1   7
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.......




A MEMORIAL
OF
ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY,
WITH SOME OF THEIR LATER POEMS.
BY
MARY CLEMMER AMES.
ILLUSTRA TED BY TWO PORTRAITS ON STEEL.
NEW YORK:
PUBLISHED BY HURD AND HOUGHTON.
~anabrtl: R       press.1874.
1874.




Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year i873, by
HURD AND HOUGHTON,
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE:
STEREOTYPED  AND PRINTED  bI
H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY.




TO
ALICE CARY CLYMER
(LITTLE ALICE),
WiO, TO THEIR LAST EARTHLY HOUR, GAVE TO HER AUNTS A
DAUGHTER'S TENDEREST LOVE AND DEVOTION, THIS
MEMORIAL OF THEIR LIVES
3 i lffrctt/Tattd   tfltbiftfter,
BY HER FRIEND AND THEIRS,
MARY CLEMMEP AMES,








PRE F ACE.
WHEN, at the request of the brothers of Alice and
Phcebe Cary, I sat down to write a Memorial of their
lives, and, looking through the entire mass of their
papers, found not a single word of their own referring
in any personal way to themselves, every impulse of
my heart impelled me to relinquish the task. To tell
the story of any human life, even in its outward incidents, wisely and justly, is not an easy thing to do.
But to attempt a fit memorial of two women whose
lives must be chiefly interpreted by inward rather than
outward events, and solely from personal knowledge
and remembrance, was a responsibility that I was
unwilling to assume. With the utter absence of any
data of their own, it seemed to me that the lives of the
Cary sisters could only be produced from the combined reminiscences of all their more intimate personal
friends. Months were consumed in writing to, and
in waiting for replies from, long-time friends of the
sisters.  All were willing, but alas! they "had destroyed all letters," had forgotten "lots and lots of
things that would have been interesting;" they were
preoccupied, or sick; and, after months of waiting,




vi                 PREFACE.
I sat where I began, with the mass of Alice's and
Phcebe's unedited papers before me, and not an added
line for their lives, with a new request from, their
legatees and executors, that I should go on with the
Memorial.
Here it is.
It has cost me more than labor.  Every day I
have buried my friends anew. Every line wrung from
memory has deepened the wound of irreparable loss.
From beginning to end my one purpose has been,
not to write a eulogy, but to write justly. In depicting their birthplace and early life in Ohio, I have
quoted copiously from Phcebe's sketch of Alice, and
Ada Carnahan's sketch of her Aunt Phcebe, both
published in the- (Boston)  "Ladies' Repository,"
believing that that which pertained exclusively to their
early family life could be more faithfully told by members of the family than by any one born outside of it.
Save where full credit is given to others, I, alone, am
responsible for the statements of this Memorial. Not
a line in it has been recorded from "hearsay." Not
a fact is given that I do not know to be true, either
from my own personal knowledge, or from the lips of
the women whose lives and characters it helps to
represent. I make this statement as facts embodied
by me before, in a newspaper article, have been publicly questioned. One writer went so far as to say in
a public journal, that, " As she would not willingly misrepresent her, Mrs. Ames must, have misunderstood




PREFA CE.                  vii
Alice Cary."  I never misunderstood Alice Cary. She
never uttered a word to me that I did not perfectly
understand.  I have never recorded a word of her
that I did not know to be true, nor with any purpose
but to do absolute justice to my dearest friend. This
is a full and final reply to any query or doubt which
this Memorial may suggest or call forth.  All who,
read have a perfect right to criticise and to question;
but I shall not feel any obligation to make further
reply. Life is too short and too precious to spend
it in privately answering persons who "wish to be
assured that the Cary sisters were not Universalists,"
or who cultivate original theories concerning their
character or life.
The poems following the Memorial have, with but
three or four exceptions, never before been gathered within the covers of a book. The exceptions
are Alice's "The Sure Witness," "One Dust," and
" My Creed," all published before in the volume of
her poems brought out by Hurd and Houghton, in
1865, and reproduced here as special illustrations of
her character, faith, and death.
In parting with a portion of the treasures and " pictures of memory," it has been difficult sometimes to
decide which to give and which to retain. Many,
too precious for any printed page, were nevertheless
such a part of the true souls from whom they emanated, that to withhold them seemed like defrauding the
living for the sake of the dead.  Thus some inci




viii                PREFA CE.
dents are given solely because they are necessary to
the perfect portrayal of the nature which they concern.
No fact has been told which has not this significance.
No line has been written for the sake of writing it.
But as I cease, I feel more keenly even than when I
began, how inadequate is any one hand, however conscientious, to trace two lives so delicately and variously
tinted, to portray two souls so finely veined with a
many-shaded deep humanity.
M. C. A.
October,  8 7 2.




CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.                 PAGE
THE HOUSE OF THEIR BIRTH. - THEIR FATTIHR AND
MOTHER. — ANCESTRY, CHILDHOOD, AND EARLY YOUTH.  I
CHAPTER II.
EARLY STRUGGLES AND SUCCESS..                  20
CHAPTER III.
THEIR HOME. — HABITS OF LIFE AND OF LABOR. - THE
SUMMER OF I869.                              38
CHAPTER IV.
THEIR SUNDAY EVENING RECEPTIONS.               59
CHAPTER V.
ALICE CARY. —THE WOMAN.                         70
CHAPTER VI.
ALICE CARY. -— THE WRITER.99
CHAPTER VII.
ALICE'S LAST SUMMER                            130
CHAPTER VIII.
AIICE'S DEATH AND BURIAL.....    141
CHAPTER IX
PII(EBE CARY.-THE WRITER..                  1..       I55
CHAPTER X.
PHCEBE CARY. — THE WOMAN...     83




CONTENTS,
CHAPTER  XI.
PHOEBE'S LAST SUMMER.- DEATH AND BURIAL.       208
CHAPTER XII.
THE SISTERS COMPARED. -THEIR LAST RESTING-PLACE. 228
LATER POEMS BY ALICE CARY.
BALLADS AND LOVE SONGS
THE MIGHT OF LOVE..239
"THE GRACE WIFE OF KEITH".              242
JOHNNY RIGHT. 245
THE LOVER'S INTERDICT.                          249
THE SETTLER'S CHRISTMAS EVE..252
THE OLD STORY.. 257
BALDER'S WIFE... 258
POEMS OF THOUGHIT.
UNDER THE SHADOW. -.... 260
GOD IS LOVE........ 262
LIFE'S MYSTERIES.......     264
POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME.
A DREAM OF HOME. 267
EVENING PASTIMES.                               268
FADED LEAVES..... 269
THE LIGHT OF DAYS GONE BY..                    270
A SEA SONG..... 272
SERMONS IN STONES....                 273
MY PICTURE.. 274
MORNING IN THE MOUNTAINS.                    276
THE THISTLE FLOWER.. 278
MY DARLINGS...'  279
THE FIELD SWEET- BRIER....       28I
THE LITTLE HOUSE ON THE HILL..        283
tHE OLI) HOUSE.....    284




CONTINTS.                  xi
FOR THE LOST.
LOST LILIES..286
A WONDER.... 288
MOST BELOVED.... 289
MY DARLINGS.....291
IN DESPAIR.                                  292
WAIT.....293
RELIGIOUS POEMS.
THE GOLDEN MEAN... 295
THE FIRE BY THE SEA...... 297
THE SURE WITNESS.                           299
ONE DUST. 300
MY CREED........ ~   301
LAST POEMS.
SPENT AND MISSPENT....303
LAST AND BEST.....                304
IN THE DARK........ 305
AN INVALID'S PLEA.                         307
THE GREAT QUESTION.... 308
A PENITENT'S PLEA.                         309
PUTTING OFF THE ARMOR..               31
LATER  POEMS BY PH(EBE CARY.
BALLADS
THE CHRISTMAS SHEAF..3I
LITTLE GOTTLIEB....    319
RELIGIOUS POEMS
CHRISTMAS.........  323
PRODIGALS..325
ST. BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX..327
OLD PICTURES..328
THE PLAYMATES..331'THE BAREFOOT BOY...           333




Xll                  CONTENTS.
LOVE POEMS.
AMY'S LOVE-LETTER.                               335
DO YOU BLAME HER?........337
SONG.                                            338
SOMEBODY'S LOVERS.339
LAST POEMS.
NOBODY'S CHILD...  341
JOHN G. WHITTIER...342
THOU KNOWEST..  343
LIGHT.                      345
WAITING THE CHANGE...    346
THOU AND I....    348
SPRING FLOWERS                ~ *     3 5




A  MEMORIAI,
OF
ALICE AND P HEBE CARY.
CHAPTER I.
THE HOUSE OF THEIR BIRTH. — THEIR FATHER AND
MOTHER. -  ANCESTRY, CHILDHOOD, AND  EARLY
YOUTH.
N a brown house, "low and small," on a farm in
the Miami Valley, eight miles north of Cincinnati,
Ohio, Alice Cary was born on the 26th day of April,
I820. In the same house, September 4, I824, was
born her sister and life-long companion, Phcebe.
This house appeared and reappeared in the verse
of both sisters, till their last lines were written. Their
affection for it was a deep and life-long emotion.
Each sister, within the blinds of a city house, used to
shut her eyes and listen till she thought she heard the
rustle of the cherry-tree on the old roof, and smelled
again the sweet-brier under the window. You will realize how perfectly it was daguerreotyped on Phcebe's
heart when you follow two of the many pictures which
she has left of it. Phcebe says: "The house was
small, unpainted, without the slightest pretensions to
architectural beauty.  It was one story and a half in
I




2          ALICE  AND PHU3BE CARY.
height, the front looking toward the west and separated from the high road by a narrow strip of dooryard grass. A low porch ran across the north of the
house, and from the steps of this a path of blue flagstones led to a cool, unfailing well of water a few
yards distant.  Close to the walls, on two sides, and
almost pushing their strong, thrifty boughs through
the little attic window, flourished several fruitful apple
and cherry trees; and a luxuriant sweet-brier, the only
thing near that seemed designed solely for ornament,
almost covered the other side of the house. Beyond
the door-yard, and sloping toward the south, lay a
small garden, with two straight rows of currant bushes
dividing its entire length, and beds of vegetables laid
out on either side.  Close against the fence nearest
the yard grew several varieties of roses, and a few
hardy and common flowers bordered the walks.  In
one corner a thriving peach tree threw in summer its
shade over a row of bee-hives, and in another its
withered mate was supported and quite hidden by a
fragrant bower of hop vines. A little in the rear of
the dwelling stood the ample, weather-beaten barn,
the busy haunt of the restless swallows and quiet,
comfortable doves, and in all seasons the never-failing
resort of the children.  A  stately and symmetrical
oak, which had been kindly spared from the forest
when the clearing for the house was made, grew near
it, and in the summer threw its thick, cool shadow
over the road, making a grateful shade for the tired
traveller, and a pleasant playground for the children,
whose voices, now so many of them stilled, once made
life and music there through all the livelong day."




THE HOUSE OF THEIR BIRTH               3
OUR HOMESTEAD.
Our old brown homestead reared its walls
From the wayside dust aloof,
Where the apple-boughs could almost cast
Their fruit upon its roof;
And the cherry-tree so near it grew
That, when awake I've lain
In the lonesome nights, I've heard the iimps
As they creaked against the pane;
And those orchard trees! 0, those orchard trees I
I've seen my little brothers rocked
in their tops by the summer breeze.
The sweet-brier under the window-sill,
Which the early birds made glad,
And the damask rose by the garden fence,
tWere all the flowers we had.
I've looked at many a flower since then,
Exotics rich and rare,
That to other eyes were lovelier,
But not to me so fair;
For those roses bright! 0, those roses bright I
I have twined them in my sister's locks
That are hid in the dust from sight.
We had a well - a deep, old well,
Where the spring was never dry,
And the cool drops down from the mossy stones
Were falling constantly:
And there never was water half so sweet
As the draught which filled my cup,
Drawn up to the curb by the rude, old sweep,




4         ALICE AND PHEBE CARE.
That my father's hand set up;
And that deep, old well! O, that deep, old well I
I remember now the plashing sound
Of the bucket as it fell.
Our homestead had an ample hearth,
Where at night we loved to meet;
There my mother's voice was always kind,
And her smile was always sweet;
And there I've sat on my father's knee,
And watched his thoughtful brow,
With my childish hand in his raven hair -
That hair is silver, now!
But that broad hearth's light! O, that broad hearth's
light!
And my father's look, and my mother's smile,
They are in my heart, to-night!
In her "Order for a Picture," which was her favorite among all the poems she had ever written, Alice
has given us another reflection of her first home upon
earth, and its surroundings: —
" O, good painter, tell me true,
Has your hand the cunning to draw
Shapes of things that you never saw?
Aye? Well, here is an order for you.
" Woods and cornfields, a little brown -
The picture must not be over-bright -
Yet all in the golden and gracious light
Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down.
Alway and alway, night and morn,
Woods upon woods, with fields of corn




THEIR FATHER AND   MOTHER.            5
Lying between them, not quite sere,
And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom,
When the'wind can hardly find breathing-room
Under their tassels, - cattle near,
Biting shorter the short, green grass,
And a hedge of sumach and sassafras,
With bluebirds twittering all around,(Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound!)These, and the house where I was born,
Low and little, and black and old,
With children many as it can hold,
All at the windows open wide, —
Heads and shoulders clear outside:
And fair young faces all'ablush:
Perhaps you may have seen, some day,
Roses crowding the self-same way,
Out of a wilding, wayside bush."
In such a home were born Alice and Phaebe Cary;
lice, the fourth, and Phcebe, the sixth child of Robert
ary and Elizabeth Jessup, his wife.
Phoebe, in her precious memorial of Alice, gives
LtiS picture of their father and mother: " Robert Cary.
was a man of superior intelligence, of sound principles, and blameless life. He was very fond of reading, especially romances and poetry; but early poverty
and the hard exigencies of pioneer life had left him
no time for acquiring anything more than the mere
rudiments of a common school education; and the
consciousness of his want of culture, and an invincible
diffidence born with him, gave him a shrinking, retiring manner, and a want of confidence in his own,
judgment, which was inherited to a large measure by




6          ALIC'. AND PIR'EBE CARlY.
his offspring. He was a tender, loving father, who
sang his children to sleep with holy hymns, and habitually went about his work repeating the grand old
Hebrew poets, and the sweet and precious promises
of the New Testament of our Lord." Ada Carnahan, the child of Robert and Elizabeth Cary's oldest
daughter, who inherits in no small degree the fine
mental gifts of her family, in her admirable sketch of
her Aunt Phcebe, published in the Boston " Ladies'
Repository," says of this father of poets: " When he
had no longer children in his arms, he still went on
singing to himself, and held in his heart the words
that he had so often repeated. For him the common
life of a farmer was idealized into poetry; springtime
and harvest were ever recurring miracles, and dumb
animals became companionable.  Horses and cattle
loved him, and would follow him all over the farm,
sure to receive at least a kind word or gentle pat, and
perhaps a few grains of corn, or a lump of salt or
sugar; and there was no colt so shy that would not eat
out of his hand, and rub its head caressingly against
his shoulder. Of his children, Alice the most resembled him in person, and all the tender and close sympathy with nature, and with humanity, which in her
found expression, had in him an existence as real, if
voiceless. In his youth he must have been handsome.
Hie was six feet in height, and well proportioned, with
curling black hair, bright brown eyes, slightly aquiline
nose, and remarkably beautiful teeth."  Those who
saw him in New York, in the home of his daughters,
remember him a silver-haired, sad-eyed, soft-voiced
patriarch, remarkable for the gentleness of his man.
ners, and the emotional tenderness of hi's tempe'a




THEIR FA THER4 AND MOTHER.             7
mrent. Tears rose to his eyes, smiles flitted across his
face, precisely as they did in the face of Alice. IHe
wras the prototype of Alice. In her was reproduced
not only his form and features, but his mental, moral,
and emotional nature. To see father and daughter
together, one would involuntarily exclaim, "How
alike! " They loved to be together. It was a delight
to the father to take that long journey from the Western farm to the New York home. Here, for the first
time, he found reproduced in reality many of the
dreams of his youth. Nothing gave greater delight
to his daughters than "to take father " to see pictures,
to visit friends, and to join in evening receptions. In
the latter he took especial pleasure, when he could sit
in an arm-chair and survey the, bright scene before
bim. He had poet eyes to see, and a poet's heart to
feel the beauty of woman. Alice had a friend whom
he never mentioned save as "your friend the pretty
woman." He was informed, one evening, at a small
party, that the beautiful young lady whom he was admiring, and who looked about twenty-five, was a happy
matron and the mother of a grown-up son. His look
of childlike amazement was irresistible. "' Well, well,"
he exclaimed, "mothers of grown-up sons never looked
as young as that in my day!"
The wife of this man, the mother of Alice and
Phoebe Cary, was blue-eyed and beautiful. Her children lived to rise up and call her blessed. Alice said
of her: " My mother was a woman of superior intellect and of good, well-ordered life. In my memory
she stands apart from all others, wiser, purer, doing
more, and living better than any other woman." And
this is her portrait of her mother in her " Order for a
Picture: "




8B        ALICE AND PHE'BE CARY.
"A lady, the loveliest ever the sun
Looked down upon, you must paint for me:
O, if I only could make you see
The clear blue eyes, the tender smile,
The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace,
The woman's soul, and the angel's face
That are beaming on me all the while,
I need not speak these foolish words:
Yet one word tells you all I would say,
She is my mother: you will agree
That all the rest may be thrown away."
Phcebe said of her: "She was the wonder of my
childhood. She is no less a wonder to me as I recall
her now. How she did so much work, and yet did it
well; how she reared carefully, and governed wisely,
so large a family of children, and yet found time to
develop by thought and reading a mind of unusual
strength and clearness, is still a mystery to me. She
was fond of history, politics, moral essays, biography,
and works of religious controversy. Poetry she read,
but cared little for fictitious literature. An exemplary
housewife, a wise and kind mother, she left no duty
unfulfilled, yet she found time, often at night, after
every other member of the household was asleep, by
reading, to keep herself informed of all the issues of
the day, political, social, and religious."  When we
remember that the woman who kept herself informedl
of all the issues of the day, political, social, and religious, was the mother of nine children, a housewife, who
performed the labor of her large household with her
own hands; that she lived in a rural neighborhood,
wherein personal and family topics were the supreme




THE CARY ANCESTRY.                9
subjects of discussion, aloof from the larger interests
and busy thoroughfares of men, we can form a juster
estimate of the superiority of her natural powers, and
the native breadth of her mind and heart.
Such were the father and mother of Alice and
Phcebe Cary.  From their father they inherited the
poetic temperament, the love of nature, and of dumb
creatures, their loving and pitying hearts, which were
so large that they enfolded all breathing and unbreathing things. From their mother they inherited their
interest in public affairs, their passion for justice, their
devotion to truth and duty as they saw it, their clear
perceptions, and sturdy common sense.
Blended with their personal love for their father and
mother, was an ingenuous pride and delight in their
ancestry. They were proud of their descent. This
was especially true of Phcebe. With all her personal
modesty, which was very marked, pride of race was one
of Phcebe Cary's distinguishing traits. She was proud
of the Cary coat-of-arms, which hung framed in the
little library in Twentieth Street; prouder still to trace
her name from the true and gentle father who gave it'
to her, to the John Cary who taught the first Latin
school in Plymouth, and from him to the gallant Sir
Robert Cary, who vanquished a chevalier of Aragon,
in the reign of Henry V., in Smithfield, London. A
friend, in a former biographical sketch of the two sisters, referring to this knight, said that the genealogy
which connected him with the American Cary family
"is at best unverified." In private, Phcebe often referred to this published doubt with considerable feeling.
" Why do you care?" asked a friend. "The con
queror of the Knight of Aragon cannot make you
more or less."




[0        ALICE AND PHEBE' CARY.
"But I do care," she said. " He was my ancestor
it has been proved. He bore the same name as my own
father. I don't like to have any doubt cast upon it
It is a great comfort to me to know that we sprung from
a noble, not an ignoble race." This fact was so much
to her in life, it seems but just that she should have the
full benefit of it in death. Thus is given the entire
story of the Knight of Aragon, as printed in Burke's
" Heraldry," with the complete genealogy of the branch
of the American Cary family to which Alice and
Phoebe belong: —
John Cary, a lineal descendant of Sir Thomas Cary,
(a cousin of Queen Elizabeth), came to the Plymouth
Colo:-v in I630, was prominent and influential among
the  iigrim Fathers. He was thoroughly educated —
taught the first Latin class, and held important offices
in the town and church. He married Elizabeth, a
daughter of Francis Godfrey, in I644. He died in
Bridgewater, in I68I, aged 80 years.
SECOND GENERATION.
Joseph, the ninth child of John, born in Plymouth,
in I665, emigrated to Connecticut, and was one of the
original proprietors of the town of Windham. At the
organization of the first church in Windham, in the
year 1700, he was chosen deacon. He was a useful
and very prominent man. He died in 1722.
THIRD GENERATION.
John, the fourth child of Joseph, born in Windham,
Connecticut, June 23, I695, married Hannah Thurs
ton, resided in Windham,-was a man of wealth and




THE  CAR Y ArCESTRY.              1X
influence in the church and in public affairs. He died
in 1776, aged 8i years.
FOURTH GENERATION.
Samuel, the ninth child of John, born June I3, 1734,
graduated at Yale College in the class of 1755, was a
physician, eminent in his profession; married Deliverance Grant, in Bolton, Connecticut, and emigrated t~.
Lyme, New  Hampshire, among the first colonist,,
where he died in 1784.
FIFTH GENERATION.
Christopher, the eldest child of Samuel, born FeL
ruary 25, I763, joined the army at an early age, under
Colonel Waite of New Hampshire; was taken prisoner
by the British, and suffered great hardships.  He
married Elsie Terrel, at Lyme, New Hampshire, in
1784, removed-with his family to Cincinnati, Ohio, in
i802, died at College Hill, Ohio, in I837.
SIXTH GENERATION.
Robert, the second child of Christopher, born January 24, i787, emigrated with his father to the Northwest Teiritoryj in i802, settled upon a farm near
Mount Healihy, Hamilton County, Ohio, married
Elizabeth Jessup in I8I4, was a soldier in the war'of
I8I2, and was at Hull's surrender. He died in I866.
Their children were: —I. Rowena, born I8I4, married Carnahan, died 1869,
2. Susan, born I8i6, married Alex. Swift, (lied I852.
3. Rhoda, born i8i8, died 1833.
4. Alice, born I820, died I87I.
5. Asa, born 1822, living at Mount Pleasant, Ohio,




12        ALICE AND PHEBE CAR Y.
6. Phcebe, born I824, died 1871.
7. Warren, born I826, living near Harrison, Ohio
8. Lucy, born I829, died I833.
9. Elmina, born i831, married Alex. Swift, and died
I862.
"In the beginning of the reign of Henry V., a
certain knight-errant of Aragon, having passed through
divers countries and performed many feats of arms,
to his high commendation, arrived here in England,
where he challenged any man of his rank and quality
to make trial of his valor and skill in arms. This
challenge Sir Robert Cary accepted, between whom a
cruel encounter and a long and doubtful combat was
waged in Smithfield, London.  But at length this
noble champion vanquished the presumptuous Aragonois, for which King Henry V. restored unto him
a good part of his father's lands, which, for his loyalty
to Richard II., he had been deprived by Henry IV.,
and authorized him to bear the arms of the Knight
of Aragon, which the noble posterity continue to
wear unto this day; for, according to the laws of heraldry, whoever fairly in the field conquers his adversary, may justify the wearing of his arms."
Phcebe had the Cary coat of arms engraved on a
seal ring, which was taken from her finger after death
You see that it happened to the Cary family, as to
many another of long descent, that it emerged from
the vicissitudes of time and toil, poor, possessing no
finer weapon to vanquish hostile fate than the intrinsic temper of its inherited quality, the precious
metal of honesty, industry, integrity, bravery, honor —



fHE CARY ANCE'STR Y.             13!n fine, true manhood. The great-grandfather of Alice
and Phcebe, Samuel Cary, was graduated from Yale.
A physician by profession, in Lyme, New Hampshire,
he seems to have been the last of the manifold " Cary
boys" who possessed the advantages of a liberal
education. His eldest son, Christopher, entered the
army of the Revolution at the age of eighteen. When
peace was won, the young man received not money,
but a land grant, or warrant, in Hamilton County,
Ohio, as his recompense. The necessity of poverty
probably compelled Christopher to the lot of a tiller
of the soil.
And even Phoebe, if she thought of it, must have
acknowledged that this grandsire of hers, who went
into the army of freedom to fight the battles of his
country at eighteen, who, when liberty was won, went
to struggle with the earth, to wrest from the wilderness a home for himself and his children, was an ancestor more worthy of her admiration and pride than
even the doughty Sir Robert, who fought with and
overcame the Knight of Aragon. The editor of the
"Central Christian Advocate," in writing of the death
of Alice, says: -
" We remember well her grandfather, and the house
at the foot of the great hill, where his land grant was
located. In early boyhood we often climbed the hills,
and sometimes listened to the conversation of the
somewhat rough and rugged soldier, whom we all
called' Uncle Christopher."'
Robert Cary came with his father, Christopher, from
New Hampshire to the wilderness of Ohio in I803, at
the age of fifteen. Says his granddaughter, Ada Car.
nahan: "They travelled in an emigrant wagon to




-14       ALICE AND PH(EBE CARY.
Pittsfield, and descending the river on a flat-boat,
arrived at Fort Washington. This was a thriving settlement, though its people had hardly ceased to depend
on its fort for protection from the savages, who still
infested the surrounding forests and made occasional
incursions into its immediate neighborhood." Here,
for several years, the family remained, before making
a purchase of lands some eight miles north of the settlement, on what is still known as the Hamilton Road.
Robert Cary and Elizabeth Jessup were married
January I3, I8I4, and began their married life upon a
quarter section of the original Cary purchase, the same
land which will be remembered for many generations
as the Clovernook of Alice Cary's stories. Again
says Ada Carnahan: "In the comparatively short
time that had elapsed, there had been most marvelous
changes in all this vicinity. The red-man had disappeared. Log cabins and their surroufiding clearings
were scattered all over the region, while here and there
might be seen a more pretentious frame dwelling. One
of the latter Robert Cary reared for his home, which
it continued to be for eighteen years, during which his
nine children were born. The farm upon which Robert and Elizabeth Cary began life was not, however, a
gift, and it was the work of many laborious years to
clear it fromn the incumbrance of debt - years which
could not but make their impression upon their rising
family, and inculcate those lessons of perseverance,
industry, and economy, which are the very foundations
of success."
"As is almost always the case in large families,
the Cary children divided themselves into groups and
couples, as age and disposition dictated.  In this




CHILDHOOD.                  I$
grouping, Alice and Phcebe, afterwards to be brought
into such close communion of life and thought, were
separated.  Alice's passionate devotion in life and
death to the sister next older than herself is well
known, while Phcebe, standing between her two brothers, turned toward the younger of these, whom she
made her constant playfellow..... The children
were much together in the open air, and were intimately acquainted with every nook and corner of their
father's farm. They gathered wild flowers in Maytime, and nuts in October, and learned to love the
company of trees and blossoms, birds and insects,
and became deeply imbued with the love of nature.
They were sensitive and imaginative, and it may well
be that they, at least two of them, saw more beauty,
and heard more melody in nature than every eye is
open to perceive. As they grew older, this kind of
holiday life was interrupted by occasional attendance
upon the district school, and by instruction in such
household employments as were deemed indispensable
— in knitting, sewing, spinning, cooking, churning,
etc. Of all these, Phcebe only became proficient in
the first two. In both these she took pleasure up to
the time of her last illness, and in both she was unusually dexterous and neat, as well as in penmanship,
showing in these respects a marked contrast to Alice.
The school-house in which they gained the rudiments
of an English education was distant a mile and a
quarter from their home. The plain, one story, brick
building is still used for school purposes. This distance was always walked. Upon her last visit to this
vicinity, in I867, Phcebe Cary pointed out to me a
goodly forest tree, growing at one side, but in the




06        ALICE AND PHEBE C'AR Y.
highway, and told how, when they were returning
from school, one day, Alice found lying in the road a
freshly cut switch, and picked it up, saying,'Let us
stick it in the ground and see if it will grow;' and immediately acting on her own suggestion, she stuck it
in the ground; and there, after more than thirty-five
years, it stood, a graceful and fitting monument to the
gracious and tender nature which bade it live.
"In the autumn of 1832, by persevering industry
and frugal living, the farm was at last paid for, and a
new and more commodious dwelling erected for the
reception of the family, grown too large to be longer
sheltered by the old roof-tree. This new dwelling,
which is still standing, is no more than the plainest of
farm-houses, built at a time when the family were
obliged to board the builders, and the bricks'were
burned on the spot; yet it represents a degree of
comfort only attained after a long struggle."
" It cost many years of toil and privation - the new
house. We thought it the beginning of better times.
Instead, all the sickness and death in the family dates
from the time that it was finished. It seems as if
nothing but trouble and sorrow have come since," said
Alice Cary, late in the autumn of I869, to a friend,
as her starry eyes shone out from her pallid face, amid
the delicate laces of her pillow, in the chamber on
Twentieth Street.
"Before that time I had two sources of unalloyed
happiness: the companionship of my sister Rhoda,
and the care of my little sister Lucy. I shall always
think Rhoda was the most gifted of all our family.
The stories that she used to tell me on our way home
from school had in them the germ of the most won



A GHOST STORY.                17
derful novels - of better novels than we read nowadays. When we saw the house in sight, we would often
sit down under a tree, that she might have more time
to finish the story. My anxiety concerning the fate of
the people in it was often so great I could not possibly
wait to have it continued. At another time it would
take her days together to tell one story. Rhoda was
very handsome; her great, dark eyes would shine with
excitement as she went on. For myself, by the time
she had finished, I was usually dissolved in tears over
the tragic fate of her heroes and heroines. Lucy was
golden-haired and blue-eyed, the only one who looked
like our mother. I was not fourteen when she died
- I'm almost fifty, now. It may seem strange when
I tell you that I don't believe that there has been an
hour of any day since her death in which I have not
thought of her and mourned for her. Strange, isn't
it, that the life and death of a little child not three
years old could take such a hold on another life? I
have never lost the consciousness of the presence of
that child.
"That makes me think of our ghost story. Almost
every family has a ghost story, you know?  Ours
has more than one, but the one foreshadowed all the
others."
"Do tell it to me," said the friend sitting by her
bed.
"Well, the new house was just finished, but we had
not moved into it. There had been a violent shower;
father had come home from the field, and everybody
had come in out of the rain. I think it was about
four in the afternoon, when the storm ceased and the
sun shone out. The new house stood on.the edge of
2




I 8       ALICE AND PHMEBE CAR Y.
a ravine, and the sun was shining full upon it, when
some one in the family called out and asked how
Rhoda and Lucy came to be over in the new house,
and the door open.  Upon this all the rest of the
family rushed to the front door, and there, across the
ravine, in the open door of the new house, stood
Rhoda with Lucy in her arms. Some one said,'She
must have come from the sugar camp, and has taken
shelter there with Lucy from the rain.' Upon this
another called out,'Rhoda!' but she did not answer.
While vve were gazing and talking and calling, Rhoda
herself came down-stairs, where she had left Lucy fast
asleep, acid stood with us while we all saw, in the full
blaze of the sun, the woman with the child in her arms
slowly sink, sink, sink into the ground, until she disappeared trom sight. Then a great silence fell upon
us all. I1. our hearts we all believed it to be a warning of sorrow -of what, we knew not. When Rhoda
and Lucy both died, then we knew. Rhoda died the
next autumn, November II; Lucy a month later, December IGc, 833. Father went directly over to the
house and out into the road, but no human being, and
not even a track, could be seen. Lucy has been seen
many times since by different members of the family,
in the same house, always in a red frock, like one she
was very fond of wearing; the last time by my brother
Warren's little boy, who had never heard the story.
He came running in, saying that he had seen'a little
girl up-stairs, in a red dress.' He is dead now, and
such a bright boy. Since the apparition in the door,
never for one year has our family been free from the
shadow of death. Ever since, some one of us has
been dying."...




STRUGGLES WIT7  POVERTY.             19
"I don't like to think how much we are robbed of in
this world by just the conditions of our life. How much
better work I should ha~ve done, how much more success I might have won, if I had had a better opportunity
in my youth. But for the first fourteen years of my life,
it seemed as if there was actually nothing in existence
but work. The whole family struggle was just for the
right to live free from the curse of debt. My father
worked early and late; my mother's work was never
done.  The mother of nine children, with no other
help than that of their little hands, I shall always feel
that.she was taxed far beyond her strength, and died
before her time. I have never felt myself to be the
same that I was before Rhoda's death.  Rhoda and I
pined for beauty; but there was no beauty about our
homely house, but that which nature gave us. We
hungered and thirsted for knowledge; but there were
not a dozen books on our family shelf, not a library
within our reach. There was little time to study, and
had there been more, there was no chance to learn but
irn the district school-house, down the road. I never
went to any other - not very much to that. It has
been a long struggle. Now that I can afford to gather
a few beautiful things about me, it is too late. My
leisure I must spend here " (turning toward her pillow).
"Do you know" (with a pathetic smile)" I seem to
myself like a worn-out old ship, laid up from further
use. I may be repaired a little; but I'll never be seaworthy again."
The friend, looking into her face, saw the dark eyes
drowned in tears.




20        ALICE AND PHOEBE CARY.
CHAPTER II.
EARLY STRUGGLES AND SUCCESS.
THE deaths of Rhoda and Lucy Cary were followed
by the decline and passing away of their mother, who
died July 30, I835. In I837, Robert Cary married
again. His second wife was a widow, suitable in years,
and childless. Had her temperament been different,
her heart must have gone out in tenderness to the
family of young, motherless girls toward whom she
was now called to fill a mother's place. The limitations of her nature made this impossible. Such a
mental and spiritual organism as theirs she could not
comprehend, and with their attempted pursuits she had
no sympathy. All time spent in study she considered
wasted.
Alice, now seventeen, and Phcebe, thirteen, were
beginning to write down in uncertain lines the spontaneous songs which seemed to sing themselves into
being in their hearts and brains. A hard, uncultured, utilitarian woman, to whom work for worl's
sake was the ultimatum of life, could not fail to
bring unhappiness to two such spirits, nor fail to sow
discord in a household whose daily toil from birth had
been lightened and brightened by an inborn idealism,
and the unconscious presence of the very spirit of song.
Ada Carnahan says: " Alice kept busily at work dur




EZARL Y EDUCAT/O1.             2 1
ing the day, prosecuting her studies at night. This
was a fruitful source of dissension between herself
and stepmother, who could not believe that burning
candles for this purpose vias either proper or profitable,
that reading books was better than darning socks, or
writing poems better than making bread. But the
country girls, uncultured in mind and rustic in manners,
not needing to be told the immense distance which
separated them from the world of letters they longed
to enter, would not be discouraged. If they must
darn and bake, they would also study and write, and
at last publish: if candles were denied them, a saucer
of lard with a bit of rag for wick could and did serve
instead, and so, for ten long years, they studied and
wrote and published without pecuniary recompense;
often discouraged and despondent, yet never despairing; lonely and grown over-sensitive, prone to think
themselves neglected and slighted, yet hugging their
solitude in unconscious superiority; looking out to the
graveyard on the near hillside with a regret for the
past, and over and beyond it into the unknown distance with hope for the future." Phcebe, speaking of
the Cary sisters as if merely acquaintances, says:
"They saw but few books or newspapers. On a small
shelf of the cottage lay all the literary treasures of
the family. These consisted of a Bible, Hymn Book,
the' History of the Jews,'' Lewis and Clark's Travels,''Pope's Essays,' and'Charlotte Temple,' a romance
founded on fact. There might have been one or two
more, now forgotten, and there was, I know, a mutilated
novel by an unknown hand, called the' Black Penitents,'
the mystery of whose fate (for the closing pages of
the work were gone) was a life-long regret to Alice'




22         ALICE- AND PH(EBE CAR Y.
Robert and Elizabeth Cary were early converts to
Universalism, and the "Trumpet," says Phoebe, "read
by them from the publication of its first numbers till
the close of their lives, was for many years the only
paper seen by Alice, and its Poet's Corner the food of
her fancy, and source of her inspiration." Yet with
such ill selected and scanty food for the mind, and
early trained to be helpful in a household where great
needs and small resources left little time for anything
but the stern, practical part of life, these children began
very early to see visions and to dream dreams.  " At
the age of fifteen Alice was left motherless, and, in one
sense, companionless, her yet living sisters being too
old or too young to fill the place left vacant in her
life. The only sins of writing of which she seemed to
have been guilty up to this time were occasional efforts
to alter and improve the poetry in her school reader,
and a few pages of original rhymes which broke the
monotony of her copy-books. All ambition, and all
love of the pursuits of life, seemed for a time to have
died with her beloved sister. Her walks, which were
now solitary, generally terminated at the little family
burial-place, on a green hill that rose in sight of home."
All these conditions and influences in her life must be
considered in measuring her success, or in estimating
the quality of her work. One of the severest criticisms
passed on her early poems was that they were full
of graves. Remembering the bereaved and lonely girl
whose daily walk ended in the graveyard on the hillside, where her mother and sisters slept, how could her
early song escape the shadow of death and the vibration of sorrow? With her, it was the utterance of
actual loss, not the morbid sentimentalism of poetic




FIRST VENTURE'S.              23
youth. In after years, Phcebe often spoke oi' the new
keen sensation of delight which she felt when, for the
first time, she saw her own verses in print. " O, if they
could only look like that now," she said to me within
a year of her death; "if they only could look like
that now, it would be better than money."  She was
but fourteen when, without consulting even Alice, she
sent a poem in secret to a Boston newspaper, and knew
nothing of its acceptance, till to her astonishment
she saw it copied in a home (Cincinnati) paper.
She laughed and cried over it. "I did not care any
more if I were poor, or my clothes plain. Somebody
cared enough for my verses to print them, and I was
happy. I looked with compassion on my schoolmates.
You may know more than I do, I thought, but you
can't write verses that are printed in a newspaper; but
I kept my joy and triumph to myself."
Meanwhile Robert Cary built a new house on the
farm, to which he removed with his second wife, leaving
Alice and Phcebe, their two brothers, and young sister
Elmina, to live together in the old home. By this time
newspapers and magazines, with a few new books, including the standard English poets, were added to the
cottage library, while several clergymen and other persons of culture coming into the rural neighborhood,
brought new society and more congenial associations
to the sisters. Alice had begun to publish, and without hope of present reward was sending her verses
through the land astray, they chiefly finding shelter ill
the periodicals and journals of the Universalist Church,
with which she was most familiar, and in the daily and
weekly journals of Cincinnati. The Boston "Ladies'
Repository," the " Ladies' Repository" of Cincinnati,




24        ALICE AND PHrEBE CARY.
and "Graham's Magazine," were among the leading
magazines which accepted and published her earlier
verses. Phcebe says: " Alice's first literary adventure
appeared in the' Sentinel' (now' Star of the West'),
published in Cincinnati. It was entitled' The Child
of Sorrow,' and was written in her eighteenth year.
The' Star,' with the exception of an occasional contribution to some of the dailies of the same city, was
for many years her only medium of publication. After
the establishing of the' National Era' at Washington
in I847, she wrote poetry regularly for its columns, and
here she first tried her hand at prose, in a series of
stories under a fictitious name. From Dr. Bailey of
the' Era' she received the first money ever earned
by her p~en —ten dollars sent as a gratuity, when she
had written for him some months. She afterwards
made a regular engagement to furnish him with contributions to his paper for *a small stipulated sum."
Even now the real note of a natural singer will penetrate through all the noise of our day, and arrest the
step and fix the ear of many a pilgrim amid the multitude. This was far more strikingly the fact in I850-5I.
Poets, so called, then were not so plenty as now; the
congregation of singers so much smaller, any new voice
Aolding in its compass one sweet note was heard and
recognized at once. There had come a lull in the
national struggles.  The tremendous events which
have absorbed the emotion and consumed the energies
of the nation for the last decade were only just beginning to show their first faint portents. Men of letters
were at leisure, and ready to listen to any new voice in
literature. Indeed, they were anxious and eager to see
take form and substance in this country an American




ELICE CARY'S EAR'LY POETRY.           25
literature which should be acknowledged and honored
abroad. Judging by the books of American authors
which he has left behind, no one at that time could
have been quite so much on the alert for new American poets and poetesses as Dr. Rufus WM. Griswold.
He generously set amid his "American Female Writers " names which perished like morning-glories, after
their first outburst of song. He could not fail, then,
to hear with delight those sweet strains of untutored music breaking from that valley of the West,
heard now across all the land. The ballads and lyrics
written by that saucer of lard with its rag flame, in the
hours when others slept, were bringing back at last
true echoes and sympathetic responses from kindred
souls, throbbing out in the great world of which as yet
these young singers knew nothing. Alice's "Pictures
of Memory " had already been pronounced by Edgar
Allan Poe to be one of the most musically perfect
lyrics in the English language. The names of Alice
and Phcebe Cary in the corners of newspapers and
magazines, with the songs which followed, had fixed
the attention and won the affection of some of the best
minds and hearts in the land. Men of letters, among
them John G. Whittier, had written the sisters words
of appreciation and encouragement. In I849, the editor of the " Tribune," Horace Greeley, visited them in
their own home, and thus speaks of the interview: " I
found them, on my first visit to Cincinnati, early in
the summer of I849; and the afternoon spent in their
tidy cottage on'Walnut Hills,' seven miles out of the
city, in the company of congenial spirits, since departed,
is among the greenest oases in my recollection of
scenes and events long past."




26         ALICE AND PH(EBE CARY.
In May, I849, Phcebe writes: " Alice and - have
been very busy collecting and revising all our published
poems, to send to New York. Rev. R. IW. Griswold,
quite a noted author, is going to publish them for us
this summer, and we are to receive for them a hundred
dollars. I don't know as I feel better or worse, as I
don't think it will do us much good, or any one else.
This little volume, entitled  "Poems of Alice and
Phcebe Cary," published by Moss and Brother, of
Philadelphia, was the first condensed result of their
twelve years of study, privation, aspiration, labor, sorrow, and youth.
To the year i850, Alice and Phcebe had never met
any of their. Eastern friends save Mr. Greeley. But
after the publication of their little book, they went
forth together to the land of promise, and beheld face
to face, for the first time, the sympathetic souls who
had sent them so many words of encouragement and
praise. They went first to New York, from thence to
Boston, and from Boston these women minstrels took
their way to Amesbury, and all unknown, save by
name, knocked at the door of the poet Whittier.  Mr.
Whittier has commemorated that visit by his touching
poem of' The Singer," published after the death of
Alice.
Years since (but names to me before),
Two sisters sought at eve my door;
Two song-birds wandering from their nest,
A gray old farm-house in the West.
Timid and young, the elder had
Even then a smile too sweetly sad;
The crown of pain that all must wear
Too early pressed her midnight hair.




" THE  SINGER."
Yet, ere the summer eve grew long,
Her modest lips were sweet with song;
A memory haunted all her words
Of clover-fields and singing-birds.
Her dark, dilating eyes expressed
The broad horizons of the West;
Her speech dropped prairie flowers; the gold
Of harvest wheat about her rolled.
Fore-doomed to song she seemed to me;
I queried not with destiny:
I knew the trial and the need,
Yet all the more, I said, God speed!
What could I other than I did?
Could I a singing-bird forbid?
Deny the wind-stirred leaf? Rebuke
The music of the forest brook?
She went with morning from my door;
But left me richer than before:
T henceforth I knew her voice of cheer,
The welcome of her partial ear.
Years passed; through all the land her name
A pleasant household word became;
All felt behind the singer stood
A sweet and gracious womanhood.
Her life was earnest work, not play;
Her tired feet climbed a weary way;
And even through her lightest strain
We heard an undertone of pain.
Unseen of her, her fair fame grew,
The good she did she rarely knew,
Unguessed of her in life the love
That rained its tears her grave above.




28        ALICE AN)D PHcEBE CARY.
The friendship thus sympathetically begun between
these tender, upright souls never waned while human
life endured. To their last hour, Alice and Phcebe
cherished for this great poet and good man the affection and devotion of sisters. Of this first visit Alice
wrote: " I like him very much, and was sorry to say
good-by." After an absence of three months the sis
ters returned to the West, which was nevermore to be
their home.
In November of the same year (I85o), Alice Cary,
bioken in health, sad in spirit, with little money,
but with a will which no difficulty could daunt, an
energy and patience which no pain or sorrow could
overcome, started alone to seek her fortune, and to
make for herself a place and home in the city of New
York. Referring to this the year before her death, she
said: " Ignorance stood me in the stead of courage.
Had I known the great world as I have learned it
since, I should not have dared; but I didn't. Thus I
came."
The intellectual life of neither man nor woman can
be justly judged without a knowledge of the conditions
which impelled that life and gave to it sh'ape and substance. Alice Cary felt within her soul the divine
impulse of genius, but hers was essentially a feminine
soul, shy, loving, full of longings for home, overburdened with tenderness, capable of an unselfish, lifelong devotion to one. Whatever her mental or spiritual gifts, no mere ambition could ever have borne such
a woman out into the world to seek and to make her
fortune alone. Had Alice Cary married the man whom
she then loved, she would never have come to New York
at all, to coin the rare gifts of her brain and soul into




ALICE'S SOLITARY LO VE.           a9
money for shelter and bread. Business interests had
brought into her western neighborhood a man at that
time much her superior in years, culture, and fortune.
Naturally he sought the society of a young, lovely
woman so superior to her surroundings and associations. To Alice he was the man of men. It is doubt
ful if the most richly endowed man of the world whom
she met afterwards in her larger sphere, ever wore to
her the splendor of manhood which invested this king
of her youth. Alice Cary loved this man, and in the
profoundest sense she never loved another.. A proud
and prosperous family brought all their pride and
power to bear on a son, to prevent his marrying a girl
to them uneducated, rustic, and poor. "I waited for
one who never came back," she said. " Yet I believed
he would come, till I read in a paper his marriage to
another.  Can you think what life would be -loving
one, waiting for one who would never come! "
He did come at last. His wife had died. Alice
was dying. The gray-haired man sat down beside the
gray-haired woman. Life had dealt prosperously with
him, as is its wont with men. Suffering and death had
taken all from  her save the lustre of her wondrous
eyes. From her wan and wasted face they shone
upon him full of tenderness and youth. Thus they
met with life behind them - they who parted plighted
lovers when life was young. He was the man whom
she forgave for her blighted and weary life, with a
smile of parting as divine as ever lit the face of
woman.
Alice Cary's was no weak nature. All its fine feminine gold was set in a will of iron. All its deep
wells of tenderness were walled and held in by jus.




30         ALICE ANRD PH(EBE CAR Y.
tice, common sense, and unyielding integrity.  She
outlived that sorrowful youth to speak of it with pity,
to drop a silent tear upon its memory as if it were the
youth of another person. She lived to become mtreeminently one of the world's workers.  She had many
and flattering offers of marriage, but she never entered
into a second engagement. With all her capacity for
affection, hers was an eclectic and solitary soul. He
who by the very patent of his nature was more to her
than any other being could be, passed out from her
life, but no other one ever took his place.
It was in this desolation of her youth that Alice Cary
resolved to go to New York, and make a home and
life-work for herself. Many sympathetic souls had
sent back answering echoes to her songs. We may
believe that to her lonely heart the voice of human
praise was sweet. If it could not recall the first promise of her morning, at least it foretold that hers would
be a busy, workful, and successful day. It cannot be
said that she found herself alone in New York, for,
from the first, her genius and true womanliness gathered around her a small circle of devoted friends.
Women loved her,
"And men, who toiled in storm and sun,
Found her their meet companion."
In the spring of I85I, she wrote to her sisters to
join her, and in April, Phcebe and her lovely young
sister, then scarcely twenty years of age, left Cincinnati
and came to Alice. Of this departure of the three
from the home nest, Phcebe says: "Without advice
or counsel of any but themselves, they resolved to
coime to New York, and after the manner cf children




THE SUPPORT THAT POE TRY GIVES.  31
in the story-book, seek their fortune. Many sad and
trying changes had come to the family, and home was
not what it had been. They had comparative youth,
though they were much older in years than in experience and knowledge of the world; they had pleasant
visions of a home and name that might be earned by
literary labor, and so the next spring the bold venture
was made.
" Living in a very economical and humble way, writing for whatever papers would accept their contributions, and taking any remuneration that was offered,
however small, they did from the first somehow manage to live without debt, and with little obligation."
To appreciate more perfectly the industry and frugality which enabled them to do this, we must know how
much smaller, at that time, was the reward for all literary labor, than it is now. Speaking of their coming
to make New York their home, in his sketch of the
sisters in the " Eminent Women of the Age," Horace
Greeley says:" I do not know at whose suggestion they resolved
to migrate to this city, and attempt to live here by literary labor; it surely was not mine. If my judgment
was ever invoked, I am sure I must have responded
that the hazard seemed to me too great, the inducements inadequate. And, before you dissent from this
opinion, be pleased to remember that we had then
scarcely any periodical literature worthy of the name
outsi;e of the political and commercial journals. I
doubt that so much money was paid, in thle aggregate,
for contributions to all the magazines and weeklies
issued from this city, as were paid in I870 by the'Ledger' alone. Our magnificent system of dissem



32        ALICE AND PHCEBE CAR Y.
ination by means of railroad trains and news coinpa
nies was then in its infancy; when I started'The
New Yorker,' fifteen years earlier, it had no existence.
It impeaches neither the discrimination, the justice,
nor the enterprise, of the publishers of I850, to say
that they hardfly paid for contributions a tithe of the
prices now freely accorded to favorite writers; they
paid what they could. I remember seeing Longfellow's
grand'Endymion' received in manuscript at the office
of a popular and successful weekly, which paid fifteen
dollars for it; a hundred such would now be quickly
taken at one hundred and fifty dollars each, and the
purchasers would look anxiously about them for more.
"Alice and Phcebe came among us, as I have said,
in i850. They hired two or three modest rooms, in
an unfashionable neighborhood, and set to work resolutely to earn a living by the pen."
The secret of the rare material success which attended them from the beginning is to be found in the
fact that from the first they began to make a home:
also in the fact that they possessed every attribute of
character and habit necessary to the making of one.
They had. an unfeigned horror of "boarding." Any
friend of theirs ever compelled to stay in a boarding
house was sure of an extra portion of their commiseration and sympathy. A home they must have,
albeit it was up two flights of stairs. To the maintenance of this home they brought industry, frugality, and
a hatred of debt. If they had money but to pay for a
crust, then a crust must suffice. With their inflexible
integrity they believed that they had no right to more,
till they had money to pay for that more. Thus fromn
the beginning to the end they always lived within their




MR. GREELE Y'S FRIENDSHIP.           33
income. They never wore or had anything better than
they could afford. With true feminine instinct, they
made their little "flat" take on at once the cosiest
look of home. A man-genius seeking the city, as they
did, of course would have taken refuge in a boardinghouse attic, and "enjoyed himself" in writing poems
and leaders amid dirt and forlornity. Not so these
women-poets. I have heard Alice tell how she papered
one room with her own hands, and Phcebe how she
painted the doors, framed the pictures, and " brightened
up" things generally. Thus from the first they had a
home, and by the very magnetism that made it bright,
cheery, in truth a home, they drew around them friends
who were their friends no less till they breathed their
last sigh. O0e of these was Mr. Greeley. He always
cherished for these sisters three the respect and affection which every true man instinctively feels for the
true women who have their being within the circle of
his life. In their friendship one religious faith, kindred pursuits, mutual friends, and long association
strengthened and cemented the fraternal bond to the
last. Mr. Greeley himself thus refers to their early
tea-parties.
"Being already an acquaintance, I called on the
sisters soon after they had set up their household gods
among us, and met them at intervals thereafter at
their home or at the houses of mutual friends. Their
parlor was not so large as some others, but quite as
neat and cheerful; and the few literary persons, or
artists, who occasionally met at their informal invitation, to discuss with them a cup of tea and the newest
books, poems, and events, might have found many
more pretentious, but few more enjoyable gatherings.
15




34        ALICE AND PH(EBE CARY.
I have a dim recollection that the first of these little
tea-parties was held up two flights of stairs, in one of
the less fashionable sections of the city; but good
things were said there that I recall with pleasure yet;
while of some of the company, on whom I have not
since set eyes, I cherish a pleasant and grateful remembrance. As their circumstances gradually, though
slowly improved, by dint of diligent industry and
judicious economy, they occupied more eligible quarters; and the modest dwelling they have for some
years owned and improved, in the very heart of this
emporium, has long been known to the literary guild,
as combining one of the best private libraries with the
sunniest drawing-room (even by gas-light) to be found
between King's Bridge and the Battery."
Thus began in I850-5I the life and work of Alice
and Phcebe Cary in New York. The next year saw
the coming out of Alice's first series of " Clovernook
Papers." They were full of the freshness and fragrance
of her native fields; full of simple, original, graphic
pictures of the country life, and the men and women
whom she knew best; full of the exquisite touches of
a spontaneous, child-like genius, and they were gathered up as eagerly by the public as the children gather
wild flowers. Their very simplicity and freshness won
all hearts. They sold largely in this country and in
Great Britain. English critics bestowed' on them the
highest and most discriminating praise, as pure products of American life and genius, while the press of
this country universally acknowledged their delicious
simplicity and originality. Alice published a second
series in i853, with unabated success, while in I854,
Ticknor and Fields published the " Clovernook Chilo




ALICE CAARY'S PROSE.4NAD POETRY.   35
dren," which were as popular with younger readers, as
the "Papers " had been with their elders. In I853,
"ILyra and Other Poems, by Alice Cary," were pub.
lished by Redfield. This volume called out some
severe criticisms on the uniform sadness of its tone;
one especially in "Putnam's Monthly," which caused
Alice much pain. Nevertheless it was a successful
book, and was brought out a second time complete,
with the addition of "The Maiden of Tlascala," a
narrative poem of seventy-two pages, by Ticknor and
Fields, in I855. Alice's first novel, " Hagar, a Story
of To-Day," was written for and appeared in the
" Cincinnati Commercial," and was afterwards brought
out by Redfield in I852. "Married, Not Mated,"
appeared in I856. "Pictures of Country Life, by
Alice Cary," were published by Derby and Jackson in
I859. This book reproduced much of the freshness,
the exquisite grace and naturalness, of her "Clovernook
Papers." She was free on her native heath, when
she painted rural scenery and rural life. These
Papers were translated into French in Paris, and
"The Literary Gazette" (London), which is not accustomed to flatter American authors, said: "Every
tale in this book might be selected as evidence of
some new beauty or unhackneyed grace. There is
no.hing feeble, nothing vulgar, and, above all, nothing
unnatural or melodramatic. To the analytical subtlety and marvelous naturalness of the French school
of romance she has added the purity and idealization
of the home affections and home life belonging to the
English, giving to both the American richness of color
and vigor of outline, and her own individual powel
and loveliness."




36        ALICE AND PHEBEE CAR Y.
"Lyrics and Hymns," with portrait, beautifully
bound and illustrated, which still remain the standard
selection of her poems, were issued by Hurd and
HIoughton, in I866. In i86-, "The Lover's Diary,"
in exquisite form, and "Snow Berries, A Book for
Young Folks," were bought by Ticknor and Fields.
The same year a novel, "The Bishop's Son," which
first appeared in the "Springfield (Mass.) Republican," was published by Carleton, New York. "Th.e
Born Thrall,"' a novel in which Alice hoped to embody
her deepest thoughts and maturest convictions concerning the sorrows and wrongs of woman, was interrupted by her last sickness, while passing through the
"Revolution," and never finished. She left, beside, a
completed novel in manuscript, not yet published.
Thus, beside writing constantly for " Harper's Magazine," the " Atlantic Monthly," " Riverside Magazine,"
"New York Ledger," " New York Weekly," "New
York Independent," "Packard's Monthly," and chance
periodicals innumerable, which entreated her name for
their pages, the active brain and soul of Alice Cary in
twenty years produced eleven volumes, every word and
thought of which was wrought from her own being, and
every line of which was written by her own hand. In
the same number of years, Phoebe, beside aiding in
the editing of several books, the most important of
which was "Hymns for All Christians," published by
HIurd and Houghton in I869, brought out "Poems and
Parodies," published by Ticknor and Fields, I854, and
" Poems of Faith, Hope, and Love," issued by Hurd
and Houghton in i868. Beside, Alice and Phcebe
left, at their death, poems enough uncollected to give
each name two added volumes, one of each a book of




LITERARY REMAINS.                 31
Child-Poems. The disparity in the actual intellectual
product of the two sisters, in the same number of
years, is very' triking. It is the result, not so much of
mental inequality, as of the compelling will, energy,
industry, and the patience of labor of the elder sister.




38        ALICE AND PHEBE CARY.
CHAPTER III.
THEIR HOME. - HABITS OF LIFE AND OF LABOR. - THE
SUMMER OF I869.
BEFORE i856, Alice and Phcebe had removed to the
pretty house in Twentieth Street, which was destined
to be their last earthly home. Within a short time
Alice bought this house, and was its sole owner at the
time of her death.  An English writer has said:
" Single women can do little to form a circle; they can
but adorn one when found."  This certainly was never
true of the two single women whose earthly days we
are tracing. From the beginning, the house in Twentieth Street became the centre of one of the choicest
and most cosmopolitan circles in New York. The
two sisters drew about them not only the best, but
the  most genial minds.  True men and women
equally found in each, companion, counselor, and
friend. They met every true woman that came to
them with sympathy and tenderness, feeling that they
shared with her all the mutual toils and sorrows of
womanhood. They met every true man, as brother,
with an open, honest, believing gaze. Intensely interested in all great public questions, loving their
country, devoted to it, devoted to everything good
and true; alive to everything of interest in politics,
religion, literature, and society; the one pensive and




LITERAR Y HABITS.               39
tender, the other witty and gay, men of refinement,
culture, and heart found in them the most delightful
companions.  Beside (which was much), no man welcome, was afraid to go to their house. Independent
in their industry and resources, they asked few favors.'They had no "designs," even the most harmless, cn
any living man.  Men the most marriageable, or
unmarriageable, could visit the Carys without fear or
question. The atmosphere of the house was transparent as the sunshine.  They loved women, they
delighted in the society of agreeable men, and fearlessly said so. The weekly refreshment of the house
was hospitality, its daily habit, labor. I have never
known any other woman so systematically and persistently industrious as Alice Cary. Hers was truly the
genius of patience. No obstacle ever daunted it, no
pain ever stilled it, no weariness ever overcame it, till
the last weariness of death. As Phcebe said, " The
pen literally fell from her hand at last," and only then,
because in the valley of the shadow of death, which
she had already entered, she could no longer see to
trace the trembling, uncertain lines. But few men or
women could look back upon fifty years of more persistent industry. I doubt if she esTer kept a diary, or
wrote down a rule for her life. She did not need to
do so; her life itself was the rule. There was a beautiful, yet touching uniformity in her days.  Her pleasure was her labor.  Of rest, recreation, amusement,
as other women sought these, she knew almo'st nothing.
Her rest and recreation were the intervals from pain,
in which she could labor. It was not always the labor
of writing. No, sometimes it was making A cap, or
trimming a bonnet, or rummaging to the depths of




40        ALICE AND PH(EBE -CARk.
feminine boxes; yet no less it was work of some sort,
never play. The only hour of rest any day brought,
was the hour after dinner, the twilight hour, when one
sister always came to the other's room, and with folded
hands and low voices they talked over, almost always,
the past, the friends loved, scattered, or gone before.
The morning might be for mirth, but the evening
belonged to memory. All Alice's personal surroundings were dainty and womanly.  It was no dreary
den, in which she thought and wrought. It was a
sunny room over the library, running the depth of the
house, with windows at both ends. A carpet of woody
tints, relieved with scarlet flowers, covered the floor.
On the pale walls, tinted a delicate green, hung pictures, all of which had to her some personal association. Over the mantel hung an oil painting, called
"Early Sorrow," the picture of a poor, wind-beaten
young girl, her yellow hair blown about her face, and
the rain of sorrow in her eyes, painted by a struggling,
unfortunate artist, whom Alice had done more to help
and encourage, than all other persons in the world.
Autumn leaves and sea-mosses imprisoned in frames,
with rich Bohemian vases, adorned the black marble mantel.  Beside the back window, within the
alcove for which it had been expressly made, stood the
bed, her couch of suffering and musing, and on which
she died. The bedstead was of rosewood traced with
a band of coral, and set with arabesques of gilt; its
white coverlet and pillow-cases edged with delicate
lace. Above it hung an exquisite engraving of Cupid,
the gift of Mrs. Greeley, brought by her from Paris.
At the foot of the bed hung a colored engraving of
Rosa Bonheur's " Oxen," a farmer ploughing down the




ALICE'S ROOM.                 41
furrows of a rolling field. "It rests me," she would
say; "I look at it, and live over my youth." Often in
the afternoon, while taking her half hour's rest from
work, as she leaned back among the pillows, the dark
eyes were lifted and fixed upon this picture. In the
winter, curtains of fawn-colored satin, edged and tasseled with soft red, shaded this alcove from the front
room. The front windows were hung with the same.
Between them, a mirror reached from floor to ceiling.
Beside one of these windows stood Alice's desk.
It was of rosewood, finely finished and commodious;
a bureau, desk, and book-case combined. The drawers
below were the receptacle of her beloved India shawls,
for which she.had the same love that some women
have for diamonds, and others for rare paintings. The
drawer of her desk contained her manuscript papers; the
shelves above, the books that she was reading, and her
books of reference; while above all hung a favorite
landscape in water-colors. On the other side of the
mantel-piece stood corresponding bureau and shelves,
filled with books. Here were copies of her own and
Phcebe's works, which never appeared in the library
or drawing-room below. Above these book-shelves,
hung an autumn landscape. On one side of the alcove
there was an engraving of Correggio's " Christ; " on the
other, a copy of " The Huguenot Lovers."  Beside the
hall door, opposite her desk, there hung a portrait in
oil of their father, by the hand which painted " Early
Sorrow;" on the other side of the door there was at
one time a portrait of Phcebe. Easy chairs and footstools completed the furniture of this room, in which
Alice Cary lived for fifteen years, the room in whict
she slowly and sadly relinquished life, and in which
at last she died.




42        ALICE ANAD PIHUEBE CAR Y.
At the opposite end of the hall was a room which corresponded exactly with that of Alice, the room which
had been Elmina's, in which she died, and which from
her death was "Phcebe's room."  Rich purple curtains used to hang from the alcove, shading the face
of the lovely sufferer, and curtains of the same hue
draped the windows. But Phcebe eschewed all draperies, and, summer or winter, nothing denser than
white shades and the thinnest of lace curtains hung
between her and the strongest sunshine. A bright red
carpet, relieved by small medallions, covered the floor.
Over the mantel-piece for a long time hung a superb
copy of "The Huguenot Lovers," in a gilt frame. This
was replaced at last by a copy of Tltrner, in oil, a
resplendent Venetian scene. Beside the alcove'hung
the chromo of Whittier's "Barefoot Boy," which was
a great favorite with Phcebe, while clusters of flowers
in lithograph and water-colors, added to the bright
cheerfulness of the room. Between the windows was
a full length mirror; on one side of the room was
Phcebe's desk, of the same form and wood, though of
a smaller size than that of Alice. In its appointments
it was a perfect model of neatness. It was always
absolutely in order; while, beside books, its shelves
were ornamented with vases and other pretty trinkets.
On the opposite side of the room stood a table, the
receptacle of the latest newspapers, magazines, and
novels, that, like the desk, was ever in order, and in
addition to its freight of literature always made room
for a work-basket well stocked with spools, scissors,
and all the implements of an accomplished needlewoman.
Both sisters always retained their country habit of




DAIL Y HABITS.                43
retiring and rising early; they were rarely out of bed
after ten at night, and more rarely in it after six of
the morning. Till the summer of I869, Alice always
rose and went to market, Phcebe getting up as early
and going to her sewing. From that time till her
death, Phoebe did the marketing, and the purchases
of the day were all made before breakfast. From that
date, though not equal to the exertion of dressing and
going out, Alice arose no less early.
She was often at her desk by five o'clock A. M.,
rarely later than six. Not a week that she did not
more than once tell us at the breakfast table that she
had already written a poem that morning, sometimes
more than one. Waking in the night, or before light,
it was often her solace to weave her songs while others
slept; and the first thing she did on rising was to
write them  down from  memory.  During  Elmina's
decline it had been the custom  of Alice and Phcebe
to meet the first thing in the morning by her bed, to
ask the dear one how she had rested, and to begin the
communion of the day. From her death it was the habit
of Phcebe to go directly to Alice as soon as she arose.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed, each-would tell
the story of her night, though it was Alice who, being
very wakeful, really had a story of pains and thoughts
and dreams to tell.  I spent the summer, autumn, and
a part of the winter of i869 with them, and the memories of those days are as unique as they are precious.
"W' e three" met each morning at the breakfast table,
in that pleasant, pictured dining-room, which so many
remember.  The same dainty china which made the
Sunday evening teas so appetizing, made the breakfast table beautiful; often with the addition of a vase




44        ALICE AND PHREBE CARLY.
full of fresh flowers, brought by Phcebe from market.,If Alice was able to be there at all, she had been able
before coming down to deck her abundant locks with
a dainty morning cap, brightened with pink ribbons,
and, in her white robe and breakfast shawl, with its
brilliant border, never looked lovelier than when pouring coffee for two ardent adorers of her own sex.
She was always her brightest at this time. She had
already done work enough to promise well for the rest
of her day. She was glad to see us, glad to be able
to be there, ready to tell us each our fortune anew,
casting our horoscope afresh in her teacup each morning. Phcebe, in her street dress, just home from
market, " had seen a sight," and had something funny
to tell. More, she had any amount of funny things to
tell. The wittiest Phcebe Cary that ever made delightful an evening drawing-room was tame, compared
with this Phcebe Cary of the breakfast table, with only
two women to listen to her, and to laugh till they cried
and had strength to laugh no longer, over her irresistible remarks, which she made with the assumed solemnity of an owl. Then came the morning journals
and the mail; and with discussing the state of the
nation, growing "wrought up " over wrong and injustice everywhere, sharing the pleasant gossip of friends,
the breakfast was often lengthened to a nearly two
hours' sitting. Alice then went to the kitchen to
order her household for the day, when each of the
three went to the silence and labor of her own room,
seeing-no more of each other, unless meeting over a
chance cup of tea at lunch, till they reassembled at
the dinner table, each to tell the pleasant part of
the story of her day, and to repeat the delightful in



READING POEM11S.               45
tercourse of the morning. After dinner there was a
general adjournment to Alice's or Phcebe's room, as it
might happen.  It was at this time, usually, that each
sister read to the other the poem that she had written
or corrected and copied that day. I can see Phcebe
now, softly opening the door with her neat manuscript
in her hand.  Sitting down beside Alice's couch, in
a shy, deprecating, modest fashion, most winsome to
behold, she would read in low voice the poem. We
never criticised it. The appealing tones of our reader
made the very thoughts of criticism impossible. If it
was funny, we laughed; if it was sad, we cried, and
our reader with us; and in either case she was entirely satisfied with the appreciation of her audience.
Then Alice would slowly go to her desk, draw forth
tumbled sheets of manuscript, the opposite of Phcebe's
in their chirography, and, settling in her easy-chair,
begin in a low, crooning tone, one of those quaint, wild
ballads of hers, which long before had made her preeminently the balladist of America. Many of these
I cannot see now without seeming to hear again the
thrilling vibration of her voice, as we heard it when
she read the song herself the very day that it flowed
from heart and pen. Any time or anywhere, if I listen,
I can hear her say, --
"In the stormy waters of Gallaway
My boat had been idle the livelong day,
Tossing and tumbling to and fro,
For the wind was high and the tide was low.
"' The tide was low and the wind was high,
And we were heavy, my heart and I,
For not a traveller, all the day,
Had crossed the ferry of Gallaway."




46         ALICE AND PHtIEBE CARY".
Phcebe's lays, when grave or sad, almost always
savored of her native soil and home life; but Alice, onr
the rhythm of her lyric, would bear us far out from the
little room and the roaring streets, into the very lane
of romance, to the days of chivalry and "flower)
tapestrie." The knight and lady, the crumbling castle,
the tumbling and rushing sea, became for the moment
as real to us as to her.
The house below was as attractive as above.
A small, richly stained window at the head of the
stairs flooded the small hall with gorgeous light. This
hall was frescoed in panels of oak; floor and stairs
covered with Brussels carpet of oak and scarlet tints.
On its walls hung colored engravings of oxen, cows,
and horses ploughing a field.
To the right of the front entrance stood, wide open,
the door of the spacious parlor, within whose walls for
more than fifteen years gathered weekly so many gifted
and congenial souls. This parlor was a large square
room with five windows, two back and two front, with
a deep bay-window between. These windows were
hung with lace, delicately embroidered, from which
were looped back curtains of pale green brocatelle
lined with white silk. On either embrasure of the baywindow, in Gothic, gold illuminated frames, stood two
altar pieces, about three feet high, from an old church
in Milan, each bearing on a field of gold an angel in
azure and rosy vestments, one playing on a dulcimer,
the other holding a golden palm. In antique letters
in black, beneath, was written on one tablet Psalm cl.
3, and on the other, the succeeding verse of the same.
A large oil-painting of sheep lying on a hillside hung
at one time over the white marble mantel; later, a fine




THE PARLOR.                  47
Venetian scene from Turner, while on either side,
very tall vases of ruby glass threw a wine-like hue on
the silvery wall. On one side of the mantel there was
a rosewood 6tag'ere, lined with mirrors, and decorated
with vases and books. On the other, side there was
an exquisite copy in oil of Guido's " Aurora," brought
by a friend from Italy. Opposite the bay-window a
very broad mirror rose from floor to ceiling.
Lovely Madonnas and other rare paintings covered
the walls, some of which had been placed there by
friends who had no proper room for them. The carpet was of velvet in deep crimson and green; the chairs
and sofas, which were luxurious, were also cushioned
in velvet of various blending hues.
The most remarkable article in the room was the
large centre table, made of many thousand mosaics of
inlaid wood, each in its natural tint. Clusters of pansies, of the most perfect outline and hue, formed the
border of the table, while the extreme edge was inlaid
in tints scarce wider than a thread. It was a work of
endless patience, and of the finest art. It was made
by a poor Hungarian artist, who used nearly a whole
lifetime in this work of his hands. He brought it to
this. country hoping to realize for it a large sum, but
was compelled by necessity, at last, to part with it for
a small amount.  It passed from various owners
before it was bought by Alice Cary and placed in her
parlor as its central shrine, around which gathered
her choicest friends. Among the few books lying on
a small stand within the bay-window was " Ballads of
New England," written and presented by Whittier,
with this inscription:



48         ALICE AND PHEZBE CARY.
TO ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY,
Who from the farm-field singing came,
The song whose echo now is fame,
And to the great false city took
The honest hearts of Clovernook,
And made their home beside the sea
The trysting-place of Liberty.
From their old friend,
JOHN G. WVHITTIER.
Chrisrzmas, I869.
Another was a dainty book in green and gold,
entitled "The  Golden Wedding,"  presented  "To
Phoebe Cary, with the kind regards of Joseph and
Rebecca W. Taylor," the parents of Bayard Taylor.
Across the hall, opposite the parlor, was the library,
which so many will remember as the very penetrale of
this home, in which " the precious few " were so wont
to gather for converse and choice communion.  These
words recall one wild night of rain and storm, which
had hindered everybody else from coming but Mr.
Greeley, when hie said, in the hour before church,
"Come, girls, let us read'Morte d'Arthur;" and,
taking Tennyson from the book-case, read from beginning to end aloud, " The Passing of Arthur."  Mr.
Greeley's tones, full of deep feeling, I shall hear while
memory endures, as he read:" Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?
For now I see the true old times are dead,
When every morning brought a noble chance,
And every chance brought out a noble knight.
But when the whole ROUND TABLE is dissolved,
Which was an image of the mighty world;




MR. GREELE IT'S READING.                 49
And I, the last, go forth companionless,
And the days darken round me, and the years,
Among new men, strange fackes, other minds."
And slowly answered Arthur from the barge:
"The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfills Himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within Himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer,
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
But now farewell. I am going a long way -
With these thou sedst - if indeed I go -
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)
To the island-valley of Avilion;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawns
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."
Alice settled far back in her easy-chair, listening
with  eloquent eyes.  Phcebe sat on a low  hassock,
playing with the long, necklace on her neck, every
bead of which marked a friend's remembrance.  Dear
sisters i passed forever beyond the storm, we whom
the storm even here has parted, may at least recall
that hour of peace shared together i
This little library was furnished in oak, its walls
4




50o       ALICE AND.dHGEBE CARY.
frescoed in oak with panels of maroon shaded to crimson. Two windows faced the street, the opposite end
being nearly taken up by a large window of stained
glass in which gold and sapphire lights commingled.
Opposite the hall door was a black marble mantel
surmounted by a mirror set in ebony and gold. On
either side, covering the entire length of the room, were
open oaken book-shelves, filled with over a thousand
volumes, the larger proportion handsome library editions of the standard books of the world. The windows
were hung with satin curtains of an oaken tinge edged
with maroon. Between them was a copy of the Cary
coat-of-arms, of which Phcebe was so fond, richly
framed. Below, a little gem in oil, of a Northampton
(Massachusetts) scene, hung over a small table covered with a crimson cloth, on which lay a very large
Family Bible. To the left of the front windows hung
an oil portrait of Madame Le Brun, the famous French
artist, from an original painting by herself, now hanging in the Florentine Museum. On the other side of
the door hung, in oval frames, the portraits of Alice and
Phcebe, painted not long after their arrival in  New
York. The marble-topped table before the stained
glass window was piled with costly books, chiefly
souvenirs from friends.  Two deep arm-chairs were
near, one cushioned in green, the other in blue velvet;
the green, Alice's chair; the blue, Phcebe's. The
Brussels carpet was the exact counterpart of the walls,
shaded in oak, maroon, and crimson. You have discovered before now, that the Cary home was never
furnished by an upholsterer? Its furniture, its trinkets
and treasures, were the combined accumulation of
twenty years. It was filled with keepsakes from friends,




ALICE'S HOUSEKEEPING.              51
and some of its choicest articles had been bought at
intervals, as she could afford to do so, by Alice at
Marley's shop for antique furniture on Broadway,
which she took extreme pleasure in visiting. Here,
also, she could gratify her taste for old exquisite china,
in which she took the keenest delight. Many who
drank tea with her have not forgotten the delicate, egglike cups. out of which they drank it. She had a china
tea-set in her possession over a hundred years old.
Many have the impression that Phcebe was the housekeeper of this home. Until the summer of I869, this
was in no sense true. Beyond the occasional spontaneous preparation of a favorite dish, Phcebe had no
care of the house. For nearly twenty years Alice
arose, went to market, and laid out the entire household plan of the day, before Phcebe appeared at breakfast.
Alice Cary managed her house with quiet system
and without ado. Her home was beautifully kept, the
kitchen and garret as perfect in their appointments
and as perfect in their order as her parlor. She was
an indulgent mistress, respecting the rights of every
person in her household as much as her own, and two
servants (sisters) who were with her when she died,
one of whom closed Phcebe's eyes in death, lived with
her many years.
Phoebe did not "take to housework," but was a
very queen of the needle. Over work-basket and cutting-board she reigned supreme, and here held Alice
at disadvantage. Alice could trim a bonnet or make
a cap to perfection; with these, the creative quality of
her needle ended. A dress subdued her, and brought
her a humble suppliant to the sewing-throne of Phoebe.




52          ALICE AND PHOEBE CAR Y.
There were at least two weeks in early spring, and two
in the autumn, which were called " Miss Lyon's
weeks," when Alice was literally under the paw of a
lion. Miss Lyon was the dressmaker.  She was quiet,
kindly, artistic, and necessary; therefore, in her kingdom, an unmitigated tyrant. Literature did not dare
to peep in on Miss Lyon's weeks, or if it did, it was
before she came, or while she was at breakfast. Books
and papers she would not suffer in her sight after work
began.  She was always wanting " half a yard more "
of something. She was always sending us out for
"trimmings," and, as we rarely found the right ones,
was continually sending us again. Poor Alice! she
went out six times one hot morning to find a stick of
braid, which Miss Lyon insisted should have a peculiar kink. Once back, we had to sit down beside her,
to " try on " and to assist. If we did not, " we could
not have our new frocks, that was all," for Miss Lyon
" could not possibly go through them alone, and she
had not another day, not one, before winter." Thus,
while purgatory reigned on Alice's side of the house,
Phcebe in hers sat enthroned in serene satisfaction.
She was no slave to Miss Lyon, not she. On the contrary, while Miss Lyon snubbed us, she crossed the hall
to consult Phcebe in a tone of deference, which (professionally) she never condescended to bestow on her
victims. In Miss Lyon's days, nobody would have suspected that the house held a blue-stocking. Dry goods,
shreds, and tags prevailed above stairs, and Alice's
room looked like a first-class dressmaker's shop, in
which Miss Lyon ruled between two forlorn apprentices.
It is not easy to see Alice Cary in a comical light, and
yet Alice Cary in Phcebe's door, holding up an unfin




" MISS L YON'S WEEKS."            53
ished sacque, in which she had sewed a sleeve upside
down, and made one an inch shorter than the other,
with her look of blended consternation and despair,
was a comical sight. Phcebe was her only refuge in
such a plight, and to rip the sleeve, trim it, right it,
and baste it in again, was the work of a very few
minutes for her deft fingers.  Sacques, dresses, cloaks,
and hats, all cut, and fitted, and made, came out from
her hands absolutely perfect, to the wonder and envy
of the unfortunates across the hall. Miss Lyon, always
leaving her sceptre up-stairs, at the table was a sorrowful, communicative woman, who poured the story
of her troubles, her loneliness, and poor health into
sympathizing ears.  She tormented us, but we liked
her, and were sorry for her. We comforted her when
she was sick, and cried when she died, and remembered her with a sigh. It was a weary woman's poor
little life after all!  She too had her dream of future,
home, and rest; but the money that she worked so
hard to earn, and denied herself the necessities of life
to save, she saved to will to a well-to-do relative who
had neglected and forsaken her while she lived. By
July, Miss Lyon's reign was over, but the kingdoms
she had conquered were all visible, marked by the new
dresses lying in a row on the bed in the little attic
chamber. Alas! on that same bed some of them lay
after Alice's death, untouched. The poor hand that
made them, and knotted their dainty ribbons, and the
lovely form that was to have worn them, both alike
locked from all device in the fastness of the grave!
The only shadow resting on the house was that of
sickness and hovering death. Nothing could have
been more absolutely harmonious than the daily abid



54        ALICE AND PHITEE CARY.
ing intercourse of these sisters. This was not because
they always thought alike, nor because they never in
any way crossed each other, nor was it based on their
devoted affection and perfect faith in each other alone.
Persons may believe in each other, and love each other
dearly, and yet live in a constant state of friction.  It
was chiefly because each cherished a most conscientious consideration for the peculiarities of the other,
and because in the minutest particular they treated
each other with absolute politeness. There is such an
expression used as "society manner." These sisters
had no manner for society more charming in the slightest particular, than they had for each other. No pun
ever came into Phcebe's head too bright to be flashed
over Alice, and Alice had no gentleness for strangers
which she withheld from Phocebe.  The perfect gentlewomen which they were in the parlor, they were always,
under every circumstance. There was not a servant
in the house, who, in his or her place, was not treated
with as absolute a politeness as a guest in the parlor.
This spirit of perfect breeding penetrated every word
and act of the household. What Alice and Phoebe
Cary were in their drawing-room, they were always in
the absolute privacy of their lives. Each obeyed one
inflexible law. Whatever she felt or endured, because
of it she was-not to inflict any suffering upon her sister;
no, not even if that sister had inadvertently been the
cause of it. If she was "out of sorts," she went
into her own room, shut her door and "had it out"
by herself. Whatever shape her Apollyon might take,
she fought with him, and slew him, alone. When she
appeared outside, it might strike one that a new line
of pain had for the moment lit upon her face; that was




A COUNTRY REST.                55
the only sign of the foe routed. The bright sally, the
quiet smile, the perfection of gentle breeding were all
there, undimmed and indestructible.
The first of July, Phcebe went to Waldemere,
Bridgeport, Conn., to visit the family of Mr. P. T.
Barnum, and then to Cambridge, to see Mr. and Mrs.
[I. O. Houghton; from thence to visit the family of
Rev. Dr. B. F. Tefft in Bangor, Maine. Early in June,
Alice had been persuaded to visit a beloved niece in
the mountain region of Pennsylvania. She remained
a week, and on her return told how the sweet country
air and the smell of the woods had brought back her
girlhood. "But I could not stay," she said; "I had
so much to do."  Nor would she be induced to go
again, though loving friends urged, indeed entreated
her to leave her desk, and the heat and turmoil of the
city.
Physically and mentally she needed change and
respite from the overstrain of too long continued toil.
A summer in the country, at this crisis in her health,
could not have failed to renovate, if not to restore life.
But she clung to her home, her own room and surroundings, and to her work, and reluctantly Phcebe
went forth to the kind friends awaiting her, alone.
That was a mystical month that followed, that month
*of July. The very walls of the houses seemed changed
into burning brass. The sun, uncooled by showers,
rose and set, tracking all his course with a consuming
fire. Everybody who could escape, had fled the city.
During the entire month I do not remember that one
person, not of the small household, crossed the thresh.
old. We closed blinds and doors, and were aZone.
Apart at work all day, we spent our evenings together.




56         ALICE AND PHtEBE CARM.
In those summer nights, with the blinds opened to let
in a stray breeze from the bay, with no light but the
fitful flicker of the lamp across the street, in the si.
lence and dimness, feeling the whole world shut out
and far away; then it was that the flood-gates of memory opened, and one received into her soul, with a depth
and fullness and sacredness never to be expressed, that
which was truly Alice Cary's life.
In August, Alice wrote to me at Newport: "Phcebe
is still away, and I alone in the house; but busy as a
bee from morning till night. I often hear it said that
people, as they grow older, lose their interest in things
around them; but this is not true of me. I take more
interest in life, in all that concerns it, and in human
beings, every year I live. If I fail of bringing something worthy to pass, I don't mean that it shall be for
lack of energy or industry. I'm putting the house in
order, and have such new and pleasant plans for the
winter. Do hasten back, that I may tell you all about
them." In two weeks I returned, and, going at once
to her familiar room, she met me on the threshold
without a word. As she kissed me, her tears fell
upon my face; and, looking up, I saw the change in
hers. The Indian summer of youth, which had made
it so fair, four little weeks before, had now gone
from  it forever; the shadow of the grave reazhed
it already.
"Since I wrote you;" she said, "my only sister,
save Phcebe, has died; and look at me!"  She moved,
and I saw that the graceful, swaying movement, so
especially hers, was gone -that she was hopelessly
lame.
Thus that first of September began the last, fierce




SUFFERING.                 57
struggle between life and death, which was to continue
for seventeen months. Only God and his ministering
angels know with what pangs that soul and body
parted. I cannot think of it without a shudder and a
sigh - a shudder for the agony, a sigh for that patient
and tender and loving heart, so full of life and yearning amid the anguish of dissolving nature. At first
it seemed impossible that she could remain lame.
Each day we said: " To morrow you must come downstairs again." But, save with crutches, she never
walked again. In the beginning it seemed impossible
for her to adjust her mind or habits to this fact, or to
realize that she was not able to join the familiar circle
around the Sunday evening tea-table. Yet the more
impossible it became for her to participate personally,
the more eager she became for the happiness of others.
She would have us dress in her room, that she might
refresh her eyes with bright colors; and leave the
door of her room open, that she might hear the tones
of dear, familiar voices coming up from below. When
tea was cheering, and speech and laughter flowing
freest, there was something inexpressibly touching in
the thought of the woman who provided this cheer for
so many, sitting by herself in a darkened room, sick and
alone. Once, in going up to her, I found her weeping. "You should not have left the others," she said
"My only pleasure is in thinking that you are all
happy down-stairs. But it makes me cry to think that
I am done with it all; that in one sense I am as fai
away from you in health, as if I were already in eternity."
In the early dawn of a wintry morning, I went in to
her bedside to say good-by. The burning hands out.




58        ALICE AND PHEBE CARY.
stretched, the tearful, beseeching eyes, the low voice
burdened with loving farewell, are among the most
precious and pathetic of all the treasures which faithful memory bears on to her in the land where she
now is.




SUNDA Y E VENZNG RECEPTIONS.         59
CHAPTER IV.
THEIR SUNDAY EVENING RECEPTIONS.
THE most resplendent social assemblies which the
world has ever seen have been those in which philosophy, politics, and literature mingled with fortune,
rank, beauty, grace, and wit. Nor was this commingling of'dazzling human forces identical only with the
Parisian salon. " Blue-stocking " in our day is synonymous only with a stiff, stilted, queer literary woman of
a dubious age. Yet the first blue-stocking, Elizabeth
Montague, was a woman who dazzled with her wit, as
well as by her beauty, and who blazed with diamonds
at fourscore. A purely blue-stocking party, to-day,
would doubtless give us sponge cake, weak tea, and
the dreariest of driveling professional talk. Yet the
first assemblies which bore the name of blue-stocking
were made up of actors, divines, beaux, belles, the
pious and the worldly, the learned and the fashionable,
the titled and the lowly born. Here, in the drawingroom of Montague House, mingling gayly together,
might have been seen volatile Mrs. Thrale, wise Hannah More, and foolish Fanny Burney; the Greek
scholar, Elizabeth Carter, with Garrick, Johnson, Reynolds, Young, Beattie, Burke, Lord Kames, Lord
Chatham, and Horace Walpole, with many others as
personally brilliant if less renowned.  One never




60         ALICE AND PHEBE C(AR Y.
thinks of calling a man a blue-stocking now; yet it
was a man who first wore " cerulean hose " in a fashionable assembly - Dr. Stillingfleet, who was a sloven
as well as a scholar. Admiral Boscawen, glancing at
his gray-blue stockings, worn at one of Mrs. Montague's assemblies, gave it the name of the Blue-stocking Assembly, to indicate that the full dress, still
indispensable to evening parties, might be dispensed
with, if a person so chose, at Mrs. Montague's.  A
Frenchman, catching at the phrase, exclaimed, "Ah /
les bas bleus /"  And the title has clung to the literary
woman ever since.
The nearest approach to the first ideal blue-stocking reception ever reached in this country was the
Sunday evening receptions of Alice and Phcebe Cary.
Here, for over fifteen years, in an unpretending home,
gathered not only the most earnest, but many of the
most brilliant Americans of our time. There are like
assemblies still, wherein men and -women rich in all fine
gifts and graces meet and mingle; yet I doubt if there
be one so catholic, so finely comprehensive, as to make
it the rallying spot, the outraying centre of the artistic
and literary life of the metropolis. Its central magnet
lost, such a circle, once broken and scattered in all its
parts, cannot be easily regathered and bound. Society
must wait till another soul, equally potent, sweet, un
selfish, sympathetic, and centripetal, shall draw togethei
once more its scattered forces in one common bond.
For the relief of Puritan friends who are troubled that
those receptions occurred on Sabbath evening, I must
say that they never hindered anybody from going to
church. Horace Greeley, who never missed a Sabbath
evening in this house when in the city, used to drink




MR. GREELEY AT THE CARYS'.    61
his two cups of sweetened milk and water, say his say,
and then suddenly vanish, to go and speak at a temperance meeting, to listen to Dr. Chapin, or to write
his Monday  morning leader for the "Tribune."
Sabbath evening was their reception evening because
it was the only one which the sisters had invariably
free from labor; and, as a rule, this was equally true
of their guests. While her health permitted, Alice attended church regularly every Sunday morning, and
till her last sickness Phcebe was a faithful church goer;
but Sabbath evening was their own and their friends'..
In their receptions there was no formality, no rule of
dress. You could come as simply or as finely arrayed as you chose. Your costly costume would not
increase your welcome, nor your shabby attire place
you at discount. Indeed, if anything about you ever
so remotely suggested poverty or loneliness, it would,
at the earliest possible moment, bring Alice to your
side. Her dark, gentle, tender eyes would make you
feel at home at once. You would forget your clothes
and yourself altogether, in a quiet, impersonal, friendly
flow of talk which would begin at once between you.
If a stranger, she would be sure not to leave you till
Phcebe came, or till she had introduced you to some
pleasant person, and you would not find yourself again
alone during the evening. This was the distinctive
characteristic of these Sunday evenings, -that they
opened welcoming doors to all sympathetic souls,
without the slightest reference to the state of their
finances or mere worldly condition.
"What queer people you do see at the Carys'! It
is as good as a show!" exclaimed a merely fashion
able woman.




62        ALICE AND PH(EBE CARY.
" I have no desire to go to the Carys'," said a super.
cilious literary dame, "while they admit such people."
"Why, they are reputable, are they not? " was the
astonished reply.
"For aught I know; but they are so odd, and they
have no position - absolutely none."
"Then the more, they must need friends, Alice and
Phcebe think. They contradict Goldsmith's assertion:' If you want friends, be sure not to need them.'"
Phcebe's attention was called one day to a young
man, poor, little known, ungraceful in bearing, and
stiff in manner, who had artistic tastes and a desire to
know artistic people, and who sometimes came quietly
into the little library, on Sunday evening, without
any special invitation, but who no less was cordially
received.
".says she is astonished that you receive him,"
said a friend. "He is so pushing and presumptuous,
and his family is very common."
"You tell   -," said Phcebe, with a flash in her
black eyes, " that we like him very much; that he is
just as welcome here as she is, and we are always glad
to see he>r."
There are centres of reunion still in New York,
~where literary, artistic, and cultured peop!  meet;
but we doubt if there is another wherein the poor
and unknown, of aspiring tastes and refined sensibilities, could be so certain of an entire, unconscious
welcome, untinged by even the suggestion of condescension or of patronage; where, in plain garb and with
unformed manners, they could come and be at home.
Yet the Sunday evening reception was by no means
the rendezvous of the queer and ne'er-do-well alone.




THEIR VISITORS.                63
During the fifteen years or more in which it flourished,
at the little house in Twentieth Street, it numbered
among its guests and habitzles as many remarkable
men and women as ever gathered around the abundant board at Streatham, or sat in the library of Strawberry Hill.
There was Horace Greeley, who so rarely missed a
Sabbath evening at this house - a man in mind greater
than Johnson, and in manners not unlike him; who will
live in the future among the most famous of his contemporaries, as the man who, perhaps, more than any
other, left his own distinctive, individual mark upon the
times in which he lived. There was Oliver Johnson,
rarely absent from that cheery tea-table, the apostle of
human freedom, who stood in the van of its feeble
guard when it cost much to do that; strong, earnest,
brave, and true, a king of radicals, whose swiftest theories never outran his faith in God, his love for human
nature, his self-abnegating devotion to his friends, even
when his only reward was selfishness and unworthiness.
There was Mary Ann Johnson, his wife, so recently
translated, whose memory of simple, dignified, wise,
and tender womanhood is a precious and imperishable
legacy to all who ever knew and loved her. And Julia
Deane, Alice Cary's beloved friend, golden-haired,
matchless as a Grecian goddess. I see her now as I
saw her first, in the radiance of her undimmed beauty,
sitting by Whittier's side, great poet and gentle man,
in his plain Friends' garb, yet worshipping, as man and
poet must, the loveliness of woman! What a troop of
names, more or less famous, arise as I recall those who
at different times- have mingled in those receptions Il
Bayard Taylor, with his gifted and lovely wife; the twc




64        ALICE AND PHcEBE CARY.
married poets, Richard and Elizabeth Stoddard; Prof.
R. W. Raymond, Robert Dale Owen, Justin McCarthy,
Hon. Henry Wilson, Samuel Bowles, George Ripley,
Edwin Whipple, Richard Kimball, Thomas B. Aldrich,
Carpenter (the artist), Robert Chambers of Edinburgh,
Robert Bonner of New York, a man as generous in
nature and pure in character as he has been preeminently successful in acquiring wealth and fame, and
who for many years, till their death, was the faithful
friend of Alice and Phcebe. Among clergymen there
were Rev. Dr. Abel Stevens, Methodist; Rev. Dr.
Chapin, Universalist; Rev. Dr. Field, Presbyterian;
Rev. Dr. Deems, Methodist. Whatever their theologies, all agreed in their faith in womanhood, as they
found it embodied in Alice and Phcebe Cary. Among
women much beloved by the sisters, who always had
the entr&e of their home, were Mary L. Booth, Mrs.
Wright, Mrs. Mary E. Dodge, Mrs. Croly, Mrs.
Victor, Mrs. Rayl, Mrs. Mary Stevens Robinson. I
have not space for one tenth of the names I might
recall - actors, artists, poets, clergymen, titled people
from abroad, women of fashion, women of letters,
women of home, the known and the unknown. In
each type and class they found friends; and what
better proof could be given of the richness of their
humanity, that, without being narrowed by any, their
hearts were large enough for al.! 
Perhaps neither sister could have attracted into one
cotmmon circle so many minds, various, if not conflicting in their separate sphere of thought and action.
Each sister was the counterpart of the other. To the
sympathy, appreciation, tact, gentleness, and tenderness of Alice were added the wit and bonhomie and




THYEIR VISITORS.               65
sparkling cheer of Phcebe. The combination was perfect for social effect and.success.
Rev. Charles F. Deems, Phoebe's pastor at the time
of her death, and the cherished and trusted friend of
both sisters, at the request of its editor wrote for
"Packard's Monthly," February, I870, an article entitied "Alice and Phcebe Cary: Their Home and
Friends," which contains so vivid a sketch of some of
their Sunday evening visitors that I quote from it:"If they could all be gathered into one room, it
would really be a sight to see all the people who have
been attracted by these charming women during the
years they have occupied this cozy home.  Let us
fancy that they are so collected.
" There is, facile Irinceps of their friends, Horace
Greeley - not so very handsome, perhaps, but owing
so much to his toilet! He is sitting in a listening or
abstracted attitude, with his great, full head bent, or
smiling all over his great baby face as he hears or tells
something good; perhaps especially enjoying the
famous Quaker sermon which Oliver Johnson, of the'Independent,' is telling with such friendly accentuation, and with such command over his strong features,
while all the company are at the point of explosion.
That round-headed Professor of Rhetoric in the corner, who reads Shakespeare in a style that would make
the immortal William thrill if he could only hear him,
is Professor Raymond. That slightly built man with
a heavy moustache is Lord Adare, son of a Scotch
Earl; and the bonny, bright-eyed woman by his side is
his wife - immensely pleased with Phcebe's frequent
and rapid sallies of wit. And there are Robert Dale
Owen, author of'Footfalls on the Boundary of Anothet
5




66        ALICE AND PHIh5BE CAR Y.
World,' and Edwin Whipple, the Boston essayist and
lecturer, whose forehead doth so forcibly oppress all
the rest of his face; and there, Samuel Bowles, of the'Springfield Republican,' and author of'Across the
Continent;' and the nobly built and genial traveller,
Col. Thomas WV. Knox, of the' Sun,' who has charmed
us so in print with his sketches of Russia and Siberia,
and who can talk quite as well as he can write; and
there, Justin  McCarthy, formerly of the London'Morning Star,' and author of'My Enemy's Daughter;' and that handsome old -gentleman, with the
smile of the morning in his face, so courtly that you
feel he should be some king's prime minister, and so
venerable that he would give dignity to an archbishop's crozier, is Ole Bull, whose cunning hands
have wrung ravishing music from the strings of the
violin; and just beyond, burly and full of good nature,
is Phineas T. Barnum,'showman,' and mor6 than
that, with great brains, which would have made him
notable in any department. If the public have had
pleasure in seeing his shows, he has had pleasure in
studying the public; and his knowledge of human
nature makes him a most entertaining talker. If any
have thought of him only as a'humbugger,' let the
profound regard he has for these sincere and honest
ladies, whose guest he so often is, plead against all
that he has confessed against himself in his autobiography. He' does good by stealth, and blushes to
find it fame,' but tells all the bad about himself unblushingly. A whole group of editors might be fancied — only that they have enough of each other'down town,' and so in society seek some one else,
and do not'group:' for there are Dr. Field, the




THEIR VISITORS.               67
excellent editor of the'Evangelist;' and Mr. El
liott and Mr. Perry, of the'Home Journal;' and
Whitelaw  Reid, of the'Tribune;' and Mr. R. WV.
Gilder, of the'Hours at Home;' and last but not
least, Mr. Robert Bonner, of the' Ledger,' of whom,
seeing that I have never had literary and financial
dealings with him on my own account, I may say that
he has made illustrious the proverb,'There is that
scattereth, and yet increaseth.' The publishers are
represented by Robert Chambers, of Edinburgh, who
has given so much'Information for the People' that
people need not be informed who he is; and George
W. Carleton, the prince of publishers, whose elegant
new book house, on Broadway, has already become
the resort of literary and tasteful people.
"And then, what ladies have been in that house!
How many of the most refined and noble women,
whose names are unknown to fame, but whose minds
and manners have given to society its aroma and
beauty! How many whose names are known all over
Christendom! If that of Elizabeth Cady. Stanton
suggests to a stranger- as, until I knew her, it certainly did to me- anything not beautifully feminine,
how he will be disappointed when he sees her. She
is quiet, self-poised,'lady-lile' -- for she is a lady
- plump as a partridge, of warm complexion. has a
well formed head, adorned with white hair, put up unstiffly in puffs, and she would anywhere be taken for
the mother of a governor or president, if governors
and presidents were always gentlemen. I have studied Mrs. Stanton hours at a sitting, when she was
presiding over a public meeting in the Cooper Union,
when the brazen women who have brought such bad




68        ALICE AND PHUEBE C'ABRY.
fame to the Woman's Rights movement were trying to
secure'the floor,' and gaunt fanatics of my own sex
were contending with them for that'privilege,' and
the mob were hissing or shouting, and the tact with
which Mrs. Stanton managed that whole assembly was
a marvel. Except Henry Clay, of Kentucky, and
Edward Stanly, formerly of North Carolina and now
of California, she is the best presiding officer I have
ever seen.
" And that nice little person with short curls, so admirably dressed, and self-sufficient, and handsome,
not beautiful; her toGut ensemble a combination of author, artist, actor - strong as a young man and sensitive as a young woman -is Anna Dickinson. And
there, with so thoughtful a face, sits Mary L. Booth,
industrious and accurate translator of huge volumes of
F.rench history and science, and now editor of' Harper's Bazar.'. Her conversation is an intellectual treat.
And there is Madame Le Vert, of Mobile, who in
English and American society has so long held the
place of'the most charming woman,' without arousing the envy of any other woman, and who, therefore,
must have an exceptional temperament; a lady who
never says a very wise, or witty, or weak, or foolish
thing, but whom you cannot speak with ten minutes
without- weakly and foolishly it may be, but delightfully - feeling yourself to be both wise and witty.'It is not always May,' even with Madame Le Vert.
She has had losses and disappointments, and physical
pain, and is no longer young, but she does marvelously draw' the summer of her soul through the
autumn months of her years. But space would fail if
each lady were particularly described, from  Kate




CLERICAL GUESTS.                69
Field, the brilliant journalist and lecturer, and'Jen.
nie June' (Mrs. Croly of'Demorest's Magazine'),
and Mary E. Dodge, of'Hearth and Home,' who
wrote'Hans Brinker's Silver Skates,' to the sallow,
self-denying missionary sister from Cavalla, clad in
the costume of ten years ago, now a stranger in her
own land.
"Of the spiritual teachers, all are welcome at any
time, from the Roman Catholic, John Jerome Hughes,
and the eloquent Universalist, Chapin, to the adjective-yet-to-be-discovered Frothingham.  The house
of the Cary sisters is a Pantheon, a Polytechnic Institute, a room of the Committee on Reconstruction,
a gathering place for the ecclesiastical and political
Happy Family. Original abolitionists and ab-original
secessionists meet pleasantly in a circle where everybody thinks, but nobody is tabooed for what he
thinks.
"A great city is generally a mass of cold, but there
are always'warm places' even in a huge metropolis;
and strangers are peculiarly endowed with the instinct
for detecting them. It is genuine goodness that does
the warming. And this house is never cold!
" Thus is shown that these sisters are authors of
more than books. Their influence in their home is
beautiful, and conservative, and preservative.
"May they live forever I"




70        ALICE AND PHOEBE CAR Y.
CHAPTER V.
ALICE CARY. -THE WOMAN.
YEARS ago, in an old academy in Massachusetts, its
preceptor gave to a young girl a poem to learn for a
Wednesday exercise. It began, -
" Of all the beautiful pictures
That hang on Memory's wall,
Is one of a dim old forest,
That seemeth best of all."
After the girl had recited the poem to her teacher, he
told her that Edgar Poe had said, and that he himself
concurred in the opinion, that in rhythm it was one of
the most perfect lyrics in the English language. He
then proceeded to tell the story of the one who wrote
it - of her life in her Western home, of the fact that
she and her sister Phcebe had come to New York
to seek their fortune, and to make a place for themselves in literature. It fell like a tale of romante on
the girl's heart; and from that hour she saved every
utterance that she could find of Alice Cary's, and spent
much time thinking about her, till in a dim way she
came to seem like a much-loved friend.
In I857 the schoolgirl, then a woman, whom actual
life had already overtaken, sat for the first time in a
New York drawing-room, and looked with attentive but
by no means dazzled eyes upon a gathering assembly




ALICE CAR Y.                 71
It does not follow, because a person has done something remarkable, that he is, therefore, remarkable oi
even pleasant to look upon. Thus it happened that
the young woman had numerous disappointments that
evening, as one by one names famous in literature and
art were pronounced, and their owners for the first
time took on the semblance of flesh and blood before
her. Presently came into the room, and sat down
beside her, a lady, whose eyes, in their first glance,
and whose voice, in its first low tone, won her heart.
Soft, sad, tender eyes they were, and the face from
which they shone was lovely. Its features were fine,
its complexion a colorless olive, lit with the lustrous
brown eyes, softened still more by masses of waving
dark hair, then untouched of gray, and, save by its
own wealth, wholly unadorned.  Her dress was as
harmonious as her face. It was of pale gray satin,
trimmed with folds of ruby velvet; a dress like herself
and her life — soft and sad in the background, bordered with brightness. This was Alice Cary. Even
then her face was a history, not a prophecy. Even
then it bore the record of past suffering, and in the
tender eyes there still lingered the shadow of many
vanished dreams. Thus the story of the old academy
was made real and doubly beautiful to the stranger.
The Alice Cary whom she had imagined had never
been quite so lovely as the Alice Cary whom she that
moment saw.   That evening began  a friendship
between two women on which, till its earthly close, no
shadow ever fell.
As I sit here thinking of her, I realize how futile
will be any effort of mine to make a memorial worthy
of my friend. The woman in herself so far transcended




-72        AL ICE AND PHIEBE CARY.
any work of art that she ever wrought, any song (sweet
as her songs were) that she ever sung, that even to
attempt to put into words what she was seems hopeless. Yet it is an act of justice, no less than of love,
that one who knew her in the sanctuary of her life
should, at least partly, lift the veil which ever hung
between the lovely soul ar.d the world; that the
women of this land -may see more clearly the sister
whom they have lost, who, in what she was herself, was
so much more than in what she in mortal weakness
was able t) do — at once an example and glory to
American womanhood. It must ever remain a grief to
those who knew her and loved her best, that such a soul
as hers should have missed its highest earthly reward;
but, if she can still live on as an incentive and a friend
to those who remain, she at least is comforted now for
all she suffered and all she missed here.
The life of one woman who has conquered her own
spirit, who, alone and unassisted, through the mastery of her own will, has wrought out from the hardest
and most adverse conditions a pure, sweet, and noble
life, placed herself among the world's workers, made
her heart and thought felt in ten thousand unknown
homes -the life of one such woman is worth more to
all living women, proves more for the possibilities of
womanhood, for its final and finest advancement, its
ultimate recognition and highest success, than ten
thousand theories or eloquent orations on the theme.
Such a woman was Alice Cary. Mentally and spiritually she was especially endowed with the rarest gifts;
but no less, the lowliest of all her sisters may take on
new faith and courage from her life. It may not be
for you to sing till the whole land listens, but it is in




THE WOMAN AND THE POET.               73
your power, in a narrower sphere, to emulate the traits
which brought the best success to her in her wider life.
Many personally impress us with the fact that they
have wrought into the forms of art the very best in themselves.  Whatever they may have embodied in form,
color, or thought, we are sure that it is the most that
they have to give, and in giving that, they are by so
much themselves impoverished.  In their own souls
they hold nothing rarer in reserve. The opposite was
true of Alice Cary. You could not know her without
learning that the woman in herself was far greater and
sweeter than anything that she had ever produced.
You could not sit by her side, listening to the low, slow
outflow of her thought, without longing that she might
yet find the condition which would enable her to give
it a fuller and finer expression than had ever yet
been possible. You could.not feel day by day the
blended strength, generosity, charity, and tenderness
of the living woman, without longing that a soul so
complete might yet make an impression on the nation
to which it was born, that could never fade away.
Her most powerful trait, the one which seemed the
basis of her entire character, was her passion for justice,
for in its intensity it rose to the height of a passion.
Her utmost capacity for hate went out toward every
form of oppression. If she ever seemed overwrought,
it was for some wrong inflicted on somebody, very
rarely on herself. She wanted everything, the meanest little bLg at her feet, to have its chance, cal the
chance of its little life. That this so seldom could be,
in this distorted world, was the abiding grief of her
life. Early she ceased to suffer chiefly for herself;
but to her latest breath she suffered for the sorrows of




74         ALIC'E AND PHIEBE  CARY.
others.  Phcebe truly said: " Constituted as she was,
it was not possible for her to help taking upon herself
not only all the sorrows of her friends, but in some
sense the tribulation and anguish that cometh upon
every son and daughter of Adam.  She was even unto
the end plannifig great projects for the benefit of suffering humanity, and working with her might to be helpful to those near her; and when it seemed impossible
that one suffering herself such manifold afflictions could
think even of the needs of others."
It was this measureless capacity to know and feel
everything that concerns human nature, this pity for
all, this longing for justice and mercy to the lowest and
the meanest thing that could breathe and suffer - this
largeness lifting her above all littleness - this universality of soul, which made her in herself great as she
was tender. Such a soul could not fail to feel, with
deepest intensity, every sorrow and wrong inflicted
upon her own sex. She loved women. with a fullness
of sympathy and tenderness never surpassed. She felt
pity for their infirmities, and pride in their successes,
feeling each to be in part her own. Believing that in
wifehood, motherhood, and home, woman found her
surest and holiest estate, all the more for this belief,
her whole being rebelled against the caste in sex, which
would prescribe the development of any individual soul,
which would lay a single obstacle in the way of a toiling
and aspiring human being, which would degrade her
place in the human race, because, with all her aspiration, toil, and suffering, she wore the form of woman.
Every effort having for its object the help, advancement,
and full enfranchisement of woman from every form of
injustice, in Church, State, education, or at home, had




AIRS. CtROL Y'S LETTER.           75
her completest sympathy and cooperation. Yet she
said: " I must work in my own way, and that is a very
quiet one. My health, habits, and temperament make
it impossible that I should mix in crowds, or act with
great organizations. I must say my little say, and do
my little do, at home!"  These words add interest to
the fact that Alice Cary was the first President of the
first Woman's Club (now called Sorosis) formed in
New York. The entire history of her relation with it
is given in a private letter from Mrs. Jenny C. Croly,
written since the death of Alice and Phoebe. As a
testimonial of affection to them from  a woman whom
both sisters honored and loved, and as the history of
how Alice Cary became President of a Woman's Club,
which no other person could write, I take the liberty
of quoting fromrn this letter.
Mrs. Croly says: "Alice particularly I loved, and
thank God for ever having known; she was so large
and all-embracing in her kindliness and charity, that
her place must remain vacant; few women exist who
could fill it.
" Much as those of us who knew the sisters thought
we loved them, few realized the gap it would make in
our lives when they were gone. Their loyalty, their
truth, their steadfastness, their genial hospitality, their
warmth of friendship, their devotion to each other, -
the beautiful utterances of their quiet, patient, yet in
some respects, suffering lives, which found their way
to the world, all belonged to them, and seem almost
to have died with them.
" It breaks my heart to remember how hard Phoebe
tried to be'brave' after Alice's death, as she thought
her sister would wish to have her; how she opened




76        ALICE. AND PHa'E   CARY.
the windows to let in the sunlight, filled her room
with flowers, refused to put on mourning, because
Alice had requested her not to do so, and tried to interest herself in general schemes and plans for the
advancement of women. But it was all of no use.
She simply could not live after Alice was gone.'I
do not know what is the matter with me,' she said
to me on one occasion;'I have lain down, and it
seems, because Alice is not there, there is no reason
why I should get up. For thirty years I have gone
straight to her bedside as soon as I arose in the morning, and wherever she is, I am sure she wants me now.'
Could one think of these words without tears?
" In addition to the love I felt for them, I am proud
of these two women, as women whose isolated lives
were so simple and so pure, who gave back tenderness
and devotion and loving charity, for the slights which
society deals even to gifted, if lonely womanhood.
Some mistaken impressions have been obtained in
regard to Alice Cary, in consequence of the sudden
termination of her alliance with'Sorosis.' For her
connection with the society at all, I alone am responsible. Some sort of organization among women was
my hobby, and I had discussed it with her often at her
Sunday evening receptions.  She had sympathized,
but always refused to take any active part on account
of her ill health. When the society was actually formed,
therefore, I applied first to Mrs. Parton to become its
President, a post which she at first accepted, and afterwards refused for a personal reason.  Desirous of
having a literary club, with the name of a distinguished
literary woman, I begged Alice Cary to accept the
position.  She found it difficult to refuse my urgent




ALICE AT THE WOMAN'S CLUB.             77
entreaties, but did so, until I rose in great agitation,
saying,' Alice Cary, think what faith, reverence, and
affection thousands of women have given to you, and
you will not even give to them your name.' I left the
house hastily, and went back to my office, concealing
hot tears of grief and disappointment behind my veil.
A moment after I arrived there, to my astonishment
she came in, sank down in a chair, breathless with her
haste, and said,'If my name is worth anything to
woman, I have come to tell you to take it.'  For
answer I knelt down at her feet, and kissed her hand
over and over again. Dear Alice Cary! only the argument that she was withholding something she could
give had any weight with her."
Alice took her seat as President of the Woman's
Club, but from ill health and an instinctive disinclination personally to fill any place publicly, she very soon
resigned. Nevertheless, though at times she differed
from special methods adopted by its members, the
Woman's Club (Sorosis), in its original intent, and itn
its possibilities as a source of mutual culture and
help to. women, always had her sympathy to her
dying day. Her address on taking the chair of the
Woman's Club, unique and entirely characteristic,
I give as the first and last speech ever made by Alice
Cary on a public occasion. Yet this public occasion
of hers was a most genial and gracious one. In the
sumptuous parlor of Delmonico's, in an easy chair,
sat Alice Cary, surrounded by. a party of ladies,
while she read to them in her low, forceful tones
the words of her address.  Not an ungraceful or
unfeminine thing was this to do, even the most prejudiced must acknowledge.  "I believe in it," she said




78        ALICE AND PIJIBE CARY.
afterwards, "especially for any one who works best in
concert with others, and to whom the attrition and
stimulus of contact with -other minds is necessary.
To many women such a weekly convocation will be of
the highest advantage, but so far as I personally am
concerned, I enjoy better sitting up-stairs, chatting
with a friend, while I trim a cap for Aunt Lamson."
But here is the speech:LADIES, - As it will not be expected of me to make
speeches very often, hereafter, I -think I may presume
on your indulgence, if I take advantage of this one
opportunity. Permit me, then, in the first place, to
thank you for the honor you have done me in assigning to me the President's chair. Why I should have
been chosen, when there are so many among you
greatly more competent to fill the position, I am at a
loss to understand; unless, indeed, it be owing to the
fact that I am to most of you a stranger, and your
imaginations have clothed me with qualities not my
due. This you would soon discover for yourselves;
I mention it only to bespeak your forbearance, though
in this regard, I ventured almost to anticipate your
lenity, inasmuch as you all know how untrained to
business habits, how ignorant of rules, and how unused
to executive management most women are.
If I take my seat, therefore, without confidence, it is
not without the hope of attaining, through your generous kindness and encouragement, to better things.
"A Woman's Club! Who ever heard of the like!
What do women want of a Club? Have you any aims
or objects? " These are questions which have been
propounded to me day after day, since this project




HER ADDRESS.                  79
was set afoot - by gentlemen, of course. And I have
answered, that, in our humble way, we were striving to
imitate their example. You have your exclusive clubs,
I have said, and why should not we have ours? What
is so promotive of your interests cannot be detrimental
to us; and that you find these reunions helpful to
yourselves, and beneficial to society, we cannot doubt.
You, gentlemen, profess to be our representatives, to
represent us better than we could possibly represent
ourselves; therefore, we argue, it cannot be that you are
attracted by grand rooms, fine furniture, luxurious dinners and suppers, expensive wines and cigars, the
bandying of poor jests, or the excitement of the gaming table. Such dishonoring suspicions as these are
not to be entertained for a moment.
Of our own knowledge, I have said, we are not able
to determine what special agencies you employ for your
advantage and ours, in your deliberative assemblies,
for it has not been thought best for our interests that
we should even sit at your tables, much less to share
your councils; and doubtless, therefore, in our blindness and ignorance, we have made some pitiful mistakes.
In the first place, we have "tipped the tea-pot."
This is a hard saying, the head and front of the
charges brought against us, and we  cannot but
acknowledge its justice and its force; we are, in fact,
weighed down with shame and  humiliation, and
impelled, while we are about it, to make full and free
confession of all our wild and guilty fantasies. We
have, then, to begin at the beginning, proposed the
inculcation of deeper and broader ideas among women,
proposed to teach them to think for themselves, and




80        ALICE AND PHUEBE CARY.
get their opinions at first hai.d, not so much because
it is their right, as because it is their duty. We have
also proposed to open out new avenues of employment
to women, to make them less dependent and less burdensome, to lift them out of unwomanly self-distrust
and disqualifying diffidence, into womanly self-respect
and self-knowledge; to teach each one to make all
work honorable by doing the share that falls to her, or
that she may work out to herself agreeably to her own
special aptitude, cheerfully and faithfully, not going
down to it, but bringing it up to her. We have proposed to enter our protest against all idle gossip,
against all demoralizing and wicked waste of time,;
also against the follies and tyrannies of fashion, against
all external impositions and d'sabilities; in short,
against each and every thing that opposes the full
development and use of the faculties conferred upon
us by our Creator.
We have proposed to lessen the antagonisms existing at present between men and women, by the use of
every rightful means in our power; by standing upon
our divine warranty, and saying and doing what we are
able to say and to do, without asking leave, tnd without suffering hindrance: not for the exclum ve good
of our own sex, for we hold that there is no e.xclusive,
and no separate good; what injures my brother injures
me, and what injures me injures him, if he could but
be made to know it; it injures him, whether or not he
is made to know it. Such, I have said, are some of
our objects and aims. We do not pretend, as yet, to
have carefully digested plans and clearly defined
courses. We are as children feeling our way in the
dark, for it must be remembered that it is not yet half




HLER ADDRESS.                 8 
a century since the free schools, even in the most
enlightened portions of our country, were first opened
to girls. How, then, should you expect of us the fullness of wisdom which you for whole centuries have
been gathering from schools, colleges, and the exclusive knowledge and management of affairs!
We admit our short-comings, but we do feel, gentlemen, that in spite of them, an honest, earnest, and
unostentatious effort toward broader culture and nobler
life is entitled to a heartier and more sympathetic recognition than we have as yet received from you anywhere; even our representatives here at home, the
leaders of the New York press, have failed in that
magnanimity which we have been accustomed to
attribute to them.
If we could have foreseen the sneers and sarcasms
with which we have been met, they of themselves would
have constituted all-sufficient reasons for the establishment of this Woman's Club; as it is, they have established a strong impulse towards its continuance and
fnal perpetuity. But, ladies, these sneers and sarcasms
are, after all, but so many acknowledgements of our
power, and should and will stimulate us to braver
assertion, to more persistent effort toward thorough
and harmonious organization; and concert and harmony are all that we need to make this enterprise,
ultimately, a great power for good. Indeed, with such
women as have already enrolled their names on our
list, I, for my part, cannot believe failure possible.
Some of us cannot hope to see great results, for our
feet are already on the downhill side of life; the
shadows are lengthening behind us and gathering
before us, and ere long they will meet and close, and
6




32        ALICE AND PH(EBE CARY.
the places that have known us, know us no more. But
if, when our poor work is done, any of those who come
after us shall find in it some hint of usefulness toward
nobler'lives, and better and more enduring work, we,
for ourselves, rest content.
The love, sympathy, and pity which Alice felt for the
whole human race, she lavished with concentrated
power on those near to her, the -members of her own
family, and all who had been drawn into the inner circle of her personal life. She had not a relative who
did not share her solicitude and care. Of her young
nieces, the daughters of Rowena and Susan Cary, she
was especially fond. The house on Twentieth Street
was often graced and brightened by their presence,
and one, "'little Alice," grew up almost as an own
daughter in her home, giving in return, to both her
aunts to their latest hour, a filial devotion and tenderness which the most loving daughter never surpassed.
No child ever called her mother, yet to the end of
life the heart of motherhood beat strong within her
breast. Her love for children never grew faint. She
was especially fond of little girls, and was wont to send
for her little friends to come and spend a day with her.
This was a high privilege, but any little girl that came
was at once put at her ease, and felt perfectly at home.
She took the individuality of each child into her heart,
and reproduced it in her intercourse with it, and in her
songs. and stories.
Her little girl visitors were sometimes silent ones.
Going into her room one day, there was a row of photographs, all little girls, arranged before her on het
desk.




ALICE'S LOVE OF CHILDREN.            83
"Whose little girls? " was the eager question.
"CMuine!" was the answer, breaking into a laugh.
" They are all Alice Carys; take your choice. The
only trouble they make me is, I can't possibly get time
to write to them all, though I do try to, to the babies'
mothers." All had been sent by strangers, fathers
and mothers, photographs of the children named
"Alice Cary."
It is this real love for children, as children, which
has given to both Alice and Phcebe Cary's books for
little folks, -such genuine and abiding popularity.
No more touching proof could be given of Alice
Cary's passionate sympathy with child nature, than her
never-waning love for her own little sister Lucy.
Though but three years old when she passed away,
the impress of her child-soul was as vivid and powerful
in her sister's heart after the lapse of thirty changeful
years, as on the day that she died. It was more than
sister mourning for sister, it was the woman yearning
for the child whose vacant place in her life no other
child had ever filled. The following lines, more than
Wordsworthian in their bare simplicity, are an unfeigned
utterance of her deepest heart.
MY LITTLE ONE.
At busy morn - at quiet noon -
At evening sad and still,
As wayward as the lawless mist
That wanders where it will,
She comes- my little one.
I cannot have a dream so wrought
Of nothings, nor so wild




84        ALICE AND PH(EBE CAR Y
With fantasies, but she is there,
My heavenly-human child —
My glad, gay little one.
She never spake a single word
Of wisdom, I agree;
I loved her not for what she was,
But what she was to meMy precious little one.
You might not call her beautiful,
Nor haply was she so;
I loved her for the loveliness
That I alone could know -
My sweet-souled little one.
I say I loved, but that is wrong;
As if the love could change
Because my dove hath got her winge,
And taken wider range!
Forgive, my little one.
I still can see her shining curls
All tremulously fair,
Like fifty yellow butterflies
A-fluttering in the air:
My angel little one.
I see her tender mouth, her eyes,
Her garment softly bright,
Like some fair cloud about the morn
With roses all a-light:
My deathless little one.




TEMPERAMENT.                    85
She had, in full, the keen sensitiveness of the poetic
temperament. A harsh tone, even, would bring tears
into her eyes; a cold look would haunt her for days.
It was an absolute grief to her to differ in opinion
from any one she loved, although with her intensity of
conviction this was sometimes inevitable. It pained
her if two friends rose to any heat of temper in
argument. If this ever occurred in her own parlor,
though it rarely did, she would refer to it with a pained
regret for weeks afterwards. This fine sensitiveness
of temperament was manifested in her extreme persortal modesty, which, to the end of her life, impelled
her to shrink from all personal publicity, and to avoid
everything which could attract attention to herself.
She felt strong in rectitude, in her sense of justice, in
her will to do for herself and others; but, in comparison with her friends, always plain and poor and lowly
in person, attainment, and performance. Her standard
of excellence,;,both in character and in work, was too
high to admit of self-satisfaction. Her ideals in all
things were absolutely perfect. She took no pride in
them. She only sighed that with all her striving she
could not reach them.
No better proof could be given of the lack of selfconsciousness in both sisters, than the absence of all
personal diaries, letters, and allusions to themselves
among their effects. Amid the mass of their papers
which remain, not a written line has either sister left
referring personally to herself. They held the humblest opinion of their own epistolary powers, probably
never wrote a letter in their lives for the mere sake of
writing it, while they periodically sent requests to their
friends to burn all letters from them in their posses




86        ALICE AND PHEBE CARY.
sion. Thus, amid their large circle of friends, very
few letters remain, and nearly all of these are of too
personal a character to admit of extracts. Alice never
wrote a letter save on business, or to a person whom
she loved. These letters were written in snatches of
time between her tasks at early morning, or in the
evening. She had no leisure to discuss art, or new
books, seldom current events. The letter was always
a direct message from her heart to her friend. In
nothing, save in her self-denial for their sakes, did she
manifest her brooding tenderness and care for those
she loved, more than in her personal letters.
The following extracts from private letters to one
person, give an example of the letter-writing style
dvhich she held in such low esteem, and show what
were the direct utterances of Alice Cary's heart in
private to a friend. As the expression of herself' in a
form of which so little remains, they are full of interest.
The first is dated September 3, I866: —
" I have not forgotten you, though you might think
so. The truth is, in the first place, my letters are very
poor affairs, and in the next, I know it. So you see I
do not like to essay my poor powers in that direction.
unless for a special reason, and, such an one is my love
for you. I think of you daily, indeed hourly, and wish
you were only back among us. Can't you come for
a little while this winter?.... Go on! We need
all the strong words for the right that can be uttered.
We never needed them more, it seems to me. I am
afraid'you are lonesome. I know how lonesome I
used to be in the country and alone. Alone, I mean;




ALICE'S LETTERS                87
so far as the society to which one belongs is concerned. For we all need something outside of ourselves and our immediate family. I don't care how
much they may be to us, we require it both for mind
and body.
"I am here in my own room, just where you left me.
Htow I wish you could come in. Wouldn't we talk?
I see all our old friends, but I do so wish for you.
"I am very busy, never so busy in my life, but
whether to good purpose or not, I cannot say. Did
you read my story in the July and August numbers of
the'Atlantic,''The Great Doctor'?
" My poems are expected out this fall, but not in a
shape to please me; the cuts are dreadfully done; they
look like frights. So things go, nothing quite as we
would have it in this world; let us hope we are nearing
a better country..I could tell you a thousand things,
but how can I write them?
" You have seen that poor Mrs. --- has passed from
among us? Her poor little struggle of a life is ended.
I trust she has found one more satisfactory. My
struggle still goes on. I am writing stories and
verses - I can't say poems.
"Write me, my dear, just from your heart."
The next letter bears the date of September 17,
I866:" My dear, I've taken time by the forelock, as they
say. I am up before the sun.
"We had an interesting company last evening, among
them Mr. Greeley, Mr. Beecher, and Robert Dale
Owen. I thought of you, and wished you here. I am




88        ALICE AN4D PHBE CARAY.
glad you are at work again; you must work, you have
every encouragement. A word about my story. I
had no design to write a word against the Methodists.
I believe them to be just as good as any other' people.
But I had to put my characters in some Church, and
as I lived among Methodists in my youth, I know
much about their ways. But I have a good Methodist preacher to set against my poor one, as will appear
in due time. I would not do so foolish or mean a
thing as to attempt to write down, or to write up, any
denomination. There is good in all; but human
nature is human nature everywhere.
" Thank you for your kind offer about my poems. I
shall certainly remember your goodness. I do want
the book to get before the public, and not be left to
die in its cradle. I can say this much for it, It is miize.
It is what I have thought, what I have seen, lived, and
felt myself, not through books, or through other persons. I have taken the wild woods, corn fields, schoolhouses, rustic boys and girls, whatever I know best that
has helped to make rie; and however poor, there is the
result.
"I must see you somehow this winter, and your dear
friend Mrs. -, whom I love without having seen.
" There is breakfast! God bless you, and for a little
while, good-by."
Another letter is dated October 2I, i866:-... " I am afraid you are sick or very sad, or I am
sure I should have heard from you. I think of you so
much, and always with tearful tenderness, for our souls
are kindred. I am more than half sick. My cough,




A LICE'S LETTERS.             89
since the weather has changed, is very troublesome, so
that I cannot sleep nights, which is dreadful, you know.
"Won't you write and tell me all about yourself?
Solnehow I feel worried rbout you, as if there were
shadows all around you.
" The house was full of pleasant company last night,
but I was too sick to share it.
"I have managed with Carleton about my books.
He has been very generous to me. I like him, and
you will. I am busy trying to do much more than I
ought, but I seem to be driven by a demon to that end,
and to what purpose! Who cares for my poor little
work, when it is all done! What doth it profit under
the sun! I am sad to-day, very sad, and I ought to go
to you only with sunshine. I have just finished a long,
lonely ballad. I wish I could read it to you. More
than that, I wish I could walk with you in the sunshine,
out among the falling leaves, and say just what comes
into my heart to say.  But you are there, and I am
here,'and the harbor bar keeps nearing.'"
The following is from a letter written a year later,
January, I867: -
"' Here am I again, in my corner, thinking of you
and of many things of which we did not talk much. I
felt a little hurt, at first, that I did not see you more,
but I do not now. I know that it was just as you say.
Never mind, I half think I will come again, I did
enjoy the week in     so much. I want to begin
just where I left off. Dear Mrs. -, she did so
much for our comfort and pleasure. How I hope to
do something for her sometime. And Mr. --- too,




90        ALICE AND PHCEBE CAR Y.
how I like him. It always did me good to see his
bright face come in; his very voice gave me confidence
and - whazt word shall I use? I don't know, I only
know it always helped me te see him.
"I've been working on a little book of poems, or a
proposed book, rather, all day at my desk. It is now
nearly night, and I am tired, but I got on pretty well;
that's some comfort.
"I have not been well since my return, and the
immense appetite I had in, I left -here."
The following bears a still later date:-....  Thank you most kindly for your letter. If
I had only received it earlier, I might have gone with
my friends to -—, but they had already left, and
anyway it would not have been easy to- leave, for the
house ism full of visitors. I would like to be with you
these times,.but you can't imagine how busy I am,
and have to be, to keep things going. I have been
pretty well all winter, or I don't know how I should
have got along. I have done a great deal of work,
such as it is. Tell me what you propose to do, and
all about yourself. First of all, I hope you are well;
that is the great thing. We have had very pleasant
times this winter; I have so much wished you here to
help us. I have seen a good deal of Miss Booth for
the last few months, and like her much; have seen Ole
Bull at home and elsewhere, and like him, as Anna
Dickinson would say,'excessively!'  I have seen
much also of the McCarthys of London. You know
and like them both; so do I. I do believe I have written my whole letter about myself. Well, pay me back




ALICE'S LETTERS.               9!
in my own coin; that is all I want. Give me some
of those thoughts which go through your mind and
heart, when you sit alone with your cheek in your
hand.
"Mind, I don't mean to say that you have not done
anything well. By no means. But remember, your best
work you yet must do."
Another letter is dated November 24, i868:" Your kind letter came duly. How I thank you for
all your affectionate thoughts of me! I have been
thinking and thinking I would write, but it's the old
story, I can't write anything worth the reading. If we
could only see each other! But written words are so
poor and empty! at any rate mine seem so, and I have
not the gift to make them otherwise.
"You have been sick and sad. I am so sorry for
both, if that could help you. I am not well, either.
My dear sick sister has been with me for two months
with L.'Little Alice' is here now. I have had
transient visitors all the time, - two calls for charity
since I began this letter. So, my dear, you can see
how some of my time, and much of my heart goes.
You can imagine I have written very little, and as for
reading, my mind is as blank as an idol's.
"I hope to come to    this winter, and that there
we may see one another: but can't you somezow come
to me, — so that we might steal an hour now and
then? I think it would do you good, I am sure it
would me. I think of you oftener than you would
believe. I have not so many friends that I cannot
keep them all in my heart all the time. Have you




92        ALICE AND PZIEBE CARY.
made your new dress? What are you doing? and
hoping to do? Do write and tell me, if you can afford
to get in return for good letters such chaff as I send.
"It seems to me, if I only had your years, I would
hope everything; but think where I am! So near the
night, where no man can work, nor woman either.
"Lastly, my dear, let me admonish you to stand more
strongly by your own nature. God gave it to you. For
that reason alone you should think well of it, and
make the most of it. I say this because I think that
your tender conscience is a little morbid, as well as
tender. You hardly think that you have a right to
God's best gifts, to the enjoyment of the free air and
sunshine. Your little innocent delights you constantly
buy at a great cost. When you have given the loaf,
you hardly think you have a right to the crust. One
part of your nature is all the time set against the
other, and you take the self-sacrificing side. I know
through what straits you are dragged. You could
not be selfish if you would, and I would not have you
so, if I could. But I do think that you should compel
yourself to live a higher, more expansive, and expressive life. You are entitled to it. There is a cloud all
the time between you and the sun, and even the soulless plants cannot live in the shade. I did not intend
to write all this; somehow, it seemed to write itself.
If I have said more than I ought, I pray you pardon
me.
"The day is lovely. I wish we were in the woods
together, hearing the wind in the dead leaves, and
getting from the quiet heart of our mother earth
some of her tranquil rest. Good-by, my dear. May
the Lord send his angels to abide with you."




SPIRITUALISM.                 93
Many have inquired concerning her belief in " Spiritualism." She was a spiritualist in the highest meaning of the much-abused term, as every spiritually
minded person must be in some sense, and would be
if no such thing as professional Spiritualism had ever
existed. No one can believe in the New Testament,
in God himself, and not be in this sense a spiritualist.
One cannot have faith in another and better world,
and not feel often that its border lies very near to
this; so near, indeed, that our lost ones who have
gone thither may come back to us, unseen, unheard,
to walk as " ministering angels " by our sides. This
is the spiritualism of Jesus and his disciples, and of
holy men and women in all ages.
All Alice Cary's spiritual faith is uttered in these
lines: -
" Laugh, you who never had
Your dead come back; but do not take from me
The harmless comfort of my foolish dream:
That these our mortal eyes,
Which outwardly reflect the earth and skies,
Do introvert upon eternity;
And that the shapes you deem
Imaginations just as clearly fall,
Each from its own divine original,
And through some subtle element of light,
Upon the inward spiritual eye,
As do the things which round about them lie,
Gross and material, on the external sight."
She hated slavery in every form; she was capable
of a burning indignation against every type of wrong;*
yet in her judgment of individuals sl'e was full of




94         ALICE AND PHLEBE CARY.
charity and sympathy. I once expressed myself bitterly toward a person who had spoken of Alice most
unkindly and falsely. "You would not feel so, my
dear," she said, "if you knew how unhappy she is.
When I think how very unhappy she must be herself,
to be willing to injure one who never harmed her, I
can only pity her."
This intense tenderness, this yearning over everything human, with a pity and love inexpressible, made
the very impulse and essence of her being. Surely, in
this was she Christlike.  Our Saviour wept over Jerusalem. How many tears did she, his disciple; shed for
sorrowing humanity, for suffering womanhood. Nor
were tears all she gave. The deepest longing of her
life was to see human nature lifted from sin to holiness,
from  misery to happiness; every thought that she
uttered, every deed she did, she prayed might help
toward this end. To help somebody, no matter how
lowly, to comfort the afflicted, to lift up the fallen, to
share every blessing of her life with others, to live
(even under the stress of pain and struggle) a life
pure, large, in itself an inspiration - this, and more, was
Alice Cary.
Filled with the spirit, and fulfilling the law of the
Master in her daily life, is it not intolerant, little, and
even mean, now she has passed away forever, to cast
on the abstract creed of such a woman the shadow
of question, much less of reproach?
Why should her " Dying Hymn " be less the hymn of
a dying saint, if she did believe that the mercy of her
Heavenly Father, and the atonement of Jesus Christ,
would, in the fullness of eternity, redeem from sin, and
gather into everlasting peace, the whole family of man?




HER CREED.                  95
Justice tempered by love, the supreme attribute of her
own nature, ran into her individual conception of God,
and of his dealings with the human race. Grieving
over the fact that ten thousands of her fellow creatures
are cursed in their very birth, born into the world with
the physical and spiritual taint of depraved generations
entailed upon them, with neither the power nor opportunity, from the cradle to the grave, to break the chains
of poverty and vice and rise to purity: she believed
no less that the opportunity would come to every
human being, that everything that God had made
would have its chance; if not in this existence, then in
another. Without this faith, at times human life would
have been to her intolerable. It was her soul's consolation to say: —
" Nay, but'tis not the end:
God were not God, if such -a thing could be;
If not in time, then in eternity,
There must be room for penitence to mend
Life's broken chance, else noise of wars
Would unmake heaven."
Phcebe, in settling the question of her religious faith,
said: -
"Though singularly liberal and unsectarian in her
views, she always preserved a strong attachment to the
church of her parents, and, in the main, accepted its
doctrines. Caring little for creeds and minor points,
she most firmly believed in human brotherhood as
taught by Jesus; and in a God whose loving kindness
is so deep and so unchangeable, that there can never
come a time to even the vilest sinner, in all the ages of
eternity, when if he arise and go to Him, his Fathel




96         ALICE AND PH7EBE CARY.
will not see him afar off, and have compassion upon
him. In this faith, which she has so often sung, she
lived and wrought and hoped; and in this faith,
which grew stronger, deeper, and more assured with
years of sorrow and trial and sickness, she passed
from death unto life."
The friends who shared so long the hospitality of
her home, as they turn their eyes toward the closed
doors of that home, finally bereft, well as they knew
her and truly as they loved her, cannot dream of half
the plans for their happiness and comfort that went ott
when that faithful heart ceased to beat. Nor was it of
her friends only whom she thought. Long after suffering had separated her forever from the active world, she
took just as keen an interest in its' great affairs as if
still participating in them. Even when the shadows
of eternity were stealing over her, nothing that concerns this mortal life seemed to her paltry or unimportant. She wanted all her friends to come into her
room and tell her everything about the life from which
she was shut out. She took the deepest interest in
everything human, from the grandest affair of state to
" poor old Mrs. Brown's last cap," which she persisted
in making when so feeble that she could scarcely draw
her needle through its lace. Yet this interest in human
affairs did not shut from her gaze the things " unseen
and eternal." She said to me one morning, after a
night of suffering, " While you are all asleep, I lie here
and think on the deep things of eternity, of the
unknown life. I find I must leave it still with God,
and trust Him! "
One of the last things she said to me was, " If you
could see all the flowers brought into this room  by




LAST WORDS.                  97
friends piled up, it seems to me they would reach to
heaven. I am certainly going toward it on flowery
beds, if not beds of ease."
And her last words to me, with a radiant smile,
were, " When you come back, you will find me so much
better I shall come and stay with you a week. So we
wont say good-by." Thus in one sense we never
parted. Yet my only regret in thinking of her, is that
life with its relentless obligations withheld me from her
in her very last days. It is one of those unavailing
regrets on which death has set his seal, and to which
time can bring no reparation.
For her sake let me say what, as a woman, she could
be, and was, to another. She found me with habits of
thought and of action unformed, and with nearly all the
life of womanhood before me. She taught me self-help,
courage, and faith.  She showed me how I might help
myself and help others. Wherever I went, I carried
with me her love as a treasure and a staff. How many
times I leaned upon it and grew strong.' It never fell
from me. It never failed me. No matter how life
might serve me, I believed without a doubt that her
friendship would never fail me; and it never did. If
I faltered, she would believe in me no less. If I fell,
her hand would be- the first outstretched to lift me up.
All the world might forsake me; yet would not she.
I might become an outcast; yet no less would I find in
her a shelter and a friend. Yet, saying this, I have
not said, and have no power to say, what as a soul I
owe to her.
These autumn days sharpen the keen sense of irreparable loss. These are the days that she loved; in
whose balsamic airs she basked, and renewed her life
7




-98        ALICE AND PHCBE CARIY.
with ever fresh delight. These are the days in which
she garnished her house for new reunions, in which she
drew nearer to nature, nearer to her friends, nearer to
her God. October is here, serene as of old; but she
is not. Her house is inhabited by strangers. Her
song is hushed.  Her true heart is still. But life —
the vast life whose mystery enthralled her - that
remorselessly goes on. I laid a flower on her grave
yesterday; so to-day I offer this poor memorial to her
name, because I loved her.




ALICE CGARY THE WRITER.             99
CHAPTER VI.
ALICE CARY. — THE WRITER.
As an artist in literature Alice Cary suffered, as so
many women in this generation do, for lack of thorough
mental discipline and those reserved stores of knowledge which must be gathered and garnered in youth.
When the burden and the heat of the day came, when
she needed them most, she had neither time nor
strength to acquire them. Her early youth was spent
chiefly in household drudgery. Her only chance for
study was in dear snatches at books between her tasks,
and by the kitchen fire through the long winter evenings. Referring to this period of her life, she said: —
" In my memory there are many long, dark years of
labor at variance with my inclinations, of bereavement,
of constant struggle, and of hope deferred."
Thus, when her life-work and work for life came, she
did it under the most hampering disadvantages, and
often amid bodily suffering which any ordinary woman
would have made a sufficient excuse for absolute dependence upon others. Thus it was with her as with so
many of her sisters.. So much of woman's work is artistically poor, not from any poverty of gift, but for lack of
that practical training of the faculties which is indispensable to the finest workmanship. The power is
there, but not the perfect mastery of the power. Alice's




uoo       ALICE AND PlHERBE CAA' Y.
natural endowment of mind and soul was of the finest
and rarest; yet as an artistic force, she used it timidly,
and at times awkwardly. She never, to her dying hour,
reached her own standard; Dever, in any form of art,
satisfied herself.
About ten years ago she wrote to a friend in the
West: " I am ashamed of my work. The great bulk
of what I have written is poor stuff. Some of it, maybe,
indicates ability to do better  that is about all. I
think I am more simple and direct, less diffuse and
encumbered with ornament than in former years, all,
probably, because I have lived longer and thought
more."'
In dealing with two forces, hers was the touch of
mastery. As an interpreter of the natural world she
was unsurpassed.  And when she spoke from her own,
never did she fail to strike the key-note to the human
heart. Her absorbing love for nature, inanimate and
human, her oneness with it, made her what she was,
a poet of the people. She knew more of principles
than of persons, more of nature than of either. Her
mind was introspective. Instinctively she drew the
very life of the universe into her soul, and from her
soul sent it forth into life again. By her nothing in
nature is forgotten or passed by.  " The luminous
creatures of the air," the cunning workers of the ground,
"5 the dwarfed flower," and the " drowning mote," each
shares something of her great human love, which,
brooding over the very ground, rises and merges into
all things beautiful.. One can only wonder at the reverent and observant faculties, the widely embracing
heart, which makes so many of God's loves its own.
The following is a verse in her truest vein: -




SPEC ULA TIONS.              10
" 0 for a single hour
To have life's knot of evil and self-blame
All straightened, all undone!
As in the time when fancy had the power
The weariest and forlornest day to bless,
At sight of any little common fower,
That warmed her pallidfingers in the sun,
And had no garment but her loveliness."
After having lived in the city for twenty years, with
not even a grassy plat of her own on which to rest her
feet, the country sights and sounds, which made nearly
thirty years of her life, faded into pictures of the past.
In these days " life's tangled knot of evil," the phenomena of human existence, absorbed chiefly her heart
and faculties. Much of the result of her questionings
and replies we find in her "Thoughts and Theories."
Even these are deeply veined with her passionate love
of nature, though she speaks of it as a companion of
the past. She says: —
" I thank Thee that my childhood's vanished days
Were cast in rural ways,
Where I beheld, with gladness ever new,
That sort of vagrant dew
Which lodges in the beggarly tents of such
Vile weeds as virtuous plants disdain to touch,
And with rough-bearded burs, night after night,
Upgathered by the morning, tender and true,
Into her clear, chaste light.
"Such ways I learned to know
That free will cannot go




102       ALICE AND PHIIBE CAR Y.
Outside of mercy; learned to bless his name
Whose revelations, ever thus renewed
Along the varied year, in field and wood,
His loving care proclaim.
"I thank Thee that the grass and the red rose
Do what they can to tell
How spirit through all forms of matter flows;
For every thistle by the common way,
Wearing its homely beauty; for each spring
That, sweet and homeless, runneth where it will;
For night and day;
For the alternate seasons, - everything
Pertaining to life's marvelous miracle."
But these later poems, with all their spiritual
thought and insight, with all their tender retrospection,
never equaled in freshness and fullness of melody, in
a nameless rush of music, her first lyrics; those lyrics
written when the young souL, attuned to every sound in
nature, thrilling with the first consciousness of its visible and invisible life, like the reed of Pan, gave it all
forth in music at the touch of every breeze.  No wonder that so many pilgrims out in the world turned and
listened to the first notes of a song so natural and
" piercing sweet." To the dusty wayfarer the freedom
and freshness and fullness of the winds and waves
swept through it. Listen:" Do you hear the wild birds calling?
Do you hear them, 0 my heart?
Do you see the blue air falling
From their rushing wings apart?




TO THIE WINDS.               1o3
"With young mosses they are flocking,
For they hear the laughing breeze
With dewy fingers rocking
Their light cradles in the trees!"
And here is one of her early contributions to the
"National Era," written before she was known to
fame, and before she was paid money for her writing.
TO THE WINDS.
Talk to my heart, 0 winds -
Talk to my heart to-night;
My spirit always finds
With you a new delight —
Finds always new delight,
In your silver talk at night.
Give me your soft embrace
As you used to long ago,
In your shadowy trysting-place,
When you seemed to love me soWhen you sweetly kissed me so,
On the green hills, long ago.
Come up from your cool bed,
In the stilly twilight sea,
For the dearest hope lies dead
That was ever dear to me;
Come up from your cool bed,
And we'll talk about the dead.
Tell me, for oft you go,
Winds - lovely winds of night



104      ALICE AND PHTEBE CARY.
About the chambers low,
With sheets so dainty white,
If they sleep through all the night
In the beds so chill and white?
Talk to me, winds, and say
If in the grave be rest,
For, O! Life's little day
Is a weary one at best;
Talk to my heart and say
If Death will give me rest.
In her minor lyrics of this period, those singing of
some sad human experience, we find the same intimate
presence of natural objects, the same simple, inimitable
pictures of country life. I was a young girl when the
following stanzas first met my eye. The exquisite sensation which thrilled me when I read them, was among
the never-to-be-forgotten experiences of a life-time. It
was as if I had never read a poem before, and had but
just received a new revelation of song; though the
soul from whence it came was to me but a name.
Very pale lies Annie Clayville,
Still her forehead, shadow-crowned,
And the watchers hear her saying,
As they softly tread around -
"Go out, reapers! for the hill-tops
Twinkle with the summer's heat;
Lay out your swinging cradles,
Golden furrows of ripe wheat!
While the little laughing children,
Lightly mingling work with play,




A COUNTRY PICTURE.              IoS
From between the long green winrows
Glean the sweetly-scented hay,
Let your sickles shine like sunbeams
In the silvery flowing rye;
Ears grow heavy in the corn-fields
That will claim you by and by.
Go out, reapers, with your sickles,
Gather home the harvest store!
Little gleaners, laughing gleaners,
I shall go with you no more  "
Round the red moon of October,
White and cold, the eve stars climb;
Birds are gone, and flowers are dying —'Tis a lonesome, lonesome time!
Yellow leaves along the woodland
Surge to drift; the elm-bough sways,
Creaking at the homestead window,
All the weary nights and days;
Dismally the rain is falling,
Very dismally and cold!
Close within the village grave-yard,
By a heap of freshest ground,
With a simple, nameless head-stone,
Lies a low and narrow mound;
And the brow of Annie Clayville
Is no longer shadow-crowned.
Rest thee, lost one! rest thee calmly,
Glad to go where pain is o'er;
Where they say not, through the night-time,
" I am weary! " any more.
In her verses " To an Early Swallow," written within




Io6       ALICE AND PHOEBE CAR Y.
a year or two of her death, we find lines which revive
much of the exquisite imagery which made her earlier
lyrics so remarkable. She says —
My little bird of the air,
If thou dost know, then tell me the sweet reason
Thou comest alway, duly in thy season,
To build and pair.
For still we hear thee twittering round the eaves,
Ere yet the attentive cloud of April lowers,
Up from their darkened heath to call the flowers,
Where, all the rough, hard weather,
They kept together,
Under their low brown roof of withered leaves.
And for a moment still
Thy ever-tuneful bill,
And tell me, and I pray thee tell me true,
If any cruel care thy bosom frets,
The while thou flittest ploughlike through the airThy wings so swift and slim,
Turned downward, darkly dim,
Like furrows on a ground of violets.
Nay, tell me not, my swallow,
But have thy pretty way,
And prosperously follow
The leading of the sunshine all the day.
Thy virtuous example
Maketh my foolish questions answer ample -
It is thy large delights keeps open wide
Thy little mouth; thou hast no pain to hide;
And when thou leavest all the green-topped woods
Pining below, and with melodious floods




LAST POEMS.                 107
Flatterest the heavy clouds, it is, I know,
Because, my bird, thou canst not choose but go
Higher and ever higher
Into the purple fire
That lights the morning meadows with heart's-ease,
And sticks the hill-sides full of primroses.
But tell me, my good bird,
If thou canst tune thy tongue to any word,
Wherewith to answer - pray thee tell me this.:
Where gottest thou thy song,
Still thrilling all day long,
Silvered to fragments by its very bliss!
Not, as I guess,
Of any whistling swain,
With cheek as richly russet as the grain
Sown in his furrows; nor, I further guess,
Of any shepherdess,
Whose tender heart did drag
Through the dim hollows of her golden flag
After a faithless love - while far and near,
The waterfalls, to hear,
Clung by their white arms to the cold, deaf rocks,
And all the unkempt flocks
Strayed' idly. Nay, I know,
If ever any love-lorn maid did blow
Of such a pitiful pipe, thou didst not get
In such sad wise thy heart to music set.
So, lower not down to me
From its high home thy ever-busy wing;
I know right well thy song was shaped for thee
By His unwearying power




to8       ALICE AND PfIEBE CAR Y.
Who makes the days about the Easter flower
Like gardens round the chamber'of a king.
And whether, when the sobering year hath'run
His brief course out, and thou away dost hie
To find thy pleasant summer company;
Or whether, my brown darling of the sun,
When first the South, to welcome up the May,
Hangs wide her saffron gate,
And thou, from the uprising of the day
Till eventide in shadow round thee closes,
Pourest thy joyance over field and wood,
As if thy very blood
Were drawn from out the young hearts of the roses -'Tis all to celebrate,
And all to praise
The careful kindness of His gracious ways
Who builds the golden weather
So tenderly about thy houseless broodThy unfledged, homeless brood, and thee together.
Ah! these are the sweet reasons,
My little swimmer of the seas of air,
Thou comest, goest, duly in thy season;
And furthermore, that all men everywhere
May learn from thy enjoyment
That that which maketh life most good and fair
Is heavenly employment.
In the very latest of her suffering days, Alice Cary
longed with longings unutterable to bring back as a
living presence to herself every scene which inspired
those early songs. In her portfolio lie her last manu



CRADLE SONG.                Io9
scripts just as she left them, copied, each one, several
times, with a care and precision which, in her active
and crowded days, she never attempted; copied in the
new chirography which she compelled her hand to
acquire, a few months before it was laid upon her
breast, idle at last, in the rest of death. These late
songs breathe none of the faintness of death. Rather
they ring with the first lyric fervor; they cry out for,
and call back, within the very shadow of the grave,
the woman's first delights. Witness these in this
"Cradle Song," copied three times by her own hand,
and never before published.
CRADLE SONG.
All the air is white with snowing,
Cold and white- cold and white;
Wide and wild the winds are blowing,
Blowing, blowing wide and wild.
Sweet little child, sweet little child,
Sleep, sleep, sleep little child:
Earth is dark, but heaven is bright -
Sleep, sleep till the morning light:
Some must watch, and some must weep,
And some, little baby, some may sleep:
So, good-night, sleep till light;
Lullaby, lullaby, and good-night!
Folded hands on the baby bosom,
Cheek and mouth rose-red, rose-sweet;
And like a bee's wing in a blossom,
Beat, beat, beat and beat,
So the heart keeps going, going,
While the winds in the bitter snowing




110       ALICE AND PIHEBE CAR Y.
Meet and cross- cross and meet -
Heaping high, with many an eddy,
Bars of stainless chalcedony
All in curves about the door,
Where shall fall no more, no more,
Longed-for steps, so light, so light.
Little one, sleep till the moon is low,
Sleep, and rock, and take your rest;
Winter clouds will snow and snow,
And the winds blow east, and the winds blow west;
Some must come, and some must go,
And the earth be dark, and the heavens be bright:
Never fear, baby dear,
Wrong things lose themselves in right;
Never fear, mother is here,
Lullaby, lullaby, and good-night.
O good saint, that thus emboldenest
Eyes bereaved to see, to-night,
Cheek the rosiest, hair the goldenest,
Ever gladdened the mother sight.
Blessed art thou to hide the willow,
Waiting and weeping over the dead,
With the softest, silkenest pillow
Ever illumined hair o'erspread.
Never had cradle such a cover;
All my house with light it fills;
Over and under, under and over,'Broidered leaves of the daffodils!
All away from the winter weather,
Baby, wrapt in your'broideries bright,
Sleep, nor watch any more for father -
Father will not come home to-night.




LAST POEMIS.               I I
Angels now are round about him,
In the heavenly home on high;
We must learn to do without himSome must live, and some must die.
Baby, sweetest ever was born,
Shut little blue eyes, sleep till morn:
Rock and sleep, and wait for the light,
Father will not come home to-night.
Winter is wild, but winter closes;
The snow in the nest of the bird will lie,
And the bird must have its little cry;
Yet the saddest day doth swiftly run,
Up o'er the black cloud shines the sun,
And when the reign of the frost is done
The May will come with roses, roses
Green-leaved grass, and red-leaved roses -
Roses, roses, roses, roses,
Roses red, and lilies white.
Sleep little baby, sleep, sleep;
Some must watch, and some must weep;
Sweetly sleep till the morning light,
Lullaby, lullaby, and good-night.
By its side lies another manuscript, evidently written
later. In it the same erect, clear writing is attempted,
but the hand wavered and would not obey the will;
the lines tremble, and at last grow indistinct. The
poem  begun was never finished.  As the failing
hand, the yearning soul left it, word by word, it is here
given: -
Give me to see, though only in a dream,
Though only in an unsubstantial dream,




112       ALICE AND PHOEBE CARY.
rhe dear old cradle lined with leaves of moss,
And daily changed from cradle into cross,
What time athwart its dull brown wood, a beam
Slid from the gold deeps of the sunset shore,
Making the blur of twilight white and fair,
Like lilies quivering in the summer air;
And my low pillow like a rose full-blown.
0, give mine eyes to see once more, once more,
My longing eyes to see this one time more,
The shadows trembling with the wings of bats,
And dandelions dragging to the door,
And speckling all the grass about the door,
With the thick spreading of their starry mats.
Give me to see, I pray and can but pray,
O, give me but to see to-day, to-day,
The little brown-walled house where I was born;
The gray old barn, the cattle-shed close by,
The well-sweep, with its angle sharp and high;
The flax field, like a patch of fallen sky;
The millet harvest, colored like the corn,
Like to the ripe ears of the new husked corn.
And give mine eyes to see among the rest
This rustic picture, in among the rest,
For there and only there it doth belong,
I, at fourteen, and in my Sunday best,
Reading with voice unsteady my first song,
The rugged verses of my first rude song.
As a ballad writer she was never equaled by any
American man or woman. She loved the ballad, and




BALLADS.                 IT3
there is ever in hers a naive, arch grace of utterance, inimitable. In the ballad, hers was the very luxury of
song. She never waited for a rhyme. Her rhythm rippled and ran with the fervor and fullness of a mountain
brook after the springtime rains. Never quite overtaking it, she yet leaped and ran and sang with it in
ever new delight. What a wild thrilling rush is there
in such lines as these:"Haste, good boatman! haste! " she cried,
" And row me over the other side!"
And she stript from her finger the shining ring,
And gave it me for the ferrying,
"Woe's me! my Lady, I may not go,
For the wind is high and th' tide is low,
And rocks like dragons lie in the wave, —
Slip back on your finger the ring you gave "
" Nay, nay! for the rocks will be melted down,
And the waters, they never will let me drown,
And the wind a pilot will prove to thee,
For my dying lover, he waits for me! "
Then bridle-ribbon and silver spur
She put in my hand, but I answered her:
"The wind is high and the tide is low, -
I must not, dare not, and will not go!"
Her face grew deadly white with pain,
And she took her champing steed by th' mane,
And bent his neck to th' ribbon and spur
That lay in my hand,- but I answered her:
8




tI4       ALICE AND PHIIEBE CARY.
"Though you should proffer me twice and thrice
Of ring and ribbon and steed the price, -
The leave of kissing your lily-like hand!
I never could row you safe to th' land."
"Then God have mercy! " she faintly criea,
"For my lover is dying the other side 
O cruel, O cruellest Gallaway,
Be parted, and make me a path, I pray!"
Of a sudden, the sun shone large and bright
As if he were staying away the night,
And the rain on the river fell as sweet
As the pitying tread of an angel's feet.
And spanning the water from edge to edge
A rainbow stretched like a golden bridge,
And I put the rein in her hand so fair,
And she sat in her saddle th' queen o' th' air.
And over the river, from edge to edge,
She rode on the shifting and shimmering bridge,
And landing safe on the farther side, -' Love is thy conqueror, Death!" she cried.
The following is, perhaps, a more characteristic illustration of the pensive naturalness of her usual manner.
Amid scores, it simply represents her utter ease of
rhythm; the blended realism  and idealism  of her
thoughts and feelings:And Margaret set her wheel aside,
And breaking off her thread,




BALLADS.                  115
Went forth into the harvest-field
With her pail upon her head,Her pail of sweetest cedar-wood,
With shining yellow bands,
Through clover, lifting its red tops
Almost unto her hands.
Her ditty flowing on the air,
For she did not break her song,
And the water dripping o'er th' grass,
From her pail as she went along, -
Over the grass that said to her,
Trembling through all its leaves,
" A bright rose for some harvester
To bind among his sheaves!"
And clouds of gay green grasshoppers
Flew up the way she went,
And beat their wings against their sides,
And chirped their discontent.
And the blackbird left the piping of
His -amorous, airy glee,
And put his head beneath his wing,An evil sign to see.
The meadow-herbs, as if they felt
Some secret wound, in showers
Shook down their bright buds till her way
Was ankle-deep with flowers.




I 6       ALICE AiVD PHCBE CAR Y.
Her personal acquaintance with all the flowers and
herbs of wood and field was as intimate as that she
had with people. She never generalizes in writing of
them, but sets each one in her verse as she would in a
vase, with the most delicate consciousness of its blending lights and shades. A young Southern lady, who
from childhood has been a loving student of Alice
Cary's poetry, remarked at her funeral, that she believed she could find each flower of our Middle States,
and many of those of the South, mentioned with appreciation in some part of Alice Cary's poems.
Yet nothing in her music touches one so nearly as
its manifold variations of the hymn of human life -
now tender, pathetic, and patient; now grand with resignation and faith, uttered always with a child-like simplicity; telling, most of all, how the human heart can
love and suffer, how it can believe and find rest. It
was her all-embracing pity, her yearning love for the
entire race of Adam, which made her song a personal
power, an ever present consolation to thousands of
human souls who never measured her by any rule of
poetic art. A friend who had loved her long, writing
of her after death, said:"Having passed one day from her chamber of anguish, musing upon her despondency at being thus laid
aside from active employment, we recounted her words
at the bedside of another sufferer, who had never seen
the afflicted poet. The latter, in reply, drew her common-place book from beneath her pillow, and pointed
to poem after poem by Alice Cary, which had been her
solace during weary months and years of sickness and
pain, and bade us give her greeting of gratitude to that
unknown but beloved benefactor. Thus does the All.




SClRAP-BOOKIS.               I  7
seeing Father bless our unconscious influence, and
often make our seeming helplessness more potent for
good than our best hours of purposed effort."
If the scrap-books of the land could to-day be.drawn
forth from their receptacles, we should find that Alice
Cary has a place as a poet in the hearts of the people,
which no mere critic in his grandeur has ever allowed.
Nor would these scrap-books be solely the property of
"gushing " girls, and tearful women. The heart of
man responds. scarcely less to her music. One of the
most eminent and learned of living statesmen remarked,
since her death, " It seems as if I had read almost
every poem that Alice Cary has ever written: at least
my scrap-book is full of them."
There is no sadder inequaility than that which exists
often between the estimate an author places upon
some work that has been wrought from his soul and
brain, and the one placed on it by a careless reader, or
the average public.  It-is the very tissue of being, the
life-blood of one. To the other, often, it is but mere
words; or, at most, an inartistic performance, whose
best fate is to be superficially read and quickly forgotten. Nor is it the fault of this public that it is all
unknowing of the time and tears, the patience and sorrow and love often inwrought in the book which it so
lightly passes over. It has nothing to do with the individual life of the author; yet no less its thoughtless
and sometimes unjust judgment makes one of the hard
facts of human life. There never was a more touching illustration of this than in Alice Cary's feeling toward her little book of poems called " A Lover's
Diary," published by Ticknor and Fields, in i868, and
the average reception of it. To the newspaper noticer




I I8      ALICE AND PHEBE CAR Y.
it seemed but a tame collection of love-songs, never
thrilling and often wearisome. This was the most that
it was to many. To her it was her soul's flower laid
upon the grave of her darling - the young sister who
for so many years was the soul of her soul and the life
of her life. It is the portrait of this sister (though
casting but a dim shadow of her living loveliness) which
graces the front of the book; and the dedication below it, so simple, unfeigned, sorrowful, and loving, is
one of the most touching utterances in literature.
Here, and not here!
When following care about my house I tread
Sadly, and all so slowly,
There often seemeth to be round me spread
A blessed light, as if the place were holy;
And then thou art near.
Lost, and not lost!
When silence taketh in the night her place,
And I my soul deliver
All to sweet dreaming of thy sovereign grace,
I see the green hills on beyond the river
Thy feet have crossed.
And so, my friend,
I have and hold thee all the while I wait,
Musing and melancholy;
And so these songs to thee I dedicate,
Whose song shall flow henceforth serene and holy,
Life without end.
For dear, dear one,
Even as a traveller, doomed alone to go




ELMINVA CAR Y.               I 9
Through some wild wintry valley,
Takes in his poor, rude hand the wayside snow
And shapes it to the likeness of a lily,
So have I done;
The while I wove
Lays that to men's minds haply might recall
Some bower of bliss unsaddened,
Moulding and modulating one and all
Upon thy life, so many lives that gladdened
With light and love.
Elmina Cary, the youngest child of Robert and
Elizabeth Cary, seemed to take the place in Alice's
heart and care, filled by the little sister Lucy in her
youth. Elmina, who was married in early girlhood to
Mr. Alexander Swift of Cincinnati, in her health very
soon showed symptoms of the family fate. Marked by
death at twenty, she lingered eleven years. A portion
of this time her home was in New York. The air of
Cincinnati was harsh for her, and needing always in
her decline the ministry of her sisters, she spent much
time with them, and died in their home.  She was
especially dependent upon Alice, as Phcebe says:
"Greatly her junior, and of feeble frame, she was her
peculiar care, a sister, child, and darling." She slowly
faded from the earth, day by day growing lovelier to
the last. She had the face and nature of Alice,
touched with the softness of dependence, and the delicate contour of youth. She was of especial loveliness, with a face to inspire a painter: oval, olive-tinted,
crowned with masses of dark hair. lit with a pair of
dark eyes as steadfast as olanets and as shining as




120       ALICE AND PtGEZBE CARY.
stars All innocence and tenderness, many friends of
Alice and Phcebe remember this younger sister as the
gentlest genius of their household. She possessed
the gift divine of her family - was a poet in temperament and heart, as she must have been in utterance,
had she lived. As it was, she wiled away many hours
and years of pain in weaving together the ballads and
hymns and artless stories of life, which thronged her
heart and brain.
Wearing " the rose of womanhood " in perfect loveliness, she faded away from the world, leaving no sign
save in the hearts that loved her. There are women
striving now to gather into their ripening souls the
grace of patience, and that bright serenity which is its
finest charm, who feel that it is easier to reach because
she lived and because they loved her. And there are
men wrestling in the world, their days crowded with
its weary affairs, who nevertheless carry this woman's
memory like a flower in their hearts, thanking God
for it. For no man finds in a woman's soul the revelation of a rater self, receiving it into his heart as
the incentive toward a better life, who ever loses it
wholly, or who ever forgets the gentle face that was its
visible type.
When, in i862, she died, Alice wrote: "My darling
is dead. My hands are empty; my work seems done."
From that hour, till the "Lover's Diary" was published in i868, Alice, amid her arduous toils, was writing these songs in her praise, and for her sake.
When the book was done, she laid it in the hand of
a friend, saying, with tears in her eyes, " It will be something to you, for you knew her."  Its prevailing fault
is its monotony. The sameness of its rhythm, and the




" MFOVA S.ZCr."             12 1
constant repetition of one name, is sure to tire a reader
after a few consecutive pages, if he knows nothing of
its history, and never knew or loved personally its subject. And yet no appreciator of true poetry can turn
over its leaves without a constantly recurring sense of
surprise at the exquisite beauty of phrase, and tenderness of rhythm running through the minor lyrics.
Phcebe says of them: " I do not know how this book
may affect others; but to me some of the poems have
a most tearful and touching pathos.'Mona Sick' is
perhaps one of the saddest and sweetest."  Read as
the rhythmic utterance of absolute truth —the heart's
real cry over a loved one dying, and that loved one a
sister - what a sacred sound these lines take on!
"Low lying in her pallid pain,
A flower that thirsts and dies for rain,
I see her night and day:
And every heart-beat is a cry,
And' every breath I breathe a sigh -
0, for the May, the May!
All the dreaming is broken through;
Both what is done and undone I rue.
Nothing is steadfast and nothing true,
But your love for me and my love for you,
My dearest, dear little heart.
"The time is weary, the year is old,
The light o' the lily burns close to the mould 
The grave is cruel, the grave is cold,
But the other side is the city of gold,
My dearest, dear little heart."




122       ALICE AND PHIEBE CARAY.
Coldly as this little book was received at its publication, more of its lyrics are afloat on tile great newspaper sea to-day than ever before; while several of
them have been incorporated in standard books of
poetry. There is one, than which Charles Kingsley or
Alfred Tennyson never sang a sweeter, which has
drifted to Europe and back, and been appropriated ill
a hundred ways, whose last stanza runs:"The fisher droppeth his net in the stream,
And a hundred streams are the same as one;
And the maiden dreameth her love-lit dream;
And what is it all, when all is done?
The net of the fisher the burden breaks,
And always the dreaming the dreamer wakes."
It was in attempting to deal with more material and
cruder forces that Alice Cary failed.  In the more
comprehensive sense, she never learned the world. In
her novels, attempting to pgOrtray the faults and passions of men and women, we find her rudest work.
Her mastery of quaintness, of fancy, of naturalistic
beauty penetrated with pathetic longing, tinged with a
clear psychological light, revealing the soul of nature
and of human life from within, all give to her unaffected utterances an inexpressible charm. But the
airy touch, the subtle insight, which translated into
music the nature which she knew, stumbled and fell
before the conflicting deformity of depraved humanity.
The dainty imagination which decked her poetic forms
with such exquisite grace could not stand in the stead
of actual knowledge; usurping its prerogative, it degenerated into caricature.  She held in herself the pri



" CLO  VERNOOK S'ORIES."           1 2 3
mal power to portray human life in its most complex
relations, and most profound significance. She missed
the leisure and the experience which together would
have given her the mastery of that power. It wrestled
with false, and sometimes unworthy material. The
sorrows and wrongs of woman, the injustice of man,
the highest possibilities of human nature, she longed to
embody them all in the forms of enduring art. A life
already nearly consumed, sickness, weariness, and
death, said No. Her novels are strong with passages
of intense feeling; we feel through them the surges of
a wild, unchained power; but as broad, comprehensive
portraitures of human life, as the finest exponents of
the noble nature from which they emanated, they are
often unworthy of her.  In interpreting nature, she
never failed. Her " Clovernook Stories," her first in
prose which reproduced perfectly the life that she
knew, are pure idyls of country life and character, and
in their fresh, original charm deserve their place amid
the classics of English speech.  In the utterance of
natural emotion, crossed in its very pathos with psychical thought, surely she was never surpassed. I give
an illustration from " An Old Maid's Story," in her
"Pictures of Country Life."
"When he spoke of the great hereafter, when our
souls that had crossed their mates, perhaps, and perhlaps left them behind, or gone unconsciously before
them, dissatisfied and longing and faltering all the time
and of the deep of joy they would enter into on recognizing- fully and freely the other self, which, in this
world, had been so poorly and vaguely comprehended,
if at all; what delicious tremor, half fear and half fervor
thrilled all my being, and made me feel that the dust




124       ALICE AND P~FEBE CARY.
of time and the barriers of circumstance, the dreary
pain of a life separated from all others, death itself, all
were nothing but shadows passing between me and the
eternal sunshine of love.  I could afford to wait, I
could afford to be patient under my burdens, and to
go straight forward through all hard fates and fortunes,
assured that I should know and be known at last, love
and be loved in the fullness of a blessedness, which,
even here, mixed with bitterness as it is, is the sweetest of all. What was it to me that my hair was black,
and my step firm, while his hair to whom I listened so
reverentially was white, and his step slow, if not feeble.
What was it that he had more wisdom, and more experience than I, and what was it that he never said,'You
are faintly recognized, and I see a germ close-folded,
which in the mysterious processes of God's providence
may unfold a great white flower.' We had but crossed
each other in the long journey, and I was satisfied, for
I felt that in our traversing up the ages, we should
meet again."
Another strong quality in much of her prose is its
sturdy common sense. In her the poetical temperament never impinged on a keen, unclouded judgment.
In dealing with all practical matters she was one of the
most practical of women. She betrays this quality in
the utter directness with which she meets and answers
many questions concerning every-day life and character. The last article in prose which she ever wrote,
printed in the "New York Independent," was thus
referred to by its editor: —
"Lying upon her sick-bed, she who had never eaten
the bread of idleness wrote for us the pungent denunciation of' Shirks,' that appeared in the naoer of Feb




I" SNHRIkS I"               125.~
ruary 2d. It was probably her very last article, and
after that the weary hand that knew no shirking was
still. She intended it to be the first of a series of'semididactic articles'  so she.wrote us."
It contained these words: -
"Blessed, indeed, is that roof-tree which has no fungus attachment, and blessed the house that has no
dilapidated chair and third-rate.bed reserved in some
obscure corner for poor Uncle John, or Aunt Nancy!
To be sure, there are Uncle Johns and Aunt Nancys
who are honestly poor, and legitimately dependent —
not guilty, but simply unfortunate. It is not of such,
however, that I am discoursing; they will come under
another head. It is of that sort that go not out, even
through fasting and prayer - your' truly-begotten
shirks.'
"Talk of divine rights!  They are quite beyond
that; they do not seek to justify themselves.' Dick, the
rascal, has more than he knows how to spend!' says
John.'He will never miss the little I shall eat and
drink.' And so it happens that a lank, dirty, coarseshirted man, with an ill-flavored budget under his arm,
and poverty of blood - for he is poor all through —
skulks into John's house some morning; and woe the
day, for he never goes out. And after that,' eternal
vigilance is the price' at which his snuffy handkerchief,
clay pipe, and queer old hat are kept out of the drawing-room.
" And after the same fashion Aunt Nancy quarters
herself upon Susan; bringing with her, perhaps, a
broken-boned and flyaway cotton umbrella, a bandbox,
and some old-fashioned duds that were the finery.of
her girlhood. There is some feeling of rebellion, some




126       ALICE AND PHEBER  CAR Y.
feeble effort toward riddance, on the part of the householders; but they are rich, and their doom is on them.
And by and by things settle into unquiet quiet; and
John and Nancy are tolerated, if not accepted- being,
whenever their habitual aggressiveness is inordinately
aggravated, gotten back with gentle force into their accustomed dens. Thus, facing no responsibility, assurning no position in society, nor even in the household,
recognizing no duty, they are dragged along. And
when that call comes to which they perforce must
answer, Here am I - that event that happeneth unto
all, for which there is no evasion and no substitute -
they simply disappear. The world was no richer while
they stayed, and it is no poorer now that they are gone.
No single heart is bereft, even. The worm has eaten
all the meat out of the shell, and has perished of the
surfeit and of indolence; and why should mourners go
about the streets?"
Alice Cary was emphatically a worker, yet she never
for a moment believed that mere industry could supply
the lack of a mental gift. In an article of great power
written for " Packard's Monthly," she replied to Mr.
Greeley on this subject, taking issue against him. It
contained the following paragraph: —'" I do not believe that a man always passes, in the
long run, for what he is worth. It seems to me a hard
saying. The vision that the poet or the painter transcribes and leaves a joy and a wonder to all time, may,
I believe, have come all the same to some poor, unlettered man, who, lacking the external faculty, so to
speak, could not lay it in all its glorious shape and color
on the canvas, or catch and hold it in the fastness of
immortal verse. No, I cannot give up my comfortable




ALICE CAR Y'S RELIGIOUS LIFE.         x27
faith, that in other worlds and far-off ages there will
appear a shining multitude who shall, through death,
have come to themselves, and have found expression
denied them on earth: beautiful souls, whose bodies
were their prisons - -who stammered or stood dumb
among their kind, bearing alone the slights and disgraces of fortune, and all the while conscious, in their
dread isolation, of being peers of the poets and the
kings, and of all the royal men and women of the
world."
Alice Cary lived to pass into that serene spiritual
atmosphere which outlies the emotions and passions
of youth; where, in having outlived its love and sorrow, its loss and longing, no shadow fell between her
soul and the Illimitable Love. Her " Thoughts and
Theories" and " Hymns," contained in the volume of
her poems published by Hurd and Houghton, I866,
were chiefly the utterances of this period of her life.
They called forth thousands of expressions of personal
thanks and regard from all over the land, and yet they
failed of universal recognition in the mere world of literature. They won little or no praise in places from
whence shel-had a right to expect it. She considered
them the best expressions of her mature power; and
the comparatively cold reception which she thought
they received, especially from some of her personal
friends, was a cause of grief. Aside from all sympathy
of friendship, my opinion is that these poems never received justice. Yet the cause was scarcely with friends
or in the public; but was a part of the untoward conditions of her life. She was forced to write too much.
Her name was seen in print too often. This is one of
the heaviest penalties which genius incurs in earning




12 8      ALICE AND PHOEBE CAR Y.
its living by' a pen. Its name comes to have a market
value, and is sold and used for that. Mere newspaper
work, if tolerably well done, can bear this test for a
long time. But it is death to poetry to write it "on
time," or to sell it in advance for a name. Necessity
forced Alice to do this so often that, while her name
never lost its hold upon the masses, it came to be rated.
lower in the estimation of critics, and in some sense
her sweetest lyrics sink to the value of rhymes in the
minds of her friends. Many loved Alice as a friend,
who ranked her low as a poet; and she knew it. But,
heavy as the outer tax upon it was, the deep inner
spring of her inspiration never failed; from it chiefly
flowed the poems in this book. Yet the excess of her
daily labor was so much taken from its chances of
success.  Some of her warmest personal friends
scarcely took the trouble to look within its covers, to
see whether it contained rhymes or poems.  They
drank tea at her table, they waxed eloquent in her parlor, they knew Alice that she was one of the noblest
and sweetest of women; after that, what did it matter
what she thought, or felt, or did i
They never dreamed that, when the lights were out,
and the bright parlor closed, the womant sometimes
sat down and wept for the word of encouragement
that was not spoken, for the little meed of appreciation that was not proffered, which, could it have come
from those whose judgment she valued, would have
been new life and inspiration to her amid her ceaseless
toil.
No less this book of poems holds in thought and
utterance many of the elements of enduring existence.
It must live, because it is poetry, embodying in




ALICE CARY'S HYMNS$,            i-c;
exquisite rhythm and phrase the soul of nature and
of human life; live in the heart of thil future when
we who criticised it, or passed it by, are dead and
forgotten.
9




130       ALICE AND PZlEBE C.4RY.
CHAPTER  VII.
ALICE'S LAST SUMMER.
WE have many proofs that a life devoted to letters
is favorable to longevity in women. With all the
anxiety and care of following literature as a profession,
with all the toil of obtaining a livelihood by it, they
have as a rule lived to venerable years. A passionate
yearning for continued human existence was a ruling
characteristic of Alice Cary to her last conscious hour.
She had inherited a constitutional tendency from her
mother, which was unfavorable to robust health or
to long life. Yet with different habits of work and of
life, established early and persistently pursued, even
she might have won the longed-for lease of life, and
have added another to the list of venerable names,
whom we delight to venerate among women of
letters. Truly, some proof of this is to be found in
the fact that her brothers, sons. of the same mother,
who have spent their lives on and near the old homestead farm in' active, out-door, farmer life, are to-day
strong, healthy, and robust men.
Alice and Phcebe could not have been farmers, but
in their twenty years of life in the city they could
have followed, nearer than they did, the out-of-doors
habits of their old country home. These barefooted
rovers in country lanes, who grow up fostered by sun.




CITY LIFE.                 131
shine, air, and sky, the intimate friends of bees and
birds, of horses and cows, of the cunning workers of the
ground and the murmuring nations of the summer air;
these lovers of common flowers with common names;
these rural queens who reigned supreme in their own
kingdom, whose richest revenue to the day of their
death was drawn from the wealth of nature left so
far behind, in the full flower of their womanhood came
to the great city, and began a new life, which the
vitality of the old enabled them to endure for twenty
years, but which drew constantly on their vital springs,
without adding one -drop to the sources of physical
health. To attain the highest success which they sought,
they needed both the attrition and opportunities of the
city. Had they added to this new life, for a third of
every year, their old pastimes and old pursuits, they
might have added years to their existence. But no
human being, city bred, much less one country born,
could have maintained the highest health or have
prolonged existence in the hot air, with the sedentt ry
habits, which made the daily life of Alice and Phoebe
Cary for many years. The new life encroached upon
the old vitality imperceptibly, and not until the very
last year of their lives was either of them conscious
of the fatal harm it had wrought. They exchanged
the country habits and the familiar out-of-door haunts
of the old farm for the roar of streets and the confining air of a city house. Moreover, modest as this
house was, it took much money to support it in such a
place. This was all to be earned by the pen, and for
many years it was earned almost exclusively by Alice.
With her natural independence; her fear of financial
obligation, her hatred of debt, her desire for a corn




132       ALICE AND PH(EBE CARY.
petency, her generous hospitality, it is easy to see how
heavy was the yoke of work which she wore. Dear
soul! she might have made it lighter, could she have
believed it. As it was, even to the last she was never
free from its weight. There came a time when her
personal life was work, work, work. Then there was
the shadow of death always on the house. Elmina,
the youngest darling of all, was fading day by day
from before their eyes. Her outgoings were infrequent and uncertain. The leisure'moments of Alice
and Phcebe were spent with her in her room. As she
slowly faded, her sisters became more exclusively devoted to her. At last it came to pass that Alice
rarely left the house except on some errand of necessity.
After Elmina's death, as the summers came round,
she became more and more loth to leave her city home
to go any where into the country. Not that her heart
had let go of its old love of natural beauty, but because
st-i came to dread journeys and the annoyance and
inconvenience of travelling. What had been a necessity at times, during Elmina's life, remained a habit
after her death.  By this time Alice had herself
merged into the invalid of the family. The crisis
had come when nature demanded change, recreation,
and rest. She turned her back on all. When her
friends were away, scattered among the hills and by
the sea, Alice, left alone behind her closed blinds, was
working harder and more continuously than ever.
The stifling summers waxed and waned, the thermometer would rise and glare at Ioo~, cars and stages
would rattle beneath her windows, but through all the
fiery heat, through all the wearing thunder of the




SEDENTAARY HABITS.              133
streets, the tireless brain held on its fearful tension,
and would not let go. Phcebe would spend a month
in the country, and return with sea-weeds and mountain mosses and glowing cheeks and eyes, as trophies
but not so would Alice. Not that she never left the
city. She did sometimes, for a few days, but it was
in a brief, protesting way, that had neither time nor
chance to work her help or cure. As the sedentary
habits of her life increased, and the circulation of her
blood lowered, she had recourse more and more to
artificial heat, till at last she and Phcebe lived in a
temperature which in itself was enough to make health
impossible. In the relaxed condition inevitably produced by this furnace atmosphere, they were sometimes
compelled to go into the out-door air, and more than
one acute attack of sickness was the result to both
sisters.
These years of protracted labor, unbroken by recreation, unblessed by the resuscitating touch of nature's
healing hand, brought to Alice, shy and shrinking from
birth, greater shrinking, keener suffering, and a more
abiding loneliness. She was never selfishly isolated.
There was never a moment in her life when tears did
not spring to her eyes, and help from her hand at the
sight of suffering in any living thing. She would go
half-way to meet any true soul. She never failed
in faith or devotion to her friends. No less as the
years went on, she felt interiorly more and more alone;
she shrank more into her own inward life, and more
and more from all personal contact with the great unknown world outside of her own existence. She had
settled so deeply into one groove of life and labor,
there seemed to be no mortal power that could wrest




134       ALICE AND PHlEBE CARY.
her out of it. She worked much, but it was not work
that harmed her; she was sick, but was not sick
enough to die. The shadow of death, falling from her
mother's life across so many of her sisters, was creeping slowly, surely up to her. No less there was a time
when it was in her power to have gone beyond it, out
into the sunshine. She needed sunshine; she needed
fresher, freer, purer air; she needed change and rest.
She needed a will, wiser and more potent than her
own, to convince her of the inexorable laws of human
life, and then compel her to their obedience. She
could never have entirely escaped the inevitable penalty of hereditary law; but that she might have delayed it to the outer line which marks the allotted time
of average human life, no one finally believed more
utterly than she did. Her disobedience of the laws
of life was the result of circumstance, of condition
and of temperament, rarely a willful fact; no less she
paid the penalty - by her so reluctantly, so protestingly, so pathetically paid - her life.
At last, all that she had she would have given for
her life, her human life, but it was too late. I dwell
on the fact, for thousands are following her example,
and are hurrying on to her fate. We hear so much
of people dying of work. Yet work rarely kills man
or woman. If it is work at all, it is work done in
violation of the primeval laws of life; it is work which
a compelling will wrings out from a dying or overtaxed body.
Another summer —her last; the ceaseless, eager
worker, how was it with her now?  The low, quick
rustle of her garments was no longer heard upon the
stairs. The graceful form no longer bent over her




0 VER TAXING.               135
desk; the face no longer turned from it, with the old
thrilling glance of welcome, to the favored comet
allowed to pass the guarded door sacred to consecrated
toil.
That winter of mortal anguish had done more to
wreck Alice Cary, than'all the years which she had
lived before. The rounded contours were wasted, the
abundant locks, just touched with gray, were bleached
white, the colorless skin was tightly drawn upon the
features; for the first time she looked a wreck of her
former self. Yet she was a beautiful wreck; the splendor of her eyes made her that. No agony, no grief,
had been able to make their lustre less: till they
closed in death, their tender glory never went out.
She was almost a helpless prisoner now. She could
not take a step save on crutches.  She could not stir
without help. Yet that which no power of entreaty
could move her to do the summer before, she now
longed to do at any hazard. The thunder of the
streets had become intolerable to her tortured nerves
and brain. The very friends who had urged her to
leave the city the year before, now believed, in her
helpless condition, that her going would be impossible.
No less she went,- first to Northampton.
A correspondent of the "New York Tribune " writes
thus of her appearance at Round Hill: —
"' Alice, during a few weeks past, has been used to
sit on the same east porch, when the sunsets have
been particularly fine, and then the cane-seat rocking.
chair of the dark eyed poetess has become a sort of
throne. A respectful little group has always beer
gathered about it, and whenever it used to be whis,
pered about of an evening, that Alice Cary had come




136       ALICE AND PIEBE CAR Y.
out, somehow the tide of promenaders used to set
more and more in that direction, but always in a quiet
and reticent manner, just to get a glimpse of her, you
know, while accidentally passing her chair.  I believe
that she dropped among the Round Hill people early
one day in August, and was so quiet that she was
regarded as a sort of myth by most of the frequenters
of the place, never going into the dining-room nor into
the great parlor, bigger than a barn; but the people
said she was there, and that she invested the house
with an unusual interest. Her city home, however
snugly appointed, cannot, I am sure, compensate one
like- her for the' loss of country air, country sights,
and country sounds." This writer apparently realized
not her helpless state. At that time she could not
rise in her chair to take her crutches without assistance. Yet as she sat there with the scarlet shawl
thrown over her white robe, contrasting so vividly
with pallid face and brilliant eyes, she made a lovely
picture, to which many allusions have been made in
public print since she passed away. The following is
from Laura Redden (" Howard Glyridon "), a woman
who, under life-long affliction, embodies in her own
character the beautiful patience and peace which she
felt so intuitively and perfectly in our friend.
"I knew her in every way, except through her own
personality. I knew her through others; through her
writings; through the interpretation of my own heart;
and I remember very well, that once, when broken in
health and saddened in spirit, I felt an undefinable
impulse to go to her, and knew that it would do me
good to do so. But I stopped, and asked myself,'Will it do her any good? What can I give in return




AT NORTHA MPTON.               137
for what I take?' And I dismissed the impulse as
selfish. I had, in spirit, gone up to the very door
that stood between us, and after hesitating, as I stood
beside it, I went away. But while I stood there, I
thought of the meek, sweet sufferer on the other side.' She has so much more to crush her than I have, but
she do-es not let herself be crushed,' I said. Then I
felt ashamed and went away, resolving to murmur less,
and to struggle more for strength and patience. I
really believe that standing on the other side of the
door did me almost as much good as going in would
have done.
"Later, when I came to Northampton, I found that
she was under the same roof with me. But when
some one said,'Would you like to see her?' and it
seenied as if the door stood ajar, I drew back, without knowing why, and said,'No, not now.'
" Once, when I sat reading under the trees, she came
out leaning upon her two friends, one on each side.
They spread a gay shawl on the grass for her, and she
sat there under the shining light which came through
the trees, and enjoyed' the delicious calm of a cool,
summer, Sabbath afternoon. How pale and worn and
weak she looked, but how bright and unselfish through
it all! I watched her, unseen, and I prayed very
earnestly that God would bless the pure country air
and the country quiet to her. She thought then that
they made her better; but there were greener pastures
and purer breezes in store for her, and she was not to
stay long away from them.
"I remember another evening that she came out on
the east porch, and sat long in the dusk of the twilight.
I sat so close that my garments brushed hers - but in




138       ALICE AND PHEBE CAR Y.
the dark — quiet, unseen, and unknown; and I was
glad to have it so. Somehow there was an undefinable charm in holding this relation to a person in
whom I had so large an interest. It was so much
better to feel that I knew her than it would have been
to realize that she knew me. It seemed as if.formal
words would have taken away all this charm. Whenever my hand was upon the handle of the door, I drew
it away again and said,' Wait!'
" When I heard the next morning that she was gone,
I was sorry - not sorry that I had not spoken to her,
but only sorry that she was gone. The place had lost
half its beauty for me."
Alice, who had promised a dear friend to visit her
in her home in Northern Vermont, went thither from
Northampton. Faithful hands served  her, strong,
gentle arms bore her on, in this last struggle for life.
" How I was ever to get out of the cars, I. did not
know; the thought of it filled me with dread and terror," she said, "but there was  to lift me out and
carry me to the carriage. I never felt a jar, and when
I sat down in the bay-window, and saw the view before it, and felt the loving kindness which enveloped
me, it seemed as if I had reached heaven."
These words are written in that room in which she
sat by the window where she afterwards wrote her
" Invalid's Plea." From this bay-window in which she
sat, she looked through a vista of maples out upon a
broad expanse of meadow-lawn, whose velvet turf is
of the most vivid malachite green, softened on its
farther edge by a grove wherein the shades of spruce
and pine, elm and maple, contrast and blend. Beyond these woods Lake Memphremagog sets its glit




LONGINGS FOR SUMMlER REST.            I39
tering shield between the hills. On its farther side
green mountains arise till they hold the white clouds
on their heads. Below, Jay Peak stands over four
thousand feet above the sea, while above, Owl's Head
soars over three thousand, covered with forest to its
summit. It is a picture fit for.Paradise. Yet it is
but one glimpse amid  many of the  inexpressible
beauty of this lake and mountain country of the
North. She, sitting here, looked out upon this consummate scene; looked with her tender, steadfast eyes
across these emerald meadows, to the lake shining
upon her through the opening hills, to the mountains
smiling down on her from the distant heaven, their
keen amethyst notching the deep, deep blue of a
cloudless sky. The splendor of this northern world
fell upon her like a new, divine revelation. The tonic
in its atmosphere touched her feeble pulses; the
peace brooding in its stillness penetrated her aching
brain with the promise of a new life. Without, the
world was full of tranquillity; within, it was full of
affection and the words of loving kindness. Then
she wondered (and her wonder was sad with a hopeless
regret) why summer after summer she had lingered in
her city home, till the crash and roar of the streets,
coming through her open windows, had filled body
and brain with torture.
" Iow blind I was! " she exclaimed. "I said that
I could not take the time from my work; and now life
has neither time nor work left for me. How much
more, how much better I could have worked, had I
rested. If I am spared, how differently I will do. I
will come here every summer, and zive."
Alas! before another summer, the winter snow had




140       ALICE AND PHEBE CAR Y.
wrapped her forever from the earthly sight' of this unutterable beauty.
Hers from the beginning was the fatal mistake of
so many brain-workers — that all time given to refreshment and rest is so much taken from the results
of labor; forgetting, or not realizing, that the finer the
instrument, the more fatal the effects of undue strain,
the more imperative the necessity of avoiding overwear and the perpetual jar of discordant conditions;
forgetting, also, that the rarest flowering of the brain
has its root in silence and beauty and rest.
Here in this window, whither she, wasted and suffering, had been borne by gentle arms, our dear friend
wrote her " Invalid's Plea," one of the most touching
of her many touching lyrics:" O Summer! my beautiful, beautiful Summer,
I look in thy face and I long so to live;
But ah! hast thou room for an idle new-comer,
With all things to take and with nothing to give?
With all things to take of thy dear loving kindnessThe wine of thy sunshine, the dew of thy air;
And with nothing to give but the deafness and blindness
Begot in the depths of an utter despair?
The little green grasshopper, weak as we deem her,
Chirps day in and out for the sweet right to live;
And canst thou, 0 Summer! make room for a
dreamer,
With all things to take and with nothing to give -
Room only to wrap her hot cheeks in thy shadows,
And all on thy daisy-fringed pillow to lie,
And dream of the gates of the glorious meadows,
Where never a rose of the roses shall die?"




DEA TH AND BURIAL.              141
CHAPTER VIII.
ALICE'S DEATH AND BURIAL.
WHEN a dear one, dying willingly, lets go of life, the
loosened hands by so much reconcile us to their going.
It was not so with Alice. Through physical suffering
almost beyond precedent, through days and nights and
years of hopeless illness, she yet clung to this life.
Not through any lack of faith in the other and higher;
but because it seemed to her that she had not yet
exhausted the possibilities, the fullness, and sweetness
of this. She thought that there was a fruition in life,
in its labor, its love, which she had never realized;
and even in dying she longed for it.
The autumn before her death, in a poem entitled,
"The Flight of the Birds," she uttered this prayer:"Therefore I pray, and can but pray,
Lord, keep and bring them back when May
Shall come, with shining train,
Thick'broidered with leaves of wheat,
And butterflies, and field-pinks sweet,
And yellow bees, and rain.,"Yea, bring them back across the seas
In clouds of golden witnesses -
The grand, the grave, the gay;




142       ALICE AND PFHEBE  CAR Y.
And, if thy holy will it be,
Keep me alive, once more to see
The glad and glorious day."
It could not be. "The golden witnesses" could
only chant their spring music above her couch of final
rest. Yet within one month of death, she was busier
than ever with plans of happiness for others. "0! if
God only could let me live ten years longer," she said;
"it seems as if I wouldn't ask for any more time. I
would live such a different life. I would never shut
myself up in myself again.  Thien I would do something for my friends!"
Phcebe, writing of her last days, says:"Though loving and prizing whatever is good and
lovely here, and keeping firm and tender hold of the
things that are seen, yet she always reached one hand
to grasp the unseen and eternal.  She believed that
God is not far from any one of us, and that the sweet
communion of friends who are only separated by the
shadowy curtain of death, might still remain unbroken.
" During her last year of illness she delighted much
in the visits of her friends; entered with keenest zest
into their hopes and plans, and liked to hear of all
that was going on in the world from which she was
now shut. She talked much of a better country with
those who came to talk to her upon the land to which
her steps drew near; and so catholic and free from
prejudice was her spirit, that many of those friends
whom she loved best, and with whom she held the
most sacred communion, differed widely from herself
in their religious faith.
" She loved to listen to the reading of poetry and of




HER LAST  POEM.                143
pleasant stories, but not latterly to anything of an
exciting or painful nature; and often wanted to hear
the most tender and comforting chapters of the Gospels,
especially those which tell of the Saviour's love for
women. At the beginning of each month she had
been accustomed for some time to furnishing a poem to
one of our city papers. On the first of that month of
which she never saw the ending, she was unable to
write or even to dictate. A whole week had gone by,
when, speaking suddenly one day with something of
the old energy, she asked to be placed in her chair,
and to have her portfolio, saying, "That article must
be ready to-day." She was helped from the bed as
she desired, and, though unable to sit up without being
carefully supported, she completed the task to which
she had set herself. The last stanza she wrote reads
thus -
"' As the poor panting hart to the water-brook runs,
As the water-brook runs to the sea,
So earth's fainting daughters and famishing sons,
O- Fountain of Love, run to Thee!'
"The writing is trembling and uncertain, and the pen
literally fell from her hand; for the long shadows of
eternity were stealing over her, and she was very near
the place where it is too dark for mortal eyes to see,
and where there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge."
She had written earlier what she herself called " A
Dying Hymn," and it was a consolation to her to repeat
it to herself in her moments of deepest agony.
Earth, with its dark and dreadful ills,
Recedes, and fades away;




144       ALICE AND PHI(EBE CAR Y.
Lift up your heads, ye heavenly hills:
Ye gates of death, give way!
My soul is full of whispered song;
My blindness is my sight;
The shadows that I feared so. long
Are all alive with light.
The while my pulses faintly beat,
My faith doth so abound,
I feel grow firm beneath my feet
The green, immortal ground.
That faith to me a courage gives,:Low as the grave to go:
I know that my Redeemer lives -
That I shall live I know.
The palace walls I almost see
Where dwells my Lord and King;
O grave! where is thy victory?
O death! where is thy sting?
As her strength failed, she grew more and more fond
of the hymns of her childhood, and frequently asked
her friends to sing such hymns as, "Jesus, Lover of my
soul," c" Show pity, Lord, O Lord, forgive," "'A charge
to keep I have;" and she loved to have them sung to
old tunes.
Her frequent quotation from Holy Scripture, when
in intense pain, was, " Though He slay me, yet will I
trust in Him."
On Tuesday, February 7, she wrote her last poem,




DEA 7H.                  145
the last line of which is, " The rainbow comes but with
the cloud." Even after that, she attempted in her bed
to make a cap for an aged woman who greatly loved
her, and whose sobs in the Church of the Stranger,
when her death was announced, moved the whole audience to tears. But her fingers. failed, and the needle
stands in the unfinished cap; for her own crown was
ready, and she could not stay away from her coronation. She fell in a deep sleep, out of which she once
exclaimed, "I want to go away." She passed away as
she had always desired - waking into the better land
out of a slumber in this. "For so He giveth his beloved
sleep."
The last published words that Phcebe ever wrote of
her sister were these: " Life was to Alice Cary no
holiday, and though her skies had gracious hours of
sunshine, they had also many dark and heavy clouds;
and going back in memory now, I cannot recall a time
when, looking upon her face, even during the deepest
slumber that she ever knew, I could not see there the
sad characters of weariness and pain; until I beheld
her at last resting from her labors in that sweet,
untroubled sleep which God giveth his beloved."
When, February I3, I870, the telegraphic dispatch
swept through the land saying, " Alice Cary died yesterday. She will be buried to-morrow; from the Church
of the Stranger," the announcement was followed by
a simultaneous outburst of sorrow.  Almost every
journal throughout the country published a biographical sketch, accompanied with expressions of personal
loss. In hundreds of these notices, still preserved,
the remarkable feature is that no matter how remote
the journal in which each was published, it is more an
Io




146       ALICE AND PIEEBE CAR Y.
expression of individual sorrow at the departure of a
beloved friend, than of mere regret at the death of
an author. Thus, quoting at random, we find whole
columns of her life beginning with sentences like these:
"With a sense of bereavement that we cannot express,
we record the death of our dear friend, Alice Cary."
"The bare mention of the death of Alice Cary will
be sadly sufficient to cause a feeling of sorrow in
many a household in every part of the country."
"A woman who could stand up for her rights without arousing the animosities of others, who was a
philanthropist without either cant, affectation, or bitterness, who wrote many true poems, but lived one
sweeter and truer than she ever wrote; such was our
universally beloved Alice Cary. May He that giveth
his beloved peace, give us, who knew her beauftiful
life, the grace to imitate it."
" She had created for herself many friends whom
she never saw, and many who had never seen her
until they beheld her lying in her last sleep in the
house of prayer. Among these was one gentleman
well known in scientific circles,- a man supposed to
have little of poetic juice in the dry composition of
his nature. He surprised a friend who sat near him,
by his exhibition of feeling while the address was
delivered; and at the close, in explanation of his
great emotion, he said:' I have read every line that
woman ever published.  I have never spoken to her;
but I tell you she was the largest-hearted woman that
ever lived!'"
A letter from  New  York to the " Boston Post,"
dated February 15, I870, contains the following allusions to her funeral.




ALICE CAR Y'"S FUiNERAL.          I 4 7
"Dear Alice Cary, sweet singer of the heart, is gone
New York was shrouded in snow when her gentle face
was shut away from human sight forever. In the plain
little Church of, the Stranger, with her true friend,
Dr. Deems, officiating, and many other true friends
gathered around in mourning silence, with streets all
muffled into sympathetic stillness by the heavy drifting snow, and deep, strong sorrow rising frorn hearts to
eyes, the sad funeral rites were performed.  Rarely
has a more touching scene been witnessed than that
which separated Alice Cary from the world that loved
her. Many of those present were moved to tears,
though only one was bound to her by kinship. That
one was her sister Phcebe, her constant companion
from childhood, and more than her sister -her second
self — through thirty years of literary trial. The little
church was filled with literary friends who had grown
warmly attached to both during their twenty years'
residence in New York. All the members of Sorosis
were present to pay a final tribute to her who had
been their first President. Many prominent journalists and authors were also there, forgetful, for the time,
of all but the solemn sadness around them. Near the
rosewood coffin that contained the body of the sweet
poet, sat Horace Greeley, Bayard Taylor, Richard
B. Kimball, Oliver Johnson, P. T. Barnum, Frank B.
Carpenter, A. J. Johnson, and Dr. W. W. Hall, who,
for near and special friendship during her life, were
chosen to be nearest to her to the grave. When the
sad rites of the Church were concluded, the body was
borne forth and taken to Greenwood Cemetery, the
snow still falling heavily, and covering all things with
a pure white shroud. It seemed as though nature




I48       ALICE AND PHEBE CAR Y.
were in sympathy with human sorrow, till the grave
was closed, for then the snow almost ceased, though
the sky remained dark, and the silence continued.
And thus the mortal part of Alice Cary was laid at
rest forever."
Horace Greeley, speaking in private of her obsequies,
said that such a funeral never before gathered in New
York in honor of any woman, or man either; that he
never saw before in any one assembly of the kind, so
many distinguished men and women, so many known
and so many unknown.
One of the greatest scholars of his time, sitting
there, shed a silent tear for the sister-woman who,
alone, unassisted, in life and death had honored
human nature; while a few seats off wept aloud the
women, poor and old, who had lived upon her tender
bounty.
The next morning's issue of the " Tribune" gave
the following report of the funeral:
ALICE CARY'S FUNERAL.
The funeral of Miss Alice Cary took place at the
Church of the Stranger, on Mercer Street, at one o'clock
yesterday afternoon; and, despite the severe snowstorm which must have prevented many from coming,
was attended by a very large number of the friends
and admirers of the deceased poet.  The service
opened with an organ voluntary from the "Messiah,"
followed by the anthem, " Vital Spark of Heavenly
Flame." Dr. Deems, the pastor of the church, read
a selection from the I5th chapter of St. Paul's Epistle
to the Corinthians, and then said:



ALICE'S FUNERAL SERMON.           149
"I have not thought of a single word to say to you
to-day, and I do not know that it is necessary to say
one word more than is set down in the Church service.
Most of us knew and loved Alice Cary, and to those
who did not know her, my words would fail- in describing the sweetness and gentleness of her disposition and temper. It seems, indeed, that instead of
standing here, I, too, should be sitting there among
the mourners."
The speaker then described the patience with which
she had borne her last sickness, and told how he had
been by her side when the pain was so intense, that
the prints of her finger-nails would be left in the palm
of his hand as he was holding hers. But she never
made a complaint.
"c She was a parishioner," said he, "who came very
close to my heart in her suffering and sorrow. I saw
how good and true she was, and the interest she had
in all the work I had in hand; and I feel as if an assistant had died out of my family. The people of my
congregation who did not know her, ought to be glad
that I did. How many traits of tenderness have come
before you here, how many observations have I been
able to make to you, because I had been with her!
To-day I can only make my lament over her as you
do, in the simplicity of affection. Men loved Alice
Cary, and women loved her. When a man loves a
woman, it is of nature: when a woman loves a woman,
it is of grace - of the grace that woman makes by her
loveliness; and it is one of the finest things that can
be said of Alice Cary, that she had such troops of
friends of her own sex. On the public side of het
life she had honor, on the private side, honor and ten
derest affection.




150       ALICE AND PfCEBE CARY.
"And now she has gone from our mortal sight, but
not from the eyes of our souls. She is gone from her
pain, as she desired to die, in sleep, and after a deep
slumber she has passed into the morning of immortality. The last time I saw her, I took down her
works and alighted on this passage, so full of consonance with the anthems just sung by the choir, and
almost like a prophecy of the manner in which she
passed away:-'"' My soul is full of whispered song,
My blindness is my sight;
The shadows that I feared so long
Are all alive with light.'
"There was one thing in Alice Cary of which we
had better remind ourselves now, because many
of us are working-people, and people who work very
much with our brains; and I see a number of young
people who are come, out of tenderness to her memory,
to the church to-day, and there may be among them
literary people just commencing their career, and they
say,'Would I could write so beautifully and so easily
as she did I' It was not easily done. She did nothing easily; but in all this that we read she was an
earnest worker; she was faithful, painstaking, careful
of improving herself, up to the last moment of her
life. Yesterday I looked into the drawer, and the
last piece of MS. she wrote turned up, and I said to
Phcebe,'That is copied;' and she said,'No, that is
Alice's writing.' It was so exceedingly plain, it
looked like print in large type, though she wrote a
very wretched hand. But her sister told me that when
she came to be so weak that she couldn't write much




THE BURIAL SERVICE.              15I
any longer, she began to practice like a little girl, to
learn to form all her letters anew.  She worked to the
very last, not only with the brains, but the fingers.
" When Phcebe wrote me last Sunday that she was
alone, and that Alice was gone, I couldn't help telling my people, and there was a sob heard that went
through the congregation.  It was from an old lady, a
friend of hers, who often told me about her, and spoke
of her nobility of soul. Alice Cary once thought of
making a cap for her, and she said,'I will make a cap
for Mrs. Brown,' but her fingers ached so, and her arm
became so tired, she had to drop it; and the needle
is sticking in that unfinished cap now, just as she left
it. She would have finished it, but they had finished
her own crown in glory, and she couldn't stay away from
her coronation. And we will keep that cap with care;
and I think Jesus will remind her of it, and say,'Child, inasmuch as you did it to one of the least
ones, you did it unto me.' Should I speak for hours,
I could only tell you how I loved her. She came to
me in the winter of my fortunes, when I had very
few friends, and I loved her, and will revere her
memory forever -forever. And now I will not shed
a tear for Alice Cary; I am glad she is gone. I felt
at once like saying,'Thanks be to God,' when I heard
that the pain was over; and it was so delightful to go
to stand over her, and see her face without a single
fiown, and to think,' She is gone to her Father and
my Father;' and into his hands I commit her."
After the Episcopal Burial Service had been read,
the choir sang a hymn composed by Miss Phcebe
Cary, called, " What Sweetly Solemn Thoughts."
Then the friends of Alice Cary were requested to look




15 2      ALICE AND PHzEBE CAR Y.
upon her for the last time. The body was taken to
Greenwood Cemetery for interment. The pall-bearers
were Horace Greeley, Bhayard Taylor, P. T. Barnum,
Oliver Johnson, Dr. W. F. Holcombe, 4. J. Johnson,
F. B. Carpenter, and Richard B. Kimball.  Among
the persons present were Wm. Ross Wallace, the Rev.
O. B. Frothingham, the Rev. C. F. Lee, the Rev. Dr.
Cookman, James Parton, Fanny Fern, Mrs. Professor
Botta, Theodore Tilton, Dr. Hallock, Mrs. Croly, Mrs.
Wilbour, John Savage, George Ripley, and many
others.
The casket was plain, having merely a silver plate,
on which was inscribed: "Alice Cary. A. D. I820;
A. D. 187I."
At a special meeting of Sorosis, yesterday morning,
the following preamble and resolutions were read and
adopted: —
" In Miss Cary's inaugural address to Sorosis, occurs
a passage made memorable by the late sad event.
After enlarging upon her own hopes and'wishes concerning the growth and position which women should
yet attain, and the manner in which they should yet
vindicate themselves against all unjust charges, she
said:' Some of us cannot hope to see great results,
for our feet are already on the down-hill side of life.
The shadows are lengthening behind us and gathering
before us, and ere long they will meet and close, and
the places that have known us shall know us no more.
But if, when our poor work is done, any of those who
come after us shall find in it some hint of usefulness
toward nobler lives, and better and more enduring
work, we for ourselves rest content.'
" Sooner, perhaps, than she then thought, the way




RESOLUTIONVS OF SOROSIS.          153
began to narrow, and her feet to falter on the road
which leads to immortal life; and,
" Wizereas, This change, so feelingly alluded to by
Miss Cary, has finally overtaken her in the midst of her
labors; therefore,
"Resolved, That in her removal this Society not
only mourns the loss of its first President and mrost
gifted member, but sympathizes with all womanhood
in the loss of an earnest helper and most devoted
friend.
"Resolved, That her exceeding kindness, her enlarged charity, her absolute unselfishness, her wonderful patience, her cordial recognition of every good
word and work, endeared her inexpressibly to her
friends; while her genius commanded the warmest
admiration of all those capable of appreciating sweetest expression married to noblest thought.
" Resolved, That her loyalty to woman, and her unceasing industry, shall incite us to renewed earnestness of effort, each in our own appointed place, to
hasten the time when women shall receive recognition
not only as honest and reliable workers, but as a class
faithful and true to each other.
"R.esolvedt  That in presenting our heartfelt sympathy to the bereaved and lonely sister, we add the
loving hope, that even as the shadows have been
swept from the bright, upward pathway of the departed spirit, they may also be dispelled from her sorrowing heart, by an abiding faith in that Love which
ordereth all things well."
Rev. Henry M. Field, long a kind friend to both
sisters, in a sketch of Alice in the " New York Evangelist," thus referred both to Mr. Greeley and the
funeral of Alice:




154        ALICE AND PHEBE CAR Y.
"No wonder Mr. Greeley felt so deeply the death
of one who had been to him as a sister, that he followed so tenderly at her bier, and in spite of the terrible snow-storm that was raging, insisted on following
her remains to Greenwood, determined not to leave
them till they were laid in their last resting-place.
She was buried on Tuesday, amid one of the most
violent storms of the winter. It seems sad to leave
one we love in such desolation. But the storms cannot disturb her repose. There let her sleep, sweet,
gentle spirit, child of nature and of song. The spring
will come, and the grass grow green on her grave, and
the flowers bloom, emblems of the resurrection unto
life everlasting."








~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~........... 
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~................   o - _-  




PHOEBE CARY THE WRITER.'55
CHAPTER IX.
PH(EBE CARY. — THE WRITER.
No singer was ever more thoroughly identified with
her own songs than Phcebe Cary. With but few exceptions, they distilled the deepest and sweetest music
of her soul. They uttered, besides, the cheerful philosophy which life had taught her, and the sunny faith
which lifted her out of the dark region of doubt an I
fear, to rest. forever in the loving kindness of hei
Heavenly Father. There were few things that she
ever wrote for which she cared more personally than
for her "Woman's Conclusions."  The thought and the
regret came to her sometimes, as they do to most of
us. that in the utmost sense her life was incomplete -
unfulfilled. Often and long she pondered on this
phase of existence; and her "Woman's Conclusions,"
copied below, were in reality her final conclusions con.
cerning that problem of human fate which has baffled
so many.
A WOMAN'S CONCLUSIONS.
I said, if I might go back again
To the very hour and place of my birth;
Might have my life whatever I chose,
And live it in any part of the earth;




b56       ALICE AND PHCEBE C AMY.
Put perfect sunshine into my sky,
Banish the shadow of sorrow and doubt;
Have all my happiness multiplied,
And all my suffering stricken out;
If I could have known, in the years now gone,
The best that a woman comes to know;
Could have had whatever will make her blest,
Or whatever she thinks will make her so:
Have found the highest and purest bliss
That the bridal-wreath and ring inclose;
And gained the one out of all the world,
That my heart as well as my reason chose;
And if this had been, and I stood to-night
By my children, lying asleep in their beds,
And could count in my prayers, for a rosary,
The shining row of their golden heads;
Yea! I said, if a miracle such as. this
Could be wrought for me, at my bidding, still
I would choose to have my past as it is,
And to let my future come as it will!
I would not make the path I have trod
More pleasant or even, more straight or wide;
Nor change my course the breadth of a hair,
This way or that way, to either side.
My past is mine, and I take it all;
Its weakness - its folly, if you please;
Nay, even my sins, if you come to that,
May have been my helps, not hindrances!




"  WO4 OAA7'S CONCLUSIONS."        157
If I saved my body from the flames
Because that once I had burned my hand:
Or kept myself from a greater sin
By doing a less - you will understand;
It was better I suffered a little pain,
Better I sinned for a little time,
If the smarting warned me back from death,
And the sting of sin withheld from crime.
Who knows its strength, by trial, will know
What strength must be set against a sin;
And how temptation is overcome
He has learned, who has felt its power within!
And who knows how a life at the last may show?
Why, look at the moon from where we stand!
Opaque, uneven, you say; yet it shines,
A luminous sphere, complete and grand.
So let my past stand, just as it stands,
And let me now, as I may, grow old;
I am what I am, and my life for me
Is the best - or it had not been, I hold.
The guarded castle, the lady in her bower, the tumbling sea, the shipwrecked mariner, were as real to
Alice as to herself when she yielded to the luxury of
ballad singing.  But in Phcebe the imaginative faculty was less prevailing; it rose to flood-tide only at
intervals. The dual nature which she inherited fr6m
her father and mother were not interfused, as in Alice,
but distinct and keenly defined. Through one nature,




158        ALICE AND P(EgBE CAR Y.
Phcebe Cary was the most literal of human beings.
Never did there live such a disenchanter. Hold up to
her, in her literal, every-day mood, your most precious
dream, and in an instant, by. a single rapier of a sentence, she would thrust it through, and strip it of the last
vestige of glamour, and you would see nothing before
you but a cold, staring fact, ridiculous or dismal. It
was this tenacious grip on reality, this keen sense of
the ludicrous in the relation between words and things,
which made her the most spontaneous of punsters,
and a very queen of parodists. Her parodies are unsurpassed.  An  example of this literal faculty by
which she could instantaneously transmute a spiritual
emotion into a material fact, is found in a verse from
her parody on Longfellow's beautiful lyric: —
"I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
That my soul cannot resist;
A feeling of sadness and longing
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles rain."
Phcebe preserves all the sadness and tenderness of
the original, while she transfers it without effort from
the psychological yearning of the soul, into the region
of physical necessity, from heart-longing to stomachlonging, in the travesty: —
"I see the lights of the baker
Gleam through the rain and mist,
And a feeling of something comes o'er me,
That my steps cannot resist;




PHCEBE'S PARODIES.'59
A feeling of something like longing,
And slightly akin to pain,
That resembles hunger more than
The mist resembles rain."'
"Maud Muller " is one of the most sentimental as well
as one of the most exquisite of modern ballads, yet
what it prompts in Phcebe is not a tear for the faded
wroman sitting under the chimney log, nor a sigh for
the judge who wholly deserves his fate, nor even an
alas! for the " might have been."  It prompts in, her,
as the most natural antithesis in the world,KATE KETCHEM.
Kate Ketchem on a winter's night
Went to a party dressed in white.
Her chignon in a net of gold
Was about as large as they ever sold.
Gayly she went, because her "pap "
Was supposed to be a rich old chap.
But when by chance her glances fell
On a friend who had lately married well,
Her spirits sunk, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breastA wish she wouldn't have had made known,
To have an establishment of her own.
Tom Fudge came slowly through the throng,
With chestnut hair, worn pretty long.




r60       ALICE AND PHOEBE CARY.
He saw Kate Ketchem in the crowd,
And knowing her slightly, stopped and bowed;
Then asked her to give him a single flower,
Saying he'd think it a priceless dower.
Out from those with which she was decked,
She took the poorest she could select,
And blushed as she gave it, looking down
To call attention to her gown.
Thanks," said Fudge, and he thought how dear
Flowers must be at that time of year.
Then several charming remarks he made,
Asked if she sang, or danced, or played;
And being exhausted, inquired whether
She thought it was going to be pleasant weather.
And Kate displayed her "jewelry,"
And dropped her lashes becomingly;
And listened, with no attempt to disguise
The admiration in her eyes.
At last, like one who has nothing to say,
He turned around and walked away.
Kate Ketchem smiled, and said, "You bet
I'll catch that Fudge and his money yet.




KAT TE  E TCHEIM.            t6
" He's rich enough to keep me in clothes,
And I think I could manage him as I chose.
"'He could aid my father as well as not,
And buy my brother a splendid yacht.
"My mother for money should never fret,
And all it cried for, the baby should get.
And after that, with what he could spare,
I'd make a show at a charity fair."
Tom Fudge looked back as he crossed the sill,
And saw Kate Ketchem standing still.
"A girl more suited to my mind
It isn't an easy thing to find;
"And everything that she has to wear
Proves her rich as she is fair.
"Would she were mine, and I to-day
Had the old man's cash my debts to pay I
"No creditors with a long account,
No tradesmen wanting' that little amount;'
"But all my scores paid up when due
By a father-in-law as rich as a Jew! "
But he thought of her brother not worth a straw
And her mother, that would be his, in law;
II




r62       ALICE AND PHOEBE CARY.
So, undecided, he walked along,
And Kate was left alone in the throng.
But a lawyer smiled, whom he sought by stealth,
To ascertain old Ketchem's wealth;
And as for Kate, she schemed and planned
Till one of the dancers claimed her hand.
He married her for her father's cash;
She married him to cut a dash.
But as to paying his debts, do you know,
The father couldn't see it so;
And at hints for help, Kate's hazel eyes
Looked out in their innocent surprise.
And when Tom thought of the way he had wed,
He longed for a single life instead,
And closed his eyes in a sulky mood,
Regretting the days of his bachelorhood;
And said, in a sort of reckless vein,
"I'd like to see her catch me again,
"If I were free, as on that night
When I saw Kate Ketchem dressed in white!'
She wedded him to be rich and gay;
But husband and children didn't pay.




KIA TE KE TCHEM.! 3
He wasn't the prize she hoped to draw,
And wouldn't live with his mother-in-law.
And oft when she had to coax and pout,
In order to get him to take her out,
She thought how very attentive and bright
He seemed at the party that winter's night;
Of his laugh, as soft as a breeze of the south
('Twas now on the other side of his mouth);
How he praised her dress and gems in his talk.
As he took a careful account of stock.
Sometimes she hated the very walls -
Hated her friends, her dinners, and calls;
Till her weak affection, to hatred turned,
Like a dying tallow-candle burned.
And for him who sat there, her peace to mar,
Smoking his everlasting cigarHe wasn't the man she thought she saw,
And grief was duty, and hate was law.
So she took up her burden with a groan,
Saying only, " I might have known!"
Alas for Kate! and alas for Fudge!
Though I do not owe them any grudge;




t64        ALICE AND PH(EBE CARY.
And alas for any who find to their shame
That two can play at their little game!
For of all hard things to bear and grin,
The hardest is knowing you're taken in.
Ah, well, as a general thing, we fret
About the one we didn't get;
But I think we needn't make a fuss,
If the one we don't want didn't get us.
Her dual nature is strikingly illustrated in many of
her poems. Purely naturalistic in their conception, as
they rise they are touched and glorified with the supernatural. It does not blend with the essence of her
song, while that of Alice is all suffused with it. The
form and flavor of the latter's verse is often mystical.
Her sympathies are deeply human, her love of nature
a passion; yet it is the psychical sense which impresses her most deeply in all natural and human
phenomena. Phcebe has little of this exquisite pantheism. It is not the soul in nature which she instinctively feels first; it is its association with human
experiences. The field, the wood, the old garden, the
swallows under the eaves, the cherry-tree on the roof
-she never wearies of going back to them; all are
precious to her for their personal remembrances. It
is while she broods over the past, while the tenderest
memories of her life come thronging back into her
heart, that the muse of Phcebe Cary rises to its finest
and sweetest strains.  With a less subtle fancy than
Alice, a less suffusive and delicate imagination in




DRAMA TIC POWER.               165
embodying human passion, she has a dramatic force
often, which her sister seldom manifests. The lyric
rush in Alice comes with the winds and waves; it
sings of nature's moods, interprets nature's voices; in
her utterance of human experience it is the tender,
the plaintive, the pathetic, which prevail.  The
dramatic instinct in Phcebe kindles in depicting
human passion, and rises with exultant lyrical ring as
if it were so strong within her that it would be uttered.
Thus some of her ballads are powerful in conception,
and wonderfully dramatic in expression. The finest
example of this we have in her "Prairie Lamp," a
poem full of tragic energy. What a rhythmic swell
we feel through these lines:"' And hark! there is something strange about,
For my dull old blood is stirred;
That wasn't the feet of the storm without,
Nor the voice of the storm I heard!
"'T is my boy! he is coming home, he is near,
Or I could not hear him pass;
For his step is as light as the step of the deer
On the velvet prairie grass.'
"She rose - she stood erect, serene;
She swiftly crossed the floor,
And the hand of the wind, or a hand unseen,
Threw open wide the door.
"Through the portal rushed the cruel blast,
With a wail on its awful swell;
As she cried,'My boy, you have come at last,'
And prone o'er the threshold fell.




I66       ALICE AND PII(EtSE CAR Y.
"And the stranger heard no other sound,
And saw no form appear;
But whoever cam/e at midnight found
Her lamp was burning clear!"
"The Lady Jaqueline," one of the very finest of he/
ballads, expresses a quality characteristic of herself.
It is full of personal fire, and yet in utterance it has the
quaintness and sonorousness of an old ballad master.
" False and fickle, or fair and sweet,
I care not for the rest,
The lover that knelt last night at my feet
Was the bravest and the best;
Let them perish all, for their power has waned,
And their glory waxed dim;
They were well enough when they lived and reigned,
But never was one like him!
And never one from the past would I bring
Again, and call him mine;
The King is dead, lZong live the King I
Said the Lady Jaqueline."
Nothing could be more dramatic than this gradation
from exultation in the new, to a yet tender remem.
brance of the old.
"And yet it almost makes me weep,
Aye! weep, and cry, alas!
When I think of one who lies asleep
Down under the quiet grass.
For he loved me well, and I loved again,
And low in homage bent,




DRAMA TIC POWER.             167
And prayed for his long and prosperous reign,
In our realm of sweet content.
But not to the dead may the living cling,
Nor kneel at an empty shrine;
The Xing is dead, long live the King /
Said the Lady Jaqueline.
"Yea, all my lovers and kings that were
Are dead, and hid away
In the past, as in a sepulchre,
Shut up till the judgment day.
False or fickle, or weak or wed,
They are all alike to me;
And mine eyes no more can be misled,
They have looked on royalty!
Then bring me wine, and garlands bring
For my king of the right divine;
The Kinfg is deadt, long livoe the King I
Said the Lady Jaqueline."
Equally powerful is she in the expression of personal experience. Her friend Dr. Deems said that
it always took his breath away to read her
DEAD LOVE.
We are face to face, and between us here
Is the love we thought could never die;
Why has it only lived a year?
Who has murdered it - you or I?
No matter who - the deed was done
By one or both, and there it lies;




168       ALICE AND PHiEYBE CAR Y.
The smile from the lip forever gone,
And darkness over the beautiful eyes.
Our love is dead, and our hope is wrecked;
So what does it profit to talk and rave,
Whether it perished by my neglect,
Or whether your cruelty dug its grave!
Why should you say that I am to blame,
Or why should I charge the sin on you?
Our work is before us all the same,
And the guilt of it lies between us two.
We have praised our love for its beauty and grace;
Now we stand here, and hardly dare
To turn the face-cloth back from the face,
And see the thing that is hidden there.
Yet look! ah, that heart has beat its last,
And the beautiful life of our life is o'er,
And when we have buried and left the past,
We two, together, can walk no more.
You might stretch yourself on! the dead, and'weep,
And pray as the Prophet prayed, in pain;
But not like him could you break the sleep,
And bring the soul to the clay again.
Its head in my bosom I can lay,
And shower my woe there, kiss on kiss,
But there never was resurrection-day
In the world for a love so dead as this!




LOVE POEM1//:S.            i69
And, since we cannot lessen the sin
By mourning over the deed we did,
Let us draw the winding-sheet up to the chin,
Aye, up till the death-blind eyes are hid!
No American poet has ever shown' more passion,
pathos, and tenderness combined, than we find embodied in many of the minor love poems of Phcebe
Cary. Not only the " Dead Love," but the little poem
which follows, is an example of these qualities.
ALAS!
Since, if you stood by my side to-day,
Only our hands could meet,
What matter if half the weary world
Lies out between our feet?
That I am here by the lonesome sea,
You by the pleasant Rhine?
Our hearts were just as far apart,
If I held your hand in mine!
Therefore, with never a backward glance,
I leave the past behind;
And standing here by the sea alone,
I give it to the wind.
I give it all to the cruel wind,
And I have no word to say;
Yet, alas! to be as we have been,
And to be as we are to-day!




170        ALICE AND PTLEBE CARY.
The literal quality of Phcebe's mind showed itself
in her undoubting faith in spiritual communion, as it
did in everything else. She would remark, " I think
--— just came into the room; I feel her presence
as distinctly as I. do yours," speaking of one who long
before had passed into spirit life. She "knew that
the dead came back," she said, "just as she knew that
she thought, or saw, or knew anything else." It was
simply a fact which she stated literally and unexcitedly
as she would any other. "' It was not any more wonderful to her," she said, "that she could see and perceive with her soul, than that she was able to discern
objects through her eyeballs." Never were any words
which she uttered more literally true to her than
these: -
"The veil of flesh that hid
Is softly drawn aside;
MIore clearly I behold them now,
ZhaLz those whzao zever dhied."
Nor must this simple faith of these sisters in coinmunion with spirits be confounded with any mere
modern delusion.  They inh'erited this belief from
their parents. There had been no moment in their
conscious existence, when they did not believe in this
New Testament faith, that the dead are ministering
spirits sent forth of God, to the heirs of salvation.
Never did woman live possessed of a more sturdy
common sense than Phcebe Cary. Nevertheless she
spoke constantly of sympathy and communion with
those whom death had taken, precisely as she spoke
of intercourse with the living.  To her, life held no
verity more blessed than *this which finds expression
in her




SPIRITUAL POEMS              171
BORDER-LAND.
I know you are always by my side,
And I know you love me, Winifred, dear;
For I never called on you since you died,
But you answered tenderly, I am here!
So come from the misty shadows, where
You came last night and the night before;
Put back the veil of your golden hair,
And let me look in your face once more.
Ah! it is you; with that brow of truth,
Ever too pure for the least disguise;
With the same dear smile on the loving mouth,
And the same sweet light in the tender eyes.
You are my own, my darling still;
So do not vanish or turn aside;
Wait till my eyes have had their fill,
Wait till my heart is pacified!
You have left the light of your higher place;
And ever thoughtful, and kind, and good,
You come with your old familiar face,
And not with the look of your angel-hood.
Still the touch of your hand is soft and light,
And your voice is gentle, and kind, and low;
And the very roses you wear to-night
You wore in the summers long ago.




I 72      ALICE AND PIREBE CARY.
O World! you may tell me I dream or rave,
So long as my darling comes to prove
That the feet of the spirit cross the grave,
And the loving live, and the living love!"
Perhaps the utterances of her soul which have
most deeply impressed others, and by which she will
be longest remembered, are her religious poems.
They are among the rarest in the English tongue, as
felicitous in utterance as they are devout and helpful
in spirit. It is the soul of their melody, more than
the melody itself, which makes us glad.  It is the
faith in the good, visible and invisible; the lark-like
hope that soars and sings so high with such spontaneity of delight; the love brooding over the lowliest
things, yet yearning out toward God's eternities, resting in his love at last, which make the inspiration of
all these hymns.
Hers was a loving and a believing soul. Day by
day she walked with God. In no hour was He far
from her. As natural as to breathe was it for her to
lift her heart to the heart of all-embracing Love,
whether she sat in her chamber alone, or went forth to
meet Him in the outer world. From her hymns we
take in the tonic of a healthy, hearty, happy soul.
Like the simples which we draw forth from nature's
soil, they are full of savor and healing. How we feel
these in her
FIELD PREACHING.
I have been out to-day in field and wood,
Listening to praises sweet, and counsel good,




RELIGIOUS POEMS.              1 73
Such as a little child had understood,
That, in its tender youth,
Discerns the simple eloquence of truth.
The modest blossoms, crowding round my way,
Though they had nothing great or grand to say,
Gave out their fragrance to the wind all day;
Because his loving breath,
With soft persistence, won them back from death.
The stately maize, a fair and goodly sight,
With serried spear-points bristling sharp and bright
Shook out his yellow tresses, for delight,
To all their tawny length,
Like Samson, glorying in his lusty strength.
And every little bird upon the tree,
Ruffling his plumage bright, for ecstacy,
Sang in the wild insanity,of glee;
And seemed, in the same lays,
Calling his mate, and uttering songs of praise.
The golden grasshopper did chirp and sing;
The plain bee, busy with her housekeeping,
Kept humming cheerfully upon the wing,
As if she understood
That, with contentment, labor was a good.
I saw each creature, in his own best place,
To the Creator lift a smiling face,
Praising continually his wondrous grace;
As if the best of all
Life's countless blessings was to live at all!l




74       ALICE AND PIJBEE   CAR Y.
So, with a book of sermons, plain and true,
Hid in my heart, where I might turn them through,
I went home softly, through the falling dew,
Still listening, rapt and calm,
To Nature giving out her evening psalm.
While, far along the west, mine eyes discerned,
Where, lit by God, the fires of sunset burned,
The tree-tops, unconsumed, to flame were turned;
And I, in that great hush,
Talked with his angels in each burning bush!
The hymn of Phcebe Cary, by which she is most
widely known is her
NEARER HOME.
One sweetly solemn thought
Comes to me o'er and o'er;
I am nearer home to-day
Than I ever have been before;
Nearer my Father's house,
Where the many mansions be;
Nearer the great white throne,
Nearer the crystal sea;
Nearer the bound of life,
Where we lay our burdens down;
Nearer leaving the cross,
Nearer gaining the crown
But lying darkly between,
Winding down through the night,




" NEARER HOME."               175
Is the silent, unknown stream,
That leads at last to the light.
Closer and closer my steps
Come to the dread abysm:
Closer Death to my lips
Presses the awful chrism.
O; if my mortal feet
Have almost gained the brink;
If it be I am nearer home
Even to-day than I think;
Father, perfect my trust;
Let my spirit feel in death
That her feet are firmly set
On the rock of a living faith!
Yet like Alice with her " Pictures of Memory," she
did not set a high intellectual value upon it. Until
within a year or two of her death she was not conscious
of its universal popularity. Before that time this lovely
pilgrim of a hymn had wandered over the world, pausing at many thresholds, filling with "sweetly solemn
thoughts " how many Christian hearts! It had been
printed on Sabbath-school cards, embodied in books
of sacred song, pasted into scrap-books, read with tearful eyes by patient invalids in twilight sick-chambers,
and by brave yet tender souls at their heyday, on
whose wistful eyes faint visions of their immortal home
must sometimes dawn, even amid the dimness of this
clouded world.
Within the last year of her life, Phcebe heard of ar




176       ALICE AND PIIOEBE CARY.
incident connected with this hymn, which made het
happier while she lived.
" A gentleman in China, intrusted with packages foi
a young man from his friends in the United States,
learned that he would probably be found in a certain
gambling-house. He went thither, but not seeing the
young man, sat down and waited, in the hope that he
might come in. The place was a bedlam of noises,
men getting angry over their cards, and frequently
coming to blows. Near him sat two men - one young,
the other forty years of age. They were betting and
drinking in a terrible way, the older one giving utterance continually to the foulest profanity..Two games
had been finished, the young man losing each time.
The third game, with fresh bottles of brandy, had just
begun, and the young man sat lazily back in his chair
while the oldest shuffled his cards. The man was a
long time dealing the cards, and the young man, looking carelessly about the room, began to hum a tune.
He went on, till at length he began to sing the hymn
of Phoebe Cary, above quoted. The words," says the
writer of the story, " repeated in such a vile place, at
first made me shudder. A Sabbath-school hymn in a
gambling den! But while the young man sang, the
elder stopped dealing the cards, stared at the singer
a moment, and, throwing the cards on the floor,
exclaimed, -
"'Harry, where did you learn that tune?'
"' What tune?'
"'Why, that one you've been singing.'
"The- young man said he did not know what he had
been singing, when the elder repeated the words, with




THE S TORY OF A HYIVN.          177
tears in his eyes, and the young man said he had
learned them in a Sunday-school in America.
"'Come,' said the elder, getting up;'come, Harry;
here's what I won from you; go and use it for some
good purpose. As for me, as God sees me, I have
played my last game, and drank my last bottle. I have
misled you, Harry, and I am sorry. Give me your
hand, my boy, and say that, for old America's sake, if
for no other, you will quit this infernal business.'"
The gentleman who tells the story (originally published in " The Boston Daily News ") saw these two
men leave the gambling-house together, and walk away
arm in arm; and he remarks, " It must be a source
of great joy to Miss Cary to know that her lines, which
have comforted so many Christian hearts, have been
the means of awakening in the breast of two tempted
and erring men on the other side of the globe, a resolution to lead a better life."
It was a "great joy" to the writer. In a private
letter to an aged friend in New York, with the story
inclosed, she added: —
"I inclose the hymn and the story for you, not
because I am vain of the notice, but because I thought
you would feel a peculiar interest in them when you
know the hymn was written eighteen years ago (I852)
in your house. I composed it in the little back third
story bedroom, one Sunday morning, after coming
from church; and it makes me very happy to think
that any word I could say has done a little good in the
world."
After the death of Phcebe, the following letter was
received at the " New York Tribune " office,
12




r78       ALICE AND PHSEBE  CARZY.
SEQUEL TO THE GAMBLERS' STORY.
To the Editor of the Tribune.
SIR: Having noticed in the columns of the "Trib.
une" a biographical sketch of Phcebe Cary, which
contained an incident from my letters from China, I
think that the sequel to the story of " The Gamblers"
may interest her many friends.
The old man spoken of in the anecdote has returned
to California, and has become a hard-wor(king Christian
man, while " Harry" has renounced gambling and all
its attendant vices. The incident having gone the
rounds of the press, the old man saw it, and finding its
" credit," wrote to me about it. Thus Phcebe Cary's
poem, " One Sweetly Solemn Thought," etc., has saved
from ruin at least two who seldom or never entered a
house of worship. I am yours,
RUSSELL H. CONWELL.
Traveller Office, Boston, Aug. 9, I87I.
In her latest hymns, although they express all the
old love, all the old fullness of faith, we feel through
them a vibration of grief, like one tone in a happy voice
quivering with tears. Thus she cries in her very last
hymn, " Resurgam:""0  mine eyes, be not so tearful;
Drooping spirit, rise, be cheerful;
Heavy soul, why art thou fearful?'Nature's sepulchre is breaking,
And the earth, her gloom forsaking,
Into life and light is waking.




HYMNS OF FAITH.'79
"0, the weakness and the madness
Of a heart that holdeth sadness
When all else is light and gladness!
"Though thy treasure death hath taken,
They that sleep are not forsaken,
They shall hear the trump, and waken.
" Shall not He who life supplieth
To the dead seed, where it -lieth,
Quicken also man, who dieth?
"Yea, the power of death was ended
When He, who to hell descended,
Rose, and up to heaven ascended.
"Rise, my soul, then, from dejection,
See in nature the reflection
Of the dear Lord's resurrection.
"Let this promise leave thee never:
If the.might of death I sever,
Ye shall also live forever / "
In "Dreams and Realities," a poem published in
" Harper's Bazar" after Phcebe's death, she exclaims
"If still they kept their earthly place,
The friends I held in my embrace,
And gave to death, alas!
Could I have learned that clear calm faith
That looks beyond the bounds of death,
And almost longs to pass? "




r80       AL/CE RAND PZPEBE CARY.
Thus, through the heavy cloud of human loss and
longing the lark-like song arose into the very precinct
of celestial light, sweet with unfaltering faith and
undying love to the very last. The timid soul that
fainted in its mortal house grew reassured and calm,
rising to the realization of eternal verities.   The
world is better because this woman lived, and loved,
and believed.  She wrote, not to blazon her own
being upon the world, not to drop upon the weary
multitude the weight of an oppressive personality.
She drew from the deep wells of an unconscious and
overflowing love the bright waters of refreshment and
health.  Her subtler insight, her finer intuition, her
larger trust, her more buoyant hope, are the world's
helpers, all. The simplest word of such a soul thrills
with an inexpressible life. It helps to make us braver,
stronger, more patient, and more glad. We fulfill the
lowliest task more perfectly, are more loyal to our
duty, more loving to each other and to God, in the
turmoil of the world, in the wearing care of the house,
in sorrow as well as in joy, if by a single word we are
drawn nearer to the all-encircling and everlasting
Love. To do this, as a writer, was the mission of
Phoebe Cary. Perhaps no lines which she has written
express more characteristically or perfectly her devout and childlike faith in a loving Father's ordering
of her earthly life, than the poem which closes her
"Poems of Faith, Hope, and Love."
RECONCILED.
O years, gone down into the past;
What pleasant memories come to me,




HYMNS OF FAITHZ.              18
Of your untroubled days of peace,
And hours almost of ecstasy!
Yet would I have no moon stand still,
Where life's most pleasant valleys lie;
Nor wheel the planet of the day
Back on his pathway through the sky.
For though, when youthful pleasures died,
My youth itself went with them, too;
To-day, aye! even this very hour,
Is the best time I ever knew.
Not that my Father gives to me
More blessings than in days gone by;
Dropping in my uplifted hands
All things for which I blindly cry:
But that his plans and purposes
Have grown to me less strange and dim;
And where I cannot understand,
I trust the issues unto Him.
And, spite of many broken dreams,
This have I truly learned to say, -
The prayers I thought unanswered once,
Were answered in God's own best way.
And though some dearly cherished hopes
Perished untimely ere their birth,
Yet have I been beloved and blessed
Beyond the measure of my worth.




t82       ALICE ANVD PHEBE CARY.
And sometimes in niy hours of grief,
For moments I have come to stand
Where, in the sorrows on me laid
I felt a loving Father's hand.
And I have learned the weakest ones
Are kept securest from life's harms;
And that the tender lambs alone
Are carried in the Shepherd's arms.
And sitting by the wayside blind,
He is the nearest to the light,
Who crieth out most earnestly,
"Lord, that I might receive my sight I
O feet, grown weary as ye walk,
Where down life's hill my pathway lies,
What care I, while my soul can mount,
As the young eagle mounts the skies!
O eyes, with weeping faded out,
What matters it how dim ye be?
My inner vision sweeps, untired,
The reaches of eternity!
O death, most dreaded power of all,
When the last moment comes, and thou
Darkenest the windows of my soul,
Through which I look on nature now;
Yea, when mortality dissolves,
Shall I not meet thine hour unawed?
My house eternal in the heavens
Is lighted by the smile of God I




PHEBE~ CARY THE WOMAN.             183
CHAPTER X.
PH(EBE CARY.- THE WOMAN.
THE wittiest woman in America is dead. There are
others who say many brilliant things; but I doubt if
there is another so spontaneously and pointedly witty,
in the sense th —t Sidney Smith was witty, as Phoebe
Cary. The drawback to almost everybody's wit and
repartee is that it so often seems premeditated. It is
a fearful chill to a laugh to know that it is being
watched for, and had been prepared beforehand. But
there was an absolute charm in Phoebe's wit; it was
spontaneous, so coruscating, so "pat."  Then it was
full of the delight of a perpetual surprise. She was
just as witty at breakfast as she was at dinner, and
would say something just as astonishingly bright to
one companion, and she a woman, as to a roomful of
cultivated men, doing their best to parry her flashing
scimitars of speech.  Though so liberally endowed
with the poetic utterance and insight, she first beheld
every object'literally, not a ray of glamour about it;
she saw its practical and ludicrous relations first, and
from this absolutely matter-of-fact perception came
the sparkling utterance which saw it, caught it, played
with it, and held it up in the same instant.  It is
pleasant to think of a friend who made you laugh so
many happy times, but who never made you weep.




184       ALICE AND PHfEBE CAR Y.
For instantaneously as her arrow of wit came, it
sprung from too kind a heart ever to be tipped with a
sting. There was always a prevailing vein of good
nature in her most satirical or caustic remarks. Indeed, satire and sarcasm rarely sought vent in her
glittering speech; it was fun, sheer fun, usually, as
kindly innocent in spirit as it was ludicrous and brilliant in utterance. But a flash of wit, like a flash of
lightning, can only be remembered, it cannot be re.
produced. Its very marvel lies in its spontaneity and
evanescence; its power is in being struck from the
present. Divorced from that, the keenest representation of it seems cold and dead. IV  read over the
few remaining sentences which attempt to embody the
repartees and bon mots of the most famous wits of
society, such as Beau Nash, Beau Brummel, Madame
Du Deffand, and Lady Mary Montagu; we wonder at
the poverty of these memorials of their fame. Thus
it must be with Phcebe Cary. Her most brilliant
sallies were perfectly unpremeditated, and by herself
never repeated, or remembered. When she was in
her best moods, they came like flashes of heat lightning, like a rush of meteors, so suddenly and constantly you were dazzled while you were delighted,
and afterward found it difficult to single out any
distinct flash, or separate meteor from the multitude.
A niece of Phcebe says that when a school-girl she
often thought of writing down in a book the marvelous things which she heard her Aunt Phoebe say
every day. Had she carried out her resolution, her
book would now be the largest volume of Phcebe
Cary's thoughts. As it is, this most wonderful of all
her gifts can only be represented bv a few stray sen



PHIEBE CAR Y'S WIT.             I85
tences, gleaned here and there from the faithful memories of loving friends; each one invariably adding,
" O, if I had only taken down the many wonderfully
bright things that I heard her say." She had a necklace made of different articles which her friends had
given her; from one there was a marble, from another
a curious nut from the East, from another a piece of
amber, from another a ball of malachite or crystal,
and so on, till the necklace consisted of more than
fifty beads, and, when open, stretched'to a length of
nearly four feet.
She often wore this necklace on Sunday evenings,
and while in conversation would frequently occupy her
fingers in toying with the beads. "One evening a
friend told her that she looked, with her necklace, like
an Indian princess; she replied that the only difference was that the Indian had a string of scalps in
place of beads. She said that she thought that the
best place for her friends was to hang about her neck,
and with this belief she had constructed the necklace,
and compelled her friends to join it. Some of her
friends used to tell her that she ought to have a shorthand reporter as a familiar spirit, to jot down her
sharp sayings, and give'them out to the world. But
she replied that it would not be to her taste to be
short-handed down to fame; she preferred the lady
with the trump, though she thought the aforesaid lady
would be more attractive, and give a better name to
her favorites, if she dressed in the costume of the
period."
A friend tells how, at a little party, where fun rose
to a great height, one quiet person was suddenly attacked by a gay lady with the question, "Why don't
you laugh? You sit there just like a post  "




I86       ALICE AND PHIEBE CAR Y.
"There! she called you a post; why don't you
rail at her? " was Phcebe's instantaneous exclamation.
Another tells how, at a dinner-table where wine
flowed freely, some one asked the sisters what wines
they kept.
"0!" said Phcebe, "we drink Heidsick; but we
keep mum."
Mr. P. T. Barnum mentioned to her that the skeleton man and the fat woman, then on exhibition in the
city, were married.
" I suppose they loved through thick and thin," answered Phcebe.
"On one occasion, when Phcebe was at the Museum,
looking about at the curiosities," says Mr. Barnum,
"I preceded her, and had passed down a couple of
steps. She intently watching a big anaconda in a case
at the top of the stairs, walked off (not noticing them),
and fell. I was just in time to catch her in my arms,
and save her from a severe bruising.
"' I am more lucky than that first woman was, who
fell through the influence of the serpent,' said Phcebe,
as she recovered herself."
Being one day at Wood's Museum, she asked Mr.
Barnum to show her the "Infernal Regions,"' advertised to be represented there. On inquiring, he
found that they were out of order, and said,"The Infernal Regions have vanished; but never
mind, Phcebe, you will see them in time."
"No, in eternity," was the lightning-like reply.
On one occasion a certain well-known actor, then
recently deceased, and more conspicuous for his professional skill than for his private virtues, was discussed. " We shall never," remarked some one, "C see
again."




PHIEBE CAR Y'S WIT.             I87
"No," quickly responded Phcebe; "not unless we
go to the pit."
Says -Oliver Johnson in his last tribute to her, in the
"Tribune: "
"Her religious sentiments were deep and strong,
her faith in the Eternal Goodness unwavering. Educated in the faith of Universalism, she believed to
the last in the final salvation of all God's children.
On this subject she spoke to the writer with great
distinctness and emphasis only a few weeks before'her death; and once she indicated her faith by
repeating with approbation the remark of one who
said, in reply to the argument in favor of endless
misery,'Well, if God ever sends me into such misery,
I know He will give me a constitution to bear it.'"
On entering a shop one day, she asked the clerk to
show her a lady's cap. He understood her to say "a
baby's cap."
" What is the child's age? " he inquired.
" Forty /" exclaimed Phcebe, in a tone which made
the young man jump with amazement.
Among her papers there is an envelope that she has
left behind, on which, in her own hand, is written one
word: "Fuzir  "  It is packed with little squibs of
rhyme and travesty, evidently written for her own
amusement, and thrust here out of sight, as unworthy
to be seen by any eyes but her own. But they are so
characteristic, and so illustrative of the quality of her
mind which we are considering, that I am tempted
to give two of them: not that either of the two
is as funny as those left in the envelope; but because it trenches upon less pointedly absurd themes.
One is,




188       ALICE -AND PHREBE CAR.
MORAL LESSONS.
BY AMOS KEATER.
How doth the little busy flea
Improve each awful jump;
And mark her progress, as she goes,
By many an itching lump i
How skillfully she does her " sell;"
How neat she bites our backs,
And labors hard to keep her well
Beyond the reach of whacks i
I, too, in games of chance and skill,
By Satan would be led;
For if you're always sitting still,
You cannot get ahead.
To lively back-biting and sich,
My great ambition tends;
Thus would I make me fat and rich
By living off my friends.
The other bears no title:
Go on, my friend, speak freely, pray;
Don't stop till you have said your say;
But, after you are tired to death,
And pause to take a little breath,
I'll name a dish I think is one
To which no justice can be done I
It isn't pastry, old and rich,
Nor onions, garlic, chives, and sich;




"fOMURAL LESSONS."             189
Not cheese that moves with lively pace,
It is'nt even Szueilzer Kase:
It isn't ham, that's old and strong,
Nor sausage kept a month too long;
It isn't beefsteak, fried in lard,
Nor boiled potatoes when they're hard
(All food unfit for Goth or Celt);
It isn't fit even when they're smelt;
It ain't what Chinamen call nice,
Although they dote on rats and mice;
For, speaking honestly and truly)
I wouldn't give it to a Coolie!
I wouldn't vally even a pup,
If he could stoop to eat it up;
Nor give my enemy a bit,
Although he sot and cried for it.
Recall all pizen food and slop
At stations where the rail-cars stop;
It's more than each and all of these,
By just about sixteen degrees.
It has no nutriment, it's trash!
It's meaner than the meanest hash,
And sourer twenty thousand times,
Than lemons, vinegar, and limes;
It's what I hate the man who eats;
It's poor, cold, cussed, pickled beets I"
I pause in these quotations with a sense of pain.
The written line is such a feeble reflection of the living words which flashed from the speaking woman, so
tiny a ray of that abounding light, that bounteous life,
from earth gone out!
The same powerful sense of justice, the same deli.




I90       ALICE AND PHCEBE CAR Y.
cate honor, the sensitive conscience, the tender sympathies, which prevailed in the nature of Alice, were
also dominant in Phcebe.
She not only wanted every breathing thing to have
its little mortal chance, but, so far as she felt able to
assist, it had it. She was especially sympathetic to the
aged and the young, yet her heart went out to the
helpless, the poor, the oppressed everywhere.
One of her most marked traits was a fine sense of
honor which pervaded her minutest acts. This was
manifested in her personal relations with others, in the
utter absence of all curiosity. If ever a woman lived
who absolutely "minded her own business, and let
that of other people alone," it was Phcebe Cary. If
ever mortal lived who thoroughly respected the individual life and rights of others, it was Phcebe Cary.
From the prevailing "littlenesses " which Margaret
Fuller Ossoli says are the curse of women, she was
almost entirely free.
Her conscience ruled her in the words of her
mouth, the meditations of her heart, and the minutest
acts of her life. To do anything which she knew to
be wrong would have been an impossibility to Phcebe
Cary. This acute and ever accusing-conscience, combined with a lowly estimate of every power of her
own, even her power of being good, filled her with a
deep and pervading humility.   She was not only
modest, she was humble; not in any crInging or ignoble sense, but with an abiding consciousness that it
was not possible for her to attain to her ownstandard
of excellence in anything. These qualities, together,
produced a blended timidity of nature and feeling,
which was manifested even in her religious experience.




LOVE OF APPROBA TION.            191
Her apprehension of God as the universal and allloving Father was deep and comprehensive.  Her
belief in Christ as an all-sufficient Saviour was sure
and sufficing. Her faith and hope in them soared
and sang in the sunshine of abiding trust. But the
moment she thought of herself, she felt all unworthiness. It was her last thought, uttered in her last
words, "O God, have mercy on my soul!"
As it is to all self-distrusting persons, personal approbation was dear to her. The personal responses
which many of her poems called forth made her
genuinely happy, and were to her, often, the most
precious recompense of her labor.   Nothing could
have been more ingenuous or modest than the pleasure
which she showed at any spontaneous response from
another heart, called out by some poem of her own.
She did not set a high value on herself, but if others
valued her, she was glad. If she received the assurance that in any way her words had helped another
human being, she was happier still. This happiness
probably never rose to such fullness from the same
cause, as when the incident of the two wanderers in
China, and her hymn, "Nearer Home," first met her
eyes in a newspaper.
While she frankly said that she was happy in believing that she came of good lineage, no one on earth
was more ready to say, -
"A man's a man, for a' that,"
whatever the shadow might be which rested on his
birth or ancestry. Of sycophancy and snobbery she
was incapable. She took the most literal measure of
every human being whom she gauged at all, and the




19 a      ALICE AIND PifEBE CAREY.
valuation was precisely what the individual made it,
without reference to any antecedent whatever. Shams
collapsed in the presence of this truthful soul, and
pretense withered away under her cool, measuring
gaze. Mere wealth had no patent which could command her respect, and poverty no sorrow that did not
possess her sympathy and pity. " I have felt so poor
myself," she said; " I have cried in the street because
I was poor. I am so much nearer to poor people,
than to rich ones."
The child of such parents, Phcebe, as well as Alice,
could scarcely help growing up to be the advocate of
every good word and work. Phcebe's pen, as well as
her life, was ever dedicated to temperance, to human
rights, to religion, to all true progress. It was impossible that such a woman should not have been devoted
to all the best interests of her own sex. She believed
religiously in the social, mental, and civil enfranchlisement of woman. She hated caste in sex as she hated
any other caste rooted in injustice, and the degradation of human nature.  She believed it to be the
human right of every woman to develop the power that
God has given her, and to fulfill her destiny as a
human creature,- free as man is free. Yet it was
in woman as woman that she believed. She herself
was one of the most womanly of women. What she
longed to see educated to a finer and fuller supremacy
in woman, was feminine, not masculine strength. As
she believed in man's, she believed no less in woman's
kingdom. Her very clearly defined ideas and feelings
on this subject can in no way be so perfectly expressed
as in her own words, published ii the "New York
Tribune."




AD FICE T7'O  OMEN.             193
ADVICE GRATIS TO CERTAIN WOMEN.
BY A WOMAN.
0, my strong-minded sisters, aspiring to vote,
And to row with your brothers, all in the same boat,
When you come out to speak to the public your mind,
Leave your tricks, and your airs, and your graces behind!
For instance, when you by the world would be seen
As reporter, or editor (first-class, I mean),
I think -just to come to the point in one line -
What you write will be finer, if'tis not too fine.
Pray, don't let the thread of your subject be strung
With "golden," and "shimmer," "sweet," "filter," and
"flung; "
Nor compel, by your style, all your readers to guess
You've been looking up words Webster marks obs.
And another thing: whatever else you may say,
Do keep personalities out of the way;
Don't try every sentence to make people see
What a dear, charming creature the writer must be!
Ieave out affectations and pretty appeals;
Don't: " drag yourself in by the neck and the heels,"
Your dear little boots, and your gloves; and take heed,
Nor pull your curls over men's eyes while they read.
Don't mistake me; I mean that the public's not home,
You must do as the Romans do, when you're in Rome:
I3




104       ALICE AND PIIEUBE CAR Y.
I would have you be womanly, while you are wise;'Tis the weak and the womanish tricks I despise.
On the other hand: don't write and dress in such styles
As astonish the natives, and frighten the isles;
Do look, on the platform, so folks in the show
Needn't ask, "Which are lions, and which tigers? "
you know!'Tis a good thing to write, and to rule in the state,
But to be a true, womanly woman is great:
And if ever you come to be that,'twill be when
You can cease to be babies, nor try to be men!
After months of solicitation from those connected
with it, and at the earnest entreaty of Alice, she
became at one time the assistant editor of the "Revolution."  But the responsibility was always distasteful
to her, and after a few months' trial, she relinquished
it with a sense of utter relief.
She, like Alice, was unfitted by natural temperament
and disposition for all personal publicity. But in private intercourse, at home or abroad, her convictions
on all subjects were earnestly and fearlessly expressed.
Although so uncompromising in her convictions,
Phcebe very rarely aroused antagonism in her expression of them. If she uttered them at all, it was in a
form which commanded merriment, if not belief. The
truth which many another might unfold in an hour's
declamation, she would sheathe in witty rhyme, in whose
lines it would run and sparkle as it never could have
done in bald prose.
In the following lines we find her usual manner of




PHCfEBE ON WOMAN'S RIGHTS.           195
expressing a truth, which so many others offer in a
form harsh and repelling. Phoebe, who had just written these lines, brought them in, and read them  one
day to Alice, who was too ill to sit up. The turn of
her words, and the tones of her voice, combined, were
irresistible, and in a moment the beating rain outside,
and the weary pain within were forgotten in merriment.
Thus the truth of the rhyme, which from many another
nature would have shot forth in garrulous fault-finding
or expostulation, in the dress wherewith Phcebe decked
it, amused far more than it exasperated, although the
keenness of its edge was in no wise dulled or obscured.
WAS HE HENPECKED?
" I'll tell you what it is, my dear,"
Said Mrs. Dorking, proudly,
" I do not like that chanticleer
Who crows o'er us so loudly.
" And since I must his laws obey,
And have him walk before me,
I'd rather like to have my say
Of who should lord it o'er me."
" You'd like to vote? " he answered slow,
" Why, treasure of my treasures,
What can you, or what should you know
Of public men, or measures?
" Of course, you have ability,
Of nothing am I surer;
You're quite as wise, perhaps, as I;
You're better, too, and purer.




196       ALICE AND PHoBRE CAP Y.
"I'd have you just for mine alone,
Nay, so do I adore you,
I'd put you queen upon a throne,
And bow myself before you."
" You'dzdut me / yozt? now that is what
I do not want, precisely;
I want myself to choose the spot
That I can fill most wisely."
"My dear, you're talking like a gooseUnzhenzy, and improper" -
But here again her words broke loose,
In vain he tried to stop her:
"I tell you, though she never spoke
So you could understand her,
A goose knows when she wears a yoke,
As quickly as a gander."
"Why, bless my soul! what would you do?
Write out a diagnosis?
Speak equal rights? join with their crew
And dine with the Sorosis?
"And shall I live to see it, then -
My wife a public teacher?
And would you be a crowing hen -
That dreadful unsexed creature?"
"Why, as to that, I do not know;
Nor see why you should fear it;
If I can crow, why let me crow,
If I can't, then you won't hear it I'9




" WAS HLE iT'NPECKCED? "        197
N' ow, why," he said, " can't such as you
Accept what we assign them?
You have your rights,'tis very true,
But then, we should define them!
"We would not peck you cruelly,
We would not buy and sell you;
And you, in/ turn, should think, and be.
And do, just what we tell you!
"I do not want you made, my dear,
The subject of rude men's jest;
I like you in your proper sphere,
The circle of a hen's nest!
"I'd keep you in the chicken-yard,
Safe, honored, and respected;
From all that makes us rough and hard,
Your sex should be protected."
"Pray, did it ever make you sick?
Have I gone to the di6kens?
Because you let me scratch and pick
Both for myself and chickens? "
"0, that's a different thing, you know,
Such duties are parental;
But for some work to do, you'd grow
Quite weak and sentimental."
"Ah! yes, it's well for you to talk
About a parent's duty!
Who keeps your chickens from the hawk?
Who stays in nights, my beauty? "




9o8       ALICE AND t'(TEBE CARFY.
"But, madam, you may go each hour,
Lord bless your pretty faces!
We'll give you anything, but power
And honor, trust and places.
"We'd keep it hidden from your sight
How public scenes are carried;
Why, men are coarse, and swear, and fight "'
" I know it, dear; I'm married  "
"Why, now you gabble like a fool;
But what's the use of talking?'Tis yours to serve, and mine to rule,
I tell you, Mrs. Dorking! "
0, yes," she said, "you've all the sense,
Your sex are very knowing;
Yet some of you are on the fence,
And only good at crowing."
"'Ah! preciousest of precious souls,
Your words with sorrow fill me;
To see you voting at the polls
I really think would kill me.
"To mourn my home's lost sanctity;
To feel you did not love me;
And worse, to see you fly so high,
And have you roost above me!"
"Now, what you fear in equal rights
I think you've told precisely;
That's jlust about the',place it lighls,' 
Said Mrs. Dorking wisely.




LOVE OF CHILDREN AND  OF DRESS.  199
Phcebe was very fond of children. Like Alice, she
always had her special pets and darlings among the
children of her friends.  She was interested in all childhood, but, unlike Alice, she preferred little boys to little
girls. All her child lyrics are exceptionably happy,
going straight to the understanding and hearts of little
folk.  She addresses them  ever as dear little friends,
jolly little comrades, never in a mother-tone; while in
Alice, we feel constantly the yearning of the motherheart.  Her utterances to children thrill through and
through with mother-love, its tenderness, its exultation.
It is often difficult to realize that she is not the mother
of the child to whom she speaks, and of whose lovelin'ess she sings.
Phcebe had a childlike love of decoration.  Not that
she was ever satisfied with her looks.  She had the
same distrust of her personal appearance, that she had
of her personal powers. Nevertheless she had a passionate love of ornaments.
Alice delighted in ample robes, rich fabrics, India
shawls, and wore very few jewels.  But Phcebe would
wear two bracelets on one arm, from the sheer delight
of looking on them. The Oriental warmth of her temperament was revealed in her delight in gleaming gems.
She loved them  for their own sakes.  There were
ardors of hei heart which seemed to find their counterpart in the Imprisoned, yet inextinguishable fires of
precious stones.  She would watch and muse over
them, moment after moment, as if in a dream.  HeU
senses, pure and strong, were the avenues of keen and
swift delights. If her conscience was stern, her heart
was warm, and her capacity for joy immeasurable.
The flashing of a jewel, the odor of a flower, the face




200       ALICE AND PIHEBE CAR Y
of youth, the subtle effluence of outraying beauty, the
touch of a hand, the moulding of a perfect arm, everything which revealed, in sight or sound or form, the
more subtle and secret significance of matter, moved
a nature powerful in its passionate sensibility.
To her dying hour she was a child in many ways.
The Phcebe Cary who faced the world was dignified,
self-contained, and self-controlled. But the child-heart
avenged itself for what the world had cost it, when it
came back to its own sole self. The last great struggle, in which alone it essayed to meet and conquer
sorrow, snapped the cord of life. Thus in the slightest
things, often, Phcebe could not bear disappointment
any better than a child. No matter how bravely she
tried, afterwards, in greater or less degree, she always
went through the reaction of complete prostration.
Often a disappointment like missing a train of cars,
having a journey put off, or even a pleasant evening
out deferred, would send her to her room in floods of
tears. To be sure, she made no ado. The door was
shut, and nobody was allowed to hear the wailing, nor
were any comments made on it afterwards. Nevertheless, when she appeared again, two or three, at least,
always knew that "Phoebe had had her cry, and felt
better."
Modest and reticent in herself, yet merry and witty
in her conversation with men, her habitual manner to
the women whom she loved was most endearing.
Without the shallow " gush," and insipid surface effervescence of sentimental adjectives, which in many
women take the place, and attempt to hide the lack,
of any deep affection, Phoebe was full of loving little
ways, dear to remember.  She had a fashion of




PHZEBE'S LO VERS.              201
smoothing back your hair from your forehead, as if
you were a child; and of coming and standing beside
you, with her hand laid upon your shoulder in a caressing touch. This action of hers was especially comforting and assuring. It was not a startling, nervous
hand resting on your shoulder. It was deep, dimpled,
and abiding.  It rested, soothed, and helped you at
once. It came with a caress, and left you with a
laugh. For by that time, its owner had surely said
something which had changed the entire current of
your thoughts and feeling, if you had been woe-begone
and lonesome when she came.
Emerson says, "All mankind love a lover;" and
Phcebe Cary surely did. But rarely in any solemn,
heart-tearing way.
"Believe me," she said once, "I never loved any
man well enough to lie awake half an hour, to be
miserable about him."
"I do believe you," said Alice.  "It would be hard
to believe it, were you to say you ever had."
Till within a few years of her death, it was only a
distant adorer that Phoebe desired, a cavalier servenzte,
who would escort her to public places occasionally,
pay her chivalric homage on Sabbath evenings, and
through the week retire to his affairs, leaving het
"unbothered " to attend to hers.  Her ideal of marriage was most exalted; and she would deliberately
have chosen to have lived "solitary to her dying day,"
rather than to have entered that sacred state, without
the assurance that its highest and purest happiness
would have been hers.
" I prefer my own life to that of the mass of married people that I see," she would say; " it is a dreary




202       ALICE AND PHCEBE CA R Y.
material life that they seem to me to live, no inspiration of the deepest love in it. And yet I believe that
true marriage holds the highest and purest possibilities
of human happiness."  It was a perfectly characteristic
reply that she made to the person who asked her if
she had ever been disappointed in her affections:"No; but a great many of my married friends
have."
Equally characteristic was her answer to the erratic
officer of our late war, who invited her to drive with
him, and improved the opportunity it gave to ask her
to marry him. She requested a short time to consider.
"No,"  said  the  peremptory hero.  "Now, or
never."
" Never! " was the response.
We may believe that the "never" did not lose in
vim from the fact, known to her, that the same daring
adorer had offered his name and fame no less ardently, but a few clays before, to her sister Alice.
They parted at the Twentieth Street door forever.
He died not long after, of wounds received in battle.
Phcebe was as innocently fond of admiration as she
was of decoration. She was never vain of it, but
always delighted when she received it. She received
nmuch.  When it culminated in an offer of marriage,
as it repeatedly did, Phcebe invariably said, "No, I
thank you: I like you heartily; but I don't want to
marry anybody."  The result was, her lover remained
her friend.  If he married, his wife became her
friend; and the two women exchanged visits on the
most cordial terms. There was not an atom of sentimentality, in the form that young Sparkler calls " non
sense," in the character of Phcebe Cary.




PTCHEB   AND ALICE.              203
During the last ten years of her life, the woman's
heart asserted itself in behalf of the woman's life. In
i867, an offer of marriage was made her by a gentleman eminent in the world of letters, a man of the
most refined nature, extensive culture, and real piety.
She felt a deep and true affection for him, as he did
for her. The vision of a new life and home shone
brightly in upon the shadow which disease and death
had hung over her own.
Although unconsciously, Alice had already entered
the Valley of Death; and when, with her failing
strength, the loss of Phcebe suddenly confronted her,
she shrunk back appalled. " I suppose I shall be
sustained, if worst comes to worst I/" she wrote; "but
I am very sad now."  Phcebe looked into the face of
her lover, and every impulse of her heart said, " Yes; "
she looked into the face of her sister, and her lips
said without faltering, " No."  Making the sacrifice,
she made it cheerfully, and without ado. I doubt if
Alice, to her dying day, realized how much Phcebe
relinquished in her own heart, when she sacrificed the
prospect of this new life for her sake.
Referring to it once, Phaebe said, "When I saw how
Alice felt, I could not leave her. If I had married, I
should have gone to my own home; now, she could
never live anywhere but in her own house. I could
not leave her alone. She has given so much to me,
I said, I will give the rest of my life to her.  It is
right. I would not have it otherwise. Yet when I
think of it, I am  sure I have never lived out my
full nature, have never lived a complete life.  My life
is an appendage to that of Alice. It is my nature
and fate to walk second to her.  I have less of every




204       ALICE AND PHEiBE CAR Y.
thing that is worth having, than she; less power, less
money, fewer friends.
"Sometimes I feel a yearning to have a life my very
own; my own house, and work, and friends; and to
feel myself the centre of all. I feel now that it is
never to be. O, if you knew how I carry her on my
heart! If she goes down town, I am anxious till she
comes back. I am so afraid some harm will happen
to her. Think of it! for more than thirty years our
house has never been free from the sound of that
cough. One by one, all have had it, and gone, but
we two. Now, when I am alone, I have that constant
dread on me about Alice. Of course I could notleave
her.  Yet (with a pathetic smile) I am  sure we
would have been very happy.  Don't you think so?"
Taking a picture from the inner drawer of her desk,
she gazed on it long. "Yes, I am sure of it," she
said, as she slowly put it back.
Through the teachings of her parents, and the
promptings of her own soul, Phcebe Cary believed in
the final restoration, from sin to happiness, of the entire human race, through the love of the Father and
the atonement of Jesus Christ. Her faith in God,
her love for humanity, never wavered. No less, through
her very temperament, her dependent soul needed all
the support of outward form, as well as of inward
grace. Alice could worship and be happy in the solitude of her own room; but Phcebe wanted all the accessions of the Church service. She was deeply devotional. In her unostentatious devoutness, there was
a touch of the old Covenanter's spirit. In her utter
dependence on the mercy and love of God, there was
an absolute humility of heart, touching to see.




PHIEBE'S RELIGIOUS FAITH.           2o5
Although she believed in the final restoration of
the human race to holiness, she believed no less in
extreme penalties for sin. She expected punishment
for every evil deed she did, not only here but hereafter.
This belief, with her own natural timidity and humility,
explains every cry that she ever uttered for divine
mercy, even to the last.
How much more to her was the Spirit of the Divine
Master than the tenets of any creed, we may know
from the fact that for many years of her life in New
York, she was a member of the Church of the Pilgrims (Congregational), its- pastor, Dr. Cheever, her
dear friend: while at the time of her death she was a
regular attendant at an independent church (the Church
of the Stranger), and with its pastor, Rev. Dr. Deems,
was the associate editor of " Hymns for All Christians." Faith, hope, and love - love for God, love
for her fellow-creatures - were the prevailing elements
of her religious faith and experience. In the belief
and practice of these she lived and died, a brilliant,
devout, humble, loving, and lovable woman.




zo6       ALICE AND PtEOBE CAR Y.
CHAPTER XI.
PHCEBE'S LAST SUMMER.- DEATH AND BURIAL.
THERE iS something inexpressibly sad in the very
thought of Phcebe's last summer. One must marvel
at the providence of God, which demanded of a soul so
dependent upon the ministries of love, so clinging in
every fibre of its being, that it should go down into
the awful shadow, and confront death alone. Though
hard, it would have been easier for Alice to have met
such a fate. Yet it was not Alice, it was Phcebe, who
died alone. She not only was alone, but sadder still,
she knew it. In the very last days she said, "' I am
dying alone."
The general impression is that with a constitution
exceptional in her family, in robust health, she -was
suddenly smitten, and, without warning, died. This is
far from the truth. Even in the summer of I869, she
complained of symptoms which proved to be the forerunners of fatal disease.  More than once she exclaimed, " O this heaviness, this lethargy which comes
over me, as if I could never move again! I wonder
what it is 1 "  But Alice was so confirmedly, and every
day becoming so hopelessly the invalid of the household, Phcebe's ailments were ignored by herself, and
scarcely known to her friends. In the presence of the
mortal agony which had settled on her sister's frame,




PH(BE'S CARE OF ALICE.            207
Phcebe had neither heart nor desire to speak of the
low, dull pain already creeping about her own heart.
Her first anxiety was to spare her sister every external
cause for solicitude or care.
Nevertheless, there were times when her own mortality was too strong for her, and in the December before the death of Alice, she lay for many days in the
little room adjoining, sick almost unto death, with one
form of the disease of which, at last, she died. While
convalescing from this attack, I found her one day
lying on a sofa in Alice's room, while Alice, in an armchair, was sitting by her side. It was one of Alice's
"best days." Not two months before her death, after
days and nights of anguish which no language can
portray, she yet had life enough left to be seated in
that arm-chair, dressed in white, wrapped in a snowy
lamb's-wool shawl, with a dainty cap, brave with pink
ribbons, on her head. Moving against the back of the
chair, she at last pushed this jaunty cap on one side,
when Phcebe looked up from her pillow, and said with
a sudden laugh, " Alice, you have no idea what a
rakish appearance you present.  I'll get you the handglass that you may see how you wear your cap." And
this remark was the first of a series of happy sallies
which passed between these two, stricken and smitten,
yet tossing to and fro sunny words, as if neither had a
sorrow, and as if all life stretched fair and bright before them.
Phoebe probably never knew, in this world, to what
awful tension her body and soul were strained, in living through the suffering of Alice, and beholding her
die.
She herself said: "It seems to me that a cord




208        ALICE AND PHeBE CARY.
stretches from Alice's heart to mine; nothing can hurt
her that does not hurt me."  That that cord was
severed at death, no one can believe.  Beyond the
grave Alice drew her still, till she drew her into the
skies.
After her sister's death she remarked to a friend,
"Alice, when she was here, always absorbed me, and
she absorbs me still; I feel her constantly drawing me."
You have read how, after seeing the body of her
sister laid beneath the snow in Greenwood, Phoebe
came back to the empty home, let the sunshine in,
filled the desolate room with flowers, and laid down
to sleep on the couch near that of Alice, which she had
occupied through all her last sickness; how she rose
with the purpose and will to work, to prepare a new
edition of all her sister's writings, - not to sit down
in objectless grief, but to do all that her sister would,
and, she believed, did still desire her to do. There
was not a touch of morbidness in her nature.  By
birthright hers was an open, honest, sunshiny soul.
The very effluence of her music sprang from the inspiration of truth, faith, and love. In herself she had
everything left to live for. Mentally, she had not yet
risen to the fullness of her powers. She was still in the
prime of a rich, attractive womanhood; her black hair
untouched of gray, her hazel eyes sparkling as ever,
her cheeks as dimpled as a baby's, her smile, even with
its droop of sadness, more winsome than of old. To
her own little store were now added her sister's pcssessions. Save a few legacies and mementos, everything of which she died possessed, Alice had bestowed
upon Phoebe. The house was hers; she its sole mistress, possessed of a life competency.  All Alice's




PHaEBE'S SOLITARINESS.            209
friends were hers now in a double sense; for they
loved her for herself, and her sister also. She sat enshrined in a tenderer and deeper sympathy than had
ever enveloped her before; her fame was growing,
offering her every promise of a more brilliant and enduring repute in the world of letters; her position as
the leader of a most brilliant and intellectual society
was never so assured. Dear soul! life had come to
her, why should she not be sunshiny and brave? Nobody had left her, nqt even her dead; were not Alice
and Elmina, and all her lost ones, -going in and out
with her, supporting her, cheering her? why should she
be bowed down and sorrowful? No less that realistic
nature, that tenacious heart, cried out for the old, tangible fellowship, for the face to face communion, the
touch of the hand, the tender, brooding smile, even for
the old moan of pain telling of the human presence.
Alice was there - yes, she believed it; yet it was with
spiritual insight, not with the old mortal vision, that
she beheld her. She was all womanly, made for deep
household loves. With all her sweet beliefs, she was
alone.
"Alice left me this morning, and I am in the world
alone," was the message she sent me, hundreds of
miles away, the day that Alice died.
Everything was hers, but what did it avail now?
There was no Alice waiting on her couch, no Alice
at the table, no Alice to pour out long, sweet songs in
her ear; the soul of her soul had passed from her.
She tried to see the light, but the light of her life had
gone out.
Phcebe's resolution was to go on with her own life
work, not as if her sister had not died, but as if in
I4




210        ALICE AND PIETBE CARY.
passing away she had left a double work for her to
perform. She felt that she had not only her own, but
Alice's works to revise and edit, Alice's name to
honor and perpetuate. For the first time in her life,
the impulse, the energy to do, was to come from herself alone.  It could not be.  Unconsciously she
drooped. There was no Alice to whom to read what
she had written. No Alice to live through and for,
as she lived through her and for her for so many
years. The tension of those years of watching and
of ceaseless anxiety broken, the reaction of unutterable weariness and helplessness told how fearful had
been their strain.  She did not quiescently yield to it.
She went out and sought her friends. She called her
friends in to her. She did all in her power to shake
off the lethargy stealing upon her; not only to believe,
but to feel, that she had much left to live for. In vain.
She who had so loved to live, who by her physical as
well as mental constitution could take delight in simple existence; she who was in sympathy with every
hope and fear which animates humanity, came to
herself at last, to find that her real interest had all
been transferred to the beloved objects who had passed
within the veil of the unseen and eternal.
Possessing, as she believed she did, "the old Cary
constitution," with a vital hold on life which no other
of her sisters had possessed, she made her plans in
expectation of long life.  And yet, when attacked
with what seemed to be slight illness, when her physician spoke hopefully to her of recovery, she replied,
"that she knew  of no reason why she should  zot
recover, except that she neither found, nor could
excite, any desire in herself to do so; and this she said




PHCEBE CAR Y'S DEA TH.            2 I
with a sort of wonder."  Sickness, grief, it was not in
her power to bear. They struck at once to the very
core of life.  She grew gray in a few weeks.  She
began to look strangely like Alice. Her own sparkling expression was gone; and in the stead, her whole
face took on the pathetic, appealing look of her sister.,
This resemblance increased till she died.  "She grew
just like Miss Alice," said Maria, her nurse, after her
death.  " She grew just like her in looks, and in all
her ways.  Sometimes it seemed as if she was Miss
Alice."
The week before she was taken sick, returning to
New York, I called upon her at once. She was well,
and out attending the meeting of a convention.  I
left a message that, as it would be impossible for me to
come again for some time, I should await her promised visit in my own home. Weeks passed, in which
a task.I was bound in honor to perform by a certain
time, withheld me from everything else, even from
the reading of newspapers.  Yet in the midst of it
the thought of Phcebe often came to me, and I felt
almost hurt at her non-appearance.  Long after its
date, a miscarried letter, written by the hand of
another, came to me, telling of her sickness.  When it
reached me, she had already gone to Newport.  I
answered it, telling her that had I known of her state,
I should have left everything and come to her, as I
was still ready to do. Carrying the letter down to
post without delay, I took up the "Tribune," and the
first line on which my eye rested was, " The death of
Phcebe Cary."
A short time before, Mrs. Clymer, the niece who
had all her life-time been as a daughter to Alice and




2 t2      ALICE AND PHCEBE CAR Y.
Phoebe, stood over the death-bed of her only brother.
She closed his eyes for the last time, to lie down on
her own bed of suffering, to which she was bound for
weeks. Lying there, she learned of the sickness of
her aunt Phcebe, but nothing of its degree; the latter
withholding it from her. As soon as she was able to
sit up, she left Cincinnati for Newport. Reaching
New York, and stopping at the house on Twentieth
Street for tidings, she was met with the telegram of
her aunt's death.
Such were the inexorable circumstances which withheld two who loved her, from her in her last hours;
a fact, the very memory of which, to them, must be an
unavailing and life-long sorrow. Thus it was with
nearly all of her friends; they were out of the city,
far from her, and scarcely knew of her sickness until
they read the announcement of her death.
She felt it keenly; and in her last loneliness her
loving heart would call out, "Where are all my
friends?"  Yet at no time was she wholly bereft of
the ministrations of affection. Hon. Thomas Jenckes,
of Providence, Rhode Island, and Mr. Francis Nye,
of New York, the friend and executor of both Alice
and herself, made every arrangement for her conveyance to Newport. She was accompanied thither by a
devoted lady friend, and followed thither by another,
who remained with her till after her death. Mr. Oliver
Johnson made the journey to Newport expressly to see
his old friend in her lonely and suffering state. The
lady who was with her to the last, Mrs. Mary Stevens
Robinson, daughter of Rev. Dr. Abel Stevens of the
Methodist Episcopal Church, who, beside her nurse
Maria, is the only person living who can tell truly of




MRS. ROBINSON'S LETTER.             213
Phoebe Cary's last hours, has, at the request of the
writer, kindly sent the following graphic personal recollections of Phcebe, and a record of those sad days
at Newport. She says: —
"I first met with Phcebe Cary in the winter of
I853-4. She was still young and striking in her appearance, with keen, merry, black eyes, full of intelligence and spirit, a full, well-proportioned figure, and
very characteristic in gesture, aspect, and dress.  She
was fond of high colors, red, orange, etc., and talked
well and rapidly.  She was entirely feminine in demeanor, careful, in the main, of the sensibilities of
those whom she addressed, though so warm by nature,
and so quick in her thought, as to be sometimes
thrown off guard on this point, in the ardor of discussion. My father was at this period editor of a magazine, and Alice was one of his contributors.  As we
lived in the same neighborhood, we exchanged frequent visits with the sisters  we attending their evening receptions, and they our unceremonious social
gatherings. At these companies Phcebe's conversation
was more with gentlemen than with ladies; partly because she liked them better, and partly because they
were sure to be entertained by her; but she maintained invariably a gentle reserve, was never' carried
away' in the ardor or brilliancy of talking. Her wit
had no sting, her frankness and sincerity were those
of a child, and she was always'pure womanly.' In
remarks upon persons and their performances, she
was free and discriminating. Herein it was perhaps
less habitual for her to use restraint, than it was with
Alice. The latter was carefully, consciwetiously just
and generous. She was content only to give full credit




214       ALICE AND PH(EBE CAR Y.
for whatever was commendable in others, or in what
they accomplished.
"Our removal from town, and other interferences,
interrupted this acquaintance, until, one spring day
some five or six years ago, I chanced to meet Phcebe
in a store, on the quest of shopping, like myself. We
exchanged warm greetings, talked perhaps for five
minutes; but instead of the usual formulas, her words
were so fresh and piquant that I recall them even
now. I mentioned the fact of my father's being pastor
of a Methodist church at Mamaroneck.'I don't
belong among the Methodists,' said Phcebe, in her
reply,' but whenever I feel my heart getting chilly, I
go to a meeting of your people, - any kind of a meeting. Their warmth is genuine and irresistible. It is
contagious, too, and has crept inside other walls than
your own.'
"' When I asked her to visit us, she answered in her
ready way:' Well, if you will, I will come to-morrow.
Alice is away, and I can leave now, better than when
she comes back.'
"Yes, Alice was away. I discovered afterward that
this cheery soul, who could sing songs, get books into
market, and whose plenitude of spirits was apparently
unfailing, whose very gait, at once smooth and rapid,
expressed swift and direct force, this hearty, happy
woman, pined somewhat when severed from her mate.
In the stillness of the house her gayety drooped, and
she had no one to think of. The tender curves of her
mouth, the arch of her eyelids, something round and
child-like in the whole contour, betokened this dependence of affecion in her.
" She came to us on the morrow, told numberless




MRS. ROBINSON'S LETTER.            215
stories and jests, talked with her habitual earnestness,
bordering on vehemence when the conversation turned
on spiritualism (apologizing afterward, fearing she
had'fo gotten herself'), and seemed heartily to enjoy
everything connected with her visit.  We were all
comfortable in her presence, and utterly ignored that
slight constraint one often experiences along with the
pleasure of having a guest in the house. The second
day was'rainy, so she could not ride out, as we had
planned, to see the scenes of the neighborhood. But
she fell to discoursing on the charms of a wet day in
a country house, the fresh, growing verdure without,
the open fire, the friendly aspect of a library, the converse on men, women, and books, till we ceased to
regret the weather, and congratulated ourselves silently
through the day, saying,' What a happy time, what a
charming rainy day we are'having!'
" In the course of conversation some one remarked
her resemblance to Sappho, as she is known to us by
the bust, and by descriptions; the olive-brown tint, the
stature rather under size, the low brow, etc. Phoebe
accepted the comparison smilingly, in silence, but with
a natural, modest pleasure. She won the favor of a
child, the only one in the family. He wanted a poem,
but dared not ask for it. Later, when the request
reached her ears, she sent him some simple, characteristic verses upon himself.
"During this visit, as often afterward, I could but
note the rapid movement of her mind. She thought
quickly, spoke quickly; never chattering nonsense, nor
filling spaces of conversation with phrases, but always
racy, healthful utterances, full of sense, wit, and vigor.
Her natural simplicity never forsook her- something of




zi 6       ALICE AND PICEBE CARY.
rural life, of virgin soil, the clear breeziness of Western
plains was suggested by her character, as manifested
in speech, aspect, and manner.
"After this visit I did not see her again till the day
of Alice's funeral. There, her extreme but restrained
grief touched my heart; for Death had entered my own
door, and borne away my best-beloved. When she
turned from her last look at her sister's face, and was
supported by friends to her seat, it was plain that this
bereavement had taken hold of the roots of her life,
had drowned its bases in tears. I sent a note of sympathy, not wishing to intrude upon her sorrow. But
some weeks later, hearing that she was much alone,
and needed society, I called one evening, and continued
my visits weekly and finally daily, up to her last departure from town. In some measure, she recovered her
natural flow of spirits. Once, speaking of the FrancoGerman war, I said that the French more than any
other nation were tainted with the virus of Roman
corruption, as evident in the latter (Roman) empire,
instancing their epicurism, sensuality, cruelty, ostentation, luxury, etc.
"'I see,' said Phcebe,'you think they are still in
the gall of bitterness and bond of iniquity.'
"She liked to talk of love and marriage, though
entirely reticent of her own affaires dzo caur; and she
was not without them. On those subjects she spoke
with a woman's heart, and conceived the noblest ideals
of them.
"'Whenever I write a story, often when only a
poem,' she said once,'it must turn upon love.'
"One evening, the first birthday of Alice after her
death, I made one of a tea-party of four at the little




MRS. ROBINSON'S LETTER.             2  7
house where so many guests had been so charmingly entertained.  An elderly widow, Mrs. C, who stayed
with Phcebe after Alice's death, an old friend, Miss
Mary B —, Phcebe, and myself surrounded the table.
The snug dining-room, the old-fashioned tea-service,
the quaint china, the light biscuit, sweet butter, all the
dishes cornine ifauzt, everything bespeaking a carefullyordered domestic life - I am sure you can recall similar evenings full of the same delightful impressions.
We had jellied chicken that Phcebe had tried for the
first time, for the occasion, and with entire success. We
gossiped over our fragrant tea, and smiled at ourselves,
a gathering of lone women; and all agreed that the
hostess was less like an old maid. than any of the others.
Cheerful she was, in truth, much like her natural self;
yet in the evening, sitting apart with Miss B., she
confessed that the absence of Alice affected her seriously; that when she tried to write, no words would
come; that failing here, she turned to household affairs,
but could scarcely accomplish anything. Every morning
her first thought on waking was,'Here is another
leaden day to get through with; it will be precisely like
yesterday, and such will be all days in all time to
come!'
" Plainly the watching and anxiety of the previous
year had jarred her nerves. They were firmly set by
nature, but through her illness their attenuation became
extremely painful; they grew sharp and fine as the
worn strings of an instrument; it was as if one could
see them stretched too long, and too tensely - about
to snap, as they did, indeed, at last.
"One Wednesday afternoon I stopped at the door,
and hearing that she was lying down, I simply left a




2I8       ALICE AND PHEBE CARY.
bouquet with my love. When next I called, she entered
the room with a poem about my flowers, the last verses
she ever wrote, about the last paper that she touched
with a pen... It seems that on the day of my former
call she had given the morning to a memorial article
of Alice (for the'Ladies Repository' of Boston) and
being quite worn out when it was done, lay down to
rest.  My flowers were brought freshly-cut, moistened
by some drops of a spring shower, and set on a stand
by her lounge. She looked at them a few minutes,
rose quickly,' as if quite rested,' Mrs. C- said, was
gone about twenty minutes in the opposite room, and
returned with this pretty resolution of thanks.
" Shortly afterward we attended the anniversary of
one of the Woman Suffrage Societies, where we heard
Mrs. Livermore, Grace Greenwood, Dr. Eggleston,
Mrs. Howe, Lucy Stone, and others.  Miss Cary's
interest in the movement was strong, and her remarks
on the speakers just, and admirably to the point. She
was then apparently as well and as cheerful as usual.
"The following Sunday she passed in New Jersey,
with her friends, Mrs. Victor and Mrs. Rayl.  On her
return, Monday, she was seized with a chill, which
recurred more or less regularly for upwards of three
weeks. They were extremely severe; the suffering
and exhaustion, for the time, were like those of death
itself. Her appetite grew capricious, and soon failed
altogether.  We tried to tempt it by following her fancies; but as soon-as a new dish or drink was brought,
she ceased to care for it. A stomachic cough connected with a derangement of the liver, that was common to the entire family, and imperfect sleep, combined
to undermine her strength. She suffered no pain, but




MRS. ROBINSON'S LETTER.            2 19
an appalling misery, attended with extreme depression
of spirits. She lamented often her lonely and forlorvr
condition, and said her illness was'quite as much in
the mind as in the body.' This however, was an
attendant symptom of her malady.
"After seeing her at the time of Alice's funeral,
most of her friends were too busy in the affairs of
spring, etc., to make visits; and she had been ill for
several weeks, before any of them knew of her affliction. I visited her daily, answered her correspondence, read much aloud, laughed, and chatted; did
anything I could to alleviate the mortal weariness
that had come over her. She confessed to no confidence in any medical aid. Invalids had no? been
wanting in the family; and no physician or medicine
had availed for them. She thought that when they
were so ill as to need the regular visits of a physician,
they were subjects for death.  Occasionally the old
vigor would shine forth for a day; but it was sure to
be followed by a relapse.
"On one of these better evenings, her friends, Miss
Mary L. Booth and Mrs. Wright, called to see her.
She lay on her lounge, and talked with much of her
former vivacity; recounted an accident that had happened some nights previously. Feeling restless and
feverish, she had risen in the dark and made her vay
to the bath-room, wishing to bathe her head. In the
dark she fell, hit her head against a chair with such
force as to cut it, fainted, and lay insensible till restored to consciousness by the air from an open window. She then crept back to her couch, and was
found quite exhausted in the morning. This serious
accident she related with all the lightness it would
admit, and actually made sport of some of the details.




'20'      ALICE AND PHOEBE CAR Y.
"'You have read in sensation stories of heroines
weltering in their gore,' she said;' I understand now
exactly what that means, for I lay and weltered in my
gore for the best of the night, and it was a very disagreeable proceeding: I never want to welter again.'
"As her strength declined each day instead of
mending, she was possessed of a desire to go away,
and was persuaded that an entire change would be of
benefit. But in her invalid state she was unwilling
to impose herself on any of her friends. Finally we
persuaded her to accept a very cordial invitation from
Mrs. H. O. Houghton of Cambridge, Mass., wife of
Mr. Houghton, the publisher.  Preparations were
made Tor the journey; but on the day appointed for
it, she was too ill to be moved from her room, and
the plan was abandoned.
"We then considered. several places,. deciding at
last upon Newport, as, offering homelike quarters,
with two single ladies, sisters, of a Quaker family with
whom I was acquainted. It was arranged for Mr.
Jenckes (of Providence) and Mrs. Rayl to escort her
thither, while I was to follow a fortnight later. The
journey taxed her severely, and prostrated her to
such an extent for some days after her arrival, that her
life- was despaired of. The air, that we hoped would
prove medicinal, was thought to be too strong for her
shattered frame, though the house stands a mile from
the sea. Whether it was too strong or not, I cannot
tell; she herself chose it in preference to mountain
air; but she sank steadily after reaching Newport, and
was too feeble to bear removal. She had been for
nearly three months without regular or healthful rest.
She ate and drank almost nothing, could not lie down,




MRS. ROBINVSON'S LETTER.           221
but sat most of ithe time in a chair, leaning forward,
supported on pillows, or was propped up in the bed.
From dawn till eight or nine o'clock she was in the
sharpest misery; for the rest she sat with closed eyes
in a semi-stupor, from which she would arouse when
addressed.
" Reading and conversation were given over. But
one day I found Mr. Whittier's poem on Alice, in'The Atlantic,''The Singer,' and read it at her request. When I had half done I paused, thinking she
had fallen asleep; but she lifted her eyes, and asked
why I did not go on.'It was all one could wish or
ask for,' she said, on hearing it to the close.
"Such nursing as she required was very simple.
To fan away the flies, give the medicine at regular
hours, change her position frequently, lift her from the
chair to the bed and back again, and bathe her swollen feet in salt water; this was nearly all that could be
done. Of food and drink she took very little, and that
mainly cold milk; beef tea, or iced claret. Some two
or three times the doctor's prescriptions were too powerful for her exhausted frame, and caused severe pain,
accompanied with delirium. She would then rave at
Maria and myself, upbraiding us as the cause of her
sufferings; but the frenzy past, she was gentle and
sweet, like her usual self. One evening, in a paroxysm
of this sort, she begged to be laid on the floor, and
after expostulating in vain, we spread a quilt down, and
laid her on it. Here she remained for above two
hours, I standing over her, and by slow degrees lifting her back to the bed. But these sad aberrations
were not frequent nor lasting. They ceased with the
harmful medicines.




222       ALICE AND PHtEBE CARY.
" Many persons in Newport, learning of her illness,
called to leave their condolences; among others, Mr.
Higginson, and  Mrs. Parton.  Her friend  Oliver
Johnson called twice, and though almost too weak
to speak, she saw him both times. The first was on
Saturday, when he promised to call again the next
day. The tears rolled down his face as he beheld her
altered aspect; her reception of him was most affectionate. On Sunday evening she seemed quite improved; told the doctor she believed she lhad begun
to get well, and wanted to be all dressed for Mr. Johnson's call: but for that preparation she was not equal.
I had not been out for some time, therefore went to
church in the morning, leaving her with Maria. On
my return I found her still comfortable, though extremely restless, wishing to be moved every five or ten
minutes.' Don't mind if you pull me limb from limb,'
she said quite placidly.'Pull me about,' was her constant request. I repeated much of the sermon, and she
commented on it in her naturally rapid manner. All
this day she was more or less talkative. She saw Mr.
Johnson, who left with her a nosegay of sweet-peas of
rare varieties. Their odor was that of sweet apples,
and this I spoke of.'Who said anything of sweet apples?' she asked, lifting her eyes.  When I made the
comparison again, she buried her face repeatedly in the
flowers, crushing them in her strong desire to extract
their fragrance. She thought she would like a sweet
apple, but, when it was brought, could only smell of it.
That afternoon, sitting on the edge of the bed, she
kissed and caressed Maria, talked of how they would
go home, went over pleasantly every detail of the an
ticipated journey as a child would talk of it, and




MRS. ROBAS'ON'S LETTER.            223
seemed altogether so tranquil and comfortable that
any one unaware of her low state might have hoped
for convalescence. But we could entertain no such
hope.
"The restlessness increased all the next day, though
in other respects she remained comfortable.  Several
times I lifted her alone from the chair to the bed, though
how, I can hardly tell now. It was something I could
do better than the others, for they invariably hurt her;
but generally Maria helped me. In the evening her
restlessness increased, so that she could not lie still a
moment. I was quite worn out, and for the first time,
went early to a little room on the floor above, leaving
a written report for the doctor, who generally called at
eleven. I noticed when I went up-stairs that the moon
was shining, and that all was perfectly still; not so
much as a leaf was stirring. I lay quiet, but awake;
heard the doctor enter, and go into her room.
"Suddenly a gust of wind wailed through the house,
and blew my door shut. A moment after I heard
Phcebe's voice in a faint, but piercing cry, and some
one came up for me. I was two or three minutes in
putting on a wrapper, etc., in the room adjoining hers,
but all was still in there. When I entered, her eyes
were closed, and the repose of death was settling on
her brow. The death throe had seized her, but it
lasted for a moment only, and for this I gave thanks
even at that hour, for she had such fear of pain; and
though she suffered much, yet of actual pain she had
but little from the beginning to this last hour. This
was mercifully ordered, in view of her peculiar inability
to bear acute suffering. After death, her face, almost
immediately, wore a tranquil smile -a smile as through




~24       ALICE ANAD Pf(EBE CAR'Y.
tears, of sunlight shining through rain; and though
I saw it no more after the last offices of the hour were
rendered, I was told that till the coffin-lid closed finally
upon it, this repose remained stamped there. Thus
passed away one of the dearest souls that God ever set
on the earth."
Maria's story of that hour which she spent alone
with Phcebe, Phcebe's last hour in this world, is most
touching.  "She could not lie down, but she was so
restless," said Maria; " she kept saying to me,'Maria,
put my hair back. There! -that is just as -'s
hand used to feel on my forehead - so gentle. And
to think that you and I are in the world alone - that
after all, I've nobody but you, Maria! Everybody else
gone so far away. Where are my friends? Well,
when we go back we won't live alone any longer, will
we? We won't live alone as we did last spring. We'll
open the house and fill it, won't we, Maria....'But if you go back, and I don't know, don't let me
look ugly to my friends; go out and buy me a white
dress. All my life I've wanted to wear a white dress,
and I never could, because I was so dark. I think I
could wear one then. Put it on me yourself, Maria,
and cover me all over with flowers, so I shall not
look gloomy and dreadful to anybody who looks on me
for the last time."'
Thus she talked, one moment as if they were going
back to life and the old home on Twentieth Street, with
uttered yearnings for friends, and an outreaching toward a mortal future full of sunshine and human companionship; the next, speaking as if her death were
certain, the feminine instinct of decoration, the longing
to look pleasant to those she loved, strong even in dissolution.




PHJEBE CARY'S DEA TH.            225
The loving heart was mightier than all. She would
suddenly stop her low, rapid utterances, and stretching
out her arms throw them around Maria's neck, covw
ering her face with caresses and kisses, ending always
with the words: "You and I are all alone, Maria.
After all;,'ve nobody but you /" bestowing upon her in
that moment o;ome of her most precious personal treasures.
Without an instant's warning the death throe came.
She knew it. Throwing up her arms in instinctive
fright, this loving, believing, but timid soul, who had
never stood alone in all her mortal life, as she felt herself drifting out into the unknown, the eternal, starting
on the awful passage from whence there is no return
cried, in a low, piercing voice, "O God, have mercy on
my soul!" and died.
She had her wish. The white robe that she had so
longed all her life to wear, fell in fleecy folds about her
in death. She slept amid flowers, fresh and fragrant.
The tender heart whose depth of affection had never
been fully seen or felt within its outward shield of resplendent wit, now shone through and transfigured
every feature. Every lineament was smiling, childlike,
loving. She had her wish. No look on the living
face of Phoebe Cary was ever so sweet as the last.
Phcebe Cary died at Newport, Rhode Island, Monday, July 3i, 187I. Her body was brought to the
empty house on Twentieth Street, New York, and from
thence was taken for funeral services to All Souls
Church, corner of Fourth Avenue and Twentieth Street,
whose congregation, coming and going, Phcebe had so
often watched from her chamber window, with emotions
of affection. Her funeral was attended by her foux'5




226        ALICE AND PECEBE CAR Y.
nieces, by the few of her many friends at that time left
in the heated city, and by a goodly company of strangers to whom her name was dear. The services were
intrusted to the Rev. A. G. Laurie, a Scottish Universalist clergyman, and Rev. Bernard Peters, both old
and dear friends of the Cary family, the former having
known Phcebe from  childhood.  The "New  York
Tribune," speaking of the solemnities, said: —
" The body was placed in the centre aisle, near the
chancel, the organ playing a dirge. When the attendants had arranged the final details, and the last strains
of music were dying away, a cloud that had obscured
the sun passed from before it, and the whole church
was illumined by soft, golden tints, seemingly indicative
of the glory which awaited the peaceful spirit that had
so recently passed away."
At the conclusion of Mr. Laurie's affectionate and
tearful address, he read Phcebe's hymn, "Nearer
Home," which was sung by the choir, who also sang
the following hymn, written by the officiating clergyman: -
O stricken heart, what spell shall move thee,
What charm shall lift that grief away,
Which, like a leaden mist above thee,
Shuts out the shining of the day?
Is out of sight the friend unto thee'Fore every friend that sat the first?
Let not her silence thus undo thee;
The blank of Death is not its worst.
And never shade of wrong lay on her;
She loved her kith, her kind, her God,
And from her mind returned the Donor
Rich harvest for the seed He sowed.




THiE  FUNERAL.                   227
She died in stress of love and duty,
On others spent her work and will;
Unself- O, Christ, thy chiefest beauty
Was hers, and she is with Thee still.
Then, smitten heart, renew thy gladness:
Rejoice that thou canst not forget;
In every pulse, with solemn sadness,
Unseen, but present, feel her yet."
Horace Greeley and others went as far as they could
with this dear friend on her long journey.  When they
saw all that was mortal of this last sister of her race
laid in Greenwood, and turned back to her empty
house, they realized with unspoken sorrow that its last
light had gone out, and that the home in Twentieth
Street was left desolate forever.




228       ALICE AND PHEBE CARY.
CHAPTER  XII.
THE SISTERS COMPARED. - THEIR LAST RESTING-PLACE.
IT is impossible to estimate either sister without any
reference to the other, - as impossible as to tell what a
husband and wife, modifed in habit and character by
many years of wedded life, would have been had they
never lived together.
Alice Cary was remarkable for the fullness and tenderness of her emotional nature, and for the depth and
fidelity of her affections; through these she was all softness and gentleness. But mentally she was a strong
woman - strong in will, energy, industry, and patience;
through these she faced fate with a masculine strength
of courage and endurance. It was not easy, but her
will was strong enough to compel her life to do noble
service.
Phoebe, mentally and emotionally, was in every attribute essentially feminine. The terror of her mortal
life was responsibility. It seemed absolutely necessary
to her existence to know that somebody stood between
her and all the inexorable demands and exigencies of
this world.  "I believe a consciousness of responsibility could kill Phoebe, even if she were in perfect
health," said Alice. " She does not wish to feel responsibility for anything, not even for the saving of her
own soul; for that reason alone she would be a Roman




THE CARY SISTERS.              229
Catholic if she could, and lay the whole burden of her
salvation on the Church. Unfortunately for her comfort, the literalness of her mind makes that impossible."
Alice Cary was preeminently, and in the highest
and finest sense, an attractive woman.  She was
beloved of women. Young girls were drawn toward
her in a sort of idolatry, and she was universally
beloved of men. No man could come within the
sphere of her presence without feeling all that was
most tender, chivalric, and true in his manhood, instinctively going forth toward the woman by his side.
It was the fine potent power of her femininity, her gentleness, and sincerity, her tenderness and purity, which
inspired all that was most tender and reverent in him.
This feeling of sacred affection for Alice Cary was felt
by all men who were her friends, no matter how
various or conflicting their tastes might be in other
things. When the loveliness of her face was not that
of youth, there were artists who used to go to her
house Sabbath evening after Sabbath evening, "just
to look upon her face." Said one, "It grows more
beautiful every year."
Alice was tall and graceful, with a suggestion of
majesty in her simple mien. Her dark eyes were of
a wonderful softness and beauty, with a fathomless
depth of tenderness in their expression, which men and
even women love. Yet there were not wanting lines
of firmness and energy about the feminine mouth, and
there was an impression of silent power pervading her
very gentleness. Phcebe had all the soft contours,
the complexion, hair, and eyes, of a Spanish woman.
And with her sparkle and repartee she had besides a




230       ALICE AND. PHEBE CARY.
Spaniard's languors. She was slightly below ordinary
height; full, without being heavy in outline. The prevailing expression of Alice's countenance was one
of sadness, pervaded with extreme sweetness; but
Phcebe's black eyes sparkled as she talked, and even
when her face was in repose there was upon it the trace
of a smile. Alice dressed with rich simplicity, and in
the most resplendent drawing-room would have been
noticed as one of the most elegant women in it.
Phoebe, in her more animated moments, would have
been marked for her dark, brilliant beauty, and would
have reminded you of an Oriental princess in the warm
brightness of her colors, and the distinctive character
of her ornaments.
The mental contrasts of the sisters were as marked
as their physical. Alike in tastes and aspiration, they
were unlike in temperament, in their habit of thought
and of action. Each, in her own way, out of her own
life, sacrificed much to the other, - how much only
God and their own souls knew. Out of this mutual
sacrifice was welded a bond stronger and. closer than
many sisters know; through their life-long association,
their sympathy, their very sisterhood, it drew them
nearer and nearer together to the end. It produced at
last an identification of existence such as we see where
the natures of husband and wife have become perfectly
assimilated because their life and fate are one.
Notwithstanding the unity. of their pursuits, the
identity of their interests, their utter devotion to each
other, outside of this dual life each sister lived distinctly and separately her own existence.  Each
respected absolutely the personal peculiarities of the
other, and never consciously intruded upon them,




THE CAR Y SISTERS.             231
Each thought and wrought in as absolute solitude as
if she alone were in the house. The results of the
labor they shared together; but not the labor. Each
respected so much the idiosyncrasies of the other's
mind,.hat neither ever thought of criticising the other's
work. If one offered a suggestion, it was because the
other requested her to do so.
Both had ways that at times were not altogether
satisfactory to the other. Each accepted them as a
part of the cross that she must bear for her sister, and
she did not complain, nor did it cause any bitterness.
For example, Alice's tireless energy and unswerving
will at times wearied Phoebe, though she found in both
the staff and support of her life, while Phcebe's
inertia was a much more perpetual trial to Alice. She
recognized the fact that she could not make the active
law of her own being that of Phcebe's, and acquiesced,
but not always with inward resignation,
According to Phcebe's own testimony, Alice used
mind and body unsparingly whenever she could compel them to obey her will. With all a woman's softness, she met the responsibilities of life as a man meets
them. She never stopped to inquire whether she felt
like doing a task, no matter how disagreeable it might
be. If it was to be done she did it, and without words
and without delay.
It was Phcebe, the protected and sheltered one, who
consulted her moods. Perhaps this was scarcely a
fault; she obeyed the law of her being and the law of
her life in this. Had she compelled her powers to
produce a given amount of work, as Alice did, without
doubt it would proportionately have depreciated in
quality. Absolute necessity did not force her to such




232       ALICE AND'PH(EBE CAR:
toil, therefore she instinctively avoided it. Beside,
a most touching humility always held her back from
testing her powers to the utmost.
The same self-depreciation was strong in Alice;
but her aspiration, her will to do her best, with the
impelling demands of life, were so much stronger,
that neither brain nor hand were ever for a moment
idle. She placed the highest estimate on Phcebe's
brilliant wit, clear vision, and apt and shrewd suggestiveness, as well as on her poetical genius. The
former, especially, she thought a mine unworked, and
for years urged and encouraged Phcebe to test the
growing opportunities of correspondence of critical
and editorial writing which journalism opened to
women. But Phcebe was not to be persuaded even by
the necessities of the occasion, or the eloquence of
her sister. She continued to coruscate in the little
parlor, to fill the air with the flashes of a most exquisite wit, but she never turned it to any material
account. When a song came singing through her
brain, she would leave her sewing, or her novel, and
go and write it down. Yet for a period of eight years
she wrote comparatively nothing. In referring to this
period she often said: "I thought that I should never
write again. I had nothing to say, and felt an unutterable heaviness. If I did write anything it did not
seem to me worth copying, much less reading." The
causes of this mental barrenness were probably purely
physical and temperamental.  It is doubtful if in any
effective degree it was in her power to help it.
No less those were years in which the burden of
life weighed sorely and heavily on Alice. Often she
felt herself stagger under the weights of life. She felt




THE CARY SISTERS.              233
her strength failing. No less she knew that she must
carry them alone, that there was no one on earth ta
help her. Phcebe outlived that period, of mental inactivity. The war seemed to arouse and quicken all
her nature. For the last five years of her life her
genius was almost as productive as that of Alice. Her
very best poems, with a few exceptions, were written
within that period. To the delight of her friends and
the joy of her sister, her powers seemed continually to
increase, her song to grow sweeter and fuller to the
end. Had she lived ten years longer, without a doubt
she would have risen to a height never attained by her
before. Believing her sister always with her, it would
have been as if the song of Alice was added to her own.
Through nearly all their lives Phoebe had materially,
intellectually, and spiritually depended upon Alice.
Though Phcebe had the more robust health, it was
Alice who had the more resolute spirit. Over all the
long and toilsome road from poverty to competence, it
was Phcebe who leaned on Alice. It was Alice who
bore the burden and heat of the day, and who smoothed
the paths for her sister's feet. Not that she was idle,
and did nothing; but she paused, and doubted, and
waited by the way. Tears dimmed the lovely eyes of
the elder, how often; pain and weariness would have
stayed her steps, but her high heart said, " Nay." Necessity said, "You must not! "  She went on, she led
her sister on, till they came to a height where both
stood side by side. Then, the painful'journey done, in
the evening shadow it was Alice who leaned on Phoebe,
and leaning thus, she died.
But Phoebe lived through and for Alice so long, when
she looked and saw her no more, the very impulse and




234       ALICE AND PIICEBE CARY.
power to live were gone. She sank and died, because
she could not live on, in a world where her sister was
not.
Turning to the right, after entering Greenwood, a
short walk brings you to an embowered slope, crowned
by a grassy lot, on whose lowly gate is inscribed the
one word: "Cary."
Within, side by side, are three mounds, of equal
length, unmarked save by one low head-stone, whose
velvet turf holds a few withering flowers, the only token
of the loving remembrance of the living for the sleepers
who rest below. Elmina, Phocebe, and Alice! names
precious to womanhood, names worthy of the tenderest l)ve of the highest manhood. Far from their kindred, here these sisters three sleep at last together.
Here the pilgrim feet are stayed. Here the eager
brains and tireless hands at last are idle. Here the
passionate, tender, yearning hearts are forever still.
On one side you hear the murmur and moan of the
great metropolis, the turmoil and anguish of human
life never stilled. On the other, Ocean chants a perpetual requiem. As you listen, you are sure that it
holds that in its call which is eternal; sure that there
is that in you which can never end; sure that the love,
and devotion, and divine intelligence of the women
whom you mourn, still survive; that they whom you
loved in all the infirmity of their human state, await
you now, redeemed, and glorified, and immortal.
The autumn leaves fall on their graves in tender
showers. The spring leaves, the summer flowers, bud
and bloom around them in beauty ever renewed. The
air is penetrated with sunshine and with song. The
place is full of the brightness that Phcebe loved, full




WHITTZER'S VERSES.                   235
of the soothing shade and peace so dear to Elmina, and
to Alice.
Farewell, beloved trinity!
The words which Whittier wrote for Alice, this hour
belong alike to each one:
"God giveth quietness at last!
The common way that all have passed
She went, with mortal yearnings fond,
To fuller life and love beyond.
"Fold the rapt soul in your embrace,
My dear ones! Give the singer place.
To you, to her - I know not where
I lift the silence of a prayer.
" For only thus o':r own we find;
The gone before, the left behind,
All mortal voices die between;
The unheard reaches the unseen.
"Again the blackbirds sing: the streams
Wake, laughing, from their winter dreams,
And tremble in the April showers
The tassels of the maple flowers.
"But not for her has spring renewed
The sweet surprises of the wood;
And bird and flowers are lost to her
Who was their best interpreter!' What to shut eyes has God revealed?
What hear the ears that death had sealed?
What undreamed beauty, passing show,
Requites the loss of all we know?
"0  silent land, to which we move,
Enough if there alone be love;
And mortal need can ne'er outgrow
What it is waiting to bestow!




236        ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY.
" O white soul! from that far-off shore
Float some sweet song the waters o'er;
Our faith confirm, our fears dispel,
With the old voice we loved so well!"
In the days of her early youth Phoebe wrote:-' Let your warm hands chill not, slipping
From my fingers' icy tips;'Be there not the touch of kisses
On my uncaressing lips;
Let no kindness see the blindness
Of my eyes' last, long eclipse.
Never think of me as lying
By the dismal mould o'erspread:
But about the soft white pillow
Folded underneath my head,
And of summer flowers weaving
Their rich broidery o'er my bed.
Think of the immortal spirit
Living up above the sky,
And of how my face is wearing
Light of immortality;
Looking earthward, is o'erleaning
The white bastion of the sky."




LATER POEMS BY ALICE CARY








BALLADS AND LOVE SONGS
---
THE MIGHT OF LOVE.'" THERE is work, good man, for you to-day!'
So the wife of Jamie cried,
"For a ship at Garl'ston, on Solway,
Is beached, and her coal's to be got away
At the ebbing time. of tide."
" And, lassie, would you have me start,
And make for Solway sands?
You know that I, for my poor part,
To help me, have nor horse nor cartI have only just my hands!"
" But, Jamie, be not, till ye try,
Of honest chances baulked;
For, mind ye, man, I'll prophesy
That while the old ship's high and dry
Her master'll have her caulked."
And far and near the men were pressed,
As the wife saw in her dreams.
"Aye," Jamie said, " she knew the best,'
As he went under with the rest
To caulk the open seams.




240      BALLADS AND LOVE SONGS.
An'd while the outward-flowing tide
Moaned like a dirge of woe,
The ship's mate from the beach-belt cried:
"Her hull is heeling toward the side
Where the men are at work below! "
And the cartmen, wild and open-eyed,
Made for the Solway sands -
Men heaving men like coals aside,
For now it was the master cried:
" Run for your lives, all hands!"
Like dead leaves in the sudden swell
Of the storm, upon that shout,
Brown hands went fluttering up and fell,
As, grazed by the sinking planks, pell mell
The men came hurtling out!
Thank God, thank God, the peril's past!
"No! no! " with blanching lip,
The master cries. " One man, the last,
Is caught, drawn in, and grappled fast
Betwixt the sands and the ship! "
"Back, back, all hands! Get what you canOr pick, or oar, or stave."
This way and that they breathless ran,
And came and fell to, every man,
To dig him out of his grave i
"Too slow! too slow! The weight will kill I
Up, make your hawsers fast! "
Then every man took hold with a will -




THE MIGHT OF LOVE.             241
A long pull and a strong pull - still
With never a stir o' th' mast!
"Out with the cargo!"  Then they go
At it with might and main.
"Back to the sands! too slow, too slow!
He's, dying, dying! yet, heave ho!
Heave ho! there, once again! "
And now on the beach at Garl'ston stood
A woman whose pale brow wore
Its love like a queenly crown; and the blood
Ran curdled and cold as she watched the flood
That was racing in to the shore.
On, on it trampled, stride by stride.
It was death to stand and wait;
And all that were free threw picks aside,
And came up dripping out o' th' tide,
And left the doomed to his fate.
But lo i the great sea tiembling stands;
Then, crawling under the ship,
As if for the sake of the two white hands
Reaching over the wild, wet sands,
Slackened that terrible grip.
"Come to me, Jamie! God grants the way,"
She cries, " for lovers to meet."
And the sea, so cruel, grew kind, they say,
And, wrapping him tenderly round with spray,
Laid him dead at her feet.
x6




242      BALLADS AND LOVE SONGS.
"THE GRACE WIFE OF KEITtH."
No whit is gained, do you say to me,
In a hundred years, nor in two nor three,
In wise things, nor in holy -
No whit since Bacon trod his ways,
And William Shakespeare wrote his plays!
Aye, aye, the world moves slowly.
But here is a lesson, man, to heed;
I have marked the pages, open and read;
We are yet enough unloving,
Given to evil and prone to fall,
But the record will show you, after all,
That still the world keeps moving.
All in the times of the good King James -
I have marked the deeds and their doers' names,
And over my pencil drawing -
One Geillis Duncan standeth the first
For helping of " anie kinde sick" accursed,
And doomed, without trial, to " thrcwing."
Read of her torturers given their scope
Of wrenching and binding her head with a rope,
Of taunting her word and her honor,
And of searching her body sae pure and fair
From the lady-white feet to the gouden hair
For the wizard's mark upon her!
Of how through fair coaxings and agonies' dread
She came to acknowledge whatever they said,




"THE GRACE WIFE OF Kr EITH."    243
And, lastly, her shaken wits losing,
To prattle from nonsense and blasphemies wild
To the silly entreaties and tears of a child,
And then to the fatal accusing.
First naming Euphemia Macalzean,
A lord's young daughter, and fair as a queen;
Then Agnes, whose wisdom surpassed her;
Grace Wyff of Keith," so her sentence lies,'Adjudged at Holyrood under the eyes
Of the King, her royal master."
0, think of this Grace wife, fine and tall,
With a witch's bridle tied to the wall i
Her peril and pain enhancing
With owning the lie that on Hallowmas Eve
She with a witch crew sailed in a sieve
To Berwick Church, for a dancing!
Think of her owning, through brainsick fright,
How Geillis a Jew's-harp played that night,
And of Majesty sending speedy
Across the border and far away
For that same Geillis to dance and play,
Of infernal news made greedy!
Think of her true tongue made to tell
How she had raised a dog from a well
To conjure a Lady's daughters;
And how she had gript him neck and skin,
And, growling, thrust him down and in
To his hiding under the waters!




244      BA4LL4DS AND LOVE SOIVGS.
How Rob the Rower, so stout and brave,
Helped her rifle a dead man's grave,
And how, with enchantments arming,
Husbands false she had put in chains,
And gone to the beds of women in pains
And brought them through by charming!
Think of her owning that out at sea
The Devil had marked her on the knee,
And think of the prelates round her
Twitching backward their old gray hairs
And bowing themselves to their awful prayers
Before they took her and bound her!
The world moves! Witch-fires, say what you will
Are lighted no more on the Castle Hill
By the breath of a crazy story;
Nor are men riven at horses' tails,
Or done to death through pincered nails,
In the name of God and his glory.
The world moves on! Say what you can,
No more may a maiden's love for a man,
Into scorn and hatred turning,
Wrap him in rosin stiff and stark,
And roll him along like a log in its bark
To the place of fiery burning.
And such like things were done in the days
When one Will Shakespeare wrote his plays;
And when Bacon thought, for a wonder;
And when Luther had hurled, at the spirit's call,
Inkstand, Bible, himself, and all
At the head of the Papal thunder.




y7OA Hnvl  RIGHT.           245
JOHNNY RIGHT.
JOHNNY RIGHT, his hand was brown,
And so was his honest, open face,
For the sunshine kissed him up and down,
But Johnny counted all for grace;
And when he looked in the glass at night
He said that brown was as good as white I
A little farm our Johnny owned,
Some pasture-fields, both green and good,
A bit of pleasant garden ground,
A meadow, and a strip of wood.
"Enough for any man," said John,
"To earn his livelihood upon! "
Two oxen, speckled red and white,
And a cow that gave him a pail of milk,
He combed and curried morn and night
Until their coats were as soft as silk.
"Cattle on all the hills," said he,
"Could give no more of joy to me."
He never thought the world was wrong
Because rough weather chanced a day;
The night is always hedged along
With daybreak roses," he would say;
He did not ask for manna, but said,
"Give me but strength - I will get the bread 1'
Kindly he took for good and all
Whatever fortune chanced to bring,




246      BALLADS AND LOVE SONGS.
And he never wished that Spring were Fall,
And he never wished that Fall were Spring;
But set the plough with a joy akin
To the joy of putting the sickle in.
He never stopped to sigh " Oho!"
Because of the ground he needs must till,
For he knew right well that a man must sow
Before he can reap, and he sowed with a will;
And still as he went to his rye-straw bed,
" Work brings the sweetest of rest," he said.
Johnny's house was little and low,
And his fare was hard; and that was why
He used to say, with his cheeks aglow,
That he must keep his heart up high:
Aye, keep it high, and keep it light!
He used to say - wise Johnny Right!
He never fancied one was two;
But according to his strength he planned,
And oft to his Meggy would say he knew
That gold was gold, and sand was sand;
And that each was good and best in its place,
For he counted everything for grace.
Now Meggy Right was Meggy Wrong,
For things with her went all awry;
She always found the day too long
Or the day too short, and would mope and sigh;
For, somehow, the time and place that were,
Were never the time and place for her!




yOHNNY RIGHT.             247
O Johnny, Johnny! " she used to say,
If she saw a cloud in the sky at morn,
"There will be a hurricane to-day;"
Or, " The rain will come and drench the corn!
And Johnny would answer, with a smile,
"Wait, dear Meggy, wait for a while!"
And often before an ear was lost,
Or a single hope of the harvest gone,
She would cry, " Suppose there should fall a frost,
What should we do then, John, O John! "
And Johnny would answer, rubbing his thumbs,
"Wait, dear Meg;gy, wait till it comes!"
But when she saw the first gray hair,
Her hands together she wrung and wrung,
And cried, in her wicked and weak despair,
" Ah, for the day when we both were young! "
And. Johnny answered, kissing her brow,
"Then was then, Meg - now is now!"
And when he spectacles put on,
And read at ease the paper through,
She whimpered, "0, hard-hearted John,
It isn't the way you used to do!"
And Johnny, wiser than wiser men,
Said, " Now is now, Meg - then was then I"
So night and day, with this and that,
She gave a bitter to all the bliss,
Now for Johnny to give her a hat,
And now for Johnny to give her a kiss,
Till, patience failing, he cried, "Peg, Peg!
You're enough to turn a man's head, Meg!"




248      BALLADS AND LOVE SONGS.
O, then she fell into despair -
No coaxing could her temper mend;
For her part now she didn't care
How soon her sad life had an end.
And Johnny, sneering, made reply,
"Well, Meg, don't die before you die!
Then foolish Meg began to scold,
And call her Johnny ugly names;
She wished the little farm was sold,
And that she had no household claims,
So that she might go and starve or beg,
And Johnny answered, "0 Meg, Meg!"
Ah, yes, she did -she didn't care!
That were a living to prefer;
What had she left to save despair?
A man that didn't care for her!
Indeed, in truth she'd rather go!
"Don't, Meg," says Johnny, " don't say so I
She left his stockings all undarned,
She set his supper for him cold;
And every day she said she yearned
To have the hateful homestead sold.
She couldn't live, and wouldn't try!
John only answered with a sigh.
Passing the tavern one cold night,
Says Johnny, "I've a mind to stop,
It looks so cheery and so bright
Within, and take a little drop,
And then I'll go straight home to Meg."
There was the serpent in the egg.




THE LOVER'S INTERDICT.           249
He stopped, alas, alas for John.
That careless step foredoomed his fall.
Next year the little farm was gone,Corn-fields and cattle, house-and all;
And Meggy learned too late, too late,
Her own self had evoked her fate.
THE LOVER'S INTERDICT.
STOP, traveller, just a moment at my gate,
And I will give,you news so very sweet
That you will thank me. Where the branches meet
Across your-road, and droop, as with the weight
Of shadows laid upon them, pause, I pray,
And turn aside a little from your way.
You see the drooping branches overspread
With shadows, as I told you - look you now
To the high elm-tree with the dead white bough
Loose swinging out of joint, and there, with head
Tricked out with scarlet, pouring his wild lay,
You see a blackbird: turn your step that way.
Holding along the honeysuckle hedge,
Make for the meadows lying down so low;
Ah! now I need not say that you must go
No further than that little silver wedge
Of daisy-land, pushed inward by the flood
Betwixt the hills - you could not, if you would,




250      BALLADS AND LOVE SONGS.
For you will see there, as the sun goes down,
And freckles all the daisy leaves with gold,
A little maiden, in their evening fold
Penning two lambs - her soft, fawn-colored gown
Tucked over hems of violet, by a hand
Dainty as any lady's in the land.
Such gracious light she will about her bring,
That, when the Day, being wedded to the shade,
Wears the moon's circle, blushing, as the maid
Blushes to wear the unused marriage-ring,
And all the quickened clouds do fall astir
With daffodils, your thoughts will stay with her.
No ornaments but her two sapphire eyes,
And the twin roses in her cheeks that grow,
The nice-set pearls, that make so fine a show
When that she either softly smiles or sighs,
And the long tresses, colored like a bee -
Brown, with a sunlight shimmer. You will see,
When you have ceased to watch the airy spring
Of her white feet, a fallen beech hard by,
The yellow earth about the gnarled roots dry,
And if you hide there, you will hear her sing
That song Kit Marlowe made so long ago -' Come live with me, and be my love," you know.
Dear soul, you would not be at heaven's high gate
Among the larks, that constellated hour,
Nor locked alone in some green-hearted bower
Among the nightingales, being in your fate,
By fortune's sweet selection, graced above
All grace, to hear that - Come, and be my love I




THE LO VER'S INTERDICT.           251
But when the singer singeth down the sweets
To that most maiden-like and lovely bed -
All out of soft persuasive roses spread -
You must not touch the fair and flowery sheets
Even in your thought! and from your perfect bliss
I furthermore must interdict you this:
When all the wayward mists, because of her,
Lie in their white wings, moveless, on the air,
You must not let the loose net of her hair
Drag your heart to her! nor from hushed breath stir
Out of your sacred hiding. As you guess
She is my love - this woodland shepherdess.
The cap, the clasps, the kirtle fringed along
With myrtles, as the hand of dear old Kit
Did of his cunning pleasure broider it,
To ornament that dulcet piece of song
Immortaled with refrains of - Live with me!
These to your fancy, one and all are free.
But, favored traveller, ere you quit my gate,
Promise to hold it, in your mind to be
Enamored.only of the melody,
Else will I pray that all yon woody weight
Of branch and shadow, as you pass along,
Crush you among the echoes of the song.




252      BALLADS AND LOVE SONGS.
THE SETTLER'S CHRISTMAS EVE.
IN a patch of clearing, scarcely more
Than his brawny double hands,
With woods behind and woods before,
The Settler's cabin stands;
A little, low, and lonesome shed,
With a roof of clapboards overhead.
Aye, low, so low the wind-warped eave
Hangs close against the door;
You might almost stretch a bishop's sleeve
From the rafter to the floor;
And the window is not too large, a whit,
For a lady's veil to curtain it.
The roof-tree's bent and knotty knees
By the Settler's axe are braced,
And the door-yard fence is three felled trees
With their bare arms interlaced;
And a grape-vine, shaggy and rough and red,
Swings from the well-sweep's high, sharp head.
And among the stubs, all charred and black,
Away to the distant huts,
Winds in and out the wagon-track,
Cut full of.zigzag ruts:
And down and down to the sluggish pond,
And through and up to the swamps beyond.
And do you ask beneath such thatch
What heart or hope may be?




THE SETTLER'S CHRISTMAS EVYE.   253
Just pull the string of the wooden latch,
And see what you shall see:
A hearth-stone broad and warm and wide,
With master and mistress either side.
And'twixt them, in-the radiant glow,
Prattling of Christmas joys,
With faces in a shining row,
Six children, girls and boys;
And in the cradle a head half-hid
By the shaggy wolf-skin coverlid.
For the baby sleeps in the shaded light
As.gently as a lamb,
And two little stockings, scarlet bright,
Are hanging'gainst the jamb;
And the yellow cat lies all of a curl
In the lap of a two-years' blue-eyed girl.
On the dresser, saved for weeks and weeks,
A hamper of apples stands,
And some are red as the children's cheeks,
And some are brown as their hands;
For cakes and apples must stead, you see,
The rich man's costlier Christmas-tree.
A clock that looks like a skeleton,
From the corner ticks out bold;
And that never was such a clock to run
You would hardly need be told,
If you were to see the glances proud
Drawn toward it when it strikes so loud.




'54      BALLADS ANtD LOVE SONGS.
The Settler's rifle, bright and brown,
Hangs high on the rafter-hooks.
And swinging a hand's breadth lower down
Is a modest shelf of books;
Bible and Hymn-book, thumbed all through,
Baxter's Call," and a novel or two.
"Peter Wilkins," " The Bloody Hand,"
"The Sailor's Bride and Bark,"
Jerusalem and the Holy Land,"
"The Travels of Lewis and Clarke; "
Some tracts: among them, "The Milk-maid's Fall,
Pleasure Punished," and " Death at a Ball."
A branch of sumach, shining bright,
And a stag-horn, deck the wall,
With a string of birds'-eggs, blue and white,
Beneath. But after all,
You will say the six little heads in a row
By the hearth-stone make the prettiest show.
The boldest urchin dares not stir;
But each heart, be sure, rebels
As the father taps on the newspaper
With his brass-bowed spectacles;
And knitting-needle with needle clicks
As the mother waits for the politics.
He has rubbed the glass and rubbed the bow,
And now is a fearful pause:
Come, Molly! " he says, " come Sue, come Joe,
And I'll tell you of Santa Claus! "
How the faces shine with glad surprise,
As if the souls looked out of the eyes.




THE SETTLER'S CHRISTMAS EVE.   255
In a trice the dozen ruddy legs
Are bare; and speckled and brown
And blue and gray, from the wall-side peg
The stockings dangle down;
And the baby with wondering eyes, looks out
To see what the clatter is all about.
"And what will Santa Claus bring?" they tease,
" And, say, is he tall and fair?"
While the younger climb the good man's knees,
And the elder scale his chair-;
And the mother jogs the cradle, and tries
The charm of the dear old lullabies.
So happily the hours fly past,'Tis pity to have them o'er;
But the rusty weights of the clock, at last
Are dragging near the floor;
And the knitting kneedles, one and all,
Are stuck in the round, red knitting-ball.
Now, all of a sudden the father twirls
The empty apple-plate;'Old Santa Claus don't like his girls
And boys to be up so late! "
He says, "And I'll warrant our star-faced cow,
He's waiting astride o' the chimney now."
Down the back of his chair they slide,
They slide down arm and knee:
"If Santa Claus is indeed outside,
He sha'n't be kept for me! "
Cry one and all; and away they go,
Hurrying, flurrying, six in a row.




256      BALLADS AND LOVE SONGS.
In the mother's eyes are happy tears
As she sees them flutter away;
My man," she says, "it is sixteen years
Since our blessed wedding-day;
And I wouldn't think it but just a year
If it wasn't for all these children here."
And then they talk of what they will do
As the years shall come and go;
Of schooling for little Molly and Sue,
And of land for John and Joe;
And Dick is so wise, and Dolly so fair,
"They," says the mother, "will have luck to spare i
"Aye, aye, good wife, that's clear, that's clear I'
Then, with eyes on the cradle bent,
"And what if he in the wolf-skin here
Turned out to be President?
Just think! 0, wouldn't it be fine, -
Such fortune for your boy and mine!"
She stopped - her heart with hope elateAnd kissed the golden head:
Then, with the brawny hand of her mate
Folded in hers, she said:
"Walls as narrow, and a roof as low,
Have sheltered a President, you know."
And then they said they would work and wait,
The good, sweet-hearted pair -
You must have pulled the latch-string straight,
Had you in truth been there,
Feeling that you were not by leave
At the Sett'er's hearth that Christmas Eve.




TIHE OLD S7'ORY.            257
THE OLD STORY.
THE waiting-women wait at her feet,
And the day is fading into the night,
And close at her pillow, and round and sweet,
The red rose burns like a lamp a-light,
And under and over the gray mists fold;
And down and down from the mossy eaves,
And down from the sycamore's long wild leaves
The slow rain droppeth so cold, so cold.
Ah! never had sleeper a sleep so fair;
And the waiting-women that weep around,
Have taken the combs from her golden hair,
And it slideth over her face to the ground.
They have hidden the light from her lovely eyes;
And down from the eaves where the mosses grow
The rain is dripping so slow, so slow,
And the night wind cries and cries and cries.
From her hand they have taken the shining ring,
They have brought the linen her shroud to make:
0, the lark she was never so loath to sing,
And the morn she was never so loath to awake i
And at their sewing they hear the rain,
Drip-drop, drip-drop over the eaves,
And drip-drop over the sycamore leaves,
As if there would never be sunshine again.
The mourning train to the grave have gone,
And the waiting women are here and are there,
With birds at the windows, and gleams of the sun,
Making the chamber of death to be fair.
I7




258      BALLADS AND LOVE SONGS.
And under and over the mist unlaps,
And ruby and amethyst burn through the gray,
And driest bushes grow green with spray,
And the dimpled water its glad hands claps.
The leaves of the sycamore dance and wave,
And the mourners put off the mourning shows;
And over the pathway down to the grave
The long grass blows and blows and blows.
And every drip-drop rounds to a flower,
And love in'the heart of the young man springs,
And the hands of the maidens shine with rings,
As if all life were a festival hour.
BALDER'S WIFE.
HER casement like a watchful eye
From the face of the wall looks down,
Lashed round with ivy vines so dry,
And with ivy leaves so brown.
Her golden head in her lily hand
Like a star in the spray o' th' sea,
And wearily rocking to and fro,
She sings so sweet and she sings so low
To the little babe on her knee.
But let her sing what tune she may,
Never so light and never so gay,
It slips and slides and dies away
To the moan of the willow water.




BALDER'S WIFE.               259
Like some bright honey-hearted rose
That the wild wind rudely mocks,
She blooms from the dawn to the day's sweet close
Hemmed in with a world of rocks.
The livelong night she doth not stir,
But keeps at her casement lorn,
And the skirts of the darkness shine with her
As they shine with the light o' the morn
And all who pass.may hear her lay,
But let it be what tune it may,
It slips and slides and dies away
To the moan of the willow water.
And there, within that one-eyed tower,
Lashed round with the ivy brown,
She droops like some unpitied flower
That the rain-fall washes down:
The damp o' th' dew in her golden hair,
Her cheek like the spray o' th' sea,
And wearily rocking to and fro
She sings so sweet and she sings so low
To the little babe on her knee.
But let her sing what tune she may,
Never so glad and never so gay,
It slips and slides and dies away
To the moan of the willow water,




POEMS OF THOUGHT.
UNDER THE SHADOW.
MY sorrowing friend, arise and go
About thy house with patient care;
The hand that bows thy head so low
Will bear the ills thou canst not bear.
Arise, and all thy tasks fulfill,
And as thy day thy strength shall be;
Were there no power beyond the ill,
The ill could not'have come to thee.
Though cloud and storm encompass thee,
Be not afflicted nor afraid;
Thou knowest the shadow could not be
Were there no sun beyond the shade.
For thy beloved, dead and gone,
Let sweet, not bitter, tears be shed;
Nor " open thy dark saying on
The harp," as though thy faith were dead.
Couldst thou even have them reappear
In bodies plain to mortal sense,
How were the miracle more clear
To bring them than to take them hence?




UNDER THE SHADOW               261
Then let thy soul cry in thee thus
No more, nor let thine eyes thus weep;
Nothing can be withdrawn from us
That we have any need to keep.
Arise, and seek some height to gain
From life's dark lesson day by day,
Nor just rehearse its peace and pain -
A wearied actor at the play.
Nor grieve that will so much transcends
Thy feeble powers, but in content
Do what thou canst, and leave the ends
And issues with the Omnipotent.
Dust as thou art, and born to woe,
Seeing darkly, and as through a glass,
He made thee thus to be, for lo!
He made the grass, and flower of grass.
The tempest's cry, the thunder's moan,
The waste of waters, wild and dim,
The still small voice thou hear'st aloneAll, all alike interpret Him.
Arise, my friend, and go about
Thy darkened house with cheerful feet;
Yield not one jot to fear nor doubt,
But, baffled, broken, still repeat:
"'Tis mine to work, and not to win;
The soul must wait to have her wings;
Even time is but a landmark in
The great eternity of things.




262          POEMS OF THOUGHT.
"Is it so much that thou below,
O heart, shouldst fail of thy desire
When death, as we believe and kno
Is but a call to come up higher?
GOD IS LOVE.
AH, there are mighty things under the sun,
Great deeds have been acted, great words have
been said,
Not just uplifting some fortunate one,
But lifting up all men the more by a head.
Aye, the more by the head, and the shoulders too!
Ten thousand may sin, and a thousand may fall,
And it may have been me, and it yet may be you,
But the angel in one proves the angel in all.
And whatever is mighty, whatever is high,
Lifting men, lifting woman their natures above,
And close to the kinship they hold to the sky
Why, this I affirm, that its essence is Love.
The poorest, the meanest has right to his share -
For the life of his heart, for the strength of his
hand,'Tis the sinew of work,'tis the spirit of prayer -
And here, and God help me, I take up my stand.
No pain but it hushes to peace in its arms,
No pale cheek it cannot with kisses make bright,




GOD IS LO VE.               263
Its wonder of splendors has made the world's storms
To snlne as with rainbows, since first there was
light.
Go, bring me whatever the poets have praised,
The mantles of queens, the red roses of May,
I'll match them, I care not how grandly emblazed,
With the love of the beggar who sits by the way.
When I think of the gifts that have honored Love's
shrine
Heart, hope, soul, and body, all mortal can. give -
For the sake of a passion superbly divine,
I am glad, nay, and more, I am proud that I live!
Fair women have made them espousals with death,
And through the white flames as through lilies have
trod,
And men have with cloven tongues preached for their
faith,
And held up their hands, stiff with thumb-screws, to
God.
I have seen a great people its vantage defer
To the love that had moved it as love only can,
A whole nation stooping with conscience astir
To a chattel with crop ears, and calling it man.
Compared, Q my beautiful Country, to thee,
In this tenderest touch of the manacled hand,
The tops of the pyramids sink to the sea,
And the thrones of the earth slide together like
sand.




264         POEMS OF THOUGHT.
Immortal with beauty and vital with youth,
Thou standest, 0 Love, as thou always hast stood
From the wastes of the ages, proclaimingthis truth,
All peoples and nations are made of one blood.
Ennobled by scoffing and honored by shame,
The chiefest of great ones, the crown and the head,
Attested by miracles done in thy name
For the blind, for the lame, for the sick and the
dead.
Because He in all things was tempted like me,
Through the sweet human hope, by the cross that
He bore,
For the love which so much to the Marys could be,
Christ Jesus the man, not the God, I adore.
LIFE'S MYSTERIES.
ROUND and round the wheel doth run,
And now doth rise, and now doth fall;
How many lives we live in one,
And how much less than one, in all!
The past as present as to-day -
How strange, how wonderful! it seems
A player playing in a play,
A dreamer dreaming that he dreams!
But when the mind through devious glooms
Drifts onward to the dark amain,




LIFE'S MYSTERIES.             265
Her wand stern Conscience reassumes,
And holds us to ourselves again.
Vague reminiscences come back
Of things we seem, in part, to have known,
And Fancy pieces what they lack
With shreds and colors all her own
Fancy, whose wing so high can soar,
=Whose vision hath so broad a glance,
We feel sometimes as if no more
Amenable to change and chance.
And yet, one tiny thread being broke -
One idol taken from our hands,
The eternal hills roll up like smoke,
The earth's foundations shake like sands!
Ah! how the colder pulse still starts
To think of that one hour sublime,
We hugged heaven down into our hearts,
And clutched eternity in time!
When love's dear eyes first looked in ours,
When love's dear brows were strange to frowns,
When all the stars were burning flowers
That we might pluck and wear for crowns.
We cannot choose but cry and cry -
O, that its joys we might repeat!
When just its mutability
Made all the sweetness of it sweet.




i66          POEMS OF THOUGHT.
Close to the precipice's brink
We press, look down, and, while we quail
From the bad thought we dare not think,
Lift curiously the awful vail.
We do the thing we would not do 
Our wills being set against our wills,
And suffer o'er and o'er anew
The penalty our peace that kills.
Great God, we -know not what we know
Or what we are, or are to be!
We only trust we cannot go
Through sin's disgrace outside of Thee.
And trust that though we are driven in
And forced upon thy name to call
At last, by very strength of sin,
Thou wilt have mercy on us all I




POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME.
A DREAM OF HOME.
SUNSET! A hush is on the air,
Their gray old heads the mountains bare,
As if the winds were saying prayer.
The woodland, with its broad green wing,
Shuts close the insect whispering,
And lo! the sea gets up to sing.
The day's last splendor fades and dies,
And shadows one by one arise,
To light the candles of the skies.
O wild flowers, wet with tearful dew,
O woods, with starlight shining through,
My heart is back to-night with you 1
I know each beech arid maple tree,
Each climbing brier and shrub I see, -
Like friends they stand to welcome me.
Musing I go along the streams,
Sweetly believing in my dreams;
For fancy like a prophet seems.




268    POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME.
Footsteps beside me tread the sod
As in the twilights gone they trod;
And I unlearn my doubts, thank God I
Unlearn my doubts, forget my fears,
And that bad carelessness that sears
And makes me older than my years.
I hear a dear, familiar tone,
A loving hand is in my own,
And earth seems made for me alone.
If I my fortunes could have planned,
I would not have let go that hand;
But they must fall who learn to stand.
And how to blend life's varied hues,
What ill to find, what good to lose,
My Father knoweth best to choose.
EVENING PASTIMES.
SITTING by my fire alone,
When the winds are rough and cold,
And I feel myself grow old
Thinking of the summers flown.
I have many a harmless art
To beguile the tedious time:
Sometimes reading some old rhyme
I already know by heart;




FADED LEA YES.               269
Sometimes singing over words
Which in youth's dear day gone by
Sounded sweet, so sweet that I
Had no praises for the birds.
Then, from off its secret shelf
I from dust and moth remove
The old garment of my love,
In the which I wrap myself.
And a little while am vain;
But its rose hue will not bear
The sad light of faded hair;
So I fold it up again,
More in patience than regret:
Not a leaf the forest through
But is sung and whispered to:
I shall wear that garment yet.
FADED LEAVES.
THE hills are bright with maples yet;
But down the level land
The beech leaves rustle in the wind
As dry and brown as sand.
The clouds in bars of rusty red
Along the hill-tops glow,
And in the still, sharp air, the frost
Is like a dream of snow.




270    POEMS OF NA TURE AN1D HOME.
The berries of the brier-rose
Have lost their rounded pride:
The bitter-sweet chrysanthemums
Are drooping heavy-eyed.
The cricket grows more friendly now,
The dormouse sly and wise,
Hiding away in the disgrace
Of nature, from men's eyes.
The pigeons in black wavering lines
Are swinging toward the sun;
And all the wide and withered fields
Proclaim the summer done.
His store of nuts and acorns now
The squirrel hastes to gain,
And sets his house in order for
The winter's dreary reign.'Tis time to light the evening fire,
To read good books, to sing
The low and lovely songs that breathe
Of the eternal Spring.
THE LIGHT OF DAYS GONE BY.
SOME comfort when all else is night,
About his fortune plays,
Who sets his dark to-days in the light
Of the sunnier yesterdays.




THE LIGHT OF DAYS GONE BY          27.
In memory of joy that's been
Something of joy is, still;
Where no dew is, we may dabble in
A dream of the dew at will.
All with the dusty city's throng
Walled round, I mused to-day
Of flowery sheets lying white along
The pleasant grass of the way.,
Under the hedge by the brawling brook
I heard the woodpecker's tap,
And the drunken trills of the blackbirds shook
The sassafras leaves in my lap.
I thought of the rainy morning air
Dropping down through the pine,
Of furrows fresh from the shining share,
And smelling sweeter than wine.
Of the soft, thick moss, and how it grew
With silver beads impearled,
In the well that we used to think ran through
To the other side of the world.
I thought of the old barn set about
With its stacks of sweet, dry hay;
Of the swallows flying in and out
Through the gables, steep and gray;
Thought of the golden hum of the bees,
Of the cocks with their heads so high,
Making it morn in the tops of the trees
Before it was morn in the sky.




2,2    POEMiS OF NA TURE AND HOME.
And of the home, of the dear old home,
With its brown and rose-bound wall,
Where we fancied death could never come —
I thought of it more than of all.
Each childish play-ground memory claims,
Telling me here, and thus,
We called to the echoes by their names,
Till we made them answer us.
Thank God, when other power decays,
And other pleasures die,
We still may set our dark to-days
In the light of days gone by.
A SEA SONG.
COME, make for me a little song -'Twas so a spirit said to me -
And make it just four verses long,
And make it sweet as it can be,
And make it all about the sea.
Sing me about the wild waste shore,
Where, long and long ago, with me
You watched the silver sails that bore
The great, strong ships across the sea -
The blue, the bright, the boundless sea.
Sing me about the plans we planned:
How one of those good ships should be




SERMONS IN STONES.            273
My way to find some flowery land
Away beyond the misty sea,
Where, alway, you should live with me.
Sing, lastly, how our hearts were caught
Up into heaven; because that we
Knew not the flowery land we sought
Lay all beyond that other sea -
That soundless, sailless, solemn sea.
SERMONS IN STONES.
FLOWER of the deep red zone,
Rain the fine light about thee, near and far,
Hold the wide earth, so as the evening star
Holdeth all heaven, alone,
And with thy wondrous glory make men see
His greater glory who did fashion thee!
Sing, little goldfinch, sing!
Make the rough billows lift their curly ears
And listen, fill the violets' eyes with tears,
Make the green leaves to swing
As in a dance, when thou dost hie along,
Showing the'sweetness whence thou get'st thy song.
O daisies of the hills,
When winds do pipe to charm ye, be not slow.
Crowd up, crowd up, and make your shoulders show
White o'er the daffodils I
I8




374    POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME
Yea, shadow forth through your excelling grace
With whom ye have held counsel face to face.
Fill fuller our desire,
Gay grasses; trick your lowly stems with green,
And wear your splendors even as a queen
Weareth her soft attire.
Unfold the cunning mystery of design
That combs out all your skirts to ribbons fine.
And 0 my heart, my heart,
Be careful to go strewing in and out
Thy way with good deeds, lest it come about
That when thou shalt depart,
No low lamenting tongue be found to say,
The world is poorer since thou went'st away!
Thou shouldst not idly beat,
While beauty draweth good men's thoughts to prayer
Even as the bird's wing draweth out the air,
But make so fair and sweet
Thy house of clay, some dusk shall spread about,
When death unlocks the door and lets thee out.
MY PICTURE.
AH, how the eye on the picture stops
Where the lights of memory shine!
My friend, to thee I will leave the sea,
If only this be mine,
For the thought of the breeze in the tops of the trees
Stirs my blood like wine I




MY PICTURE.               275
I will leave the sea and leave the ships,
And the light-house, taper and tall,
The bar so low, whence the fishers go,
And the fishers' wives and all,
If thou wilt agree to leave to me
This picture for my wall.
I leave thee all the palaces,
With their turrets in the skythe hunting-grounds, the hawks and hounds -
They please nor ear nor eye;
But the sturdy strokes on the sides o' the oaks
Make my pulses fly.
The old cathedral, filling all
The street with its shadow brown,
The organ grand, and the choiring band,
And the priest with his shaven crown;'Tis the wail of the hymn in the wild-wood dim,
That bends and bows me down.
The shepherd piping to his flock
In the merry month of the May,
The lady fair with the golden hair,
And the knight so gallant and gay -
For the wood so drear that is pictured here,
I give them all away.
I give the cities and give the sea,
The ships and the bar so low,
And fishers and wives whose dreary lives
Speak from the canvas so;
And for all of these I must have the trees -
The trees on the hills of snow!




276    POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME.
And shall we be agreed, my friend?
Shall it stand as I have said?
For the sake of the shade wherein I played,
And for the sake of my dead,
That lie so low on the hills of snow,
Shall it be as I have said?
MORNING IN THE MOUNTAINS.
MORN on the mountains! streaks of roseate light
Up the high east athwart the shadows run;
The last low star fades softly out of sight,
And the gray mists go forth to meet the sun.
And now from every sheltering shrub and vine,
And thicket wild with many a tangled spray,
And from the birch and elm and rough-browed pine,
The birds begin to serenade the day.
And now the cock his sleepy harem thrills
With clarion calls, and down the flowery dells;
And from their mossy hollows in the hills
The sheep have started all their tinkling bells.
Lo, the great sun! and nature everywhere
Is all alive, and sweet as she can be;
A thousand happy sounds are in the air,
A thousand by the rivers and the sea.
The dipping oar, the boatman's cheerful horn,
The well-sweep, creaking.in its rise and fall;




MAORNING IN THE MO UTAINS.    2 7 7
And pleasantly along the springing corn,
The music of the ploughshare, best of all,The insect's little hum, the whir and beat
Of myriad wings, the mower's song so blithe,
The patter of the schoolboy's naked feet,
The joyous ringing of the whetted scythe, -
The low of kine, the falling meadow bar,
The teamster's whistle gay, the droning round
Of the wet mill-wheel, and the tuneful jar
Of hollow milk-pans, swell the general sound.
And by the sea, and in each vale and glen
Are happy sights, as well as sounds to hear,
The world of things, and the great world of men,
All, all is busy, busy far and near.
The ant is hard at work, and everywhere
The bee is balanced on her wings so brown;
And the black spider on her slender stair
Is running down and up, and up and down.
The pine-wood smoke in bright, fantastic curls,
Above the low-roofed homestead sweeps away,
And o'er the groups of merry boys and girls
That pick the berries bright, or rake the hay.
Morn on the mountains! the enkindling skies,
The flowery fields, the meadows, and the sea,
All are so fair, the heart within me cries,
How good, how wondrous good our God must be




.278    POEMS OF NATURE AND- HOME.
THE THISTLE FLOWER.
MY homely flower that blooms along
The dry and dusty ways,
I have a mind to make a song,
And make it in thy praise;
For thou art favored of my heart,
Humble and outcast as thou art.
Though never with the plants of grace
In garden borders set,
Full often have I seen thy face
With tender tear-drops wet,
And seen thy gray and ragged sleeves
All wringing with them, morns and eves.
Albeit thou livest in a bush
Of such unsightly form,
Thou hast not any need to blush -
Thou hast thine own sweet charm;
And for that charm I love thee so,
And not for any outward show.
The iron-weed, so straight and fine,
Above thy head may rise,
And all in glossy purple shine;
But to my partial eyes
It cannot harm thee - thou hast still
A place no finer flower can fill.
The fennel, she is courted at
The porch-side and the door



MY DARLINGS.               -279
Thou hast no lovers, and for that
I love thee all the more;
Only the wind and rain to be
Thy friends, and keep thee company.
So, being left to take thine ease
Behind thy thorny wall,
Thy little head with vanities
Has not been turned at all,
And all field beauties give mne grace
To praise thee to thy very face.
So, thou shalt evermore belong
To me from this sweet hour,
And I will take thee for my song,
And take thee for my flower,
And by the great, and proud, and high
Unenvied, we will live and die.
MY DARLINGS.
MY Rose, so red and round,
My Daisy, darling of the summer weather,
You must go down now, and keep house together,
Low underground!
0 little silver line
Of meadow water, ere the cloud rise darkling,
Slip out of sight, and with your comely sparkling
Make their hearth shine.




280    POEMS OF NA TURE ANVD HOME.
Leaves of the garden bowers,
The frost is coming soon, - your prime is over;
So gently fall, and make a soft, warm cover
To house my flowers.
Lithe willow, too, forego
The crown that makes you queen of woodland graces,
Nor leave the winds to shear the lady tresses
From your drooped brow.
Oak, held by strength apart
From all the trees, stop now your stems from growing,
And send the sap, while yet'tis bravely flowing,
Back to your heart.
And ere the autumn sleet
Freeze into ice, or sift to bitter snowing,
Make compact with your peers for overstrowing
My darlings sweet.
So when their sleepy eyes
Shall be unlocked by May with rainy kisses,
They to the sweet renewal of old blisses
Refreshed may rise.
Lord, in that evil day
When my own wicked thoughts like thieves waylay
me,
Or when pricked conscience rises up to slay me,
Shield me, I pray.
Aye, when the storm shall drive,
Spread thy two blessed hands like leaves above me,




THE EZELD SWEE T-BRIER.           281
And with thy great love, though none else should love
me,
Save me alive!
Heal with thy peace my strife;
And as the poet with his golden versing
Lights his low house, give me, thy praise rehearsing,
To light my life.
Shed down thy grace in showers,
And if some roots of good, at thy appearing,
Be found in me, transplant them for the rearing
Of heavenly flowers.
THE FIELD SWEET-B]3RIER.
I LOVE the flowers that come about with spring,
And whether they be scarlet, white, or blue,
It mattereth to me not anything;
For when I see theia full of sun and dew,
My heart doth get so full with its delight,
I know not blue from red, nor red from white.
Sometimes I choose the lily, without stain;
The royal rose sometimes the best I call;
Then the low daisy, dancing with the rain,
Doth seem to me the finest flower of all;
And yet if only one could bloom for me -
I know right well what flower that one would be i




Z82    POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME.
Yea, so I think my native wilding brier,
With just her thin four leaves, and stem so rough,
Could, with her sweetness, give me my desire,
Aye, all my life long give me sweets enough;
For though she be not vaunted to excel,
She in all modest grace aboundeth well.
And I would have no whit the less content,
Because she hath not won the poet's voice,
To pluck her little stars for ornament,
And that no man were poorer for my choice,
Since she perforce must shine above the rest
In comely looks, because I love her best!
When fancy taketh wing, and wills to go
Where all selected glories blush and bloom,
I search and find the flower that used to grow
Close by the door-stone of the dear old home -
The flower whose knitted roots we did divide
For sad transplanting, when the mother died.
All of the early and the latter May,
And through the windless heats of middle June,
Our green-armed brier held for us day by day,
The morning coolness till the afternoon;
And every bird that took his grateful share,
Sang with a heavenlier tongue than otherwhere.
And when from out the west the low sun shone,
It used to make our pulses leap and thrill
To see her lift her shadow from the stone,
And push it in among us o'er the sillO'erstrow with flowers, and then push softly in,
As if she were our very kith and kin.




THE LITTLE HOUSE 0N THE HILL.  283
So, seeing still at evening's golden close
This shadow with our childish shadows blend,
We came to love our simple four-leaved rose,
As if she were a sister or a friend.
And if my eyes all flowers but one must lose,
Our wild sweet-brier would be the one to choose.
THE LITTLE HOUSE ON THE HILL.
O MEMORY, be sweet to me —
Take, take all else at will,
So thou but leave me safe and sound,
Without a token my heart to wound,
The little house on the hill!
Take all of best from east to west,
So thou but leave me still
The chamber, where in the starry light
I used to lie awake at night
And list to the whip-poor-will.
Take violet-bed, and rose-tree red,
And the purple flags by the mill,
The meadow gay, and the garden-ground,
But leave, O leave me safe and sound
The little house on the hill!
The daisy-lane, and the dove's low plane,
And the cuckoo's tender bill,
Take one and all, but leave the dreams
That turned the rafters to golden beams,
In the little house on the hill i




284    POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME.
The gables brown, they have tumbled down,
And dry is the brook by the mill;
The sheets I used with care to keep
Have wrapt my dead for the last long sleep,
In the valley, low and still.
But, Memory, be sweet to me,
And build the walls, at will,
Of the chamber where I used to mark,
So softly rippling over the dark,
The song of the whip-poor-will I
Ah, Memory, be sweet to me!
All other fountains chill;
But leave that song so weird and wild,
Dear as its life to the heart of the child,
In the little house on the hill I
THE OLD HOUSE.
MY little birds, with backs as brown
As sand, and throats as white as frost,
I've searched the summer up and down,
And think the other birds have lost
The tunes you sang, so sweet, so low,
About the old house, long ago.
My little flowers, that with your bloom
So hid the grass you grew upon,
A child's foot scarce had any room
Between you, - are you dead and gone?




THE OLD HOUSE.               285
I've searched through fields and gardens rare,
Nor found your likeness anywhere.
My little hearts, that beat so high
With love to God, and trust in men,
O, come to me, and say if I
But dream, or was I dreaming then,
What time we sat within the glow
Of the old house hearth, long ago?
My little hearts, so fond, so true,
I searched the world all far and wide,
And never found the like of you:
God grant we meet the other side
The darkness'twixt us now that stands,
In that new house not made with hands I




FOR THE LOST.
LOST LILIES.
SHOW YOU her picture? Here it lies!
Hands of lilies, and lily-like brow;
Mouth that is bright as a rose, and eyes
That are just the soul's sweetest overflow.
Darling shoulders, softly pale,
Borne by the undulating play
Of the life below, up out of their veil,
Like lilies out o' the waves o' the May.
Throat as white as the throat of a swan,
And all as proudly graceful held;
Fair, bare bosom "clothed upon
With chastity," like the lady of eld.
Tender lids, that drooping down,
Chide your glances over bold;
Fair, with a golden gleam in the brown,
A.nd brown again in the gleamy gold.
These on your eyes like a splendor fall,
And you marvel not at my love, I see;
But it was not one, and it was not all,
That made her the angel she was to me.




LOST LILIES.               287
So snut the picture and put it away,
Your fancy is only thus misled;
What can the dull, cold semblance say,
When the spirit and life of the life is fled?
Seven long years, and seven again,
And three to the seven - a weary spaceThe weary fingers of the rain
Have drawn the daisies over her face.
Seven and seven years, and three,
The leaves have faded to death in the frost,
Since the shadow that made for me
The world a shadow my pathway crossed.
And now and then some meteor gleam
Has broken the gloom of my life apart,
Or the only thread of some raveled dream
Has slidlike sunshine in my heart.
But never a planet, steady and still,
And never a rainbow, brave and fine,
And never the flowery head of a hill
Has made the cloud of my life to shine.
Yet God is love! and this I trust,
Though summer is over and sweetness done,
That all my lilies are safe, in the dust,
As they were in the glow of the great, glad sun
Yea, God is love, and love is might!
Mighty as surely to keep as to make;
And the sleepers, sleeping in death's dark night,
In the resurrection of life shall wake.




288             FOR THE LOST.
A WONDER.
STILL alway groweth in me the great wonder,
When all the fields are blushing like the dawn,
And only one poor little flower ploughed under,
That I can see no flowers, that one being gone:
No flower of all, because of one being gone.
Aye, ever in me groweth the great wonder,
When all the hills are shining, white and red,
And only one poor little flower ploughed under,
That it were all as one if all were dead:
Aye, all as one if all the flowers were dead.
I cannot feel the beauty of the roses;
Their soft leaves seem to me but layers of dust;
Out of my opening hand each blessing closes:
Nothing is left me but my hope and trust,
Nothing but heavenly hope and heavenly trust.
I get no sweetness of the sweetest places;
My house, my friends no longer comfort me;
Strange somehow grow the old familiar faces;
For I can nothing have, not having thee:
All my possessions I possessed through thee.
}Having, I have them not - strange contradiction!
Heaven needs must cast its shadow on our earth;
Yea, drown us in the waters of affliction
Breast high, to make us know our treasure's worth,
To make us know how much our love is worth.




MOST BELO VED.               289
And while I mourn, the anguish of my story
Breaks, as the wave breaks on the hindering bar:
Thou art but hidden in the deeps of glory,
Even as the sunshine hides the lessening star,
And with true love I love thee from afar.
I know our Father must be good, not evil,
And murmur not, for faith's sake, at my ill;
Nor at the mystery of the working cavil,
That somehow bindeth all things in his will,
And, though He slay me, makes me trust Him still.
MOST BELOVED.
MY heart thou makest void, and full;
Thou giv'st, thou tak'st away my care;
O most beloved! most beautiful!
I miss, and find thee everywhere!
In the sweet water, as it flows;
The winds, that kiss me as they pass;
The starry shadow of the rose,
Sitting beside her on the grass;
The daffodilly, trying to bless
With better light the beauteous air;
The lily, wearing the white dress
Of sanctuary, to be more fair;
The lithe-armed, dainty-fingered brier,
That in the woods, so dim and drear,
I9




go290           FOR THE LOST.
Lights up betimes her tender fire
To soothe the homesick pioneer;
The moth, his brown sails balancing
Along the stubble, crisp and dry;
The ground-flower, with a blood-red ring
On either hand; the pewet's cry;
The friendly robin's gracious note;
The hills, with curious weeds o'errun;
The althea, in her crimson coat
Tricked out to please the wearied sun
The dandelion, whose golden share
Is set before the rustic's plough;
The hum of insects in the air;
The blooming bush; the withered bough;
The coming on of eve; the springs
Of daybreak, soft and silver bright;
The frost, that with rough, rugged wings
Blows down the cankered buds; the white,
Long drifts of winter snow; the heat
Of August falling still and wide;
Broad cornfields; one chance stalk of wheat,
Standing with bright head hung aside:
All things, my darling, all things seem
In some strange way to speak of thee;
Nothing is half so much a dream,
Nothing so much reality.




MY DARLINGS.                291
MY DARLINGS.
WHEN steps are hurrying homeward,
And night the world o'erspreads,
And I see at the open. windows
The shining of little heads,
I think ofyou, my darlings,
In your low and lonesome beds.
And when the latch is lifted,
And I hear the voices glad,
I feel my arms more empty,
My heart more widely sad;
For we measure dearth of blessings
By the blessings we have had.
But sometimes in sweet visions
My faith to sight expands,
And with my babes in his bosom,
My Lord before me stands,
And I feel on my head, bowed lowly
The touches of little hands.
Then pain is lost in patience,
And tears no longer flow:
They are only dead to the sorrow
And sin of life, I know;
For if they were not immortal
My love would make them s4




292             FOR THE LOST.
IN DESPAIR.
I KNOW not what the world may be, -
For since I have nor hopes nor fears,
All things seem strange and far to me,
As though I had sailed on some sad sea,
For years and years, and years and years!
Sailed through blind mists, you understand,
And leagues of bleak and bitter foam;
Seeing belts of rock and bars of sand,
But never a strip of flowery land,
And never the light of hearth or home.
All day and night, all night and day,
I sit in my darkened house alone;
Come thou, whose laughter sounds so gay,
Come hither, for charity come! and say
What flowers are faded, and what are blown.
Does the great, glad sun, as he used to, rise?
Or is it always a weary night?
A shadow has fallen across my eyes,
Come hither and tell me about the skies, —
Are there drops of rain? are there drops of light?
Keep not, dear heart, so far away,
With thy laughter light and laughter low,
But come to my darkened house, I pray,
And tell me what of the fields to-day, -
Or lilies, or snow? or lilies, or snow?




WAIT.                  293
Do the hulls of the ripe nuts hang apart?
Do the'leaves of the locust drop in the well?
Or is it the time for the buds to start?
O gay little heart, 0 little gay heart,
Come hither and tell, come hither and tell!
The day of my hope is cold and dead,
The sun is down and the light is gone;
Come hither thou of the roses red,
Of the gay, glad heart, and the golden head,
And tell of the dawn, of the dew and the dawn.
WAIT.
Go not far in the land of light!
A little while by the golden gate,
Lest that I lose you out of sight,
Wait, my darling, wait.
Forever now from your happy eyes
Life's scenic picture has passed away;
You have entered into realities,
And I am yet at the play!
Yet at the play of time - through all,
Thinking of you, and your high estate;
4 little while, and the curtain will fall —
Wait, my darling, wait!
Mine is a dreary part to do -
A mask of mirth on a mourning brow;




294            FOR THE LOST.
The chance approval, the flower or two,
Are nothing - nothing now!
The last sad act is drawing on;
A little while by the golden gate
Of the holy heaven to which you are gone,
Wait, my darling, wait.




RELIGIOUS POEMS.
THE GOLDEN MEAN.
LEST to evil ways I run
When I go abroad,
Shine about me, like the sun,
O my gracious Lord!
Make the clouds, with silver glowing,
Like a mist of lilies blowing
O'er the summer sward;
And mine eyes keep Thou from being
Ever satisfied with seeing,
O my light, my Lord!
Jest my thoughts on discontent
Should in sleep be fed,
Make the darkness like a tent
Round about my bed;
Sweet as honey to the taster,
Make my dreams be, 0 my Master,
Sweet as honey, ere it loses
Spice of meadow-blooms,
While the taster tastes the roses
In the golden combs.
Lest I live in lowly ease,
Or in lofty scorn,




296           RELIZGIOUS POEMS.
Make me like the strawberries
That run among the corn;
Grateful in the shadows keeping,
Of the broad leaves o'er me sweeping;
In the gold crop's stead, to render
Some small berries, red and tender,
Like the blushing morn.
Lest that pain to pain be placed -
Weary day to day,
Let me sit at good men's feasts
When the house is gay:
Let my heart beat up to measures
Of all comfortable pleasures,
Till the morning gray,
O'er the eastern hill-tops glancing,
Sets the woodlands all to dancing,
And scares night away.
Lest that I in vain pretense
Careless live and move,
Heart and mind, and soul and sense,
Quicken Thou with love!
Fold its music over, under,
Breath of flute and boom of thunder,
Nor make satisfied my hearing,
As I go on, nearing, nearing,
Him whose name is Love.




THE FIRE BY THE SEA.             297
THE FIRE BY THE SEA.
THERE were seven fishers, with nets in their hands,
And they walked and talked by the sea-side sands;
Yet sweet as the sweet dew-fall
The words they spake, though they spake so low,
Across the long, dim centuries flow,
And we know them, one and all —
Aye! know them and love them alr.
Seven sad men in the days of old,
And one was gentle, and one was bold,
And they walked with downward eyes;
The bold was Peter, the gentle was John,
And they all were sad, for the Lord was gone,
And they knew not if He would rise —
Knew not if the dead would rise.
The livelong night,'till the moon went out
In the drowning waters, theyibeat about;
Beat slow through the fog their way;
And the sails drooped down with wringing wet,
And no man drew but an empty net,
And now'twas the break of the day -
The great, glad break of the day.
"Cast in your nets on the other side! "
('Twas Jesus speaking across the tide;)
And they cast and were dragging hard;
But that disciple whom Jesus loved
Cried straightway out, for his heart was moved:
"It is our risen LordOur Master, and- our Lord!"




RELIGIO US POEMS.
Then Simon, girding his fisher's coat,
Went over the nets and out of the boatAye! first of them all was he;
Repenting sore the denial past,
He feared no longer his heart to cast
Like an anchor into the sea --
Down deep in the hungry sea.
And tlI others, through the mists so dim,
In a little ship came after him,
Dragging their net through the tide;
And when they had gotten close to the land
They saw a fire of coals on the sand,
And, with arms of love so wide,
Jesus, the crucified!'Tis long, and long, and long ago
Since the rosy lights began to flow
O'er the hills of Galilee;
And with eager eyes and lifted hands
The seven fishers saw on the sands
The fire of coals by the sea -
On the wet, wild sands by the sea.'Tis long ago, yet faith in our souls
Is kindled just by that fire of coals
That streamed o'er the mists of the sea;
Where Peter, girding his fisher's coat,
Went over the nets' and out of the boat,
To answer, " Lov'st thou me?"
Thrice over, " Lov'st thou me?"




THE SURE WITNESS.             299
THE SURE WITNESS.
THE solemn wood had spread
Shadows around my head;
"Curtains they are," I said,
"Hung dim and still about the house of prayer."
Softly among the limbs,
Turning the leaves of hymns,
I heard the winds, and asked if God were there.
No voice replied, but while I listening stood,
Sweet peace made holy hushes through the wood,
With ruddy, open hand,
I saw the wild rose stand
Beside the green gate of the summer hills;
And pulling at her dress,
I cried, "Sweet hermitess,
Hast thou beheld Him who the dew distills?"
No voice replied, but while I listening bent,
Her gracious beauty made my heart content.
The moon in splendor shone;
"She walketh heaven alone,
And seeth all things," to myself I mused;
"Hast thou beheld Him, then,
Who hides Himself from men
In that great power through nature interfused?"
No speech made answer, and no sign appeared,
But in the silence I was soothed and cheered.
Waking one time, strange awe
Thrilling my soul, I saw




3~0           RELIGIOUS POEMS.
A kingly splendor round about the night;
Such cunning work the hand
Of spinner never planned, -
The finest wool may not be washed so white.
" Hast thou come out of heaven? " I asked; and lo I
The snow was all the answer of the snow.
Then my heart said, " Give o'er;
Question no more, no more!
The wind, the snow-storm, the wild hermit flower,
The illuminated air,
The pleasure after prayer,
Proclaim the unoriginated Power!
The mystery that hides Him here and there,
Bears the sure witness He is everywhere."
ONE DUST.
THOU, under Satan's fierce control,
Shall Heaven its final rest bestow?
I know not, but I know a soul
That might have fallen as darkly low.
I judge thee not, what depths of ill
Soe'er thy feet have found, or trod;
I know a spirit and a will
As weak, but for the grace of God.
Shalt thou with full-day laborers'stand,
Who hardly canst have pruned one vine?
I know not, but I know a hand
With an infirmity like thine.




MY CREED.                 301
Shalt thou who hast with scoffers part,
E'er wear the crown the Christian wears?
I know not, but I know a heart
As flinty, but for tears and prayers.
Have mercy, 0 Thou Crucified!
For even while I name thy name,
I know a tongue that might have lied
Like Peter's, and am bowed with shame.
Fighters of good fights -just, unjust -
The weak who faint, the frail who fall -
Of one blood, of the self-same dust,
Thou, God of love, hast made them all.
MY CREED
I HOLD that Christian grace abounds
Where charity is seen; that when
We climb to heaven,'tis on the rounds
Of love to men.
I hold all else, named piety,
A selfish scheme, a vain pretense;
Where centre is not, can there be
Circumference?
This I moreover hold, and dare
Affirm where'er my rhyme may go:
Whatever things be sweet or fair,
Love makes them so.




302           RELIGIOUS POEMS.
Whether it be the lullabies
That charm to rest the nursling bird,
Or that sweet confidence of sighs
And blushes, made without a word.
Whether the dazzling and the flush
Of softly sumptous garden bowers,
Or by some cabin door, a bush
Of ragged flowers.'Tis not the wide phylactery,
Nor stubborn fast, nor stated prayers,
That make us saints; we judge the tree
By what it bears.
And when a man can live apart
From works, on theologic trust,
I know the blood about his heart
Is dry as dust.




LAST POEMS.
SPENT AND MISSPENT.
STAY yet a little longer in the sky,
0 golden color of the evening sun!
Let not the sweet day in its sweetness die,
While my day's work is only just begun.
Counting the happy chances strewn about
Thick as the leaves, and saying which was best,
The rosy lights of morning all went out,
And it was burning noon, and time to rest.
Then leaning low upon a piece of shade,
Fringed round with violets and pansies sweet,
My heart and I, I said, will be delayed,
And plan our work while cools the sultry heat.
Deep in the hills, and out of silence vast,
A waterfall played up his silver tune;
My plans lost purpose, fell to dreams at last,
And held me late into the afternoon.
But wher the idle pleasure ceased to please,
And I awoke, and not a plan was planned,
Just as a drowning man at what he sees
Catches Cor life, I caught the thing at hand.




304              LAST POEMS.
And so life's little work-day hour has all
Been spent and misspent doing what I could,
And in regrets and efforts to recall
The chance of having, being, what I would.
And so sometimes I cannot choose but cry,
Seeing my late-sown flowers are hardly set -
O darkening color of the evening sky,
Spare me the day a little longer yet I
LAST AND BEST.
SOMETIMES, when rude, cold shadows run
Across whatever light I see;
When all the work that I have done,
Or can do, seems butyanity
I strive, nor vainly strive, to get
Some little heart's-ease from the day
When all the weariness and fret
Shall vanish from my life away;
For I, with grandeur clothed upon,
Shall lie in state and take my rest,
And all my household, strangers grown,
Shall hold me for an honored guest.
But ere that day when all is set
In order, very still and grand,
And while my feet are lingering yet
Along this troubled border-land,




IN THE DARK.                305
What things will be the first to fade,
And down to utter darkness sink?'
The treasures that my hands have laid
Where moth and rust corrupt, I think.
And Love will be the last to wait
And light my gloom with gracious gleams;
For. Love lies nearer heaven's glad gate,
Than all imagination dreams.
Aye, when my soul its mask shall drop,
The twain to be no more at one,
Love, with its prayers, shall bear me up
Beyond the lark's wings, and the sun.
IN THE DARK.
HAS the Spring come oacK, my darling,
Has the long and soaking rain
Been moulded into the tender leaves
Of the gay and growing grain -
The leaves so sweet of barley and wheat
All moulded out of the rain?
0, and I would I could see them grow,
0, and I would I could see them blow,
All over field and plain -
The billows sweet of barley and wheat
All moulded out of the rain.
Are the flowers dressed out, my darling,
In their kerchiefs plain or bright -
20




306              LAST POEMS.
The groundwort gay, and the lady of May,
In her petticoat pink and white?
The fair little flowers, the rare little flowers,
Taking and making the light?
0, and I would I could see them all,
The little and low, the proud and tall,
In their kerchiefs brave and bright,
Stealing out of the morns and eves,
To braid embroidery round their leaves,
The gold and scarlet light.
Have the birds come back, my darling,
The birds from over the sea?
Are they cooing and courting together
In bush and bower and tree?
The mad little birds, the glad little birds,
The birds' from over the sea!
0, and I would I could hear them sing,
0, and I would I could see them swing
In the top of our garden tree!
The mad little birds, the glad little birds,
The birds from over the sea!
Are they building their nests, my darling,
In the stubble, brittle and brown?
Are they gathering threads, and silken shreds,
And wisps of wool and down,
With their silver throats and speckled coats,
And eyes so bright and so brown?
0, and I would I could see them make
And line their nests for love's sweet sake,
With shreds of wool and down,
With their eyes so bright and brown I




AN INVALID'S PLEA.            307
AN INVALID'S PLEA.
0 SUMMER! my beautiful, beautiful Summer!
I look in thy face, and I long so to live;
But ah! hast thou room for an idle new-comner,
With all things to take, and with nothing to give?
With all things to take of thy dear loving-kindness,
The wine of thy sunshine, the dew of thy air;
And with nothing to give but the deafness and blindness
Begot in the depths of an utter despair?
As if the gay harvester meant but to screen her,
The black spider sits in her low loom, and weaves:
A lesson of trust to the tender-eyed gleaner
That bears in her brown arms the gold of the
sheaves.
The blue-bird that trills her low lay in the bushes
Provokes from the robin a merrier glee;
The rose pays the sun for his kiss with her blushes,
And all things pay tithes to thee - all things but me
At even, the fire-flies trim with their glimmers
the wild, weedy skirts of the field and the wood;
At morning, those dear little yellow-winged swimmers
The butterflies, hasten to make their place good.
The violet, alway so white and so saintly;
The cardinal, warming the frost with her blaze;
The ant, keeping house at her sand-hearth so quaintly
Reproaches my idle and indolent ways.
When o'er the high east the red morning is breaking,
And driving the amber of starlight behind,




308              LAST POEMS.
The land of enchantment I leave, on awaking,
Is not so enchanted as that which I find.
And when the low west by the sunset is flattered,
And locust and katydid sing up their best,
Peace comes to my thoughts, that were used to be fluttered,
Like doves when an eagle's wing darkens their nest.
The green little grasshopper, weak as we deem her,
Chirps, day in and out, for the sweet right to live;
And canst thou, 0 Summer! make room for a dreamer,
With all things to take, and with nothing to give?
Room only to wrap her hot cheeks in thy shadows,
And all on thy daisy-fringed pillows to lie,
And dream of the gates of the glorious meadows,
Where never a rose of the roses shall die!
THE GREAT QUESTION.
" How are thqedead raised up, and with what body do they come?"
THE waves, they are wildly heaving,
And bearing me out from the shore,
And I know of the things I am leaving,
But not of the things before.
O Lord of Love, whom the shape of a dove
Came down and hovered o'er,
Descend to-night with heavenly light,
And show me the farther shore.
There is midnight darkness o'er me,
And'tis light, more light, I crave;




A PENITENT'S PLEA.            309
The billows behind and before me
Are gaping, each with a grave:
Descend to-night, 0 Lord of might,
Who died our souls to save;
Descend to-night, my Lord, my Light,
And walk with me on the wave!
My heart is heavy to breaking
Because of the mourners' sighs,
For they cannot see the awak'ning,
Nor the body with which we arise.
Thou, who for- sake of men didst break
The awful seal of the tomb
Show them the way into life, I pray,
And the body with which we come 1
Comfort their pain and pining
For the nearly wasted sands,
With the many mansions shining
In the house not made-with hands:
And help them by faith to see through death
To that brighter and better shore,
Where they never shall weep who are fallen asleep,
And never be sick any more.
A PENITENT'S PLEA.
LIKE a child that is lost
From its home in the night,
I grope through the darkness
And cry for the light;




310               LAST POEMS.
Yea, all that is in me
Cries out for the dayCome Jesus, my Master,
Illumine my way!
In the conflicts that pass'Twixt my soul and my God,
I walk as one walketh
A fire-path, unshod;
And in my despairing
Sit dumb by the way -
Come Jesus, my Master,
And heal me, I pray!
I know the fierce flames
Will not cease to uproll,
Till Thou rainest the dew
Of thy love on my soul;
And I know the dumb spirit
Will never depart,
Till Thou comest and makest
Thy house in my heart.
My thoughts lie within me
As waste as the sands;
O make them be musical
Strings in thy hands!
My sins, red as scarlet,
Wash white as a fleeceCome Jesus, my Master,
And give me thy peace I




PUTTING OFF THE  ARMOR.           311
PUTTING OFF THE ARMOR
WHY weep ye for the falling
Of the transient twilight gloom?
I am weary of the journey,
And have come in sight of home.
I can see a white procession
SWep melodiously along,
And I would not have your mourning
Drown the sweetness of their song.
The battle-strife is ended;
I have scaled the hindering wall,
And am putting off the armor
Of the soldier - that is all!
Would you hide me from my pleasures?
Would you hold me from my'rest?
From my serving and my waiting
I am called to be a guest!
Of its heavy, hurtful burdens
Now my spirit is released:
I am done with fasts and scourges,
And am bidden to the feast.
While you see the sun descending,
While you lose me in the night,
Lo, the heavenly morn is breaking,
And my soul is in the light.




312              LAST POEMS.
I from faith to sight am rising
While in deeps of doubt you sink;'Tis the glory that divides us,
Not the darkness, as you think.
Then lift up your drooping eyelids,
And take heart of better cheer;'Tis the cloud of coming spirits
Makes the shadows that ye fear.
O, they come to bear me upward
To the mansion of the sky,
And to change as I am changing
Is to live, and not to die;
Is to leave the pain, the sickness,
And the smiting of the rod,
And to dwell among the angels,
In the City of our God.




LATER POEMS BY PHCEBE CARY








BALLADS.
THE CHRISTMAS SHEAF.
X Now, good-wife, bring your precious hoard,"
The Norland farmer cried;
"' And heap the hearth, and heap the board,
For the blessed Christmas-tide.
as And bid the children fetch," he said,
" The last ripe sheaf of wheat,
And set it on the roof o'erhead,
That the birds may come'and eat.' And this we do for his dear sake,
The Master kind and good,
Who, of the loaves He blest and brake,
Fed all the multitude."
Then Fredrica, and Franz, and Paul,
When they heard their father's words.
Put up the sheaf, and one and all
Seemed merry as the birds.
Till suddenly the maiden sighed,
The boys were hushed in fear,
As, covering all her face, she cried,
" If Hansei were but here! "




3 }6?BALLADS.
And when, at dark, about the hearth
They gathered still and slow,
You heard no more the childish mirth
So loud an hour ago.
And on their tender cheeks the tears
Shone in the flickering light;
For they were four in other years
Who are but three to-night.
And tears are in the mother's tone;
As she speaks, she trembles, too:
"Come, children, come, for the supper's done,
And your father waits for you.''
Then Fredrica, and Franz, and Paul,
Stood each beside his chair;
The boys were comely lads, and tall,
The girl was good and fair.
The father's hand was raised to crave
A grace before the meat,
When the daughter spake; her words were brave
But her voice was low and sweet:
"Dear father, should we give the wheat
To all the birds of the air?
Shall we let the kite and the raven eat
Such choice and dainty fare?
"For if to-morrow from our store
We drive them not away,
The good little birds will get no more
Than the evil birds of prey."




THE CHRISTIAS SHEAF.            317
" Nay, nay, my child," he gravely said,
"You have spoken to your shame,
For the good, good Father overhead,
" Feeds all the birds the same.
" He hears the ravens when they cry,
He'keeps the fowls of the air;
And a single sparrow cannot lie
On the ground without his care."
"Yea, father, yea; and tell me this,"
Her words came fast and wild," Are not -a thousand sparrows less
To Him than a single child?
"Even though it sinned and strayed from home? "
The father groaned in pain
As she cried, "0, let our Hansei come
And live with us again!
" I know he did what was not right" -
Sadly he shook his head;
" If he knew I longed for him to-night,
He would not come," he said.
" He went from me in wrath and pride;
God! shield him tenderly!
For I hear the wild wind cry outside,
Like a soul in agony."
" Nay, it is a soul!" 0, eagerly
The maiden answered then;
" And, father, what if it should be he,
Come back to us again! "




318                 BALLADS.
She stops - the portal open flies;
Her fear is turned to joy:
" Hansei!" the startled father cries;
And the mother sobs, "My boy!"'Tis a bowed and humbled man they greet,
With loving lips and eyes,
Who fain would kneel at his father's feet,
But he softly bids him rise;
And he says; " I bless thee, 0 mine own;
Yea, and thou shalt be blest!"
While the happy mother holds her son
Like a baby on her breast.
Their house and love again to share
The Prodigal has come!
And now there will be no empty chair,
Nor empty heart in their home.
And they think, as they see their joy and pride
Safe back in the sheltering fold,
Of the child that was born at Christmas-tide
In Bethlehem of old.
And all the hours glide swift away
With loving, hopeful words,
Till the Christmas sheaf at break of day
Is alive with happy birds!
[NOTE. - In Norway the last sheaf from the harvest-field is
never threshed, but it is always reserved till Christmas Eve,
when it is set up on the roof as a feast for the hungry birds.]




LITTLE GOTTLIEB.             319
LITTLE GOTTLIEB.
A CHRISTMAS STORY.
ACROSS the German Ocean;
In a country far from our own,
Once, a poor little boy, named Gottlieb,
Lived with his mother alone.
They dwelt in the part of a village
Where the houses were poor and small,
But the home of little Gottlieb
Was the poorest one of all.
He was not large enough to work,
And his mother could do no more
(Though she scarcely laid her knitting down),
Than keep the wolf from the door.
She had to take their threadbare clothes,
And turn, and patch, and darn;
For never any women yet
Grew rich by knitting'yarn.
And oft at night, beside her chair,
Would Gottlieb sit, and plan
The wonderful things he would do for her,
When he grew to be a man.
One night she sat and knitted,
And Gottlieb sat and dreamed,
When a happy fancy all at once
Upon his vision beamed.




320               BALLADS.'Twas only a week till Christmas,
And Gottlieb knew that then
The Christ-child, who was born that day.
Sent down good gifts to men.
But he said, " He will never find us,
Our home is so mean and small.
And we, who have most need of them
Will get no gifts at all."
When all at once, a happy light
Came into his eyes so blue,
And lighted up his face with smiles,
As he thought what he could do.
Next day when the postman's letters
Came from all over the land;
Came one for the Christ-child, written
In a child's poor, trembling hand.
You may think he was sorely puzzled
What in the world to do;
So he went to the Burgomaster,
As the wisest man he knew.
And when they opened the letter,
They stood almost dismayed
That such a little child should dare
To ask the Lord for aid.
Then the Burgomaster stammered,
And scarce knew what to speak,
And hastily he brushed aside
A drop, like a tear, from his cheek.




LITTLE GOTTLIEB.             31
Then up he spoke right gruffly,
And turned himself about:
f' This must be a very foolish boy,
And a small one, too, no doubt."
But when six rosy children
That night about him pressed,
Poor, trusting little Gottlieb
Stood near him, with the rest.
And he heard his simple, touching prayer,
Through all their noisy play;
Though'he tried his very best to put
The thought of him away.
A wise and learned man was he,
Men called him good and just;
But his wisdom seemed like foolishness,
By that weak child's simple trust.
Now when the morn of Christmas came,
And the long, long week was done,
Poor Gottlieb, who scarce could sleep,
Rose up before the sun,
And hastened to his mother,
But he scarce might speak for fear,
When he saw her wondering look, and saw
The Burgomaster near.
He wasn't afraid of the Holy Babe,
Nor his mother, meek and mild;
But he felt as if so great a man
Had never been a child.
21




322               BALLADS.
Amazed the poor child looked, to find
The hearth was piled with wood,
And the table, never full before,
Was heaped with dainty food.
Then half to hide from himself the truth,
The Burgomaster said,
While the mother blessed him on her knees,
And Gottlieb shook for dread:
"Nay, give no thanks, my good dame,
To such as me for aid,
Be grateful to your little son,
And the Lord to whom he prayed! "
Then turning round to Gottlieb,
" Your written prayer, you see,
Came not to whom it was addressed,
It only came to me!
"'Twas but a foolish thing you did,
As you must understand;
For though the gifts are yours, you know,
You have them from my hand."
Then Gottlieb answered fearlessly,
Where he humbly stood apart,
"But the Christ-child sent them all the same,
He put the thought in your heart!"




RELIGIOUS POEMS.
CHRISTMAS.
THIS happy day, whose risen sun
Shall set not through eternity,
This holy day when Christ, the Lord,
Took on Him our humanity,
For little children everywhere
A joyous season still we make;
We bring our precious gifts to them,
Even for the dear child Jesus' sake.
The glory from the manger shed,
Wherein the lowly Saviour lay,
Shines as a halo round the head
Of every human child to-day.
And each unconscious infant sleeps
Entrusted to his guardian care;
Hears his dear name in cradle hymns,
And lisps it in its earliest prayer.
Thou blessed Babe of Bethlehem!
Whose life we love, whose name we laud;
Thou Brother, through whose poverty,
We have become the heirs of God;




324           RELIGZOUS POIEMS.
Thou sorrowful, yet sinless ManTempted in all things like as we,
Treading with tender, human feet,
The sharp, rough way of Calvary;
We do remember how, by Thee,
The sick were healed, the halting led;
How Thou didst take the little ones
And pour thy blessings on their head.
We know for what unworthy men
Thou once didst deign to toil and live;
What weak and sinful women Thou
Didst love, and pity, and forgive.
And, Lord, if to the sick and poor
We go with generous hearts to-day,
Or in forbidden places seek
For such as wander from the way;
And by our loving words or deeds
Make this a hallowed time to them;
Though we ourselves be found unmeet,
For sin, to touch thy garment's hem;
Wilt Thou not, for thy wondrous grace,
And for thy tender charity,
Accept the good we do to these,
As we had done it unto Thee?
And for the precious little ones,
Here from their native heaven astray.
Strong in their very helplessness,
To lead us in the better way;




PRODIGALS.                325
If we shall make thy natal day
A season of delight.to these,
A season always crowded full
Of sweet and pleasant memories;
Wilt Thou not grant us to forget
Awhile our weight of care and pain,
And in their joys, bring back their joy
Of early innocence again?
O holy Child, about whose bed
The virgin mother softly trod;
Dead once, yet living evermore,
O. Son of Mary, and of God!
If any act that we can do,
If any thought of ours is right,
If any prayer we lift to Thee,
May find acceptance in thy sight,
Hear us, and give to us, to-day,
In answer to our earnest cries,
Some portion of that sacred love,
That drew Thee to us from the skies I
PRODIGALS.
AGAIN, in the Book of Books, to-day
I read of that Prodigal, far away
In the centuries agone,
Who took the portion that to him fell,
And went from friends and home to dwell
In a distant land alone.




326           RELIGIOUS POEMS.
And when his riotous living was done,
And his course of foolish pleasure run,
And a fearful famine rose,
He fain would have fed with the very swine,
And no man gave him bread nor wine,
For his friends were changed to foes.
And I thought, when at last his state he knew
What a little thing he had to do,
To win again his place:
Only the madness of sin to learn,
To come to himself, repent, and turn,
And seek his Father's face.
Then I thought however vile we are,
Not one of us hath strayed so far
From the things that are good and pure,
But if to gain his home he tried
He would find the portal open wide,
And find his welcome sure.
My fellow-sinners, though. you dwell
In haunts where the feet take hold on hell,
Where the downward way is plain;
Think, who is waiting for you at home,
Repent, and come to yourself, and come
To your Father's house again!
Say, out of the depths of humility,
" I have lost the claim of a child on Thee,
I would serve Thee with the least!"
And He will a royal robe prepare,
He will call you son, and call you heir;
And seat you at the feast.




ST. BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX.            327
Yea,: fellow-sinner, rise to-day,
And run till He meets you on the way,
Till you hear the glad words said,"Letjoy hrough aZZll the heavens resound
For this, my son, who was lost is found,
And he lives who once was dead."
ST. BERNARD OF CLAIRVAJUX.
IN the shade of the cloister, long ago -
They are dead and buried for centuriesThe pious monks walked to and fro,
Talking of holy mysteries.
By a blameless life and penance hard,
Each brother there had proved his call;
But the one we name the St. Bernard
Was the sweetest soul among them all.
And oft as a silence on them fell,
He would pause, and listen, and whisper low,
" There is One who waits for me in my cell;
I hear Him calling, and I must go!"
No charm of human fellowship
His soul from its dearest love can bind;
With a "7 esu Dulcis " on his lip,
He leaves all else that is sweet behind.
The only hand that he longs to take,
Pierced, from the cross is reaching down;




328           RELRIGIO US POEIMS.
And the head he loves, for his dear sake
Was wounded once with a thorny crown.
Ah! men and brethren, He whose call
Drew that holy monk with a power divine,
Was the One who is calling for us all,
Was the Friend of sinners - yours and mine I
From the sleep of the cradle to the grave,
From the first low cry till the lip is dumb,
Ready to help us, and strong to save,
He is calling, and waiting till we come.
Lord! teach us always thy voice to know,
And to turn to Thee from the world beside,
Prepared when our time has come to go,
Whether at morn or eventide.
And to say when the heavens are rent in twain,
When suns are darkened, and stars shall flee,
Lo! Thou hast not called for us in vain,
And we shall not call in vain for Thee I
OLD PICTURES.
OLD pictures, faded long, to-hight
Come out revealed by memory's gleam;
And years of checkered dark and light
Vanish behind me like a dream.




OLD PICTURES.               329
I see the cottage, brown and low,
The rustic porch, the roof-tree's shade,
And all the place where long ago
A group of happy children played.
I see the brother, bravest, best,
The prompt to act, the bold to speak;
The baby, dear and honored guest!
The timid sister, shy and meek.
I see her loving face who oft
Watched, that their slumbers might be sweet;
And his whose dear hand made so soft
The path for all their tender feet.
I see, far off, the woods whose screen
Bounded the little world we knew;
And near, in fairy rings of green,
The grass that round the door-stones grew.
I watch at morn the oxen come,
And bow their meek necks to the yoke;
Or stand at noontide, patient, dumb,
In the great shadow of the oak.
The barn L, c. crowded mows of hay,
And roof upheld by golden sheaves;
Its rows of doves, at close of day,
Cooing together on the eaves.
I see, above the garden-beds,
The bee at work with laden wings;
The dandelions' yellow heads
Crowding about the orchard spring;




330           RELIGIO US POEMS.
The little, sweet-voiced, homely thrush;
The field-lark, with her speckled breast,
The finches in the currant-bush;
And where the blue-birds hid their nest.
I see the comely apple-trees,
In spring, a-blush with blossoms sweet;
Or, bending with the autumn breeze,
Shake down their ripe fruits at our feet.
I see, when hurtling through the air
The arrows of the winter fly,
And all the frozen earth lies bare,
A group about the hearth draw nigh,
Of little ones that never tire
Of stories told and told again;
I see the pictures in the fire,
The firelight pictures in the pane.
I almost feel the stir and buzz
Of day; the evening's holy calm;
Yea, all that made me what I was,
And helped to make me what I am.
Then lo! it dies, as died our youth;
And things so strange about me seem,
I know not what should be the truth,
Nor whether I would wake or dream.
I have not found to-day so vain,
Nor yesterday so fair and good,
That I would have my life again,
And live it over if I could.




THE PLA YMA TES.             33 t
Not every hope for me has proved
A house on weak foundation built;
I have not seen the feet I loved
Caught in the awful snares of guilt.
But when I see the paths so hard
Kept soft and smooth in days gone by;
The lives that years have made or marred,
Out of my loneliness I cry:
0, for the friends that made so bright
The days, alas! too soon to wane!
0, but to be one hour to-night
Set in their midst, a child again!
THE PLAYMATES.
Two careless, happy children,
Up when the east was red,
And never tired and never still
Till the sun had gone to bed;
Helping the winds in winter
To toss the snows about;
Gathering the early flowers,.When spring-time called them out;
Playing among the windrows
Where the mowers mowed the hay;
Finding the place where the skylark
Had hidden her nest away;
Treading the cool, damp furrows
Behind the shining plough;




332           RELIGIOUS POEMS.
Up in the barn with the swallows,
And sliding over the mow;
Pleased with the same old stories,
Heard a thousand times;
Believing all the wonders
Written in tales or rhymes;
Counting the hours in summer
When even a day seemed long
Counting the hours in winter
Till the time of leaves and song.
Thinking it took forever -
For little children to grow,
And that seventy years of a life-time
Never could come and go.
O, I know they -were happier children
Than the world again may see,
For one was my little playmate
And one, ah! one was me!
A sad-faced man and woman,
Leagues and leagues apart,
Doing their work as best they may
With weary hand and heart;
Shrinking from winter's tempests,
And summer's burning heat;
Thinking that skies were brighter
And flowers were once more sweet;
Wondering why the skylark
So early tries his wings;
And if green fields are hidden
Beyond the gate where he sings!
Feeling that time is slipping
Faster and faster away;




"TH E BAREFOOT BOY."            333
That a day is but as a moment,
And the years of life as a day;
Seeing the heights and places
Others have reached and won;
Sighing o'er things accomplished,
And things that are left undone;
And yet still trusting, somehow,
In his own good time to become
Again as little children,
In their Heavenly Father's home;
One crowding memories backward,
In the busy, restless mart,
One pondering on them ever,
And keeping them in her heart;
Going on by their separate pathways
To the same eternity -
And one of these is my playmate,
And one, alas i is me!
"THE BAREFOOT BOY."
AH! "Barefoot Boy! " you have led me back
O'er the waste of years profound,
To the still, sweet spots, which memory
Hath kept as haunted ground.
You have led me back to the western hills,
Where I played through the summer hours;
And called my little playmate up,
To stand among the flowers.




334         RELIGIOUS POEMS.
We are hand in hand in the fields again,
We are treading through the dew!
And not the poet's " barefoot boy,"
Nor him the artist drew,
Is half so brave and bold and good,
Though bright their colors glow,
As the darling playmate that I had
And lost, so long ago!
I touch the spring-time's tender grass,
I find the daisy buds;
I feel the shadows deep and cool,
In the heart. of the summer woods;
I see the ripened autumn nuts,
Like thick hail strew the earth;
I catch the fall of the winter snow,
And the glow of the cheerful hearth I
But alas! my playmate, loved and lost,
My heart is full of tears,
For the dead and buried hopes, that are more
Than our dead and buried years:
And I cannot see the poet's rhymes,
Nor the lines the artist drew,
But only the boy that held my hand,
And led'my feet through the dew!




LOVE POEMS.
AMY'S LOVE-LETTER.
TURNING some papers carelessly
That were hid away in a desk unused,
I came upon something yesterday
O'er which I pondered and mused:
A letter, faded now and dimn,
And stained in places, as if by tears
And yet I had hardly thought of him
Who traced its pages for years.
Though once the happy tears made dim
My eyes, and my blushing cheeks grew hot,
To have but a single word from him,
Fond or foolish, no- matter what.
If he ever quoted another's rhymes,
Poor in themselves and commonplace,
I said them over a thousand times,
As if he had lent them a grace.
The single color that pleased his taste
Was the only one I would have, or wear,
Even in the girdle about my waist
Or the ribbon that bound my hair.




336              LOVE POEMS.
Then my flowers were the self-same kind and hue,
And yet how strangely one forgets -
I cannot think which one of the two
It was, or roses or violets!
But 0, the visions I knew and nursed,
While I walked in a world unseen before!
For my world began when I knew him first,
And must end when he came no more.
We would have died for each other's sake,
Would have given all else in the world below;
And we said and thought that our hearts would break
When we parted; years ago.
How the pain as well as.the rapture seems
A shadowy thing I scarce recall,
Passed wholly out of my life and dreams,
As though it had never been at all.
And is this the end, and is here the grave
Of our steadfast love and our changeless faith
About which the poets sing and rave,
Naming it strong as death?
At least'tis what mine has come to at last,
Stript of all charm and all disguise;
And I wonder if, when he thinks of the past,
He thinks we were foolish or wise?
Well, I am content, so it matters not;
And, speaking about him, some one said -
I wish I could only remember whatBut he's either married or dead.




Do  YOU BLAME HER?             337
DO YOU BLAME HER?
NE'ER lover spake in tenderer words,
While mine were calm, unbroken;
Though I suffered all the pain I gave
In the No, so firmly spoken.
I marvel what he would think of me,
Who called it a cruel sentence,
If he knew I had almost learned to-day
What it is to feel repentance.
Fornit seems like a strange perversity,
And blind beyond excusing,
To lose the thing we could have kept,
And after, mourn the losing.
And this, the prize I might have won,
Was worth a queen's obtaining;
And one, if far beyond my reach,
I had sighed, perchance, for gaining.
And I know - ah I no one knows so well,
Though my heart is far from breaking -'Twas a loving heart, and an honest hand,
I might have had for the taking.
And yet, though never one beside
Has place in my thought above him,
I only like him when he is by,'Tis when he is gone I love him.
Sadly of absence poets sing,
And timid lovers fear it;
22




338              LOVE POEMS.
But an idol has been worshipped less
Somnetimes when we came too near it.
And for him my fancy throws to-day
A thousand graces o'er him;
For'he seems a god when he stands afar,
And I kneel in my thought before him.
But if he were here, and knelt to me
With a lover's fond persistence,
Would the halo brighten to my eyes
That crowns him now in the distance?
Could I change the words I have said, and say
Till one of us two shall perish,
Forsaking others, I take this man
Alone, to love and to cherish?
Alas! whatever beside to-day
I might dream like a fond romancer,
I know my heart so well that I know
I should give him the self-same answer.
SONG.
1.AUGH out, O stream, from your bed of green,
Where you lie in the sun's embrace;
And talk to the reeds that o'er you lean
To touch your dimpled face;
But let your talk be sweet as it will,
And your laughter be as gay,




SOMEBOD Y'S LO VERS.           339
You cannot laugh as I laugh in my heart,
For my lover will come to-day!
Sing sweet, little bird, sing out to your mate
That hides in the leafy grove;
Sing clear and tell him for him you wait,
And tell him of all your love;
But though you sing till you shake the buds
And the tender leaves of May,
My spirit thrills with a sweeter song,
For my lover must come to-day!
Come up, O winds, come up from the south
With eager hurrying feet,
And kiss your red rose on her mouth
In the bower where she blushes sweet;
But you cannot kiss your darling flower,
Though you clasp her as you may,
As I kiss in my thought the lover dear
I shall hold in my arms to-day!
SOMEBODY'S LOVERS.
Too meek by half was he who came
A-wooing me one morn,
For he thought so little of himself
I learned to share his scorn.
At night I had a suitor, vain
As the vainest in the land;
Almost he seemed to condescend
In the offer of his hand.




340              LOVE POEMS.
In one who pressed his suit I missed
Courage and manly pride;
And how could I think of such a one
As a leader and a guide?
And then there came a worshipper
With such undoubting trust,
That when he knelt he seemed not worth
Upraising from the dust.
The next was never in the wrong,
Was not too smooth nor rough;
So faultless and so good was he,
That that was fault enough.
But one, the last of all who came,
I know not how to paint;
No angel do I seem to him -
He scarcely calls me saint!
HIe hath such sins and weaknesses
As mortal man befall;
He hath a thousand faults, and yet
I love him with them all!
He never asked me yea nor nay,
Nor knelt to me one hour;
But he took my heart, and holds my heart
With a lover's tender power.
And I bow, as needs I must, and say,
In proud humility,
Love's might is right, and I yield at last
To manhood's royalty!




LAST POEMS.
NOBODY'S CHILD.
ONLY a newsboy, under the light
Of the lamp-post plying his trade in vain:
Men are too busy to stop to-night,
Hurrying home through the sleet and rain.
Never since dark a paper sold;
Where shall he sleep, or how be fed?
He thinks as he shivers there in the cold,
While happy children are safe abed.
Is it strange if he turns about
With angry words, then comes to blows,
When his little neighbor, just sold out,
Tossing his pennies, past him goes?
"Stop! "   some one looks at him, sweet and mild,
And the voice that speaks is a tender one:
"You should not strike such a little child,
And you should not use such words, my son 1"
Is it his anger or his fears
That have hushed his voice and stopped his arm?
"Don't tremble," these are the words he hears;
"Do you think that I would do you harm?"




342              LAST POEMS.
"It isn't that," and the hand drops down;
"I wouldn't care for kicks and blows;
But nobody ever called me son,
Because I'm nobody's child, I s'pose."
O men! as ye careless pass along,
Remember the love that has care A for you;
And blush for the awful shame anct wrong
Of a world where such a thing could be true I
Think what the child at your knee had been
If thus on life's lonely billows tossed;
And who shall bear the weight of the sin,
If one of these "little ones " be lost I
JOHN G. WHITTIER.
GREAT master of the poet's art!
Surely the sources of thy powers
Lie in thaf true and tender heart
Whose every utterance touches ours.
For, better than thy words, that glow
With sunset dyes or noontide heat,
That count the treasures of the snow,
Or paint the blossoms at our feet,
Are those that teach the sorrowing how
To lay aside their fear and doubt,
And in submissive love to bow
To love that passeth finding out.




THOU AK'O WEST.              343
And thou for such hast come to be
In every home an honored guest -
Even from the cities by the sea
To the broad prairies of the West.
Thy lays have cheered the humble home
Where men who prayed for freedom knelt;
And women, in their anguish dumb,
Have heard thee utter what they felt.
And thou hast battled for the right
With many a brave and trenchant word.
And shown us how the pen may fight
A mightier battle than the sword.
And therefore men in coming years
Shall chant thy praises loud and long;
And women name thee through their tears
A poet greater than his song.
But not thy strains, with courage rife,
Nor holiest hymns, shall rank above
The rhythmic beauty of thy life,
Itself a canticle of love!
THOU KNOWEST
LORD, with what body do they come
Who in corruption here are sown,
When, with humiliation done,
They wear the likeness of thine own?




344              LAST POEMS.
Lord, of what manner didst Thou make
The fruits upon life's healing tree?
Where flows that water we may take
And thirst not through eternity?
Where lie the beds of lilies prest
By virgins whiter than their snow?
What can we liken to the rest
Thy well-beloved yet shall know?
And where no moon shall shine by night,
No sun shall rise and take his place,
How shall we look upon the light,
O, Lamb of God, that lights thy face?
How shall we speak our joy that day
We stand upon the peaceful shore,
Where blest inhabitants shall say,
Lo! we are sick and sad no more?
What anthems shall they raise to Thee,
The host upon the other side?
What will our depths of rapture be
When heart and soul are satisfied?
How will life seem when fear, nor dread,
Nor mortal weakness chains our powers;
When sin is crushed, and death is dead,
And all eternity is ours?
When, with our lover and our Spouse,
We shall as angels be.above,
And plight no troths and breathe no vows,
How shall we tell and prove our love?




LIGHT.                  345
How can we take in faith thy hand,
And walk the way that we must tread?
How can we trust and understand
That Christ will raise us from the dead?
We cannot see nor know to-day,
For He hath made us of the dust;
We can but wait his time, and say,
Even though He slay me, will I trust!
Swift to the dead we hasten now,
And know not even the way we go;
Yet quick and dead are thine, and Thou -
Thou knowest all we do not know!
LIGHT.
WHILE I hid mine eyes, I feared;
The heavens in wrath seemed bowed;
I look, and the sun with a smile breaks forth,
And a rainbow spans the cloud.
I thought the winter was here,
That the earth was cold and bare,
But I feel the coming of birds and flowers,
And the spring-time in the air.
I said that all the lips
I ever had kissed were dumb;
That my dearest ones were dead and gone,
And never a friend would come.




346               LAST POE.,M1S.
But I hear a voice as sweet
As the fall of summer showers;
And the grave that yawned at my very feet
Is filled to the top with flowers!
As if'twere the midnight hour,
I sat with gloom opprest;
When a light was breaking out of the east,
And shining unto the west.
I heard' the angels call
Across from the beautiful shore;
And I saw a look in my darling's eyes,
That never was there before.
Transfigured, lost to me,
She had slipped from my embrace;
Now lo! I hold her fast once more,
With the light of God on her face!
WAITING THE CHANGE.
I HAVE no moan to make,
No bitter tears to shed;
No heart, that for rebellious grief,
Will not be comforted.
There is'no friend of mine
Laid in the -:a, th to sleep;
No grave, or grr e or Leaped afresh,
By which I 4a':cl arid weep.




WAITING IHE  CHANGE.            347
Though some, whose presence once
Sweet comfort round me shed,
Here in the body walk no more
The way that I must tread,
Not they, but what they wore
XVent to the house of fear;
They were the incorruptible,
They left corruption here.
The veil of flesh that hid
Is softly drawn aside;
More clearly I behold them now
Than those who never died.
Who died! what means that word
Of men so much abhorred?
Caught up in clouds of heaven to be
Forever with the Lord!
To give this body, racked
With mortal ills and cares,
For one as glorious and as fair,
As our Redeemer wears;
To leave our shame and sin,
Our hunger and disgrace;
To come unto ourselves, to turn
And find our Father's face;
To run, to leap, to walk,
To quit our beds of pain,
And live where the inhabitants
Are never sick again;




348              LAST POEMS.
To sit no longer dumb,
Nor halt, nor blind; to rise -
To praise the Healer with our tongue,
And see Him with our eyes;
To leave cold winter snows,
And burning summer heats,
And walk in soft, white, tender light,
About the golden streets.
Thank God! for all my loved,
That out of pain and care,
Have safely reached the heavenly heights,
And stay to meet me there!
Not these I mourn; I know
Their joy by faith sublime -
But for myself, that still below
Must wait my appointed time.
THOU AND I.
STRANGE, strange for thee and me,
Sadly afar;
Thou safe beyond, above,
I'neath the star;
Thou where flowers deathless spring,
I where they fade;
Thou in God's paradise,
I'mid time's shade!




THOU AND I.                349
Thou where each gale breathe's balm,
I tempest-tossed;
Thou where true joy is found,
I where'tis lost;
Thou counting ages thine,
I not the morrow;
Thou learning more of bliss,
I more of sorrow.
Thou in eternal peace,
I'mid earth's strife;
Thou where care hath no name,
I where'tis life;
Thou without need of hope,
I where'tis vain;
Thou with wings dropping light,
I with time's chain.
Strange, strange for thee and me
Loved, loving ever;
Thou by Life's deathless fount,
I near Death's river;
Thou winning Wisdom's love,
I strength to trust;
Thou'mid the seraphim,
I in the dust I




350              LAST POEMS.
SPRING FLOWERS.1'
O SWEET and charitable friend,
Your gift of fragrant bloom
Has brought the spring-time and the woods,
To cheer my lonesome room.
It rests my weary, aching eyes,
And soothes my heart and brain;
To see the tender green of the leaves,
And the blossoms wet with rain.
I know not which I love the most,
Nor which the comeliest shows,
The timid, bashful violet,
Or the royal-hearted rose:
The pansy in her purple dress,
The pink with cheek of red,
Or the faint, fair heliotrope, who hangs,
Like a bashful maid, her head.
For I love and prize you one and all,
From the least low bloom of spring
To the lily fair, whose clothes outshine
The raiment of a king.
And when my soul considers these,
The sweet, the grand, the gay,
I marvel how we shall be clothed
With fairer robes than they;
1 The last poem written by Phcebe Cary.




SPRING FLOWERS.              351
And almost long to sleep, and rise
And gain that fadeless shore,
And put immortal splendor on,
And live, to die no more.