let the current of thy inner life be smooth and peaceful, and 
 the angels shall see themselves in thee." 
 
 Shekinah. 
 
 At this hour, O, my Father ; 
 
 Shadows gather o'er my soul. 
 Veiling all that's bright and cheering, — 
 
 Shadows I can ne'er control ! 
 
168 POEMS. 
 
 And this lieart is sad, and darkened 
 Is the inner shrine, where burned 
 
 Erst a hght, which made the tangled 
 Pathway easily discerned. 
 
 Why is this, my Father ? tell me ! 
 
 Are there weeping angels near ? 
 A strange influence is 'round me ; 
 
 Nought but sighs fall on mine ear. 
 
 All is changed, and earth's glad voices 
 Speak not to me as of yore, 
 
 And foreboding tones are filling 
 The wide waste that lies before ! 
 
 Wherefore ? Ay, I catch the answer — 
 
 " Earthly light is but withdrawn ; 
 Seek not for the heavenly kingdom 
 Far away 'mid fog and storm ! 
 
 " Heaven's great Messenger proclaimeth, 
 Not without thee, but within, 
 
 Lies the blest pool of Siloam : 
 
 Wash ! and Spirit-light thou'lt win. 
 
 " Sit thou by that gateway meekly ; 
 
 Beings bright shall come and go — 
 Thy companions — making easy 
 
 AH thy weight of care and wo ! 
 
 " When no wind of passion moves thee, 
 And thy soul is calm and still, 
 
 Mirror'd stars shall sing together, 
 ' Strive to do thy Father's will !' 
 
POEMS. 169 
 
 ** Let the current, smooth and peaceful, 
 
 Of thy inner life,, flow on ; 
 Angel voices then shall whisper, 
 
 * Earth is changed, hut heaven is icon /" 
 
 TO A ^v- 
 
 la answer to " Spiritual Presence," and " A Lay of Sadness. 
 
 Dear one ! I never saw thy face ; 
 
 I never clasp thy hand ; 
 Yet, thou art near me when I greet 
 
 That little, chosen band. — 
 
 The birds, who in their darkened cage, 
 Have sung the whole night through; 
 
 Refreshing many a weary heart — 
 As flowers made bright by dew. 
 
 The color of thine eyes, — thy hair, — 
 
 I cannot even tell ; 
 But thy sweet presence dwells with me,. 
 
 Weaving a holy spell. 
 
 Yes ; I have read thy touching lays, 
 
 Penned in thy forest home ; 
 And when bow'd down by grief and pain,, 
 Knew I was not alone. 
 15 
 
1 701 POEMS 
 
 When busy with my household cares, 
 My thoughts have flown to thee, 
 
 And, seated by thy side, our souls 
 Held converse, calm and free. 
 
 I've seen thee at thy daily toil, 
 
 And envied not; the while. 
 The queenly brow with coronet, 
 
 That weeps behind a smile. 
 
 If there are seasons when thy soul. 
 
 Chafed with its iron chain, 
 Buists forth, indignant at its wrongs. 
 
 Peace soon asserts her reign. 
 
 Though shackled and bound, hand and foot, 
 
 Tliou'lt never be dismayed ; 
 For that blest hand shall still clasp thine. 
 
 Even as thou hast prayed. 
 
 Child-like in heart, oh ! blest — most blest ! 
 
 Though earthly gifts denied ; — 
 Then come to me, the vacant seat 
 
 Is ready by my side. 
 
 I, too, am weary, sad and lone ; 
 
 My brow is furrowed o'er ; 
 Struggling, the long, dark, starless night. 
 
 To gain the distant shore. 
 
 Yes ; I could tell a tale to thee, 
 That e'en thy blood would chill ; 
 
 Of strivings for the strength and trust. 
 To suffer, and be still. 
 
POEMS. 171 
 
 If independent thou canst act, 
 Because thou stand'st alone ; 
 
 Deem not thy c«p of misery full, 
 Toil on ! Thou'lt reach thy home. 
 
 Let not thy pen be silent long, 
 
 For eager eyes do scan 
 The page, to find thy simple name, 
 
 Pleadinof the rio;hts of man. 
 
 Farewell ! though distance sunder wide 
 Though storms beset oasr way ; 
 
 May the true light still guide us on, 
 Unto the perfect day. 
 
 My blessings ! though I may not see 
 Thy face, nor clasp thy hand ; 
 
 For thou art one of that dear flock — 
 My loved, my chosen band. 
 
 [Written for Burritt's Citizen.] 
 
 AN APPKAT. TO WOMAN- 
 
 " 0, tliou slothful and slow of heart I rise up in the strength of thy wo- 
 manhood, and Christ shall give thee light!" 
 
 Oh ! let me speak, though but a " flute-note tone" 
 Should fall upon your slumbering ears, the while ; 
 
 Though no loud clarion blast can be mine own, 
 To lure from fashion's thrall that doth beixuile. 
 
172 POEMS. 
 
 I will not let that humbling thought have power 
 To check the words that struggle to be free ; 
 
 For well I know that e'en earth's tini(.\st flower, 
 Bj some mysterious chord, is linked to me. 
 
 I call on woman ! Say ye, " tis in vain ?" 
 
 That the obscure's low voice will not be heard ? 
 
 Still, like the carrier dove, naught can detain 
 The message I will bear, though ix frail bird. 
 
 Up, then, ye mothers ! daughters of the land ! 
 
 Too long has sophistry your reason bound. 
 Ye wives and sisters ! — join our holy band ; 
 
 Up, and no longer gainst the cause be found. 
 
 For, could you hear the smothered cry of woe, 
 
 Bursting from sorrow's crushed and bleeding heart — 
 
 (War's legacy ;) o!i ! not with footsteps slow, 
 You'd lend your aid to rend its chain apart. 
 
 Tis woman's mission, and she'll brave all scorn ; — 
 She who beside the bleeding cross last stood. 
 
 And first before the tomb, though pale and worn, — 
 Let Him still say, " She hath done what she could.' 
 
 Yes ; there ar3 Frys and Lacans o'er the sea, 
 Yet our own noble leader calls in vain. 
 
 Will ye not aid him ? Slaves ye must not be : 
 Come, gather in a harvest of ripe grain. 
 
 The hydra-headed monster shall be crushed ; 
 
 False honor, men of sense no more shall bind ; 
 Gird on love's armor, and the cries are hushed : 
 
 We preach the brotherhood of human kind ! 
 
POEMS. ITo 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 
 How shall we mourn thee? With a lofty trust, 
 
 Our life's immortal birthright from above! 
 With a glad faith, whose e^'e, to track the just 
 
 Through shades and mysteries, lifts a glance of lore, 
 And yet can weep, for nature thus deplores 
 The friend v>iio leaves us, though for happier shore?. 
 
 Hkmans. 
 
 Yes ; we ivill mourn thee " with a lofty trust," 
 Though 'reft of thy loved presence evermore! 
 
 Though earth be darkened, Heaven's decrees are just ; 
 For thou hast gained, at last, the eternal shore. 
 
 Listening, we almost fancy we can hear 
 
 The glad, glad welcome that salutes thine ear. 
 
 Earth has one angel less for me to greet, 
 
 When worn and weary, with life's care and j^aiu ; 
 
 For oh ! thy words, peace-fraught, have fallen sweet, 
 And cooled the fever of this throbbing brain : 
 
 For well I knew, that, were the power thine, 
 
 Thou 'd weave bright rainbows from these tears of mine. 
 
 Darling, 'tis hard to know I never more 
 
 Shall sit beside thee, clasping that dear hand; 
 That our high communings on earth are o'er, 
 
 For we have spoken of che better land— ^ 
 Of the soul's destiny, of future rest. 
 Now, all is clear to thee ; thou 'rt with the blest- 
 Gone — yet thou still art near ! we '11 commune oft, 
 
 For faith's own prayer can open worlds of light ; 
 Thy angel footsteps, falling low and soft. 
 
 Shall make the midnight darkness noonday bright. 
 Then will I pour my soul out freely still. 
 E'en while I bow to the All-Father's wiU. 
 15* 
 
174 POEMS. 
 
 I am bereaved and stricken ; but, for liim — 
 What must he suffer, who has shared thy life ! 
 
 Thou calm, pure sunbeam, who didst strive to win 
 His thoughts from earth — his loved and loving wife. 
 
 Strength for the mourner lone ! and may he bear 
 
 The presence of his guardian angel, everywhere. 
 
 Said he not 'twas thy prayers for him that stirred 
 The fountains of his soul — giving new light? — 
 
 Touched, as with coals of fire, the inspired word, 
 And making what was dark, serenely bright ? 
 
 Thy mission was fulfilled ; why linger here, 
 
 Where Faith's bright pinions often droop with fear ? 
 
 Thy last words, dearest, can I e'er forget 
 
 Not 'till this heart is cold — these eyes are dim. 
 
 Thy parting words ! — and now, with eyelids wet, 
 I sit alone, while thou art safe with Him. 
 
 " Now, you will come ?" thou saidst, with earnest tone : 
 
 " I will, I wiW — but thy sweet spirit's flown. 
 
 Flown, 'ere that interview was granted me, 
 Which I so pined for, in thy earthly home ; 
 
 But, in the " spirit of a bended knee," 
 I do accept it now ; then, should I roam, 
 
 The invitation of my angel friend 
 
 Shall stay my erring feet — new vigor lend. 
 
 I looked on thy pale brow and wavy hair. 
 
 And read, with chastened heart, bright prophecies ; 
 
 I turn from the cold grave — thou art not there. 
 But crowned with fadeless flowers, in Paradise ! 
 
 Sweet sister, fare thee well ! 'Tis hard to part ; 
 
 But God has claimed his own — " the pure in heart." 
 
POEMS. 175 
 
 TO MRS, \V. S. 
 
 " The stricken heart is Heaven's peculiar care." 
 
 I feel for thee ; but well I know 
 
 That sorrow, such as thine, 
 Cannot be soothed by hollow words, 
 
 Nor senseless, jingling rhyme. 
 I feel for thee ; and therefore has 
 
 Mj pen been silent long ; 
 But not my heart, for that has throbbed 
 
 With feeling deep and strong. 
 
 But I would pause, 'ere line of mine 
 
 Should pass before thine eye, 
 Assured it sprung from that pure source — 
 
 Unchanging sympathy. 
 Yes ; it is true that grief and pain 
 
 Called forth each simple lay 
 That I have sung ; and still, dear friend, 
 
 I sing for thee to-day. 
 
 Death has been busy in thy home ; 
 
 The early loved are fled : 
 The early loved and fondly prized 
 
 Are numbered with the dead. 
 A deeper shade is on thy brow — 
 
 A withering sense of blight 
 To all earth's pure and lovely flowers, 
 
 That ope to morning light. 
 
 And I in spirit turn to thee, 
 
 And clasp thy trembling hand. 
 Thou'st quaffed the cup of bitterness, 
 
 And joined the mourner's band. 
 
176 POEMS 
 
 Thou plighted thy young heart to him, 
 
 While girlhood's mantling bloom 
 Played warmly on thy fresh young cheek, 
 
 And life was void of gloom. 
 
 And thou hast journeyed, hand in hand, 
 
 The thorny paths of life ; 
 But now, the widowed one must brave 
 
 The battle's stormy strife. 
 Yet not alone, pale mourner : no ; — 
 
 Thou and thine orphan girl 
 Are shielded by that power, unseen, 
 
 'Midst life's unceasing whirl. 
 
 " The ear of Heaven bends low" to those 
 
 Whose hearts with grief are riven ; 
 For they are His peculiar care, 
 
 Who long with pain have striven ; 
 I feel for thee — for all who mourn ; 
 
 And gladly, on this day, 
 I would pour the balm of healing. 
 
 And light the darkened way. 
 
 But there is One, who rules the world. 
 
 " A sparrow cannot fall" 
 Unheeded by his pitying eye. 
 
 That watches over all. 
 May He, pale mourner, speak to thee. 
 
 And teach thee, all is vain. 
 Save love, the beautiful the true — 
 
 That leads us home again. 
 
POEMS. 177 
 
 TO . 
 
 When I am gone, and thou art not, and the 
 Cold world looks on nie, and I am lonelier 
 Than before, feeling regret for thee and thine; 
 Let memory sometimes dwell, for one short 
 Moment, on the weeping cloud that passed thee 
 By so flcctingly. Anonymous. 
 
 I am leaving thee, clear one, 'mong strangers to roam : 
 I am leaving the friend who has brightened my home ; 
 But when far away, 'mid new faces the while, 
 I ne'er can forget thy heart-welcome and smile. 
 
 Oh ! we know not how oft, when the heart is o'erpressed ; 
 When the sun of bright hope has sunk low in the breast ; 
 We know not a smile or a word has the power 
 To dispel the dark clouds, in that threatening hour. 
 
 But to me, thy loved presence has often beguiled 
 My mind from sad thoughts that were driving me wild ; 
 And I've felt that though suffering should aye be my lot, 
 The path thou didst point out could ne'er be forgot. 
 
 And now, when the calm, holy hour arrives, 
 Tiiou 'It see the bright star of pure love in the skies ; 
 Then think of me, dearest, and send up a prayer 
 That the Angel of Peace may dwell with me there. 
 
 And, oh ! let us cherish the good which doth dwell 
 In the hearts of us both, there weaving a spell 
 That ne'er shall be broken ; and when we depart, 
 We '11 know that though absent, we 're still one in heart. 
 
178 POEMS. 
 
 TO OXE WHO HAD BEEN BEREAVED OP HER YOUNGEST 
 AND ONLY REMAINING SISTER. 
 
 Speak to the mourner words of sweet comfort, 
 For anguish hath riven her heart to its core; 
 
 The strong waves of sorrow like tempests have driven; 
 Her heart's dearest idol — she'll see here no more." 
 
 Yes; I Avoiild speak, to soothe thy saddened heart. 
 And I would tell thee how mine own hath bled; 
 
 But I should fail : still, let not hope depart; 
 " She is not here : she 's risen," the Saviour said. 
 
 I knew her not ; thonsrli lier ima2:e was shrined 
 
 In the deepest recess of thy heart. 
 There, from childhood and youth it lovingly twined, 
 
 And no power could bid it depart. 
 
 I knew her not, though her presence was dear 
 
 To the sorrowing tried ones of earth ; 
 Though her balm-like voice soothed the weary heart's fear. 
 
 And the Church proved her genuine worth ! 
 
 I knew her not; but my tears, they shall flow 
 
 For the anguish that dwells in thy breast. 
 'Tis a wail of despair from the " last one," I know, 
 
 Who looks upward, and yearneth for rest. 
 
 Thou mournest, to think thou wert far from her side, 
 
 When her spirit was taking its flight 
 To that far-oft' home, where the weary abide, 
 
 And their darkness is turned into light. 
 
POEMS. 179 
 
 Oh ! let not that thought weigh thy feeble frame clown ; 
 
 But believe, though unseen by thine eye, 
 Her spirit had risen above Earth's dark frown, 
 
 And still watches thee now, from on high. 
 
 Rejoice ! oh, rejoice that the child of thy love 
 
 Has thus early arrived at her home ! 
 And the sweet breath of peace, like wings of a dove, 
 
 Shall cool thy parched brow, though alone. 
 
 Rejoice ! still rejoice ! for though shrouded in gloom, 
 
 The dark future before thee shall rise. 
 The sun shall burst forth from the thick clouds of noon ; 
 
 For it shineth, though veiled in the skies. 
 
 TO 
 
 "When sorrow's dark mantle was over thee thrown, 
 And Hope's fairy pinions were drooping the while ; 
 
 "When grief had bedimmed the bright light of thy home, 
 Oh ! then came the friend, with the soul-beaming smile ! 
 
 Alone thou hadst wandered ; for no one was near, 
 To echo the tones of thine own bursting heart. 
 
 The friends of thy youth could not dry thy sad tears, 
 For, one after one, thou hadst seen them depart ! 
 
 And fashion and wealth had no power to bind 
 The mind that was yearning for sympathy still ; 
 
 Away, far away, on the wings of the wind, 
 It soared, ever hoping that love would it fill ! 
 
180 POEMS 
 
 Go, dear one ! should sorrow still compass thee round, 
 Thy jojs and thy trials alike may he share ; 
 
 But, oh ! may'st thou often with bowed head be found, 
 Communing with Him who alone answers prayer ! 
 
 TO MRS. 
 
 Holy hath been our converse, gentle friend! 
 
 Full of high thoughts breathing of heavenward hope, 
 
 Deepened by tenderest memories of the dead; 
 
 Therefore, beyond the grave, I surely deem 
 
 That we shall meet again." 
 
 And must we part, my gentle friend, 
 
 Just as Tve learned to prize 
 The truthful, candid, loving soul 
 
 Which beams forth from thine eyes ? 
 Must silence reign where thou hast dwelt? — 
 
 No answering tone be given ? 
 Ah ! thus it ever is below ; 
 
 But, oh ! not so in Heaven ! 
 
 Mary — that sweet and simple name 
 
 Was given thee at thy birth ; 
 And well it suits thy placid brow — 
 
 Thine unobtrusive worth. 
 " 'Twas hers, who, at the sepulchre 
 
 Bowed down her head in tears ; 
 And that sweet name was breathed by Him, 
 
 Whose voice dispelled her fears ! 
 
POEMS. 181 
 
 And hers — the tempted, sorrowhig, tried, 
 
 Whose rain of tears bedewed 
 The Master's feet ; still, his kind words 
 
 Her failing strength renewed. 
 And hers, again, who lowly sat, 
 
 With patient, childlike trust; 
 Absorbed in faith — the faith whose power 
 
 Could raise her soul from dust. 
 
 And it was hers, who, clinging, still 
 
 Followed, with streaming eyes, 
 And stood beside that bloody cross 
 
 Whereon her Saviour dies ! 
 May'st thou^ like her, my new found friend, 
 
 Be ever true in heart : 
 Still patient, silent, struggle on, 
 
 And choose that ^- hetter part T* 
 
 TO THE HUTCHINSON FAMTI.Y. 
 
 Farewell ! noble " band of brothers 1" 
 
 It were wrong to bid ye stay. 
 While the sorrowing hearts of many 
 
 Have not felt your magic sway. 
 Onward, then, and gladden thousands 
 
 With your heart felt, gospel life ! 
 Be not daunted — though derision 
 
 Curls the lip ; and threatens strife. 
 16 
 
182 POEMS. 
 
 For, beside the white winged angel 
 
 Whispering hope's own words of trust ; 
 And her dove-ejed sister twining 
 
 Olive leaves, to crown the just; 
 Still, oh ! still there is another 
 
 Hovering aye, your heads above : 
 All — all else were naught without it ; 
 
 'Tis that heaven born angel — love I 
 
 "We shall of^en hear your voices 
 
 When your forms ai'e far away, 
 In the silent midnight watches, 
 
 In the noon-tide glare of day. 
 For our spirits are unfettered, 
 
 Though clay temples 'shrine them still 
 Hand in hand, o'er earth's wide garden. 
 
 With the loved we roam at will. 
 
 Ye did come like birds in spring-time. 
 
 Causing our poor hearts to gush ; 
 Where the snow-frost crusted over, 
 
 Now the bubbling waters rush ! 
 Holy — holy, is your mission. 
 
 And we own its magic might : 
 Toil on, for the good time's coming, 
 
 When the wrong shall yield to right I 
 
 Mourn not — mourn not that dear father, 
 For with calm and holy mien, 
 
 As of yore, he'll guide and guard you, 
 'Till this '-' earth is all serene." 
 
POEMS. 183 
 
 Farewell 1 noble band of brothers 1 
 We could never say, " depart ;" 
 
 Ye are gone ; but not forgotten, — 
 Spirit homes are in the heart/ 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN lEI.NESS. 
 
 Put up, at the moment of greatest suffering, a pra^^er, not for tliiae ov.-n 
 escapo, but for the enfranchisement of some being dear to thee, and the 
 Sovereign Spirit will accept thy ransom. 
 
 Margaret Yijller. 
 
 Contagion, pass thou forth ! 
 But may good angels bear thee far away, 
 
 On gentle breezes, where 
 Thou canst not harm one suffering child of cl-dj. 
 
 Father, oh ! give me strength, 
 Tiie rod to bear, to brave this bitter strife! 
 Grant but one blessed boon, 
 • And spare those dearer to me far than life. 
 
 And not alone the loved f 
 Shield «//, my Father, in this trying hour. 
 
 Let not the toil-worn's home 
 Be darkened by disease' resistless power. 
 
 Oh ! 'tis a fearful thing, 
 To be thus stricken — be thus set apart, 
 
 Crying — ' Unclean, uncl'.^an/' 
 With love's sweet flower still bloominfi in iLe heart. 
 
184 POEMS. 
 
 Friends cannot come to me, 
 Those who have often bathed my levered brow ; 
 
 But one loved form is near ; 
 To me a ministering angel now. 
 
 A sad, sad welcome home \ 
 But bear thou up ; I still am by thy side ; 
 
 Though sadly changed — if spctJ^ed, 
 Thou'lt cling to me, and in my love abide. 
 
 Oh ! if one murmuring tone 
 Has welled up from my heart at this sad fate, 
 
 Grant — grant forgiveness now ; 
 I bow submissively, and patient wait ! 
 
 It has been dark and drear ! 
 Yet many blessings have been ours the while ; 
 
 The calls of sympathy. 
 My kind physician's care and hopeful smile. 
 
 Sweet flowers were culled each day, 
 And ripe fruit gathered ; tempting food prepared ; 
 
 The voice of song ; new books ; 
 Ah ! friends, ye truly have our sorrows shared. 
 
 Then take my warmest thanks, 
 And may Heaven's blessing on your heads descend. 
 
 Life woos me back ; once more 
 I clasp the hand of brother, sister, friend f 
 
POEiss. .185 
 
 TO C C • 
 
 I bless thee, for the magic tones 
 
 Which bore my soul away, 
 Far from the weary couch of pril:^, 
 
 Where 1 in suffering lay ; 
 From the sultry, darkened chamlier, 
 
 To the glorious sky of blue ; 
 Oh ! for a brief, bright moment, 
 
 I lived this life through you. 
 
 Then deem it not an idle thing 
 
 To sing for one, whose soul 
 Has trembled on the grave's dark briut, 
 
 Near the eternal goal : 
 For blessed angels then are near, 
 
 To aid you while you sing : 
 God sends them on their mission, still, 
 
 With soft and noiseless wing. 
 
 The spirit of thy songs, I bore 
 
 To the golden chain above : 
 Link after link was forged by one, 
 
 They called the angel, Love. 
 The immortal soul — oh ! it can burst 
 
 The bonds of space and time ; 
 Dropping earth's care-worn mantle, soar 
 
 To countless worlds, sublime. 
 
 A priceless gift is thine, my friend ; 
 
 Profane it not, but keep 
 The jewel God hath given thee. 
 
 For eyes that '' wake to weep ;" 
 *16 
 
186 POEMS 
 
 And, in humility bestow ; 
 
 So shall thy power increase : 
 Then thine own soul shall echo forth 
 
 The blessed song of peace. 
 
 LINES 
 
 In answer to " I'd have thee think of me," by Mrs C. ^Y. H. 
 
 Thy prayer is granted, my beloved, 
 
 For we do think of thee, 
 As one whose heart of hearts is fur 
 
 From life's vain revelry ! 
 A "Spirit" pure, whose vail of light 
 
 Enables us to trace 
 'The guileless workings of the heart, 
 
 Through thy transparent face ! 
 
 We think of thee as of a " star" 
 
 To linger on life's way — 
 Nightly to beckon from afar, 
 
 And usher in the day ! 
 Our evening and our morning star, 
 
 Oh, doubly blest art thou ! 
 To gild the darkened hours with hope, 
 
 And gem the morning's brow. 
 
 We think of thee as of a " flower" 
 
 With perfume rich and rare — 
 A hidden mystery within 
 
 The outward form so fair; 
 
POEMS. 187 
 
 Whose soft-veined leaves, though crushed to earth, 
 
 Send up an incense pure — 
 Filling love's chalices with thoughts 
 
 Forever to endure. 
 
 We think of thee as of that " bird," 
 
 Whose music, sweet and wild, 
 Is poured forth in the " solemn night, 
 
 To ears all undefiled. 
 Sing on mj nightingale, sing on ! 
 
 Nor deem thy warblings vain ; 
 They fall upon the thirsty soul 
 
 As falls the summer rain ! 
 
 We think of thee " apart, alone," 
 
 At twilight's holy hour. 
 As some pure seraph gazing o'er 
 
 God's wondrous works and power. 
 Encircled in those golden clouds, 
 
 To melt, like them, away ; 
 Yet promising a new return, 
 
 A sunset's passing stay ! 
 
 We think of thee as of a '• dream" — 
 
 A shadowy dream, yet bright — 
 Haunting with beauty's witching spells. 
 
 The darkness and the light ; 
 Causing our hearts to bless His name. 
 
 Who gave us one to share 
 Our " daily paths" — with power to make 
 
 Our •' lives seem still more fair." 
 
188 POEMS. 
 
 Thus do we think of thee, beloved ; 
 
 With " earth's bright things" we blend 
 Thine image in our heart of hearts, 
 
 And to their glory lend ! 
 We ask no other love wherewith 
 
 To bind our souls to thine. 
 Sweet sister Spirit soar thou on — 
 
 Thy mission is divine ! 
 
 TO ONE WHO SAID, 
 
 " I am a withered and seared leaf." 
 
 Oh! believe not that age has dried up the fountain, 
 
 That erst poured such plentiful draughts on the crowd; 
 
 Though silent, rich stream?: still flow down from the mountain, 
 Where dwelleth the blest unobscured by a cloud. 
 
 Oh ! deem not, though often thy pinions are weary. 
 And the hum of the multitude paineth thine ear ; 
 
 Though things that once gladdened, now, ofttimes, are dreary, 
 That unto tried hearts thou canst aye be less dear. 
 
 For myself, a calm joy, though voiceless, I cherish. 
 While gazing upon thee, and clasping thy hand : 
 
 Thou hast garnered bright visions that never can perish, 
 I hail thee as one of that blest Spirit-baud. 
 
POEMS. 189 
 
 Thou art silent, till beings congenial awake 
 
 The magical echoes that sleep in thy soul ; 
 Then, unbidden, thou turn'st to the calm-flowing lake, 
 
 And two currents commingle as onward they roll. 
 
 And the dry eartli is moistened, grows greener, and long 
 
 Reraembrelli ihe baptismal dew of that hour; 
 For memory recalls it as some cherished song, 
 The perfume most rare of an unfading flower. 
 
 Then say not the leaf is all withered and sear ! 
 
 At the touch, suck would crumble and fall to the earth ; 
 But this I can bind round my heart, with a tear, 
 
 And feel it is ripe for that holier birth. 
 
 TO ONE WHO SAIU, 
 
 " ^Yhy (lou't'3-ou write." 
 [Written the day after the rendition of Anthony Burns.] 
 
 Tux not my slotli, that I 
 Fold my arms beside the brook; 
 
 Each cloud that floateth in the sky 
 "Writes a letter in my book. — Emerson. 
 
 Silence long has sealed the portal 
 Of the gushing fountain deep ; 
 
 Yet its waters wildly dashing 
 
 From mine eyes, chase balmy sleep. 
 
190 POEMS. 
 
 I've essayed in vain, to utter 
 
 Thoughts that burn into my soul, — 
 Like a pinioned bird, whose struggles 
 
 Yield despair, but not control. 
 
 Scalding tears are round me falling, 
 
 Cries of anguish fill the air ; 
 Giant wrongs, with stalwart footsteps, 
 
 Crush out hope, and stifle prayer ! 
 Wheresoe'er my vision resteth, 
 
 Far and wide, one sight I see — 
 Man's oi)pression to his brother. 
 
 Makes them slaves whom God made free ! 
 
 In high places and in low ones, 
 
 Tyranny is ever rife ; 
 Hanging o'er the trembling victim, 
 
 Sowing broad the seeds of strife ; 
 Yet no word of protest cometh 
 
 From my bosom at this hour : 
 Palsied, I am naught but weakness, 
 
 God alone can give the power ! 
 
 'Tis despair that makes me silent ! 
 
 Like the hunted deer at bay, 
 I have turned and faced the bloodhounds — 
 
 Powerless still to shield their prey ! 
 There are seasons when my spirit 
 
 Falters with its load of woe ; 
 On the blotted page is written 
 
 That which others may not know. 
 
POEMS. 191 
 
 Yet each clone! that floateth o'er me 
 
 Hath a language all its own ; 
 When I idly seem to loiter, 
 
 TJun I catch its mystic tone ; 
 And I struggle to be patient, 
 
 Spread the blank page to His view, 
 And the words God penneth on it, 
 
 jMaketh all things bright and new. 
 
 The true " Friend" deems silent worship 
 Far more eloquent than speech : 
 
 Voiceless, yet with plumed pinions 
 I, the blessed goal, shall reach ! 
 
 Think not that the fount of feeling 
 Drieth up ; though silence reigns, 
 
 There is still an under current, 
 Strong and deep, that knows no chains I 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM- 
 
 Time, time has flown on fleeting wings 
 
 Since thy command was given ; 
 And many an anguished heart, alone 
 
 With fainting hopes has striven ; 
 Yet promises still unperformed, 
 
 Like ghosts, before me rise. 
 And with their thousand tongues they call, 
 
 Whilst pointing to the skies ! 
 
192 POEMS. 
 
 But ail in vain, for the pressed keys 
 
 Send forth no answering tone ; 
 The harmony I fain would breathe 
 
 Is but one far off moan ! 
 And gladly would I cull for thee, 
 
 One of those g^ms whose light. 
 Compared with mine, beloved, is 
 
 As noonday to the night ; 
 
 Those sparkling gems, that gifted souls 
 
 Have strewn with lavish hand. 
 From their full storehouses, to grace 
 
 This desert, barren land. 
 But no ; — it cannot be, for thou 
 
 Didst say, with earnest tone, 
 " Trace not upon those pagcjs white, 
 
 Aught that is not thine own." 
 
 Then, on this holy day, — the first 
 
 The new-born year hath given, — 
 I'll strive to turn from outward things 
 
 That ever shut out Heaven; 
 And in the chambers of the soul, 
 
 Thou'lt be my guest to day. 
 And deep and heart-felt prayers shall rise, 
 
 For loved ones far away. 
 
 Though costly token waits thee not, 
 I know thoult come to me. 
 
 For thy kind truthful heart will prize 
 All I can offer thee ; 
 
POEMS. 193 
 
 And I'll clasp thy hand so warmly, 
 And whisper words of cheer ; 
 
 Oh I I'll wish thee now and ever, 
 A happy, calm new year. 
 
 TO THK CHAMPIONS OF LIBERTY. 
 
 *' Let us then be up and doing. 
 
 With a heart for any fate — 
 Still achieving, still pursuing, 
 
 Learn to labor and to wait." 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 Ye have labored, ye have striven. 
 
 But your mission is " to wait," 
 Though the oppressor's scourge is sounding, 
 
 And the maniacs wildly prate ! 
 Wait ! yet still be up and doing ; 
 
 Freedom's battle cry still wage ; 
 Stronger, when the foemen triumph. 
 
 Write your names on history's page ! 
 
 Let your watchward aye be " onward" 
 
 When the booming thunders roar ; 
 Tyrants cannot bind the ocean — 
 
 Each true soul's a boundless shore ! 
 Light your torches, wave your banners, 
 
 Rally when true patriots call : 
 Right not might your shields emblazon, 
 
 Ye shall wear the coronal ! 
 17 
 
194 POEMS. 
 
 Long ye slumbered, — but the tocsin 
 
 Sounded through our fallen land I 
 Girding on the shield of martyrs, 
 
 Forth ye came, a fearless band. 
 Not one earnest word ye've uttered, 
 
 In the future shall be lost ; 
 Every deathless prayer has risen 
 
 For our country^ tempest tost. 
 
 It is well, though freedom's champions. 
 
 Have been fettered and belied ; 
 Truth is mighty and prevaileth. 
 
 Through the land, o'er 0(iean's tide. 
 Heed not those who sneer and loiter. 
 
 Doubting, truth can be your aim ; 
 Add fresh fuel to the fire, 
 
 Till high Heaven reflects the flame. 
 
 Not for self alone, ye battle. 
 
 Though your homes invaded be ; 
 Principle's the key of magic 
 
 That shall set the prisoner free ! 
 'Tis for down-crushed mortals writhing 
 
 Under Slavery's galling chains ; 
 Kansas' bleeding sons call on ye 
 
 To proclaim that freedom reigns I 
 
 Not for this our fathers sought ye, 
 Virgin woodlands, rivers wide ! 
 Not in vain they bled, and dying. 
 Consecrated freedom's bride ; 
 
POEMS. 195 
 
 List — the echo of their voices 
 
 Murmurs with their parting breath, 
 
 " No surrender, no surrender — 
 Give us Liberty or Death 1" 
 
 ON SEEINQ THE "HEAD OF CHRIST,' 
 
 Painted by Giiido. 
 
 Guido, what seraph blest 
 Fanned thy soul with its wing, 
 
 And pictured on thy heart 
 That face divine, serene ? 
 Serene, 'mid agony that has no name ; 
 Divine, borne up with love's undying flame ! 
 
 Immortal sure thou art ! 
 Thy soul had child-like grown, 
 
 Ere thou wert set apart 
 And placed upon a throne, — 
 A throne, where holy thoughts could access gain, 
 Where Jesus Christ should be thy guest and reign. 
 
 Oh ! one would almost bow 
 To thee^ who thus could paint 
 
 The passions of the soul ; 
 And feel that naught could taint 
 One, in whose bosom such bright visions came. 
 Whose spirit eye scanned earth's and heaven's domain! 
 
196 POEMS 
 
 A holy awe doth steal 
 Silently in my heart, 
 
 When on that face I gaze, 
 And wonder where thou art ; 
 If, when thou drew thy last, faint, fleeting breath, 
 Those eyes beamed on thee, with that look in death ! 
 
 But thou hast left behind, 
 The glory of the skies ; 
 And ages yet to come 
 Shall gaze into those eyes, 
 And in their depths, discern a world of love. 
 Where sorrow, faith, submission point above ! 
 
 TO . 
 
 No costly gift have I, beloved. 
 
 To offer thee, this day ; 
 But well 1 know, thy own true heart 
 
 Asks but for /ore, alway ! 
 
 And I have loved, and still will love. 
 With all the strength of truth : — 
 
 Thou 'It come to me, in thy old age, 
 As thou hast, in thy youth. 
 
 Should I be lingering here, below, 
 Striving with care and pain. 
 
 While age falls gracefully on one. 
 Who spent not time in vain. 
 
POEMS. 197 
 
 Thine is the love I prize, sweet friend, 
 More than the wealth of Ind : — 
 
 The love that shields, endures, holds fast ; 
 Not changed by every wind. 
 
 Then, blessings on thy fair, young head ! 
 
 May pain and sorrow flee 
 Far from thy steps ! — but, weal or woe, 
 Still, still, remember me ! 
 
 No costly gift have I, beloved, 
 
 To offer thee, this day ; 
 But we '11 gather perfume from love's flower. 
 
 As we journey on life's way. 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER READIxVG '' UNCLE TOMS CABIN. 
 
 And j-ou, mothers of America, I beseech you, pity the mother, who ha5 
 all your affection, and not one legal right, to protect, guide, or educate 
 the child of her bosom! Mrs. H. B. Stow£. 
 
 Mother, with thy fair child sleeping 
 
 On its hallowed place of rest, 
 Pray for Aer, whose little jewel 
 
 Rude hands plucked from off her breast ! 
 It is thine — I know it truly : 
 • 'Twas a gift from God above, 
 Consecrated by the giver — 
 Incense thine — a mother's love ! 
 17* 
 
108 POEMS.^ 
 
 Clasp him close, and gaze upon him : 
 
 Ask thy heart, if mortal man 
 Has a right to tear him from thee, 
 
 And o'erthrow God's wondrous plan ! 
 With a love as deep, as tender, 
 
 The slave-mother clasps her child ; 
 Calls on earth and Heaven to shield her. 
 
 Hurrying through the pathless wild ! 
 
 Hark ! the whoop and yell of demons ; 
 
 Blood-hounds still upon the track ; — 
 All unheeding; the wild ano;uish 
 
 Of that heart upon the rack ! 
 By thy dying infant's cradle. 
 
 Thou canst know but a small part 
 Of the torture, that, each hour, 
 
 Rends the poor slave-mother's heart. 
 
 For thy tears can fall upon him, 
 
 In his little coffin, still ; 
 " Gone to God," thy heart can whisper, 
 
 Subject not to man's brute will !" 
 By the sacred love you bear him, 
 
 Cry aloud, and stretch your hand. 
 ■Rest not, 'till true Ireedom's banner 
 
 Wipes the plague-spot from this land ! 
 
 Mothers ! ye have power to sunder 
 
 All these cursed chains, that bind 
 Afric's poor, degraded daughters — 
 
 Slaves in body, slaves in mind ! 
 Hold ye not the key of Heaven ? 
 
 Prayer 's omnipotent to save. 
 E'en upon the surging billow, 
 
 Plant your feet firm on the wave ! 
 
POEMS. 199 
 
 In all places, be ye ready ! 
 
 Fear ye not the mocking sneer ! 
 Sanctify yourselves, and humbly 
 
 Strive to dry the falling tear. 
 Had the mothers of the Free States 
 
 Trained their sons in freedom's cause, 
 Could they be the hard taskmasters, 
 
 Trampling down all righteous laws ? 
 
 If your pastors still are silent, 
 
 Mothers ! ye are members there. 
 Let no sophistry beguile you ; 
 
 At the gate of Heaven, beware ! 
 Had the Christian Church been faithful ; 
 
 Had its preachers, with one voice, 
 Aye denounced the crying evil. 
 
 Bleeding hearts would now rejoice. 
 
 Oh, my country ! 'tis your glory 
 
 In your freedom still to boast ; 
 While your shameless laws would sicken 
 
 Heathen, born on Afric's coast. 
 Had the brave Hungarian chieftain 
 
 Heard one simultaneous wail. 
 From the millions here in bondage, 
 
 Heart and cheek would have turned pale ! 
 
 And, dismayed, he would have hurried 
 
 From this boasted freedom land ; 
 Feeling, sympathy is needed 
 
 For our own down-trodden band ! 
 But, a clarion blast has sounded 
 
 Through the land, and o'er the sea. 
 That appeal from one true woman, 
 
 Shall produce a jubilee ! 
 
200 POEMS. 
 
 Noble-minded men are striving, 
 
 AVith their might, to overthrow 
 The huge, Hydra-headed monster, 
 
 Fraught with naught but endless woe. 
 But, ye mothers, 'tis your mission ! 
 
 God has touched the heart of one 
 With a coal of living fire : 
 
 Join her — and the work is done ! 
 
 TO , 
 
 On returning a Miniature. 
 
 Blest be the art that can immortalize ! 
 
 The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 
 
 To quench it. CowrER. 
 
 Take back her semblance : may it be 
 
 A shield for coming years ! 
 And, whatsoe'er thy destiny — 
 
 Be it of smiles or tears — 
 Oh ! cherish it. Distrust the spell 
 
 That bids thee lay aside 
 7kat, which can move the soul's deep well- 
 
 The first sought, true loved bride ;— 
 
 The earnest, loving, clinging tvife^ 
 
 The mother, gentle, kind : 
 "With all these heart-throbs it is rife — 
 
 This picture of the mind. 
 
POEMS. 201 
 
 A talisman, whose wondrous power 
 
 Recalls the buried past ; 
 The spring of love's first joyous hour, 
 
 Down to the wintry blast. 
 
 Oh ! need I tell thee, that the soul 
 
 Looking out from those eyes, 
 Has been to me a sacred scroll 
 
 Of by -gone memories ? — 
 Yet speaking ever of that home, 
 
 Where she, the loved one, dwells ; 
 Where weary feet no more shall roam ; 
 
 Where there are no farewells. 
 
 Then take my thanks ; and may thy meed 
 
 Be by the Father given ! 
 Toil on, and, in thine hour of need, 
 
 When the heart's ties are riven — 
 List to His voice, whose music tone 
 
 The angry waves can still ; 
 Who trode the thorny path cdoney 
 
 Doing the Father's will. 
 
 TO MRS. 
 
 Would I had met thy face, beloved, 
 When young in sorrow's years : 
 
 Thy sympathy a balm had proved. 
 And dried the falling tears. 
 
202 POEMS. 
 
 Would we had journeyed hand in hand, 
 
 When the dark trial fell 
 On both, and caused our youthful dreams 
 
 To prove a sorrowing knell ! 
 
 But think not that I prize thee less, 
 
 Because thou 'rt lately found ; 
 Or deem, thy heart can ever bleed, 
 
 And mine not feel the wound. 
 
 No ; blessinofs on thee, ofentle one ! 
 
 I think of thee, each day. 
 And know not how I could bear up, 
 
 Shouldst thou be called away. 
 
 But if thou art, and I am left. 
 
 The aching void to feel ; 
 May thy pure spirit hover near, 
 
 The stricken heart to heal. 
 
 Oh ! many dim forebodings lone, 
 
 Now ofttimes fill my mind : 
 Thy sad, sweet face is ever near : 
 
 Thy voice, so true and kind, 
 
 I hear : at twilight's holy hour, 
 
 It falls upon mine ear. 
 Whispering, " Mourn not for me, dear friend ; 
 
 My Father's house is near !" 
 
 But if thou still art spared to all, 
 
 Oh ! may thy hand be laid 
 In His, who 'U bear thee safely on, 
 
 Through sunshine and through shade. 
 
POEMS. 203 
 
 And then, let weal or woe betide, 
 He '11 guide thee safe through all ! 
 
 Though dark and tangled be the way, 
 Dearest, thou canst not fall ! 
 
 MOPEDALK. 
 
 Dale of Hope ! my thirsty spirit 
 
 Long had yearned to spread her wings ; 
 From the city's turmoil soaring 
 
 To the cool, perennial springs. 
 But, in vain ! the quiet valleys, 
 
 "With their murmuring streams, I saw 
 But in fancy ; and the echo 
 
 Of my heart was. Nevermore ! 
 
 Dale of Peace ! in the world's battle, 
 
 'Mid the conflict and the strife, 
 How my tortured soul has hungered 
 
 For the living bread of life ! 
 Overwhelmed, my faith has faltered, 
 
 And I've questioned, hour by hour, 
 If the song of peace had sounded — 
 
 If His gospel once had power. 
 
 Dale of love ! the sacred anthem 
 Of the heart floats o'er thy land ; 
 
 Causing desert paths to blossom — 
 Hallowing your little band. 
 
204 POEMS 
 
 Hope, Peace, Love — O, triune angels ! 
 
 May your banners be unfurled 
 O'er the sorrow-stricken nations ; 
 
 Healinor all the sin-sick world. 
 
 Not in vain did earnest spirits 
 
 Strive to found a spot below, 
 Where God-given rights should banish 
 
 Much of pain and care and woe ; 
 Where the higher law is welcomed — 
 
 Trampled oft by church and state ; 
 Where false creeds are wisely banished, 
 
 And the meek alone are great ; — 
 
 Where blue skies bend kindly o'er them ; 
 
 Where the earth is clothed in green, 
 And the mountain ash's red berries 
 
 Beautify the varied scene. 
 Fruit trees bending 'neath rare burdens ; 
 
 Honeysuckles, asters bright ; 
 Autumn foliage in the distance ; 
 
 Cottages of green and white ; — 
 
 All conspire to make thee lovely. 
 
 And the tost and tempest-tried 
 In your magic bowers would linger — 
 
 In your homes would long abide. 
 But it may not be, for tendrils 
 
 Stretching homewards, draw me back. 
 I must go once more, and journey 
 
 In the old and beaten track. 
 
POEMS. 205 
 
 But I bear a blessing with me : 
 
 'Tis the memory of the spot 
 Where His priceless precepts strengthen, 
 
 Though bj all the world forgot. 
 And to those who kindly welcomed 
 
 One who sought their flowery vale, 
 She will often crave a blessinof 
 
 On their heads, and on Hopedale ! 
 
 TO 
 
 In a little classic temple, 
 
 Stood an altar ; and a heart. 
 Torn and bleeding, lay upon it. 
 
 Wounded by a poisoned dart. 
 Many a year, and long, it rankled, 
 
 Though it sought this holy shrine, 
 Laying bare the bitter anguish. 
 
 Scanned by God's eye, and by thine 1 
 
 Yes ; thy human heart had tendered, 
 
 In its purity and truth. 
 That sweet draught, the sad one yearned for 
 
 Even from her earliest youth. 
 But, the friend who draws the curtain. 
 
 And beholds the wreck within. 
 Must approach with angel footsteps. 
 
 As thou didst — the lost to win. 
 18 
 
206 POEMS 
 
 Thou hast entered this same temple ; 
 
 Thou hast drawn aside the vail : 
 Unseen spirits were around us, 
 
 When uprose the spreading sail, 
 That shall ever bear us onward, 
 
 Side by side, in the same bark. 
 Though the storms shall howl around us, 
 
 And our sky be ever dark ! 
 
 God be with thee where thou goest ! 
 
 Shielding thee from pain and strife ; 
 Aiding thee to join the chorus 
 
 In the battle-song of life. 
 "We will never say, beloved, 
 
 " Farewell !" for we cannot part. 
 Thou art leaving ; but thou bearest 
 
 With thee, aye, that bleeding heart ! 
 
 TO MRS. S. C. E. MAYO, 
 
 "Oh! these little things make up life, to me. Smiles, looks, kind 
 words, and their memories, make up my earthly happiness. A single 
 look, or tone of affection, has made me light-hearted for weeks. Oh! 
 when so little is asked, can there be any fear that it will be withheld V 
 
 Mrs. Mato. 
 
 Thou sayest truly, thou dear departed ! 
 
 Thy words sink deep, where thou art understood. 
 Smiles, looks, kind words, can cheer the broken-hearted, 
 
 And strength impart, while struggling for the good ! 
 
POEMS. 2C7 
 
 Those little words of thine have strangely moved me 
 A long, sad, thrilling echo answers still — 
 
 *' Give me but these; 'tis all I ask ; though weary, 
 Life will be sweet, thoujrh climbing; sorrow's hill." 
 
 Yes ; gentle spirit ! thy heart's revelations 
 Have stirred a fountain that still gushes free ; 
 
 Bearing me back to childliood's recreations, 
 That were all flown, so one but frowned on me. 
 
 'Tis true that sickness was my portion, ever, 
 
 And many trials still beset me, sore : 
 No worldly wealth, which ofttimes friendships sever, 
 
 Is mine ; but love — give love ; I ask no more.. 
 
 And if the Future still shall darkly lower. 
 As the sad Past ; by faith and truth impelled 
 
 Let me speak kind to all : then love's bright dower 
 Is all I ask ; and can it be withheld ? 
 
 TO ONE WHO BROUGHT ME FLOWERS, IN MID-WINTER. 
 
 They are withered, beloved ; but I treasure them still, 
 
 For the fragrant token was thine ! 
 Though their hues are all faded, their perfume all fled, 
 
 Yet they hallow sweet memory's shrine. 
 
208 POEMS 
 
 I bless tliee ; I bless thee a thousand times o'er, 
 
 For thy delicate gift, while I lay 
 On that bed of pain ; and all nature, without, 
 
 AVas clad in her wintry array. 
 
 Oh ! then thou didst come, like an angel of hope, 
 With the bright-eyed children of God ; 
 
 And they whispered of life beyond the cold grave. 
 Which should soon burst the ice-bound sod. 
 
 May blessings forever fall rich on thy head. 
 For thus twining me with the flowers ! 
 
 Thou didst think of thy suffering friend, and away 
 Didst hie to their garden bowers ! 
 
 Far dearer than gold, were the soft-veined leaves 
 
 Of the delicate Heliotrope ; 
 And its perfume, like love of truthful souls, 
 
 New joy in ray being awoke. 
 
 Farewell ! Though we see not each other by day ; 
 
 Though we greet not each other by night ; 
 Thy presence dwells with me : though darkened the hour. 
 
 The mornino; star ushers in lio;ht. 
 
 My love, like the dew which nourished those flowers, 
 
 Shall silently fall on thy heart ; 
 While thine, like the sunshine that gladdened their day, 
 
 Shall strength to my chilled life impart. 
 
POEMS. 209 
 
 TO R. L. 
 
 "Despair thou not! droop not thy win' 
 However dark thy fortunes are .• 
 
 Beyond the desert is a spring, 
 Behind the cloud, a star." 
 
 Oh ! welcome thee back to the land which hath been 
 
 Thy home for a few fleeting years ; 
 Where kind hearts have waited thee faithful and true, 
 
 Where sympathy drieth the tears, — 
 
 The tears which are wrung from the uprising soul, 
 When it finds that its trust has been broken ! 
 
 The tears that are shed all in silence, alone, 
 When remains not a shadow or token 
 
 Of love, from the hearts, which have cherished oui' youth, 
 
 Of those who are linked to our being : 
 But faith points the finger to that friend above, — 
 
 The tender, the ever All Seeing ! 
 
 Submission is all that He asks from his child, 
 
 When the iron has entered his soul ; 
 The Saviour of all bowed his head in despair, 
 
 And wild agony could not control, 
 
 Till the angel drew near, and strength did impart, 
 
 And light was around and within ; 
 Though bitter drops stood on his forehead the while 
 
 Dread death was soon conquered, and sin ! 
 
 18* 
 
210 POEMS. 
 
 The dark waves of sorrow must o'er the heart roll 
 
 Ere the gems will arise to the light, 
 "Which lie all concealed, and in darkness untold, 
 
 Till sad tears have bedewed and made bright. 
 
 A whole ocean of sorrow, the heart can bear, 
 And though silent, life's battle still wage ; 
 
 For he is the hero who plays his part well, 
 And his name's on eternity's page. 
 
 Oh, welcome thee back ! for thy heart's firm and high, 
 Though thy life hopes are wrecked on the strand ; 
 
 Thou wilt still crown the altar with garlands of love. 
 And their perfume will ever expand. 
 
 And waft the soul up to that home in the skies, 
 
 Where dwells not a shadow of care, 
 Where love never changes, nor friendships grow cold, 
 
 Where God is, — who dreams of despair ? 
 
 TO M K- 
 
 "Written on Christmas Eve. 
 
 Oh ! measure not my love, dear girl, 
 
 By what I offer thee. 
 If so, I know full well it would 
 
 A scanty pittance be. 
 
 Turn from the crifle, dear, and look 
 
 Beyond, into the heart 
 Of one, who, had she power to give. 
 
 Would send thee works of art. 
 
POEMS. 211 
 
 Golconda's gems to me were dim, 
 If love were wanting there : 
 
 The wealth of Ind, I should not prize. 
 Without fond hearts to share. 
 
 A simple flower were dearer far 
 Than gold from new-found mine, 
 
 If love, like perfume, went before, 
 Making the heart a shrine. 
 
 Oh, beautiful this world would be. 
 If that alone had sway ! 
 
 For then the song of angels, still 
 Would hail His natal day. 
 
 Then take this trifling gift beloved 
 And question not its worth, — 
 
 But when thy spirit pines for peace, 
 Think of the Savior's birth ! 
 
 THE MAY QUEEN'S ADDRESS. 
 
 Ye have crowned me, ye have crowned me, 
 With the early buds of spring ; 
 
 The sceptre of my royalty, 
 To me, with pride ye bring. 
 
212 POEMS. 
 
 Ye have chosen me from all your band, 
 To guide your steps to-day : — 
 
 Thanks for that courtesy, dear friends ; 
 Thanks from the queen of May ! 
 
 Yet though the crown be on my head, 
 
 The sceptre in my hand ; 
 I cannot do without your love. 
 
 My little cherished band ; — 
 
 For wealth and power I do not crave ; 
 
 But let me strive to bind 
 My brow with wreathes that never fade,- 
 
 A child-like, trusting mind ! 
 
 May I be worthy of your love, 
 And, like this* simple flower, 
 
 Draw hearts to me, by kindness true. 
 While others seek the power. 
 
 TO MY DAUGHTER. 
 
 Take it, beloved ! though it be 
 
 Not what thine heart was set upon, 
 
 Take it ; and sometimes think of me. 
 But not as one who's fled and gone. 
 
 *The lily of the valley. 
 
POEMS. 213 
 
 For linked not with that memory sad, 
 Should be the gift, long set apart 
 
 By thy fond mother, to make glad 
 
 Her daughter's pure and trusting heart. 
 
 No ; smiles must grace thy face, not tears, 
 When listening to its magic tones ; 
 
 No jarring thoughts shall waken fears, 
 To haunt thy soul, like far off moans ! 
 
 'Tis not the " desk," with velvet soft. 
 
 Whereon the fair white sheet should lay, 
 
 'Till thy thoughts flowed, which I so oft 
 Have yearned to proffer thee, this day. 
 
 But take it, love ; and when within, 
 The records of thine heart are laid, 
 
 Be angels near to shield from sin, 
 
 And crown with flowers that never fade \ 
 
 TO 
 
 On the death of her little son. 
 
 " A dear one hath left us, hath passed away; 
 
 AVhose life hath been like to a summer day. 
 Where all that is beautiful, pure, and bright, 
 
 Was gathered to share in his smiles of liglit. 
 
214 POEMS. 
 
 And yet, though the form hath passed away 
 The spirit rejoiceth in Heaven's bright day; 
 
 And it Cometh to us, in each musing hour, 
 And maketh us cahn by its mystic power." 
 
 He hath departed in his infiint glorj, — 
 
 The fair yung bud that blossomed neath thy smile ; 
 
 He, whose short life was a sweet fairy story, 
 
 Linked with fond memories, knowing naught of guile ! 
 
 He hath been called to dwell where earthly sorrow 
 Shall no more cloud his pure, transparent soul ; 
 
 Not a few transient joys from earth to borrow, 
 Early he's gained the everlasting goal ? 
 
 And thou art left, poor sorrow-stricken mother ! 
 
 With listless arms, and heart rent deep and wide ; 
 Striving (how hard !) thine anguished groans to smother ; 
 
 Struggling in vain to stem the rushing tide ! 
 
 Ah ! who can know, save those whose hearts have languished 
 Day after day, and through the lonely night, 
 
 Till silent prayer and time the wild grief vanquished. 
 
 And through large drops, gleamed forth the rainbow's light ! 
 
 Oh ! " tears must have their flow," else the heart breaketh. 
 
 Then freely weep, as Jesus wept of yore : — 
 A hidden fountain, joy and grief awaketh, 
 
 As waves o'er swept by storms, rush to the shore. 
 
 I have been with thee oft, in spirit, dearest ; 
 
 For the same cloud once darkened all my sky : 
 The earth is change.!, and only as thou hearest 
 
 Els words of hope, will light break from on high ! 
 
POEMS. 215 
 
 May He draw near thee in this solemn hour, 
 Or send good angels ; and with noiseless wing 
 
 They'll fan into new life, faith's drooping flower, — 
 Causing fresh buds of hope from death to spring ! 
 
 Tis only when we turn from all earth lendeth, — 
 
 Entering the inner temple of the soul, — 
 That the sweet prayer of faith then heaven-ward wendeth, 
 
 Wooing and winning us, from griefs control. 
 
 Deem him not dead, but living truly, ever, — • 
 
 Nearer, perchance, than while he dwelt below, — 
 
 In all thy journey ings, by thy side, and never 
 Losing sight of thy spirit's weal and woe. 
 
 So think of him, dear friend, at twilight hour, 
 And in the silent watches of the night : 
 
 Think of him as a sweet, transplanted flower, 
 Blooming in Paradise, where all is bright ! 
 
 He hath but gone before ; opening the portals, 
 And just within the veil, he beckons thee ; 
 
 " Come to the blessed home of the immortals ; 
 Oh ! all ye loved of earth, come dwell with me !" 
 
 God comfort thee and thine ! and may the treasure 
 Still spared to thee, be ever a new joy ; 
 
 May heavenly dew fall on him, without measure, 
 Till he is called to join the angel boy. 
 
216 POEMS 
 
 TO 
 
 On the death of her little Daughter. 
 
 " They have gone— the loved ones of earth have gone! 
 
 We hear no longer then- joyous tone; 
 
 We list in vahi for their sprightly tread; 
 
 LoA'e may not waken the silent dead. 
 They know not what yearning our fond hearts fill; — 
 Would that the loved ones were with us still! 
 
 Weave a chaplet of rare flowers ; 
 
 Twine it round her sorrowing brow ; 
 For she mourns, albeit the mother 
 
 Of a little angel now ! 
 
 Yes ; the loved and only treasure, 
 That for five short years had been 
 
 As a sunbeam, in their pathway, 
 God has called to dwell with Him. 
 
 He, who clasped them to his bosom, 
 When he trod this sorrowing earth, 
 
 This transplanted bud has chosen 
 For that high, that holier birth ! 
 
 Chide her not when tears are falling : — 
 Know ye not, our Father gave 
 
 That blest fountain to the mourner, 
 From despair and death to save ? 
 
 Once, before, in wildest anguish. 
 
 She had watched his parting breath ; 
 
 Looked her last into those blue eyes ; 
 Knew he slept the sleep of death ! 
 
POEMS. 217 
 
 Nolo that voice has sweetly whispered 
 To the fairy child belov/, — 
 
 " Come up hither, little sister, 
 
 Leave earth's sin, and care and woe ! 
 
 Father, mother, we are happy, 
 Freed from all that can annoy ; 
 
 Your twin-angels, who will hover 
 Near jou still in grief and joy." 
 
 Weave a chaplet of rare flowers ; 
 
 Twine it round her sorrowing brow ; 
 For she mourns, albeit the mother 
 
 Of tioo little angels now ! 
 
 Angel-sister, angel-brother, 
 
 In the spirit land ye dwell ! 
 Ye are blest ; but oh, how can we 
 
 Say that bitter word, farewell ! 
 
 TO MRS. 
 
 "She laid them down to rest; 
 Two pale young blossoms in their early sleep, 
 And weeping, said, "They have not lived to weep." 
 
 Mrs. Butlee. 
 
 They have gone, they have gone, from their fond mother's side, 
 The two buds of promise, she watched o'er with pride : 
 In one little week, they have passed from her sight, 
 And though green be the earth, to her there's a blight ! 
 19 
 
218 POEMS 
 
 The home once so joyous, is desolate now ; 
 Yet stricken, ye read not despair on her brow. 
 Oh, no ! with the faith that is stronger than death, 
 She yielded her jewels, she watched their last breath ! 
 
 All, all that is bitter and hard to be borne, 
 
 She has passed through, and asks but for strength to go on ; 
 
 And e'en while the cup is o'erflowing the brim, 
 
 She blesseth the Saviour, who called them to Him. 
 
 Oil ! weep for the heart, that such sorrow hath known : 
 T\ever more shall she clasp them, and call them her own ! 
 But peace to this tear-bedewed earth, He hath given, 
 Who said, that of " such^'' is the kingdom of Heaven ! 
 
 Though the grief of her bosom no language can tell, 
 The father who loves her, hath done all things well ; 
 And, oh 1 when the trials and cares of life rise, 
 May she turn from them all, to their home in the skies ! 
 
 TO MRS, 
 
 " Still with us, though thy vacant place 
 
 Beside the hearth we see; 
 Tliough nevermore thy gentle face 
 
 Our home's calm light may he; 
 Though thy low-whispered words of love, 
 
 No more our hearts may thrill; 
 Though dwelling with the blest, above, 
 
 Yet, thou art with us still," 
 
 Thou art lonely, — very lonely, — 
 For the loved of years hath fled. 
 
 And the tender voice that cheered thee. 
 Now is silent with the dead. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 219 
 
 Thou art weary, — very weary, — 
 And the journey seemeth long ; 
 
 For the friend, from youth who guided, 
 Here hath ceased her earthly song. 
 
 Beautiful, the love that bound you, 
 
 From the cradle to the grave : 
 Ever true and loved c<»mpanions, 
 
 Sailing o'er life's changing wave. 
 Rare and holy was that union ; 
 
 But, though severed, deem her near, — 
 Not far distant, not far distant : 
 
 "When thou prayest, her home is here. 
 
 Be thou patient ; be thou prayerful ; 
 
 And the void will soon be filled ; 
 For the gentle dews of Heaven 
 
 On the trusting are distilled. 
 Hope on, though the clouds may lowe]- ; 
 
 Nobly strive ! thy task fulfill ! 
 Train the floweret God hath given thee ; 
 
 Learn to suffer, and be still. 
 
 Think of her, when early flowers 
 
 Come to bless thy tear-dimmed eye ; 
 Think of her when angry tempests 
 
 Shroud the earth and veil the sky. 
 When the glorious morn is breaking ; 
 
 When the stars their watch do keep, 
 She is near : at holy night-time, 
 
 Watcheth, when all others sleep. 
 
220 POEMS 
 
 Thou wilt mourn her long and truly ; 
 
 Yet, her loss shall be thy gain. 
 Strength from weakness thou wilt borrow ; 
 
 Victory over death and pain ! 
 And, though often lone and weary ; 
 
 Though the journey seemeth long ; 
 See ! she beckons uj^ward ever : 
 
 She has joined the ransomed throng. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 TO LONQFELLOW. 
 
 "True bard, and holy! — thou art e'en as one, 
 Who, by some secret gift of soul and eye, 
 In every spot, beneath the smiling sun, 
 Sees where the springs of living waters lie : 
 Unseen, awhile, they sleep, till, touched by thee, 
 Bright healthful waves flow forth, to each glad wanderer fre3." 
 
 Hemaxs. 
 
 America's own Minstrel ! hail to thee ! 
 For thou hast been a blessing to thy race ; 
 Chasing the tears from many a sorrowing face, 
 And teaching those who mourn, to bend the knee. 
 Yes, glorious Bard ! the music of thy song 
 Hath power to soothe the restlessnass of care; 
 For those who long have striven with despair, 
 List to thy tones, which do to Heaven belong. 
 God, in his wisdom, gave the priceless gem, 
 And thou hast used it well ; but still, sing on. 
 Oh! tune thy lyie, and strike the chords for them 
 "Whose sun is set, because their loved are gone. 
 Truest of Minstrels, I've no power to tell 
 All that I owe thee. Thanks ! — farewell ! farewell I 
 
 19^ 
 
222 SONNETS 
 
 TO MRS. HE MANS, 
 
 "Thou hast left sorrow in thy song; 
 
 A voice, not lond, but deep; 
 The glorious bowers of earth among, 
 
 How often didst thou weep! 
 
 Where couldst thou fix, on mortal ground, 
 
 Thy tender thoughts and high? 
 Now peace the Woman's heart hath found. 
 
 And joy, the poet's eye!" 
 
 Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 Felicia, tlion, of all the tuneful band, 
 Who sang of yore, art dearest to my soul ! 
 The gush of song, that never knew control, 
 Poured from thy heart, and Avatered all the land ! 
 Thou stand'st alone, like some high mountain peak ; 
 And, though the mantle of thick clouds surround. 
 Thine eye of faith hath pierced them. Thou hast found 
 The Comforter — and comfort thou canst speak. 
 Oh, sure, thy harp was strung with human chords ! 
 For, at thy magic touch, all hearts vibrate ; 
 And thy undying sympathy affords 
 Solace to all — the lowly and the great. 
 ISlext to my Bible, I thy volumes prize — 
 Though dimmed with tears — beyond's the clear blue 
 skies. 
 
SONNETS. 223 
 
 TO KI.IHU BURRITT. 
 
 " He Cometh not as monarchs come, 
 
 la pomp and pride and state; 
 He comctli not, as heroes come, 
 
 AVith deeds of blood elate : 
 He wears no kingly crown, and yet, 
 
 In truth, a king is he, — 
 A mighty one : in realm of mind, 
 
 He hath a sovereignty! — 
 From "_4 Welcome for EUha Barritt," People's {Eng.) Journal. 
 
 Pause, warring nations ! listen to liis voice ! 
 And bow with reverence, when his fragile form, 
 Worn with its labors, and the world's rude scorn, 
 Shall bless your sight ; for, millions will rejoice 
 In coming ages, when they hear his name, 
 And bless him in their hearts — the chosen, pure 
 And childlike — who all trials could endure, 
 So he brought peace to others. This his fame ! 
 And who would ask for nobler ? Scan the good 
 Of history, but nowhere wilt thou find 
 More self-denial ; striving, still, to bind 
 The nations of the earth in brotherhood. 
 Aye, strong, tliough weak ! for living sparks of love 
 Shall burst from iron hearts, and mount above ! 
 
224 SONNETS 
 
 OX THE DEATH OF PROF. E, BOHUSCEWITZ. 
 
 " No tears for thee! though light be from us gone 
 With thy soul's radiance, bright, yet restless one! 
 No tears for thee ! 
 
 They that have loA^ed an exile, must not mourn 
 To see him parting for his native bourne. 
 
 O'er the dark sea. 
 
 Yet shall our hope rise, fanned by quenchless faith. 
 As a flame, fostered by some warm wind's breath, 
 In light upsprings. 
 
 Freed soul of song! yes; thou hast found the sought; 
 Borne to thy home of beauty and of thought. 
 
 On morning's wings." 
 
 Hemans. 
 
 Bring fragrant flowers, and strew upon the bier 
 Of Poland's exiled son ; and strike the Ijre, 
 But with a trembling hand. The tones of fire 
 His fingers woke, we never more shall hear. 
 Poor wanderer ! who sought a resting place, 
 Far, far awaj from that ill-fated land. 
 And, though his bosom yearned to greet the band 
 lie left behind, smiles played upon his face ; 
 For not alone, though all he prized in youth 
 Would no more bless his sight. His mother's voice, 
 Whene 'er he listened, did his heart rejoice : 
 And that preserved the gem of childhood — truth. 
 !No more an exile, he has joined the throng 
 Who hail the freedom of that " child of song." 
 
SONNETS. 225 
 
 TO J. B. 
 
 "Have -we not communed here, of life and death? 
 Have we not said that love — such love as ours — 
 "Was not to perish, as a rose's breath — 
 
 To melt away, like song from festal bowers? 
 
 Answer, oh! answer me!'* 
 Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 'Tis New Year's eve ! the pensive hour draws near — 
 
 The twihght hour, that you and I, dear friend, 
 
 So love to greet ; when happy spirits blend ; 
 
 And, though a thousand leagues apart, still dear ; 
 
 Still fondly prized. My spirit journeys on, 
 
 To meet thine own ; and, dearest, there thou art ! 
 
 "Whene'er I call, the victory is won : 
 
 Thou meetest me halfway ; we 're one in heart ! 
 
 Oh ! many thorns beset my path, I know ; 
 
 Yet, now and then, a beauteous flower is given, 
 
 To cheer my drooping spirit here below ; 
 
 Its precious perfume wafting up to Heaven. 
 
 Such flower is mine ; sweet fragrance filled the air. 
 
 I turned to gaze, and thoii^ dear friend, wert there. 
 
226 SONNETS. 
 
 These lines were written more than a year ago, when the "little one" was 
 radiant with health and happiness, seated on her father's knee, earnestly 
 endeavoring to catch every varying intonation of his voice. Never, before 
 nor since, have I looked upon a child with such peculiar sensations : a 
 magnetic influence, as it were, proceeding from that little one's spirit, 
 overpowered my own, and, from a rare delight, produced a holy calm. 
 Now, the good Father has transplanted that unfolding bud " to a milder 
 clime; and we know that the guardianship of angels will ever attend it, 
 for it lives and will bloom in " immortal beauty." 
 
 Providence, Oct. 19. 
 
 T.INKS TO . 
 
 Too sad our hearts would be, 
 
 If thou wert gone! 
 Turn to us, leave us not! 
 
 Thou art our own ! 
 
 Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 I gazed upon thy fair and beauteous child, 
 When every fibre of my heart was thrilled ! 
 And that sweet vision, living, breathing, mild, 
 Like the calm voice of Christ, the tempest stilled. 
 And I could see her in His arms, the while, 
 Catching his tones, while blessings o'er her fell ; 
 Striving to do his bidding ; and a smile 
 Was her reward, for doing all things well ! 
 Oh ! I had deemed that painter's art could trace 
 Upon the canvas, fairer forms than life ; 
 But those large, witching eyes, and cherub face, 
 They haunt me still ; and voice with music rife ! 
 What blessing shall I crave for " bud" so rare ? 
 'Tis : Angels, guard God's flower, with love's unwearied 
 care! 
 
SONNETS. 227 
 
 SUGGESTED ON READING THE WRITINGS OF FANNY 
 KEMBLE BUTLER. 
 
 *' Though young, she wrote amid the ruins of her heart." 
 Oh, how wonderful is the human voice ! It is, indeed, the organ of the 
 soul! The intellect of man sits enthroned upon his forehead and in hi3 
 eye; and the heart of man is written upon his countenance. But the soul 
 reveals itself in the voice only; as God revealed himself to the prophet of 
 old, in the still, small voice, and in a voice from the burning bush. The 
 soul of man is audible, not visible. A sound alone, betrays the flowing 
 of the eternal fountain, invisible to man." 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 Lady, I oft have wept Felicia's fate, 
 
 E'en when a child ; — and thou, poor L. E. L, ; 
 
 All I have felt for thee, woi-ds cannot tell. 
 
 And Norton^ too — the reft, the desolate — 
 
 She who at twilight yearns — (thy spirit's mate,) 
 
 Yearns for her lost, lost jewels. Yes ; alone, 
 
 I 've pondered o'er their lives ; and their sad moan 
 
 My heart has echoed back. Now, thou art near ; 
 
 And thy soul-moving wail falls on mine ear. 
 
 Thou glorious spirit, with thy voice divine. 
 
 Swaying the hearts of thousands ! it is thine 
 
 To bless us still ; and though I may not hear 
 
 Thy thrilling strains, yet, I have read thy heart ; 
 
 And, though unseen, we never more can part. 
 
228 SONNETS 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MRS. JENKINS AND HER DAUGHTEE. 
 
 Hath not thy voice been here among us heard ? 
 And that deep soul of gentleness and power, 
 Have we not felt its breath in every word, 
 
 Wont from thy lip as Hermon's dew, to shower? 
 
 Yes! in our hearts thy fervent thoughts have burn'd; 
 
 Of Heaven they were, and thither have return'd. 
 
 Hemans. 
 
 From the power of chill and change, 
 
 Souls to sever and to estrange; 
 
 From love's wane — a death in life. 
 
 But to watch a mortal strife; 
 
 From the secret fevei's, known 
 
 To the burdened heart alone; 
 
 Thou art fled — afar — away, 
 
 Where those blights no more have sway. 
 
 Bright one! oh, th re well may be 
 
 Comfort midst our tears for thee! 
 
 Hemans. 
 
 Yes ; tliey are gone ! yet sickness was not there ; 
 
 They were not rocked upon the ocean's wave ; 
 No clanger threatened that loved home of prayer, 
 
 But they are gone — for there were none to save I 
 Be still — be still ! in silence worship, all ! 
 
 There is no need of clarion sound to tell 
 That earth is stricken. When the lovely fall 
 
 All nature weeps — and it's well — 'tis weU. 
 No, not dismayed, she sees the blessed goal ; 
 
 She clasps her clinging child, and they depart : — 
 No farewells from that high, calm, trusting soul, 
 
 Not e'en to those, the life-drops of her heart. 
 Oh, not divided ! from its earliest breath, 
 She reared that cherished flower, and blessed it e'en in death. 
 
SONNETS, 229 
 
 LINES TO 
 
 She met the lady with a smile. 
 
 She twined the wreath amid her hair; 
 It blooms not yet, but will ere while. 
 Oh! wear it ever there. — TJhland. 
 
 Lady, if love might weave a simple wreath 
 
 To deck thy brow, oh 1 sure I'd bind it there, 
 
 'Mid the soft tresses of thy glossy hair ; 
 
 Bidding it tell thee that however brief 
 
 Our interviews, the soothing, sweet relief 
 
 They brought to the care-burdened mind, has been 
 
 Fragrant as perfume of the flowers. I deem 
 
 It joy to know thee thus ; — but there are those 
 
 To whom thou turn'st for counsel and repose ; 
 
 Oh ! may they faithful prove. Thy time well spent,— 
 
 A glorious independence of the mind. 
 
 Scorning false trammels, makes thee free and kind. 
 
 My blessings, lady ; thou art not forgot ! 
 
 Then take this little wreath ; — 'tis sweet forget-me-not. 
 
 20 
 
230 SONNETS. 
 
 TO MRS. 
 
 ** O, friend beloved ! I sit apart and dumb. 
 Sometimes in sorrow, oft in joy divine; 
 My lips will falter, but my prison'd heart 
 Springs forth, to measure its faint pulse with thine." 
 
 MRS. HOWE. 
 
 O, favored child of fortune ! on this day- 
 Many may clasp thy hand, and offer thee 
 Gifts rare and costly : thou wilt not see me, 
 But I, too, will be there. This simple lay 
 "Welling up from the fountain thou did'st ope, 
 Accept it as the frankincense and myrrh 
 Of a most loving heart ; — for though it err 
 In all it doeth ; though it blindly grope ; 
 Still, the sweet flower of love is blooming there ! 
 Therefore, mine own one, in thine evening prayer, 
 Whisper my name. Ay, blest ! his love is thine, — 
 The friend so dear to thee, so richly dowered — 
 Then worldly gifts thou need'st not, clinging vine ; 
 But, oh ! may Heaven's choicest dews on both be showered ! 
 
SONNETS. 231 
 
 TO 
 
 Yes ; we will look to Him : for poor indeed, 
 
 E'en though in gorgeous homes our lot be cast ; 
 
 Though friends, and wealth, and fame's loud trumpet blast 
 
 Attend us ; there's an aching void ! we need 
 
 The blessed Friend of all. And surely, those, 
 
 "Whose lives have been one long, dark, cheerless night, 
 
 Struggling mid doubt and darkness with their might. 
 
 To stem the rushing tide — they need repose. 
 
 Alike in poverty, or worldly wealth, 
 
 Surrounded by the loved, or still alone ; 
 
 Though fanned by gentle breezes, born of health, 
 
 Nor these, nor all can for His loss atone ! 
 
 Then, speak, thou friend of freedom, and of truth! 
 
 For age will bow, when wisdom dwells with youth. 
 
2S2 SONNETS 
 
 TO 
 
 Strength for tliy sorrowing flock ! strength from on high, 
 
 To say farewell, with calm and holy trust, 
 
 E'en though their tears do flow, as flow they must ! 
 
 Their Shepherd is departing, and their sky 
 
 Is clouded o'er ; but the small voice is there, 
 
 Kindling fresh hope, and quieting despair. 
 
 Oh I not for us alone thy strength was given: — 
 
 Are there not wanderers still to guide to Heaven ? 
 
 Then, onward ! though our throbbing hearts, the while, 
 
 Question the need, like those who gathered round 
 
 Their blessed Master. Truly, peace is found 
 
 Where duty calls. She blesses with her smile. 
 
 Ay, go ! to others the glad tidings tell — 
 
 Bearing thy loved ones with thee, fare thee well I 
 
SONNET. 233 
 
 TO LOUISE. 
 
 " I mast devote thee to one who is pure; 
 Touched by whose brightness, thine own wilt be sure; 
 Borne in His bosom, no sorrow can dim; 
 Nothing can win or can pluck thee from Him. 
 Hence, unto Him be my little one given; — 
 Yea, " for of such, is the kingdom of Heaven!" 
 
 Gould. 
 
 Hail, little one, untried by earthly care ! 
 Long may'st thou prove a well-spring of delight, 
 Cheering the home of love ; thy mother's prayer 
 Shielding her darling from the world's sad blight. 
 That prayer, full well I know it is, that thou, 
 E'en in the inmost foldings of thy heart, 
 Should e'er be pure ; that early thou should'st bow 
 In love to Him, nor from his paths depart. 
 Oh ! not for station, nor for gold, would she 
 See her inmortal treasure bend the knee ! 
 Then, blessings on thee, little stranger dear ! 
 If thorns beset thy path, look, look above. 
 Jesus, who blessed them while he tarried here, 
 Still lives and reigns, a fountain of pure love ! 
 
 20* 
 
234 SONNETS. 
 
 TO MY INFANT SON, 
 
 On his Birthday, 19th April. 
 
 " Thou wak'st from happy sleep to play. 
 
 With bounding heart, my boy ! 
 Before thee lies along, bright day , 
 
 Of summer and of joy. 
 Yet, ere the cares of life lie dim 
 
 On thy young spirit's wings, 
 Now, in thy morn, forget not Him 
 
 From whom each pure thought springs!" 
 
 Hemans. 
 
 My boy, my only boy ! on this bright morn 
 
 I wake, to gaze once more on thy fair brow, 
 
 "Where thought, beyond thy years, sits throned, e'en now, 
 
 An earnest of the future, still unborn. 
 
 Oh ! may I never, like poor Hagar, see 
 
 Thee pine, and droop, and fade ; but in thy youth, 
 
 Be mine the joy to guide thee unto truth. 
 
 And from that blessed well, on bended knee. 
 
 Together quench our thirst. Oh, that were bliss ! 
 
 I ask not worldly honors ; ask not fame 
 
 To weave a glory round thy humble name : 
 
 But be thou pure in heart — 'tis this — 'tis this ! 
 
 Father of light and love ! one boon I crave — 
 
 Upward and onward, be it thine to save. 
 
SONNETS. 235 
 
 TO 
 
 " Come to me, when my soul 
 Hath but a few dim hours to linger here ; 
 When earthly chains are as a shrivelled scroll. 
 Oh! let me feel thy presence! be but near! 
 
 That I may look once more 
 Into thine eyes, which never changed for me; 
 That I may speali to thee of that bright shore. 
 Where, with our treasure, we have yearn'd to be. 
 
 Thou friend of many days ! 
 Of sadness and of joy, of home and hearth! 
 Will not thy spirit aid me then to raise 
 The trembling pinion of my hope from earth ?" 
 
 Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 'Tis long since we have met, but thou art near ! 
 When worn with cares, thy beaming eyes I see ! 
 When faith's calm light is hidden, then I hear 
 Thy low, sweet voice, breathing these words to me- 
 " Be of good cheer, though all is dark around ;" — 
 And, absent, thus to thine my soul is bound ; 
 The incense of thy prayer, falls on mine ear. 
 Apart, yet not forgotten ! — no, oh no ! 
 Though time and distance intervene, the more 
 I turn to thee, as to one loved of yore ; 
 And thus, dear Lucy, wheresoe'er I go, 
 Thy image journey's still — we cannot part ! 
 Upward and onward, then, so thou art near, 
 To aid this weak, this struggling, wayward heart ! 
 
b 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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