YALE UNIVERSITY
LIBRARY Gift of
Charles N, Baxter

LETTEES

OF

ELIZABETH CABOT

Vol. I.

BOSTON
PEIVATELT PRINTED
1905

PREFACE.
Mother wrote easily and early trained herself to
this form of expression, with the result that she left
in her letters a most illuminating picture of herself
and of her friends. These letters are now the prop
erty of many different persons, and our wish to pre
serve them for ourselves and for our children has
led us to undertake this work, not without the hope
that it may also mean much to those who knew her
well enough to fill the gaps with understanding and
appreciation. The number of letters placed at our disposal was
so large that much selection, with its resulting dis
tortion, has been necessary, but we have sought to
preserve what was of most value, to avoid repetition,
and to illustrate the most characteristic phases of a
full and varied life. We have not felt equal to the
task either of explanation or comment, and have
allowed her letters to sketch her character in their
own simple way.
Though for various reasons the letters have been
divided into four chapters. Mother's life falls very
naturally into three periods.
Her girlhood and early life at Park St. were
passed in the midst of a large family whose intimacies
were close and among whom expression was easy.
How important this freedom of expression was may
be judged from her letters to her sister Ellen.

After her marriage and the death of her sister, she
began to feel the inarticulate side of the Cabot family,
among whom expression was never easy, and who
often said least when they felt most. It is therefore
hardly surprising that the repression thus produced
should at times have been hard to bear, and during
this period her old freedom of expression hardly appears
except in her letters to Mrs. Walter Cabot.
The illness and death of her son Edward, though
bringing with it much keen suffering and demanding
of her courage of a high type, served to bring her into
close contact with Ms friends, and we see again the
intimacy and freedom that had long been lacking.
To these years belong one memory, — perhaps the
most precious of all to us, — that picture of her figure
and Father's as they went off for their daily walk in
the woods or (at Saranac) for their morning row on
the lake or settled down to read aloud together in the
evening, utterly contented and happy.
Did it not transgress our desire to keep these letters
as free as possible from our own comments and inter
pretations, allusion might be made to her absorbing
interest in the public affairs of Brookline, but this,
along with other important matters, we prefer to leave
to be made clear in part by the letters themselves and
for the rest by the sympathetic understanding of her
intimate friends, by whom alone these letters can be
read with just appreciation.
Boston, May, 1905.

CHAPTER I.

EARLT LETTERS, 1844-1852.

To Miss Lizzie Eliot.
Chicopbe, 1844. (Age 14.)
... It seems very different at Chicopee from
what it did at Lynn, and I miss the bracing air and
the sea-bathing very much, but each are very pleasant
of their kind. It was very pleasant to me to see your
house, and the very spot which you have so often
described, and I cannot wonder that you enjoy your
summer life so very much. Nahant is a very pleasant
place, and your house one of the prettiest on the
island, and with all your friends around, it would be
strange indeed if you were not happy, for I can hardly
conceive of a pleasanter life than yours. But I find
myself very happy here in this quiet place, and I
think, Lizzie, that one may be happy almost anywhere
if they have plenty to do, and are willing to do it.
Charlie Norton and Edmund started on Tuesday for
a horseback journey on the Connecticut and will not
be back till the last of this week, so that we four girls
shall be here for some time, at liberty to do what we
please. Ellen has at last succeeded in making father
get a saddle horse, but the only one which he can
make up his mind to let her ride is one that is so

2
stupid and so lazy that he must be whipped all the
time and when you get him agoing, his gaits are very
hard ; however, she likes him better than none, and I
daresay she will ride him a great deal. Do write me
again by mother if you can, and then I will write a
longer and less stupid answer, if possible. And now,
dear Lizzie, I must bid you good-bye and believe me
ever your loving cousin.

Lizzie D.

To Miss Lizzie Eliot.

Chicopee Falls, Aug. 25, 1844.
Dear Lizzie, — ¦ As Mary starts to-morrow for Cam
bridge and Nahant, I think I shall not have a better
opportunity of answering your letter, and I hope that
this will not be quite so stupid as the last epistle I
sent you, which I cannot believe you were enabled to
read through, for it must have required great strength
of body and mind. I feel quite ashamed when I
think of your prompt reply, to think that I have
delayed so long. But ours has been rather a hurried
correspondence. Don't you think so ? Mother had a
delightful visit at Cambridge, and enjoyed her day at
Nahant very much, as any one would. I suppose you
are having as pleasant a time as ever there, and I
must say I half envy you. I have been very busy
this last week in waiting on Ellen, who is laid up
with a lame foot. She turned it under her and
sprained it, and she has kept it up on the sofa for the
last ten days, which she finds very tedious work,
especially up here, where there is so little variety. I
have also knit two purses, one of which is for the

Salem fair, and I have almost finished my shawl, so
you see I have not had much time for writing letters
or any other such literary employments. There is
going to be a fair at Cabotville next week to pay off
the debt of a little Unitarian church, and we are all
going to work as fast as possible for that, which is
much more in need of help than the Salem fair, I
suppose, for such things as we can make for that will
be of very little account. We received a letter, day
before yesterday, from Aunt Nancy Storrow saying
that she will be with us on Tuesday and stay a
fortnight, which is very nice, as Mary and Sophia
are going away to-morrow, and Ned has been gone a
week, and mother will really need some companion, to
say nothing of Ellen and I, who always like to have
visitors, especially when we love them as well as we
do Aunt N. She will help us, too, to make things for
the fair, for she is a great contriver, you know. You
do not know what a difference it makes to me to
have Ned gone ; I am with him so much, when he is
at home, and he is always so good and kind and so
ready to sympathize in little troubles or pleasures,
that I always feel as if there was a great gap some
where when he is gone, and I feel so happy now he
is coming home to live, and I shall see so much more
of him. Excuse this little sisterly rhapsody, dear
Lizzie, but if you want me to write to you, I must
tell what I think and feel, else what is the use of
writing letters? So I hope you will not think me
egotistical because I write you about myself. When
Charlie grows up, I dare say you wUl feel just as I
do, and then or even now, if you like it, I shall be

glad to hear any remarks you may have to make on
the subject. I have learned a great deal of Words
worth's poetry this summer, and have delighted in it.
He has written some most lovely things, and I find
when I am sitting in my room and sewing I can learn
it perfectly well and it is a very agreeable employ
ment. I am learning " Laodamia." Did you ever
read it ? It is beautiful. I have read Thierry's " His
tory of the Merovingians " this summer in French.
It is a most interesting history, and very easy to read.
There really are scarcely any words to look out. I
am reading now Aiken's " Court of Queen Elizabeth,"
which is not quite so interesting, and I do not get
along very fast. I have heard " Coningsby " read
aloud, and like it as much as you all do, but I don't
think I ever could have read it to myself it is so brim
full and running over with politics, which is rather a
dry subject to me, I must say. I have not read either
of the other novels you speak of, and I don't think I
want to, for I do not think the titles are particularly
attractive, though I have not looked inside of either.
I have read the " Log Cabin " and I agree with you
about the hero, and I do not think I should relish
much such a bridal as Ellen's. I should have pre
ferred to have such arrangements deferred awhile.
Don't you agree? It has been rather a disappoint
ment to me not to be able to go to Commencement, but
I try to console myself with the idea that it might be
long and tedious, and that probably I should get very
tired before it was over. We were all very sorry to
hear that Katy was so sick, and I hope by this time
she has quite recovered. Anna wrote that she was

better and able to sit up, which was truly delightful
news. Dear Lizzie, for the future, do not let us
make any excuses about our writing. We both know
it is bad enough, and what is the use of talking about
it ? Give my love to your mother, and Mary and the
little ones, and keep a great deal for you yourself
from your loving cousin, Lizzie.
P.S. Try to struggle through this.
To Miss Lizzie Eliot.
Ltnn, Tuesday Evening, 1844.
. . . We have been reading "Katarine Ashton,"
Miss Sewell's new book, which is perfectly delightful in
every respect, except one, and that is that all other
reading seems flat, stale, and unprofitable after it. If
it doesn't come home to your business and bosom just
as it did to mine I am mistaken. Also Dickens'
" Hard Times " has been harrowing us up badly, and
that I Uke very much. It seems to me to rank among
his best writings, and is very vivid and powerful and
without the air of exaggeration that his last books
have. If you have been having a discussion on Sal
vation with Harriet Gray I have been up to you by
reading Mr. Beecher's " Conflict of Ages." I should
like to know what Harriet Gray thinks of that. He
results, my dear, in the conviction that we are devils
who existed in another world, and are put here on
trial to give us another chance. I think you would
like to read the book, and I have a horrid fear that
you would agree with it.

6

To Miss Lizzie Eliot. 1 Park Stkbet, 1844.
. . . Your birthday, my dearest Lizzie, must not pass
without some word from me to tell you how truly I
count it among the best days in the year, and how de
lightful it is to me to be sure that now the added
years will only bring us added love and confidence,
and seal with our women's hearts the friendship that
helped to make our childhood happy.
Mary has lent me all your pleasant associations
with her to beautify as much as possible the gold pen
which we send you. I hope you will use it very
often in our behalf, and let it be a sign to you that
distance is not to involve separation between us.
There must be an end to these expressions of aver
sion, though I could say a great deal more of the
same, if you didn't know how warmly and truly I am
ever yours. Lizzie D.

To Mrs. Edmund Dwight. Staten Island,* 1846.
My Dear Mother, — You may think it very strange
that, as my doctor has gone away for a fortnight, I
should not come home, and I think it very strange
and nonsensical. The doctor came to see me Satur
day and announced that he was going away to be
gone perhaps a week, and perhaps a fortnight. I said
that I should go home ; whereupon he asked me
* She wa3 there to receive treatment for her eyes.

whether I shouldn't prefer to stay here. I said that I
was perfectly contented in either place. He asked
whether I did not want to stay by Mrs. Mills. I told
him no, that I was of no use here and was not partic
ularly desirous of stajdng. Then he asked whether
the sea air was not the most agreeable to me. I
said that it was a little the most, but that it made but
Httle difference. He then said that it was best for
me to stay here the principal part of the time, but
that he wanted me to stay part of the time in the
country or on the seashore about here, but to keep
moving about. I asked what he meant by keeping
moving about, whether he would like to have me
spend a week at Cambridge, and a week at Brookline,
and then go up and spend Sunday at Chicopee.
Whereupon he gave a ghastly grin and said that
would suit his ideas exactly. Now tliis strikes me as
all gammon, but Anna says I must mind.
Now I must stop, and I hope you wUl think I have
done right and am ever your most dutiful and affec
tionate daughter, Lizzie.

[Extracts from Journal.'] Boston, Oct. 25, 1846.
. . . Yesterday dear Peabody * preached two lovely
sermons — one on conscience and one on disinterest
edness. I had better mind out and be a good girl all
the week, for it is more help than any one deserves to
hear him preach all day. My Ellen is away and I
• Rev. Ephraim Peabody, of King's Chapel.

8
miss her and want her most tremendously, especially
as she came in yesterday and said that Tilley was as
cross as seventy bears. Poor Miss Benjamin has had
an attack of bleeding at the lungs, and she will die.
Heaven is more of a home to her than earth I suppose,
and it is fast becoming so to all of us I think.

New Tore, May 20, 1847.
. . . Here I am in New York again after being in my
blessed home for more than a year, which I hope I am
as grateful for as I ought to be ; and I do most ear
nestly desire to recall to mind and endeavor to realize
how much I have gained in this past year in bodily
health and, consequently, in my power of enjoyment,
and yet the purpose for which I spent so long a time
here, thirteen months ago, seems to have failed pretty
thoroughly, for at this blessed moment, as I write, it
seems to me that my eyes feel about as wretchedly as
I ever knew them to, but I do desire to be patient and
submit cheerfully to this trial, and thank God for
sending me and judging me capable of bearing and
profiting by so heavy a dispensation, for it certainly
is that. I am here now with my dear sister Anna,
who is far from well and is here under Dr.  's
care, who, I hope, will help her through. Since my
own experience of the ineificiency of doctors in most
cases, I do not feel very sanguine as to her recovery,
but, however this maybe, it is certainly right to avail
ourselves of every possible means of benefit. I am
here now as Anna's only companion, and I am most
earnestly desirous of doing all that is in my power to

9
help and assist her, for she certainly needs both. We
have a very quiet and uninterrupted time here, and
there is no particular enjoyment in it except the hope
that I may be useful to Anna, which, of course, is the
greatest that I could have. I have been here only
two days and cannot yet tell how much I can do for
her, but if earnest prayers and efforts on my part can
enable me to help her I believe that I shall succeed,
for that I certainly can and shall give, and if I have
in me that capacity to do for her what she needs, it
will come out now.
Sarah Cleveland left us yesterday and we miss her
very much to-day. She is richer in endowments and
in attainments than almost any one I ever saw. In
fact, I should not except any one except my dear and
blessed mother, and her powers were so constrained,
both in their development and their exercise, by the
circumstances of her lot, that she is hardly to be com
pared with Sarah, whose outward lot, in most respects,
is as complete as the beautiful character that she has
built to adorn it.

Chicopee, Sunday, Sept. 2, 1847.
. . . This morning after breakfast we all went out
on the walk, and I walked up and down once or twice
and then came in and looked over the "Illustrated
News," which contained a most elaborate account of
the queen's visit to Ireland. To church at 10.15,
where Mr. M  preached a medium sermon to which
I found it extremely difficult to attend. When we
came home I laid down on the bed, and Mary and

10
Anna being assembled we had a grand discussion,
beginning with Charlie Guild, enlarging into the
difficulty of keeping conversation within proper bounds
of charity and politeness, making it agreeable and
sufficiently lively. Gradually we touched upon Anna's
present social position as the head of a large grown
up family, and winding up with Wordsworth on
" Personal Talk." After dinner read a little in
Southey's " Common Place Book," and then upstairs
to read the lessons for the day, some of Jeremiah and
the Acts, Thomas a Kempis, on bearing the daily
cross, and Fosters Life. Then a most delightful book
by Pugin on " Christian Architecture," which appears
to contain the foundation of all Ruskin's ideas, though
condensed into sixty pages. Mr. Chase came up to
see Charles and was handsome and gentlemanly as
usual. Friday, Sept. 7, 1847.
... I have had a very pleasant and peaceful day,
no squabbles either with Sophia or Ellen, and a very
agreeable variety of occupations. I get along delight
fully when I have no temptations, for I have not had
any to-day, but I am weak and wicked at the slightest
provocation. I think so often of my dearest mother
and the trials of sickness and sorrow which came to
her every day, and how meekly and beautifully she
bore them, not broken down by them mentally,
although her body finally gave way, but by these very
trials lifted above the earth and brought into harmony
of soul with her Maker. Oh ! how miserably unlike
her I am.

11

Saturdat, Sept. 8, 1847.
... A beautiful, bright autumn morning, just the
one, as we immediately perceived, for Ellen to lide up
to the hill to take her sketch ; so we scrambled down to
breakfast, with all imaginable speed, and ordered the
wagon, and the minute breakfast was done got into it
and I drove her up to the place she had fixed upon, and
left her and Charlie, two shawls, and a cricket, to take
care of themselves, while I went to take Mrs. Thomp
son. I reached home before nine o'clock, and left the
wagon to go down in the village to get some flannel.
Then home again and took the wagon and went after
Mrs. T  and took her up onto the plains and round
about for an hour, then carried her home, and went
after Ellen and arrived there just as she was beginning
to wonder why I didn't come. She had made a
delightful sketch, and got into the wagon with bags
and bundles, and we got safe home at half -past ten.
Luncheon, Italian, Smyth, and Moss mat filled the
time till dinner. After dinner I dressed myself, and
then sat down to work on the shirt till five ; then a most
delightful ride on horseback through Old Chicopee.
Home before seven. Tea, and then over to Mrs. Car
ter's after Aunt Dwight, who went over there to tea.
What can be wished for pleasanter than this ? A
beloved and delightful sister for a companion, a
freedom to do whatever I will for myself and other
people, a place associated with my dearest mother to
live in, and this beautiful country aU around me.
Truly my cup overfloweth with these manifold mercies,
and fain would I lead a life which shall be pleasing
in the sight of the bountiful Giver of all this good.

12 Sunday, Sept. 9, 1847.
. . . This morning walked to church with Sophia ;
heard Mr. George Channing read a lecture on St. Paul.
After dinner read the lessons for the day and Thomas
a K., then read " Foster " till the sun set. This is a
most interesting book, filled with thoughts and ideas
tinged with his peculiarities, and some very original
in themselves. It is a book which arouses one's am
bition to have some more ideas in their own head
than I generally or ever have. I must stop writing
for I ought to go downstairs, though this is a most
imperfect picture of what has been a very pleasant
day. One thing I will register, for my future
encouragement, that I really am getting much more
ease in converaation, both in keeping up a respectable
flow, and in expressing my own ideas, in a tolerably
fluent manner, with much more comfort to myself,
and I hope with more clearness to the comprehension
of others. Not that I can talk in any but a most
ordinary manner, but I can take the part which polite
ness requires, in the family talk, without such great
discomfort to myself as formerly.

Wednesday, Sept. 12, 1847.
. . . Mrs. P. evidently does not like my singing,
the consequence is that I had rather be boxed than sing
before her, which is silly, for I ought not to mind her
if any of the girls want to hear me. So many people
have seemed to like to hear it, that I am afraid I am
getting rather spoilt and expect to be praised by
ever}' one. But I desire to remember what I really

13
believe to be perfectly true, that singing must always
be chiefly a family matter and that it is unreasonable
to expect a stranger to be pleased at what they are
so much unaccustomed to. Each person, too, probably
has some voice in their memory which they consider
perfect, and as it is very unlikely that yours resembles
it at all, it is also unlikely that yours will be agree
able. Therefore let me remember that though so far
I have been very fortunate in pleasing people, I must
not expect to please at all universally, but be content
and grateful that my dear sisters are among the likers
instead of the disKkers. Tuesday, Oct. 2, 1847.
. . . These are among our last days here, I fear, and
I begin to feel very sober, not to say sad. Oh, it is
very hard to leave such a dear home, to break the many
bonds of most tender associations which hold us here,
to consign to strangers a place hallowed by the
departed, to leave the scene of so many childish sports
and mature pleasures, to leave this place so sheltered
from that incessant social weariness which a city life
or a country place near the city necessitates. But it
is no use sentimentalizing, for so I believe is our duty,
and that settles it. Sunday, Oct. 7, 1847.
. . . After dinner I read a quantity of Aunt Peggie's
letters to mother, written when they were both young,
and Aunt Peggy living with her grandmother in
Newbury. They are extremely interesting, but from
the account they contain of their mode of life, and

14
from the delightful idea they give of their characters,
and of the affection they bore each other. Aunt P.
seems to have been the same cheerful and hopeful
person that she is still, but with more willingness to
see things in their true light, and to admit sometimes
an imperfection in her life, and these things combined
with the gaiety and energy of youth give you an
impression of a most attractive person. From the
hints that you get of mother she seems to have been
a most sensitive and timid girl, with almost a morbid
conscientiousness and self-distrust, and spirits rather
low. I could not but think what added reverence her
children would probably feel for her if they could but
know the natural tendencies of her character, and then
trace the change which her exalted Christianity had
made upon whatever was wrong, just as this depression
was changed into an almost uniform Christian cheer
fulness, and self-distrust turned into a proper self-
reliance. Boston, Friday, March 30, 5 p.m., 1849.
[Referring to her father who died the next day.]
. . . His death is an event which I can hardly
look in the face, leaving us as it would orphans. To
have no home of my own, to go to live with Mary or
Anna would be to me grievous beyond what words
can describe, and yet his life hangs by such a thread
that it becomes necessary to think somewhat of the
future, and yet, too, it is almost presumptuous to trust
to any human foresight in any degree after the warn
ing we have had. Whatever comes, may He who
sends the event send also the strength to bear it, and

15
so help us that we may faithfully learn the lesson He
would teach. Everybody is very kind, but earthly
comfort is but small at such a time.

Chicopee, Sunday, June 10, 1849.
. . . After dinner read J. Taylor " On the Use of
Time," "On Purity of Intentions," and "On the
Presence of God." He does write rather more to the
purpose than anybody else. I went to church again
this afternoon and heard Mr. Miles again. Rather
made good resolutions than listened to the sermon,
but, of course, broke them all the moment  began
to strut and waddle out of the pew ; couldn't speak
a word to her tiU we were almost home, in short, felt
like a perfect sinner about a person who, as Sam says,
is really as much to be pitied as if she had been born
with one leg. All is, try again.
Chicopee, Sunday, July 8, 1849.
. . . This morning was downstairs first, and look
ing out the window thought how sweet it looked and
how beautiful the morning was, the grass green and
the river brown and the sun throwing such lovely
lights and shades that it seemed a kind of paradise
to me. Anna came down and I said, " How lovely it
is," but she looked as if she did not think so at all
and said, "It was so damp." She never can enjoy
this place as Ellen and I do, and it is unreasonable in
me to think that she will, and still more so to be
vexed when she speaks her mind no more freely than
I do mine.

16
Dressed for church, but no carriage came and we
were obliged to take our things off and stay at home,
an annoyance which I did not meet with that " even
ness and tranquillity " which I pray for every day, but
I am afraid do not enough desire or try for, as cer
tainly I do not possess it in the smallest degree.
Read the psalms and the appointed chapters, accord
ing to the church service, and, say what they will, it
certainly adds much interest and, if one were alone,
gives a delightful feeling of sympathy and compan
ionship to know that thousands of people are this day
listening to the same words and saying the same
prayers, and that there is comfort and help in them
for all who seek it. Read also a sermon of Paley's
on " keeping alive a sense of sin." A stirring sermon
and so short that there is some hope of remembering
it. I am sure he makes me out a most intense sinner,
and if I could only remember how entirely I agree with
him now, perhaps I should not feel so much at liberty
to think of other peoples' failings. Learnt two
hymns and the song of the Virgin Mary, all of which,
Miss Eliz., please to remember till to-morrow.

Chicopee, Tuesday, July 10, 1849.
. . . Yesterday and to-day have been two of the
most quiet days that I have ever passed even here,
and the fact is we are more quiet here than ever
before, for no matter where we were there has always
been a certain excitement in the restraint under which
we have always been, and a constant thought and
interest about father. Now all that is passed forever,

17
and we are here secluded from aU exterior action and
perfectly free to go and come, speak or be silent, as in
clination prompts, no barriers and no guides but our
own consciences. And pleasant as freedom is, there
is, in entire independence, a kind of loneliness, and an
oppressive sense of one's own responsibility for eveiy-
thing said or done.
This morning practised with Anna an hour our new
duets, and then talked with her an hour on matrimony,
Sophia, Ellen, and Mr. Parsons. If ever I have a
chance to be married, which appears to me at present
highly improbable, except because all women do, I
hope I shall remember and act upon my present
opinion as well as I can; and that is that every
woman had better be married, for that, although it
may not be happiest at first, it is in the end, and that
not one woman in a hundred can bear to live a single
life. I do wish from my heart that  could be
married soon, for she is singularly ill-qualified for an
"old maid." Chicopee, Sunday, July 22, 1849.
. . . One of the loveKest days that ever shone, a per
fect summer day, warm but not hot, bright but not
glaring, windows and doors open, and the sweet air com
ing in everywhere. Really one of the days. Mary and
Charles came up last night, so that our numbers are
quite respectable. Charles sunny as usual, and Mary
uncommonly well and happy for her. This morning
after breakfast sat and talked a good while, then read
Job, and then to church where the worthy Nightin
gale preached well, as usual. Home at twelve ; read

18
the " Inquirer," and talked to Sophia some, then dressed
and down to dinner, where I stumbled through an
account of the editorial, but was not quite so clumsy
as usual, I believe. After dinner had considerable
sympathy of soul with Mary about the " Excursion,"
and was really pleased to find somebody who liked it
as well as I did. Then upstairs to my own peaceful
room to read the lessons for the day, learn a hymn
and a collect, and read the beloved Jeremiah. If I
could only remember the half I read I should be a
wise woman, but my memory is much like a sieve.
Last Saturday night, that is a week ago, Charles'
mother came up with him, and from that time till
yesterday noon has abided here. I in the meantime
have been making most unnatural efforts to make
myself and her visit agreeable, especially by convers
ing continually, which certainly is a most unpleasant
employment. Mrs. M  is a regular curiosity and
a very amusing one to observe. Not wanting in
talent, perhaps having more than the ordinary share,
very proud, naturally worldly-minded, but having
gone through too much of real and sad experience to
be offensively so, very observant of circumstances and
facts about all sorts of people, but not discriminating
in their characters, not affectionate in either feeling
or manners, and not particularly contented with the
lot assigned her in her old age, and continually look
ing back upon the past not so much to learn its lessons
but to regret its pleasures. . . .
Hear that Ellen is very much admired at Sharon
and feel very desirous that she should come home,
and rather anxious as to the ultimate good effects of

19
such a fortnight ; only hope that she will not think
that disapprobation impHes and includes dislike, as
she is apt to. How strange it seems that she cannot
believe sufficiently in my love to be willing that I
should sometimes tell her of her faults ! I am so weak
as to think that I wish I might be admired, too, some
times, but I am not that kind I believe and probably
I ought to be glad, for undoubtedly it brings much
temptation and excitement with the pleasure. Some
times, too, I feel a fooHsh desire to compare myself
and make myself out as attractive as she is, which I
am not and never shall be. But I am very worldly
and sinful, and may God who seest and knowest me
altogether help to overcome my frailties and make
myself pleasing in His sight. Never in my life,
except from Schroeder, have I had anything like
admiration, and when NeU gets home let me be
patient and mindful that I do not know what tempta
tions she has had.

Chicopee, Tuesday, Aug. 29, 1849.
... I have been able to-day to accomplish all that
I planned and more besides, which is quite satisfac
tory. I do not, however, at all succeed in keeping
before me a constant sense of the presence of God
and his knowledge of every thought and action, which
is the only thing that could make me take that heed
to my ways which wUl make them what they should
be, good in the sight of God and man. To be a
truly religious person I suppose one ought never to
lose their sense of responsibility for a moment.

20
Anna seems pretty well to-day, and Ellen is entirely
revived by her letter from Ellen C  • Oh, how I
wish I could have some one of my own age and
standing to love as they two love each other, but I
think it is a blessing not allotted to me.
Chicopee, Saturday, Sept. 1, 1849.
. . . Cloudy and cool this morning. After breakfast
cut out a night-cap, and then had quite a squabble with
Sophia, in which, though I insisted upon doing what
she wished, I did not surrender my own wishes
without letting her see that it was highly unpleasant
to me ; therefore, I was not really amiable or obliging,
but though I kept the apparent right on my side, I
was probably feeling much more wrongly than she
did. Therefore, unless you can readily give up your
own wishes generously, and without suffering them
to appear of any comparative importance, you must
not expect to have the credit of being amiable,
because you really are not so. We settled it up
finally, and kissed and separated. I read Jeremiah,
T. a Kempis on " Gratitude," a virtue which just now
I have most uncommon opportunity to cultivate.
Then I made a sponge cake, beginning with Sophia
and finishing with Anna, and then baking it, v\jhich
took me till one o'clock.

Chicopee, Sunday, April 13, 1851.
. . . Came up here last Tuesday to make a month's
visit to Sophia, met J  G  in the cars, who
seated himself by me and stuck fast all the way evi-

21
dently in a state of great admiration and fascination.
Read violently aU the way, and talked to him as little
as possible to make sure that he should understand that
his company was superfluous. Arrived in Springfield
expecting to find Mr. Wells there, but he was not, and
I was left to be waited upon by J  who eradicated
my baggage and drove me to the verge of frenzy by
begging to be allowed to go out to Chicopee with me,
which I could not let him do. Before it came to that,
Mr. Wells came and I was rescued as I thought from
my torments, but before he departed J  stepped up
and requested a private interview in the morning. It
was all over now ; there was nothing to be done but
let him come, and if I had been told that I was to have
all my front teeth pulled out in the morning I should
not have felt worse. I was in a perfect agony about it,
and don't think I ever felt greater mental torture than
till he had come and gone the next morning. I was
horribly afraid that my manners to him, which I had
niade perfectly friendly because I saw no occasion for
anything else, had misled him so much that he thought
he was perfectly safe in offering himself. One thing
I was spared fortunately, and that was the slightest
doubt as to the possibility of manying him, for that
was by good fortune entirely spared me. I perceived
that I did not care for him in the slightest possible
degree. He never gave me a new idea or a new sen
sation, and never attracted me to himself the least by
his attentions, although the attentions themselves
certainly were not disagreeable. I don't know why
it is that he never did and does not now move me in
the least.

22
He offered himself to me in the same coarse, loud
voice that he usually speaks in, with no sentiment
either in his words or looks. I could not pity
him much, for though he said it was the most bitter
disappointment he ever met with in his life he did not
seem to feel it, he did not try in the least to persuade
me, which he certainly would have done if he had felt
very deeply about it, but he appeared to give it up at
once and without much of a pang either. He evi
dently didn't want to waste any words about it. He
said he thought it best to settle it before it became
town-talk, and that seemed to me really honorable and
gentlemanly, as he preferred the mortification of a
refusal upright and downright to dawdling round
until I kicked him out of the way, which seems gen
erally considered the agreeable system, only I don't
think he feels enough about it to be very deeply
troubled by a refusal. It appears to me that he thought
me a good investment and worth trying for, but either
he doesn't know in the least how to express his feel
ings, or else his heart is not very active, or he was not
in love with me. Time wiU prove whether I do him
injustice or not. He evidently thought he should get
over it without much trouble, and I think so, too. It
is strange to me that I can have gone through all this
and cared so little about it. I don't want to see him
again in the least, and only hope he wastes as little
sentiment on me as I do on him.

23
Chicopee, Sunday, April 20, 1861.
. . . The only outward event this week has been a
visit from Ellen on her way from New York, which I
enjoyed extremely. She had been on to see Ellen
Coolidge and explain to her the state of the Twistleton
affair, and had had a perfectly satisfactory time. I
don't see what in this world is more lovely than the
affection of two such girls for each other, perfectly
pure and perfectly disinterested, and yet a feeling
strong and deep and true and giving to both great
happiness. Nell and I talked long and deep over the
future for us both. Her state of mind is one which I
never expected to see. I consider her truly in love.
And it is certainly a beautiful condition in its effect
on her. She says life is so wonderfully cleared up
before her ; instead of looking like a tangled skein it
seems a clear pathway to be trod in faith and hope
and peace, not without its trials, but with all trials
explained and made bearable by this foundation of
happiness. She respects and she admires Mr. Twistle
ton, and Heaven sends this added feeling, which makes
her so beautifully happy and yet so tranquil in her
happiness, that she is wonderful to behold. It is a
perfectly new phase of feeling to me, and one which I
should always have been incredulous about if it had
not been brought so close to me that I cannot dis
believe it.
I wonder, too, at myself for writing and thinking of
this that brings with it so much painful change and
separation for me with such calmness. At first I was
so stunned with the suddenness of the thing that I
was bewildered completely and was miserable beyond

24
all cause and reason. But now Providence mercifully
arranges that I think more of her than of myself, and
when the time comes that I am forced to think of
myself I am strong in the conviction that, as the man
said, " The Lord will fix so as I can stand it somehow."
Besides I believe that I have got so far in self-control
that what my conscience and reason really approve
does not make me unhappy. If it may only finish as
it has begun, there seems no cause for anything but
thankfulness, but I tremble sometimes to think of the
time and the distance and the immeasurable uncertain
ties that separate the hope and its fulfilment. She
does behave so well, so reasonably, and so simply that
T can't help loving her better than ever and admiring
her more. It is terribly hard sometimes to think that
we whose past has been so closely bound together
must pass our future with such distance between us,
and I feel so painfully incompetent to come up to my
ideal of the place which I am left to fill that I feel as
if I would much rather never have been placed in it.
I don't know what I shall be or what I shall do, and
it is perfectly impossible for me to estimate the loss
of my daily and hourly companion and my most inti
mate friend. Only one thing I have faith in — that if
I faithfully try to do my duty, I shall not go very far
from the path of what is most desirable or happiest.
I am very anxious to watch the end of this. We
have thought and talked so much about it that I am
very desirous to see how much the reality wUl resem
ble our imaginations and expectations. We are wait
ing now for his answer to her answer, and I really
think I am more impatient than she is.

\

' •<+> .". ?/

^T-(  >!^

: h

,,|,V<'r y (^

*!i —

25
Oh, if we could only have our mother to go to,
what an infinite satisfaction it would be. Truly the
more time passes the more I long to see her, to have
her back again, as far as I myself am concerned,
though I am daily thankful to think of her in Heaven
freed from all the anxieties and trouble.
EUen and Charles came on in the cars with J  •
G  , who was devoted to Ellen all the way. We
talked considerable, G  as well as Twistleton, and
Ellen made my blood run cold by saying that if J 
persevered she should not be surprised if in future
ages I married him. I think this will be deferred till
another world, where, as Dr. Parkman says, "we shall
all be greatly changed." It don't seem to me possible
that that is written for me in the books of Fate. Also
Ellen gave me a sage warning to look out for F.
Minot, who she thinks is perhaps preparing for an
attack. I have thought so for some time off and on,
though usuaUy mostly off until just before I came
away. Nous verrons. Since I have had one offer I
find two changes in my sensations.

Thursday, Jan. 8, 1852.
. . . Six months and more since I wrote in this
journal before. Oh, it makes me dizzy to think of
aU that has come and gone since then. But it is no
use now going over it, for it is written in a journal
more private and more lasting than any other, and
there must stay indelibly fixed to teU its story of the
past, and to influence aU future months and days.
. . . Ah, dear me ! how much of disappointment and

26
trial and effort each day brings, how much unsuc
cessful endeavor, how many broken resolutions, how
many causes for self-reproach. Must we go on thus
through life, ever struggling and ever failing, faint
hearted at the past and yet bound to be brave for
the future ? Thank God for the hope of his forgive
ness even in the midst of our own deepest self-con
demnation. . . .
This evening a charming letter from Ned which
refreshed me to my heart. I have written so many
letters that I began to long for some response, or per
haps if I spoke more truthfully I should say some
reward. This longing for reward and approbation
shows me how often I act from two motives, for
otherwise I should not have this sense of disappoint
ment. " Give, hoping for nothing again." It does
not say expecting nothing again or requiring noth
ing ; we may not even hope for anything. I do not
often expect, nor often require, but I do hope, and
this just lowers the motive sufficiently to produce
disappointment when there is no result in proportion
to the effort made. " Because right is right." This
is the only safe platform, especially for one so influ
enced by the opinions of others and so desirous of
their approbation as I am.

May 19, 1852.
. . . My beloved's wedding-day. Ellen and Edward
Twistleton. God bless and keep them now and forever. . . .
Spite of all it takes away, this is the queen of all

27
days in my life. And here beginneth my life anew,
and I start singly on my way.
O God, AU-Holy and All-Merciful, wUt Thou look
down on Thy weak and suffering child and give me
the strength for all that Thou requirest at my hands.
Help me to do the thing that pleaseth Thee, help me
to be patient, humble, forbearing, help me to that
perfect submission which sayeth " not my will but
Thine be done." May I take up my cross and bear
it straight onward with courage and with hope, unfal
tering, uncomplaining, though the way seem barren
and desolate. Let me not look for the peace of men,
not even for their love, but grant me the peace of a
steady purpose to serve and praise Thee.
O God I bless Thee for Thy manifold gifts of
this day and aU past time, for the riches of that
perfect affection which has been the centre of my
fife, for the happiness of my heart's darling, for her
beautiful and Christian character, for the love that
has bound us to each other, and for that other love
which parts us, O God I thank Thee from my heart.
In mercy keep and bless us aU. Help us in our
need, strengthen us in weakness, and above all for
give us for Christ's sake. Amen.

Moss Hill,* June 8, 1852.
. . . This morning went to town with Ellen and
worked and shopped from ten tiU two unremittingly.
This afternoon, sewing, dressing, putting in order,
* A place in Jamaica Plain hired in summer by Mrs. Parkman and
Mrs. Wells.

28
talking, and the day's results what? One shoe-bag,
several small purchases, and a most unsatisfied heart.
Still I have tried to do my duty. I have not done
other people much mischief, even if I have done them
little good, and should the day be given back to me,
I do not know how I should use it differently.
Therefore why do I not feel happier and more con
tent ? What do I want ? I believe my mistake is in
getting impatient over the means when the end to be
attained thereby is really important, and if kept in
sight would make me contented. If making shoe-
bags and ransacking Washington St. is the way I
can best help Ellen, and if helping her is a worthy
and sufficient object, then I ought not to feel that
the day is unsatisfactory because the apparent result
is so small. If the end is right one should not weary
of the means. ... I believe I am very weary, too,
with incessant mental questionings. The future is
full of uncertainties and problems to me, and dark
with doubt and self-distrust. Hitherto my own life
has been wholly secondary to Ellen's in my own
eyes. To promote her comfort and assist in carrying
out her plans, and minister in every possible way to
her, has been my occupation and my chief interest.
Now we are to be absolutely separated, and I must
make unto myself some consistent, wise, practicable
plan of life. No one can take EUen's place to me,
and I do not desire it. That place is sacred to her in
heart and life. I have loved her ever since I can
remember, and as I have never loved anj one else.
Firat, by a sort of instinct long before I knew what I
loved and before she loved me, and since then with

29
aU my woman's heart from sympathy, admiration, and
approbation. I have loved her with an all-absorbing
affection. I have not loved anybody else much.
She has been my dearest friend, my constant helper,
and my bright and beautiful example. Her happi
ness has made mine, her unhappiness my greatest
misery. She has loved me and been patient with
me when no one else would or could, and I have
loved her and stUl do and believe I ever shall with an
undying, unfaltering, untiring affection. But we
must each work out our own salvation, and I don't
know what would have become of my own individu-
aUty if we had lived together much longer. For
though I did not know it at the time, I can see that
it was fast sinking into mere EUenness. . . .

CHAPTER II.

FROM HER SISTER ELLEN'S MARRIAGE TO HER
OWN, 1852 TO 1857.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Newport, Aug. 8, 1852.
. . . Your apologies are entirely unnecessary both
for the delay and the bad writing. It is only a week
since we heard before and that is no more than we
bargained for. As for the writing, if you wrote with
a pair of tongs in the dark, it would be difficult for
you to write so badly that I couldn't read it with ease
and pleasure. I am afraid I am getting into that
very bad state of living from one of your letters to
another, not of course from any exaggerated feeUng
about you, but merely because, from the information
they contain about " foreign parts," they assist me in
the cultivation of my mind. I am very much disap
pointed about Banbury. Are you sure that there
were no rings on your fingers or bells on your toes
when you arrived there ? I shall be very careful that
the children of the present generation are not brought
up with these false expectations, and then they will
escape such bitter disappointments. I shall say,
" Ride no cock-horse to Banbury Cross, etc., with
30

31
no rings on her fingers, no beUs on her toes, she can
never have music wherever she goes."
Mary sees a great many dreadful tendencies in
NeUie, Harry, Sue, and herself, and I have no doubt
in me, but I am afraid she wUl see bad tendencies in
the angeUc host when she gets to Heaven, and she is
now so accustomed to making them out and distinctly
defining them in herself and friends that it does not
seriously affect her happiness. Don't let me give the
impression that she is not amiable and pleasant, for
she is very, and very sweet and kind and loving to
me, but then you know she must be a " Gummidge "
through ever)rthing. Henry Bigelow is a most curious
specimen of "Selfishness made attractive" by tact
and talent. He is so handsome and well mannered
and bright that Mary herself is involuntarily won upon
by him, and Sam giggles at his pleasant ways and
enjoys him nearly as much as if he was all he should
be. This is a curious life, my friend, and not the less
so as you advance. I do not think I can write you
many more letters unless you will just tell me if you
are very tired of me, for it seems to me you must be.
I am very tired of myself.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Newport, Sunday Afternoon, Aug. 15, 1852.
My blessed and beloved, — The famUy having all
gone off to church except Aunt C  and Uncle
N  , the latter of whom is roaming slowly up and
down stairs in a short caUco dressing gown, with occa-

32
sional groans to diversify the way, and the former
having gone to rest in her own room, I am left with
a prospect of two uninterrupted hours to write to you.
I scarcely think I have missed you more since you
have been gone than during the five days I have spent
here. This room seems to me written all over with
you, and it has seemed once or twice as if I could not
live another moment without seeing you. But then
I did live and shall live and it is no sort of use teasing
you with my sensations, if you will only remember
that I love you just as much all the time as if I could
be blest with seeing your sweet dear face.
I have been having very much such a sort of time
as we had here last year as far as company goes. In
cessant visitors and bowling parties, receptions and
driving in the intervals. I cannot admire the style of
living, as it seems to me giving a great deal of time
to a superficial social intercourse, from which it is
impossible to get much worth having ; but I find it
amusing for a while, and as I am bent particularly to
accustom myself to deal easily and comfortably with
all sorts of people, I do not grudge ten days.
There is no one here who occupies exactly Fred
Burns' place, but they are all at present engaged in
deifying a Capt. Baird Smith of India, an officer in
the English Army, who is here. He is a person of
some talent and a great deal of knowledge of the
world. He stands high among his compeers, I believe,
and has written a book on Italian irrigation which is
considered very good. But they are aU so excessively
famiUar and flattering in their manners to him, and
are so constantly allowing him to plunge down into

33
the depths of aU their right and true feeUngs, and
their moral, mental, and spiritual condition generally,
that his head is slighty turned, and I believe he
thinks it the style of manners which American ladies
prefer, but not finding me amenable, he has named
me his " fair enemy," and as he appears to be uncom
monly willing to talk to his enemy, we have a variety
of skirmishes. Lizzie Eliot is clearly convinced that
we shaU aU be portrayed in a book. I wish you
would ask Mr. T. if he knows anything about him,
for I, not having enough right feeling, cannot make
him out the angelic and wondrous being that the
N  s adore.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Nahant, Sunday Afternoon, Sept. 5, 1852.
My dearest and lest, — It seems strange enough to
me to write the autumn date at the top of the page,
and to think that this summer that I dreaded so much
to meet has passed, has brought its message, and left
its mark, and belongs now among things finished.
The days have often seemed to go by wearily enough,
but it is little to look back upon, for the sense of
weariness is not carried forward much, I think, or
need not be, if we are wiUing to cast it behind us. I
do not know, however, why I should sit here, and
moralize for your edification, when you are so much
better able to do it for yourself, but I must not leave
you with the idea that I bring a weary feeling prin-
cipaUy from the summer, for it is not true ; it has
been every way easier and happier than I hoped for,

34
and what hard work there has been wiU, I doubt not,
bring its result in stronger hands and a stronger heart,
for the future, if nothing more. Therefore " let us
anew our journey pursue." ... It is very wicked, but
very true, that it is pleasant to be with somebody who
loves you more than their opinion of your moral char
acter would strictly justify.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Newport, Sept. 26, 1852.
M  is very morbid, I think, about you, and there
is nothing better for her than a little direct intercourse
to make her feel that the case is not a desperate one
after aU. She chooses to erect it into one of the bitter
griefs of her Ufe, that you should be taken away from
here, another of the things in which the Lord has
singled her out for an especial privation, and, taking
that view of it, consistency, to a certain degree, re
quires that to make it the calamity which she feels it
to be, she should make it as much of a separation as
possible, by not writing to you, and when she does
write, expressing as little as possible of what she reaUy
feels. Of course, this is an exaggerated statement,
but it will serve to give you an idea, and you will see
that when your letter came, it forced upon her the
fact that there was stUl a vital connection between
you, though she likes to live as though there was not.
Please do not think, darUng, that I mean to speak or
that I do feel harshly about her, but I do study over
her a great deal now, and she pours over me some-

35
times such waves of sorrowful, desolate feeling that
to keep myself from being swept away by them, I
have to find the wrong that there would be in me
(though there is not, perhaps, in her) in letting such
emotions gain a force which I might not be able to
control. It seems to me that there is a sort of despair
in giving up more of a blessing than we are called
upon to resign, that it is not the true submission which
brings peace with it, and there, I think, is her mis
take, for which she has to pay the penalty in these
heartaches.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Newport, Oct. 9, 1852.
... I should think one might pass six months de-
lightfuUy in Paris, and bring away a great stock of
agreeable reminiscences. We are so intensely moral
here aU the time. There is no escape from it. We
are moral over the breakfast table and moral the last
thing at night, and moral all the hours between, we
moralize in society and at home, and I confess to an
unsatisfied longing, occasionally, for a little of the
harmless and graceful superficiality of the French.
These, however, are the natural sensations of a girl
brought up in the most moral of cities, and belonging
to the most moral family in that city, and I have no
doubt that if I tried the superficial system a whUe, I
should seek refuge from a still deeper discontent in
moraUty. An awful fear comes over me sometimes that your
standard of poetry will come to agree with Edward's

36
severe taste, and perhaps you will not enjoy the things
that you used to, and that I, in my comparative Egyp
tian darkness, shall continue to. All I have to ask is
that just previous to fleeing away on the wings of
classic lore you will give me notice, that while I follow
you with a wondering and admiring gaze, I may
remember that you are not to be expected to prome
nade with me on this lower earth when you can soar
to empyrean heights.
What do you think of my style of writing as adapted
to the superintendence of a country newspaper ?
Mrs. C  seems to me to have buUt up another
wall of ceremony and aristocratic feeling, in addition
to the one that already separated her from her feUow-
creatures. I wish you could have heard her sit here
for half an hour Saturday and congeal one subject
after another, with her graceful sentences and musical
voice, and wind up with a tirade on the devoted city
of Boston, where she had been passing two days " at
the mercy of upholsterers and servants." " That she
never knew a place where so much labor brought so
Uttle fruit ; that the fact was Boston was a thoroughly
bourgeois city ; that the few educated and wealthy
persons who formed the highest rank there were com
pletely overrun by a rich bourgeois to whose tastes
and wishes all the shops and aU the servants were
adapted," and so forth, and so forth, and so forth, you
can add the rest. I wanted to say " Lord deliver us
from the aristocracy if this is the way they talk, "
but of course did not say any such thing. But, oh,
the barrenness of Ufe to a person Uke her. I would
infinitelv rather be without her cultivation and ele-

37
gance than take with them her incapacity to enjoy
simpUcity and honest purpose, bourgeois or not bour
geois.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
St. Johnsbury, Vt., Oct. 15, 1852.*
. . . Edmund enjoins upon me the painful duty of
writing to you this morning, my dearest, inasmuch as
he always thinks it doubtful if I shall ever stop when
I am once started on my letter to you, and thinks it
more Ukely that he shaU have a little of my delightful
conversation towards evening if I begin immediately
after breakfast. You see we are still nearly as much
scoffed at as when Edmund requested us not to be so
"wrapped, or rapped, or rawped up in each other"
several years ago, and he will insist upon it that I am
a great deal more interesting since I have " begun to
unwrap," as he expresses it. It is difficult for me to
feel that I am much unwrapped, but I am wiUing he
should abide in that decision. Did I think of you
five hundred and forty times yesterday or not, my
darling? It was your birthday, and as we rode
along " EUen " appeared to me written in perfectly
legible characters on every tree and every hill, and
wherever anything looked pretty or attractive. I can
not feel that it is pleasant that we should not pass the
14th of October and the 13th of February together,
bodily, though I do not think land and water avail to
separate us much mentally, at least I am sure I think
of you constantly, and believe that you think of me
a great deal oftener than I deserve. Dearest, do you
* During a week's riding journey with her brother.

38
appreciate that among the countless blessings that I
have to be thankful for I place you as first and best,
and only hope I am thankful enough for you ? Please
immediately now to give my best love to Edward, and
tell him I am perfectly wiUing he should have you
and more than wUling, very glad and constantly con
gratulate myself on that very fact and assure myself
that he, in himseK, makes up for its being England
instead of America. Please translate that into gram
mar and English before you deliver it to him. You
have my general idea and wiU interpret it properly I
hope, and not abuse my confidence in you.
It is just a week to-day since we started from home,
and seven days of such deUcious sights and sen
sations I certainly never passed. I have always
thought riding on horseback one of the first joys of
life, but I never appreciated it fully before. We have
ridden 126 miles in five days, leaving Keene Monday
noon and arriving here yesterday noon. Two days
we have ridden thirty miles, and the other three from
twenty to twenty-five,- and every day I have grown
stronger and pleasanter and handsomer and more
agreeable until I am now, probably, "one of the
most fascinating creatures you ever beheld."
Our days pass with sufficient regularity to keep us
from feeling dissipated, we get up early and go to bed
early, eat a great deal, sleep very sound and lead, in fact,
quite an animal existence, but have no doubt that our
minds are rapidly advancing in wisdom and goodness,
though they give us very Uttle trouble. One of our
amusements is keeping a journal in which we write
alternate evenings, and in which we depict ourselves,

39
each other, and the scenery in a lively or stupid man
ner, according to our own feelings and the person
whose turn it is to write. Of course you can judge,
though it might not be delicate in me to state, who
writes best, and who spells best. Edmund does spell
most magnificently. If you are very good, and treat
us very pleasantly and send us both magnificent pres
ents in the course of the winter, and express a very
humble and contrite and fervent desire to see it, we
think a little of sending it over to you, in the manu
script, as we probably shall not print before the ensuing
autumn. [Extract from .Journal describing one day of the riding journey
referred to in the last letter.^
Plainfield, Vt., Monday Evening, Oct. 17, 1852.
. . . This morning we with difficulty tore ourselves
away from the St. Johnsbury house, but Edmund being
satisfied that he shouldn't see the handsome woman
again, bore up better than I expected. I had a touch
ing and sentimental interview with the chambermaid,
who appeared in her morning bloomer, but showed a
feeling heart in spite of the strength of her mind, and
the extreme obviousness of her legs. There was a
very heavy mist, but the day promised to be fine, and
we were on our horses by eight o'clock, and saw the
fog clear in the most exhilarating manner, and watched
the yellow trees with the sun shining on them, gleam
ing through it, Uke golden ghosts and looking very
lovely and very wonderful. As we were riding due
west I gratified all Edmund's finest feelings, first, by
remarking that I thought I was getting to know the

40
points of the compass, and then pronouncing with
careful accuracy that I thought we were facing south
east. Having thus firmly asserted my womanhood,
we both felt perfectly satisfied and happy, and for the
next hour or so conversed freely on some American
heroes, such as Washington, and so forth, and I drew
Edmund out " most beautifully " and appeared so in
terested that it must have been delightful to witness.
About six miles from St. Johnsbury we came on a
very fine mountain view, which we halted to observe,
and felt quite confident that we saw the White Moun
tains. After this we had quite a long fight in which
Edmund tried in vain to convince me that honesty
was the best policy, but I wouldn't give in and intend
to continue in my present downward course, and hope
to drag him with me. About noon we perceived in
the distance a good sized brook rushing down a hiU-
side with "marked impropriety," that is, head over
heels or any other way that was convenient, and
Edmund having a love of the beautiful and the free,
proposed that we should stop and dismount, and take
a turn at romance. I thought the idea a good one,
and we proceeded to follow it out. I gathered up my
raiment, and followed the lead through a field and
over a bridge, where I received the deUcate compU-
ment of being requested not to tumble through, and
then into a tangled thicket provided with faUen trees
for a footing and thick branches overhead, which I
could only tumble through. After being miraculously
preserved several times, I became discouraged, and
concluded to recline upon a mossy stone, and gaze,
while Edmund followed his dear brook to its source.

41
So I sat and listened to the water which was beauti
ful, and sang and enjoyed my own reflections for
twenty minutes, when Edmund returned rather puffy
and with not much to say about the head of the brook
and I rather think it was principally tail, but shouldn't
dare to say so. We then leapt upon our foaming
steeds, and rode untU we came to this location, which
is a subdued but festive spot, where the Circassian
Maigi are expected to-morrow, and the female who
superintended our repast, after giving us a few details
of her own situation, made bold to say, " I suppose
you ain't them folks that's going to perform here
to-morrow night, be you ? " Edmund had the weak
ness to say " No," otherwise we might now be per
forming to an enraptured audience, or I might ; I don't
know that there's anything Edmund can do weU, ex
cept eat, and he's very slow at that.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Newport, Oct. 18, 1852.
. . . You need not be at aU afraid of giving any
impression except the true one, for it is quite evident
that you have " the dearest, kindest, pleasantest hus
band in the world." I can conceive of nothing more
satisfactory than to be taken possession of by a person
whom you can love and trust and admire. To be clay
in the hands of a potter, whom you knew would add
nothing but grace and beauty and richness to your
original form. You appreciate your blessings I know,
and you may be sure I appreciate them, too, and con-

42
sider them as my blessings also, and thank the Lord
for them with my whole heart. The only difficulty
is that I am getting altogether too fond of Edward,
and find myself wishing horribly to see him, as well as
you, which is an unnecessary addition to the discip
line of distance. . . .
I think after our feats of last spring the pubUc are
pretty well convinced that we shall tell what we choose
and nothing more, and that when they have once got
their answer, it is quite useless for them to question
further, because they will not ascertain anything
more. We stand on a pinnacle of power in this re
spect, and our friends and cousins trembUngly look
up at us and take with thankfulness the droppings
that we vouchsafe them. Even our aunts, I think,
are learning good manners, with the exception of Aunt
Catherine, who is incorrigible. I think I did not teU
you what she said to me last summer after I had been
reading her your letters. " Now, Lizzie, I should Uke
to know what proportion of those lettere you have
omitted to read to me." I wanted to say, " Now, Aunt
Catherine, what proportion of bad manners do you
think you can safely count upon my bearing." But I
didn't, of course, as nobody can be allowed to say what
they want to in such cases.
You need not ask me so meekly to read your letters
to Mary Curtis and Lucy, for I always meant to do it,
and shall not find it the least of a bore. I consider it
part of my vocation to help you to keep the link bright
between you and your friends. As I may not minister
to your dear and beautiful presence, I will try to beau
tify your absence.

43

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Oct. 31, 1852.
. . . Here I am, my dearest, back again in our little
parlor, where your presence is so much more vivid to
me than my own, even, that it seems almost impossi
ble to believe that I shall not find you here when I
come home from church or from walking. I cannot
teU you how incessantly you have been in my thoughts
the last two days, for this room is so full of you in
every corner and you are over all the walls and the
closet is fuU of you, so that whichever way I look or
go, or whatever I do your living presence meets me,
and sometimes I have to sigh and turn away from it,
but generally, darUng, it is only a heartfelt pleasure
and help to me to think of you, and I thank God for
having had you here, and thank Him still more for
all your present happiness and for the dear love there
is between us, which shaU not pass away.
Everybody is thinking and talking of but one thing
now, and there seems but one thing to write about.
Mr. Webster's death has swallowed up every other
topic and interest, and all Boston seems to rest under
its shadow. We shall send you the newspapers with
various details in them, and with aU that has been
said about it, but unless you were here you could
have no idea of the effect it has produced. The meet
ing at Faneuil HaU is said to have been the most im
pressive one that ever was held in the country. The
room was darkened at mid-day, and the hall partially
Ughted with gas. Healy's picture draped with black

44
was placed at one end of the room, so that Mr. Web
ster's figure seemed to stand out in the darkness.
The mayor requested that all passing around the
building should be stopped, and the stillness, they say,
was most remarkable. The haU was absolutely full,
and no sound to be heard through the crowd except
ing now and then a sob. The people came and went
as though they were in church, the speakers were not
once applauded, and the assent that was given to the
resolutions was a low, deep "yea ! " as unUke as pos
sible to the usual acclamation. The platform was
covered with the respectables who always sit there,
and every now and then these strong men would bow
their heads down on the tables before them, perfectly
overcome with grief. The speakers spoke with the
greatest emotion and effort at self-control, and the
attention was perfectly breathless. This reaUy sounds
too exaggerated for you to beUeve, but it is only true.
I hear it over and over again. There must have been
something truly awful in seeing such a coUection of
people smitten, as it were, with this heavy grief.
Uncle Sam says it wUl never do to go on so, that he
has cried every day so hard that he has come home to
dinner with a violent headache, and he will stop if
Mr. Webster is dead. When Uncle Sam has to stop
crying you may beUeve that other people have done
so too. Friday, the day of the funeral, the shops and
all places of business were closed for the day, and
when we came home at noon the city certainly pre
sented the most striking appearance. There was an
immense number of people about the streets, as many
as on a common holiday, but no shouting, no noises

45
of any kind, fewer carriages about than common, for
everything had gone to Marshfield, and that threw a
sort of hush over the air, like Sunday, and the people's
faces were sober even to sadness. In the afternoon we
went into Washington St. to see the mourning, for there
is scarcely a shop that has not put it on. The whole
street from Court St. to West St. is draped with black
and white cambric in every variety of form. I should
think in different places there must be fifteen busts of
Mr. Webster set up in black recesses made for them,
and his picture's everywhere. In several places, from
the Whig and Democratic headquarters and all round
the old State House, flags are hung out heavily bor
dered with black. We went to the Exchange, which
is very tastefuUy arranged. The windows at the head
of the room closed up with black, and a large black
canopy erected, under which stands Mr. Webster's
bust. The pUlars wreathed with black and white,
and flags lowered and drooping all about the room.
Of course there are innumerable mottoes, but even
the Democrats have on their flag :
" Take him for aU in all.
We ne'er shall look upon his like again."
It has been the beauty of the whole thing that it is
not in the least confined to any party. The Demo
crats have come forward quite as cordially as the
Whigs, and even the articles in the " Commonwealth "
and the "Daily Mail," papers which have been de
voted to abusing him all his life, join in this universal
tribute to him now. Last Sunday there were notices

46
of his death in all the churches, and to-day I suppose
many occasional sermons. Mr. Peabody for the first
time since he has been settled gave us an occasional
discourse, most tasteful and most impressive. He
said he had not come there to judge him, for if he was
to be judged it should be by his peers and in the
places where he had labored and triumphed ; neither
did he come to eulogize him, for the pulpit was no
place to eulogize any mortal man, particularly when
he had just passed from the solemnities of death to
the solemnities of eternity. I wish I could give his
voice and manner as he deUvered this sentence, but
you can imagine them. I shall tire you with all these
details, and if the papers reach you safely you wiU
see more than I can write you. This has been a week
never to be forgotten by a Bostonian, and I should
think almost equally impressive aU over the country,
and all the demonstrations have been so heartfelt and
sincere, and so absolutely free from ostentation and
affectation of any kind, that they reaUy tend to raise
one's opinion of human nature.
The Ticknors, as well as the other public buildings,
have put on deep mourning, but I suppose wiU
scarcely choose to remove it when their associates do,
as they will not have worn out their dresses. I must
say it strikes me as too preposterous to see Lizzie
Ticknor dressed in plain black silk for Mr. Webster.
I think they ought to keep a set of mourning ready
to put on when any distinguished individual dies, in
this country or England. I wonder they didn't put
it on for the Duke of WeUington. Aunt Anna has
wrought herself up into a state of unequalled

47
misery, and is nearly sick. I want so to ask her
what relation Mr. Webster was to her? She went to
Marshfield to the funeral, the only lady I have heard
of. I have not seen her yet, and feel doubtful about
intruding on such affliction. At any rate, I must wait
tUl I feel a little pleasanter, for it does make me too
cross to see people make such a pow-wow about what
concerns them, after all, but very Uttle more than it
does the rest of the town. I suppose, if you were
here, you would tell me to let people be happy their
own way. I've no objection to their being happy
their own way, but when they set up to feel so much
worse than anybody else can, or ever did, it does seem
to me to be a sort of mockery of real grief and genuine
feeling, and I perfectly hate it. I do, dear, and I
cannot help it.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Nov. 7, 1852.
I never was so much struck with the strain that
comes upon you the moment you enter the city as I
have been now coming directly from Newport where I
have been quiet, and so free from any claims or calls.
The shopping and the calling and the notes to be
written and the stairs to be gone over, and the dress
ing to be done consume your time and strength and
spirits most unmercifully, and have so little to show
for it that it is rather unsatisfactory. However, I
ought not to rebel against it, for I have felt infinitely
more competent, mind and body, to come up to the
necessities of the case than I expected to, and there-

48
fore I mean to keep up a cheerful courage. I do not
find that I am so dreadfully wanting as I thought I
should be when I was put into your place. Though
I cannot make the ground about me bud and blossom
and rejoice as you did, I think I can keep the turf
smooth and even, and keep the briars from growing
up in the place of the flowers, and therewith in
humility I mean to be and am content.
This has been election week and the Democrats
have carried the day in the most triumphant manner.
Franklin Pierce, my love, is to be our next president
and the croakers say it is to be a war administration.
I never remember such a lukewarm spirit at the time
of the election, a great many people threw no votes
at all, and those who voted for Scott, though they
were sorry that Pierce was elected, would not have
been glad if Scott had been. Uncle Ticknor, my
love, announces that he shall " probably never throw
another vote at a presidential contest." There's a
blow for the country ! What wUl become of us ? We
can only cling to G. Ticknor Curtis now and hope
that he will not find us unworthy of his vote.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Nov. 15, 1852.
... I have remembered, too, the nightmare which
consumed my soul last Monday evening and I de
termined to console myself for it by exacting a great
deal of sympathy from you. I told you we had in
vited L  and E  here, and that L  was
coming to tea. I knew it would be painful, but never

49
did my wildest imaginations picture a social experi
ence of such a depressing nature. I had been very
busily occupied all day in doing a great many odd
jobs of visiting and shopping and putting more busi
ness into twelve hours than ought to be done in
twenty-four, but returned to my happy home early in
the afternoon to rest and dress and prepare for a long
pull, but with the confident expectation of landing on
a cheerful and sunny shore finaUy. I did my chUdish
best to smooth my furrowed brow and make an old
dress have a soothing appearance, by means of excel
lent coUars and sleeves, and Mills was radiant and
amiable in a most elegant and new silk dress and a
highly hospitable and friendly countenance, and we
stationed ourselves firmly, but calmly, and hopefully,
at proper distances in the drawing-room. In the first
place Edmund had the asthma and could not come
down to tea, but still we bore up bravely. E  and
L  and Mary Curtis arrived with the punctuality
which characterizes such entertainments, and we set
to. By dint of inhuman exertions on my part, aided
by Charles's friendly tongue, we contrived to raise one
or two faint giggles at tea-time, L  appearing all
the time not to " like his victuals," and vouchsafing
not a word on any subject. StiU I thought we were
doing pretty weU, and patted myself on the back and
encouraged myself with thinking it would be over to
morrow, and in due time we returned to the drawing-
room. Again we dispersed to our respective chairs,
and again Charles put forth all his strength to rouse
L  , and Anna and I made every mental and moral
effort that we are capable of to keep up our own

50
spirits and the girls'. But it was useless. L  sat
with his hands over his mouth, in total and entire
silence from eight o'clock till ten, glaring about with
his great eyes, but vouchsafing no words or looks, ex
cept an occasional growl at E  . Late in the even
ing Frank Parker came in, but the circle seemed to
wear a stUl more ghastly hue than before, and there
was nothing to be done but to sink back in deep
thankfulness when they were aU gone, and admit to
our expiring intellects that it had been a mutual
bore. . . .
We shopped all the mornings * and went to the
theatre in the evenings and highly enjoyed our little
selves. I returned home with a white bonnet from
Lawson, a set of chinchilla from Gunter, a Brussels
lace coUar with sleeves to match from Chaucerelle,
a cashmere shawl from Fountain's and a present for
Hetty CooUdge. My shawl, which I know will in
terest you, is not what you might expect, but is what
I want. It is covered aU over with palm-leaves, and
is a small, long shawl, not showy, but very warm and
very nice, and for my purpose I think just the thing,
as I wanted a nice, common, thick shawl, and this
is all that eminently. Mary was equaUy successful
in her purchases, and, in addition to all, we had a
truly jolly time and survived it.
To Mrs, Twistleton.
Boston, Nov. 22, 1852.
... I have been to three concerts and three musi
cal parties since last Sunday evening, and have had
•Referring to a visit in New York.

51
my fill of sweet sounds. We have had Sontag and
Alboni both here, and the opening of the new Music
Hall, which is just completed, has attracted even the
music haters to the concerts to see the sights.
Alboni has disappointed me very much, not in her
voice, for that is the finest for tone and compass I
ever heard, but she is so fat, so lazy, and so thoroughly
indifferent, that she has fairly provoked me every
time I have seen her. She sings with precisely the
same expression with which she wiU put on her night
cap and go to bed three hours after, and seems to be
in a sort of half dose aU the time. The greatest
applause only roused her to a sleepy grin, and she
waddles on and off the stage with a sort of elephantine
motion which is anything but graceful or elegant. I
beUeve I am proving myself a very unmusical critic,
but Jenny Lind has set forth too truly what music
may be and ought to be for this perfectly expression
less execution to carry me away.
Among other places we went one evening out to
Mrs. Howe's to tea, a party for Susan Sedgwick and
music. It was a funny Uttle assemblage, and very
characteristic of the place, I thought. A heavy back
ground of tall Free-Soilers, a foreground of eccentric
and active-minded women, like Mrs. S. G. Ward,
Sue Bigelow, and Mary Curtis and Susan Sedgwick,
and a middle distance of ordinaries, like Julia Sumner,
Anna Palfrey, etc., etc. Not nearly as many men as
women, and a pervading sense of " fish-out-of-water "
throughout. In the midst of which, however, I con
trived to make myself considerably at home and have
quite a joUy time, mostly, I think, in consequence of

52
Mrs. Howe's making really interested and affectionate
inquiries after you and Edward. It seems to me as
if she regarded you two as a sort of green spot on this
great, dark earth to which she occasionally turns her
eyes with a tender appreciation of the goodness and
the happiness which seem to her almost equaUy
unattainable. I wrote you last week that we were trying to screw
Charles and ourselves up to having a Uttle party here
this week for Lady LyeU. Anna pleaded, and Charles
grew speechless and miserable, and said he did not
wish to put his veto upon it, but implied that it would
bring his gray hairs in sorrow to an early grave, and
Anna in meekness, truly wifely, subsided herself, but
gave me leave to try the effect of my eloquence upon
him. So after dinner last Wednesday, when he
thought he was going peacefuUy to the store, I seized
him, and firmly and somewhat fiercely set before him
the stern desirabilities of the case, made him admit
my premises and my inferences, but could not bring
him up to my final conclusion. However, he left me
promising to think about it, with the impression on
his mind that society was an expensive humbug, and
sistei's-in-law talkative spendthrifts, and passed the
afternoon and evening under the same depressing
view of the world and his household, only finding
momentary forgetfulness in a game of solitaire. In
the morning I cheerfully demanded the result of his
reflections, and he cheerfully responded " go ahead."
Thinking this was all we were likely to get from him,
we concluded to take him at his word and " go ahead,"
and as a first move Anna went round to see Ladj-

53
LyeU to get her to name the day most convenient to
her, when we were at once relieved ourselves, and
able to resuscitate Charles, by her entirely declining
aU further engagements before her return to England.
As we could not have her, we did not want anybody,
at present, and gave up the whole thing with con
tented spirits, Charles indulging in more psalm tunes
and graceful gambols at dinner time than usual.
Since then we have been a most united and happy
family. I was out every night last week. I am engaged
every evening this week but one, and two for next.
So you see we are going on in the old style, except
that the parties are aU small and most of them rather
slow. Edward would say : " Oh, dear, dear, dear,
dear me ! " I did not tell you last week that Mr.
Sparks has resigned the presidency of the college.
Nobody seems to know who to put in his place.
When they find out I will let you know. I believe
this is the only piece of city news, except that I am
either engaged or on the point of being so. To whom
I cannot find out, but it is to be announced so soon
that I shall know before loijg.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Nov. 28, 1852.
My Best Beloved, — If I generally think of you
every other minute in the course of the week, I cer
tainly, this Thanksgiving week, have thought of you
every minute ; it seems to me this whole week has
been one tremendous effort to get along and get

54
through without you. However, as you perceive, I
have protracted a lingering existence tUl now, Thanks
giving over, I resume life on its former terms again.
What is one to do with these Anniversary days, if
Ufe is to go on piUng up the associations and the
separations, from year to year, tiU the present sinks
out of sight, with the crowding memories that come
from the past? It seems wrong and ungrateful to
let past and lost blessings overshadow so the innumer
able and ever-present ones that we aU have to be
thankful for, but I walked about aU day Thursday
with my heart in my mouth and no amount of reasoning
with myself availed to restore it to its natural situa
tion. Do you remember that upUfted, glorified look
of mother's face always on Thanksgiving ? I could
but own myself unworthy to be her daughter when I
looked at my own pale and peaked visage, and only
hope that the years will bring more cheerful surrender
if they have more treasures to claim and take. But
I am making myself seem much more miserable than I
am, for at heart I am not a bit so. It is only feeUng,
feeUng, that large and unmanageable ingredient of
women's composition, and nobody else knows any
thing about it, but the veil falls, you see, as ever,
when I begin to speak to you. Put it down where it
deserves to be and don't think I am unthankful for
all your happiness, nor for my dearly beloved brother
Edward, nor that I would change one circumstance
in past or present if I could, for it is not that. It is
only that believing as I do in the eternal wisdom and
beauty of all things as they are appointed unto us, I
cannot bear that any force of association or memory

55
should make the mortal yearning for the absent so
strong as to darken even temporarily this abiding
faith. Therefore, I question not the Lord's provi
dence, but my own shortcomings, that I may learn
the better way to master them in future. Here
endeth the first stave.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Dec. 6, 1852.
... I cannot make up my mind to let the steamer
go without just telling you how dearly, dearly I love
you, and how your last letters, though they brought
the first bad news we have had from you, made me
only trust in you and Edward with a stiU deeper con
fidence, and with the tears roUing fast down my cheeks
I could only in my heart thank the Lord, who bad
permitted me to know you and love you both so fer
vently that the earth seemed to me to have a touch of
Heaven in it yet as long as you belonged to it. You
say, darling, that you hope I shall not worry, though
you know I must be sorry about you, and you may be
sure I shall not. For I feel so strongly that you are
in the Lord's care wherever you are, and next to him
in the most faithful and tender human care that you
could have on earth, and that you have therein what
is more essential to you than even the sisterly minis
tering which you miss, and, therefore, though my
heart aches sometimes to be with you, I am stUl con
tent and at peace about you.

56

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Dec. 12, 1852.
... I don't wonder you did not cross the Magea
if there was any risk of the baggage being lost. It is
perfectly deUcious to me to see how you preserve
your little and lovely peculiarities, in spite of the
various experiences which would have eased some
people's minds. If you were to go six times round
the world, and never lose a trunk, you would start
on the seventh time with fresh anxiety, and it would
still be a distinct and deUcious relief to your mind
when at each stopping place your trunk was placed
safely in your room. When you get to Heaven you
will say, "St. Peter, how soon wiU my trunk be
here ? " I hope St. Peter wUl be one of the few gen
tleman who won't have any objection to explaining
all about it, for otherwise, spite of Miss Barrett, to
the contrary " Upon a brow in Heaven,
An earthly care will steal."
I expect that you wUl bring home a diUgence with
you in order that all your little journeys may be per
formed in that serene and happy conviction that your
luggage is all directly over your head, which you en
joyed so much in your rides in that vehicle.
I have just come upstairs and left Charles reposing,
head down and feet up on the library sofa, before a
blazing fire, with his warmest dressing-gown carefuUy
wrapt around him, and the door tight shut, and the

57
thermometer rapidly rising to 180°, and every prospect
of a deUghtfuUy feverish and headachy afternoon, and
it put me so in mind of last winter that I thought it
would do you good to know how consistently Charles
cultivated his little peculiarities and how sure you
might be that however many the years might be
which intervened between your meeting, you would
be sure to find him the first Sunday afternoon " stand
ing on his head in the midst of blazing fireworks " as
nearly as the human frame is capable of doing. He is
a "strange but sunny creature," and has been bearing
up most wonderfully during the last fortnight under
James K.'s being shut up again. He is not shut
up with a cough, but has had a most fearful attack of
neuralgia, for which he has dosed himself so outrage
ously with laudanum that he came about as near
kiUing himself as he well could, and has now been in
his bed for a fortnight, and is likely to be there at least
two weeks longer I fear. He has got entirely out of
order in every direction, can neither eat nor drink nor
sleep well, and though there is nothing actually alarm
ing, it is most uncomfortable for himself and friends.
We have been going on much as usual this week.
Wednesday evening there was a great ball at Mrs.
Lowell's where we all went. There were eight debu
tantes and any number of new young men to match,
so that I felt for the first time as if I belonged to the
last century. It was not a very successful party as I
beUeve is generally conceded, and I was so inces
santly hounded and hunted by F   that I
should not have enjoyed it if it had been. It is a
barbarous state of society that allows a girl to be so

58
annoyed with no power of escape. ... At five next
day I went to a dinner party at Aunt Mary's, where I
had the pleasure of encountering F  M  again,
so that I passed the evening in snubbing him, and
concluded when I came home I had passed a day
which I hope never to see the like of again.
Spite of it all I had quite a pleasant time, as table
and chairs offer exceUent barricades between people,
and I succeeded in avoiding much annoyance. It was
a party for Clara Payson, and Aunt Mary was lovely.
Uncle Sam joUy, the girls firm and consistent in their
repective stations, and everything went off very
pleasantly.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Dec. 20, 1852.
... I am heart heavy that your torments should
have returned upon you, but am making the most
tremendous struggles to be reasonable and cheerful
about you.
I agree that it would have been wonderful if some
thing had not gone a Uttle wrong by this time, and
you are the sweetest and most lovely and patient and
reasonable of women (that's only a very Uttle part of
what I think of you). I don't think you need any
thing to make you gooder, but I " specs I'se dreadful
bad," as Topsy says, and as the Lord has so arranged
us that your trials are my hardest ones, I rather think
you have to go through a good deal on account of
my salvation. As for Edward, " the Lord might have
made a better berry, but he certainly never did." I

59
think you two fulfil the gospel injunction " Have salt
in yourselves and peace in each other," and as long
as that is the case, I ought not and I will not be so
ungrateful as to make myself miserable if you are less
complete bodily than mentally and morally (that is,
if I can help it ).
We, your own particular relatives, are expecting
the  family from Chicopee down.  is
coming to sleep with me, and the baby next door in
CharUe's room. So I shaU bid farewell to peace and
put cotton wool in my ears. We have invited them
to stay three weeks, but I do not think they will.
 has charitable plans on foot at Chicopee which
require her personal superintendence, and she prob
ably wiU not be able to be absent more than ten days.
We are aU standing firmly, but in a state of stifled
horror facing our prospects, but I hope we shall be
carried through without any alarming consequences.
We are going to give them pretty handsome presents,
to ease our conscience and "drown dull care." I
shaU heave at  's head a beautiful edition of
Lamb's Works, which I have just procured, while
Edmund chokes the baby with a camel's hair scarf
adapted to her size. Thus fortified, we shaU " pro
ceed on " into the next week, and by sending 
out to tea a good deal and making Mary go shares,
I calculate we shall all survive, more particularly if
I ease my conscience and my nerves by being vicious
to you. . . .
Poor, poor Sue ! What a place this world is, and
how one's head swims and one's heart sinks with all
the sin and sorrow and sickness and suffering around

60
one. The love and happiness in it get to seem strange,
and sometimes almost pitiful, from the deep, heavy
shadows that lie so close upon them and around them.
We do live all the time on the very verge of death
and eternity, so that it is wonderful we ever let the
days go by so carelessly as we do. Mr. Peabody
preached yesterday from the text " Prepare to meet
thy God," and the week had been so full of warnings
that it came out with that thrilling, searching sound
which he gives sometimes, you know.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Dec. 26, 1852.
. . . Where were you, my precious, when I woke
up yesterday morning with a Merry Christmas on my
tongue's end for you ? You were very far from being
here, as I realized intensely before many minutes
were past, but I soon concluded as usual that you
were better off and probably having a most beautiful
and delightful Christmas day in Florence or Rome,
and that I would be satisfied to let you fulfil my ideal
away from me, instead of having you to beautify the
actual by me, and sunk down into loving you and
missing you contentedly. We did drink your healths
with all our hearts after dinner yesterday, and if you
have all the blessings of mind and body that we
wished you in that toast you will not suffer much
this year.
The childi'en are both enchanted with your presents,
which I handed in in state yesterday morning. I
bought for Harry a magnificent steam-engine, made of

61
tin, which wiU necessarily consume some time in the
process of being broken, and which is at present
Harry's highest ideal of joy and beauty. He has
been turning all the chairs he can get into engines
and cars for the past month, and puffing awa}'^ himself
to complete the ceremony, and this with its steam-
pipe and water-box and splendid red and yellow
wheels I thought would go to his heart. For Arthur
I found a box of blocks with large letters on one side
and pictures on the others, which seemed to combine
instruction and amusement in a desirable manner.
He has carried them about with him up and down
stairs ever since, until forbidden by his mother to do
so, and then could only resign the privilege after
much persuasion. He tells who gave them to him
with delightful promptness and accuracy, and has
begun to tear off the pictures, and altogether is per
fectly happy.
We had a wonderfully and unnaturally quiet
Christmas, for, coming Saturday evening, there was
no family party and we all sat round the table in the
evening and sewed and talked as quietly as if it had
been any day but Christmas. Under these circum
stances the male mind came out under an entirely
new aspect, Sam, Charles, and Ned, all declared them
selves miserable and disgusted that there was no party.
They said their dinner had unhinged their minds and
they didn't wish to pass a rational evening. However,
it was too late to do anything about it, and they were
obliged all " hingeless " and forlorn to pass the even
ing strictly in the bosom of their own family.
I must confess to being very content for once to

62
stay at home, though I think it would be dreadful if
it were the custom, for I certainly did miss the chance
of saying " Merry Christmas " to all the people that
I am more or less attached to in the family.
To Mrs. Edward Twistleton.
Boston, Jan. 4, 1853.
... I must wish you a Happy New Year, my
darling, and my dear Edward. I beUeve you will be
happy because you do not aUow the smaU griefs of
Ufe to trouble you, and I pray the Lord not to send
you any of the larger ones. I could not bear to bid
the old year good-bye, for it had been so fuU of you
that I loved it, and knew the coming one could not
be the same to me. But I could not but think that
it had given us a regal gift in giving us Edward
Twistleton, and that I would look at it cheeriuUy and
gratefuUy for that, in spite of all it had taken away
from us, too.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Jan. 9, 1853.
My Sweetest and Dearest and Best Beloved, — Where
are you, and what are you doing this lovely after
noon, while I am sitting in my room watching the
beautiful sunset and longing for you with all my
heart ? What a chasm in Ufe it would fiU if I could
know exactly your whereabouts, mind and body, in
the present moment, instead of waiting a month to
know about you. But I am afraid I am verging on
the intense, and that my brother Edward could not

63
approve of me, and there is another side to the ques
tion in the delight your letters give me when they
come, in spite of their being dated a month back.
Your last letters, of December 9, from Florence ar
rived on Thursday and were so enchanting that I
felt when I had read them as if for the time I had
been breathing " an ampler ether, a diviner air," for
they brought with them an atmosphere of such beauty
and goodness and happiness as was more than refresh
ing, it was purifying. You may think I exaggerate,
but I assure you that I do not. Much as I find to
enjoy and to make me happy every day, there is no
pleasure from week to week, or month to month, so
unmixed and so heart-satisfying as that which your
letters give me, which I want you to reaUze, and if
they cost you time and trouble, you may know they
put into my life what they take out of yours.
Thursday we bid adieu to  and her family with
that degree of calmness which it was possible to at
tain under such a severe and unprepared-for separa
tion. It is curious that three immortal souls can
enter a house, and there abide for one fortnight and
fiU no place that was not fiUed before and leave no
empty place behind them. But  came and went,
and we returned to our usual condition the moment
she was out of the house. She is a most wonderful
combination or non-combination. She went through
one of her regular old tantrums while she was here, sat
in her chamber and wept and refused to come to the
fire, and threatened to go home immediately, and,
entirely decUned giving any reasons, merely said that
no one was to blame, that it was the consequence of

64
her own sins, etc., etc., nearly drove Anna and me
frantic by coming into the drawing-room (where there
were visitors) with red eyes and Uvid countenance
and straightened limbs just like the old times. After
bearing it a certain length I " up and at her." Told
her she could go home if she chose, but that if she
did I did not understand on what terms she would
come into the house again. That we had done every
thing in our power to make her comfortable and
happy and could do no more ; that she seemed so far
from happy that I for one should never urge or pro
pose her being asked to make another visit, and that
if she went home in that condition to Mr.  , I
should certainly speak to him about it, and not let
him think that it was any voluntary fault of ours
that produced the misery. This I deUvered over
night, and then went to bed and subsided into total
silence. The next morning she crumbled into pieces
before me, informed me that the cause of her misery-
was that she thought I was more confidential with
Anna and Mary than with her. I told her that what
I was I should continue to be, and that she need look
for no change now or in the future. She swabbed
up, I went out and returned to find her in perfectly
good spirits and with all traces of tears wiped away.
She gave me a beautiful bouquet of flowers and
erected a marble monument to me in my room in the
shape of a splendid slab for a washstand. It did not
appear to be the least mortifying to her to look back
upon, she thought as well of herself and liked me as
well as if nothing had happened. There is a curious
conformation for you ! Her baby is trying to the last

65
extent at present. She is teething, and that makes
her white and purple in coloring and very fretful in
temper. She has her father's shyness and slowness I
think, and made no acquaintance with anybody while
she was here, not even with Aunt Polly.* However,
I flatter myself we did our duty manfully, and she
departed in peace and took her mother with her, who
expressed herself much entertained and assisted by
her visit.
We have been busy and sociable this week, what
witli parties, assemblies, lectures, and visits. Monday
evening there was a dance at Mrs. Gardner's, and
Thursday the Assembly, two lectures of Thackeray's
in between. I have been to all and had highly enter
taining evenings. We shall aU miss Thackeray very
much, as he has given us two hours a week of most
agreeable and amusing chit-chat. You can scarcely
call it more, for T find there are very few new facts
to be gathered from his lectures, and perhaps not
altogether just impressions. He has been quite
severely criticised here though very much admired,
and he leaves me with the impression that it would be
unsafe to trust impUcitly to his view of a character,
as his imagination and his love of the picturesque
may, very easily, lead him out of the straight line.
He seems to me to make one character set off another,
or to be tempted to do so, at least. He himself
interests and puzzles me very much, and I think one
must know his history probably before one could
understand him. He bade us an extremely graceful
and complimentary farewell, and I hear speaks of
Boston as " an excellent place to pick up fourpences."
* An old family servant.

66
He told Mary he should come back here " as sure as
he was born." At the Assembly I had great fun,
danced with eight people and refused ten more, which
give me an agreeable impression of having a variety
of resources. It is unfortunately explained entirely
by the dearth of ladies and overplus of gentlemen, so
that my vanity cannot take any encouragement from
it, but that makes it none the less pleasing.
This sort of talk seems a meagre return for your
lovely pictures of Florence, but the world does not go
the same way in Italy and Boston, though each has
a very good way of its own.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Jan. 17, 1853.
. . . Now, as for our little parlor where I Ue on the
couch, or sit at the desk or at the window, and think
of you till it seems as if I must have made you think
of me by the same magnetic influence that will make
a person look at you when you watch them, it has, in
very truth, turned into a " chamber of memory." . . .
It is getting to be rather too intense a place, though
it is so beloved every inch of it, from floor to ceiling,
that I am very glad the walls are papered so that they
can never be cleaned or whitewashed and even the
dear old dirt will stay there, year after year, tiU you
come back into it. I have been excessively strong-
minded in making one or two slight changes in the
furniture which were dictated by reason, and therefore
I thought a Twistleton must approve. Don't be
frightened, for I have only taken down the bookcase

67
over the secretary and put up the SaUsburj- in its
place; please ma'am that's all. I found that I had
not books enough to fill two bookcases, and that, in
consequence of being half-filled, both looked very
sluttish, and therefore I have combined my forces and
have one bookcase of which any one might be proud,
and have taken down the other. Salisbury would
tumble down from the door in spite of my pinning,
and, in fact, almost every Wednesday (which still con
tinues to be sweeping-day, or more properly hurricane
or Claricane-day) I used to find it lying in a chair or
pinned up at a graceful slant, evidently between the
gusts of the broom, or perhaps hanging and waving
from one poor faithful pin that held its place. In this
way, both Clara and I went through a good deal,
until I was brought to the conclusion that something
must be done about it. Then you can see my course
of reasoning ; if the bookcase came down there would
be a peaceful expanse where Salisbury could be estab
lished, and I could sit and write to you right under its
beautiful stateUness. So one day the bookcase came
down and Salisbury went up, and hasn't had a tumble
since, and the Claricane blows every week as hard as
ever, but the Cathedral stands.
Then the ivy, dear, Ellen and I have ceased to
quarrel at aU about it, for you know she generously
agreed to divide it with me, and to give me the vase,
as she had another just like it at home. I kept it aU
summer and it grew and flourished, and this autumn
when we were both established I divided it, one day,
feeUng pretty miserable as I did it, and tried to give
her the best branches, which I believe I did, and sent it

68
to her by Hugh that very morning. Mine looks rather
short and stubbed, but healthy and contented and
well-meaning, and seems to me very emblematic of its
mistress and the difference between some things and
other things and some folks and other folks which is a
simile I don't think you can deny. It does not stand
in the corner where yours was, but on the mahogany
stand under the bookcase. And on that stand is
Edward's bust and behind that the ivy, and each side
of it a daguerre of you, and there is not anything else
on that stand ever, and you must see that it is right
opposite the foot of the couch, and that when I am not
looking in other places I can look there, if I want to,
but I needn't unless I Uke, and nobody knows what I
like to see and what I don't. Now I have made a
clean breast of it all.
One chief thing that has begun and ended since I
last wrote you is Harry's very alarming Ulness.
Mary behaved like a Christian woman, as she is,
and that is all that need be said for any one. She did
not feel exactly as if Harry was going to die all along,
but still she faced the facts and perceived all the lia
bilities and bore herself cheerful and steady through
them. A.S for poor Sam, he was a sight pitiful to be
hold. He thought from Tuesday tUl Friday that Harry
would die, and during that time certainly a voluntary
smile did not lighten his face. He stood aghast, as it
were, in the presence of such a grief, and brought
home to me what an early training to sorrow ours was,
and how helpful to us now. We could none of us be
left so stricken as he was. He felt that he was igno
rant of the depths of loneliness that Harry's death

69
would bring upon him, he did not know how to stand
up under such a possibility. It seems to me we have
sounded the seas of sorrow too thoroughly, either
through our own experience or other people's, to lose
our way in them. At least, I could only so explain
the difference between us and him.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Sunday Afternoon, .Tan. 22, 1853.
... I have had a splendid time taking care of Anna.
I thought I understood her pretty well before, but I
understand her a great deal better now, and consider
her decidedly the most curiously and wonderfully
made of aU the Lord's creations that I have ever come
in contact with. She seems to me exactly a sensitive
plant, which can only show the full beauties of its
exquisite deUcacy and gracefulness under the warm
est temperature, the softest atmosphere, and the most
gentle management, but when brought into any con
tact with the external world closes together its beau
tiful leaves and stiffens and straightens itself till half
its loveliness disappears, and it even appears incom
plete and unattractive. I long to keep her in her
comfortable chamber and stand between her and life
always, as I have done for the last fortnight, and keep
the look of peace on her face and the look of enjoy
ment in her eyes, at any rate for years, that they might
learn to have a home there instead of being such
transient guests.
. . . The events of the week here have not been nu
merous or exciting. A supper party at E  C  's.

70
one of those stiff dinners, beginning at nine and end
ing at half-past eleven, which they always have there,
when the table is loaded with gloom, grandeur, and
Bohemian glass, and people talk in low whispers to
their next neighbors — and a small talky-talky at the
Minots have been my dissipations. Keeping house,
taking care of Anna, and running up and down stairs
have been my occupations. I have, however, succeeded
in preserving my health and keeping my temper most
of the time, and those are at present the chief objects
of my endeavors. We had another deUghtful letter
from you on Wednesday, Venice, December 22. I
entirely approve of your intended gloom on Christmas
day, and hope you will continue the custom untU we
can sit together in our pew at the Chapel again, when
we shall both break into smUes which wUl be sufficient
to light the church.
. . . You make me very angiy by supposing that
you ever write too much about pictures. What do we
keep you for except to keep us informed of the present
state of art in the old world, and if you didn't do it,
where, as Edmund says, "should you expect to die
when you go to"? Your wretched brother Edmund
has been in the precise position this week of an unfortu
nate school-boy whose lesson is a great deal too hard
for him. The part in the play (which is to be performed
to-morrow evening) which is assigned to him is quite
stupid, fogey, and uninteresting, and, as his time was
limited and he had as much as he could do besides,
he has only been able to give to it his remaining brains
when the toils of the day were over. The consequence
is that this room has been the scene of the most plain-

71
tive efforts for the last three days. He has come up
here in order to be able to spout with freedom, and
here between his gapes has delivered himself of the
paternal sentences which he is to address to Miss
Martha Chadwick. He has finally arrived at a con
siderable degree of fluency, but I who have witnessed
his struggles feel that this is one of the most laborious
entertainments ever devised, and shall not advocate his
appearing on the stage a second time.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Jan. 31, 1853.
... I have been able to read your letters more con
stantly and more regularly to Aunt Eliza than to any
one else, except EUen Coolidge, and she enjoys them
so thoroughly that it is a great pleasure to me to do
it. This day Mary and Lizzie Eliot came in to listen
also, and Elizabeth. Sam scrabbled up from Boylston
St. at the rate of 2.40 after dinner, and Aunt Eliza
and the girls sat down with their work and I opened
the portfolio and held forth. Aunt Eliza was some
what sleepy in consequence of a large piece of excel
lent turkey which she was digesting, and had to lay
down her work and look fixedly at my lovely count
enance in order not to drop off, but she succeeded ad
mirably and drank in every word, occasionally uttering
a low groan seconded by a squeak from Harriet when
I read a perfectly clear idea perfectly clearly expressed.
They were very lovely and funny and muddled and
unworldly, and I came away with a fresh sense of
their undying admiration for you, which grows and

72
flourishes and puts out new leaves constantly, just as
the ivy does which grows in the corner of their dark
room. Aunt Eliza stiU makes cambric night bonnets
with a great many tucks in them which nobody would
want, except on a very uncommonly sunny night, and
the girls go to the Fair every month and keep Sunday-
school and draw and go to an occasional party and
prepare for Heaven, if they do not make much noise
or have much of a place on earth. I think they are
very uncommon people.
Wednesday evening M  had one of her dreadful
Uttle tea-drinks of people that don't know each other
much, nor like each other much, with men friends in
the evening, where I went to do double duty as guest
and entertainer as we used so often last year together.
Thursday EUen CooUdge and Mary Eliot came to
dine, and we had a very pleasant time. Friday I went
first to a dinner party at the CooUdges and then to an
evening party at Aunt Anna's, and Saturday we re
ceived ourselves in the morning and went to Mrs. J.
A. LoweU's reception in the evening. And in the
course of the week I took two French lessons and one
harp lesson, and practised every day and wrote French
every day and made innumerable sociable visits on
friends and family besides.
There is my week's work, and you can fUl in the in
tervals with dinner and luncheon and talking to
Millsey and playing with Toodles and resting and
reading and dressing. Sunday evening came Mary
and Sam and Frank Parker and Edward Jackson, and
I sat and talked under the impression constantly that
they had come to see you. I do not know when I

73
had such a turn of missing you as last evening in the
midst of that cheerful and talkative set of peo
ple. Now isn't all that week as natural to you
as life, and isn't it strange how one's external life
moves on round and round and in the same old circles,
though there is a great gap in one place and a great
anxiety in another and the world looks different to
you, though you see it from the same place. There
are some things and people who continue much the
same, however, whatever happens. Mr. C  still
gives his disagreeable dinner parties, and sits at the
bottom of the table hoUering to me, " Leesee, dear,
shall I send you a leetle piece of duck ? " and Aunt
Anna grows stiff and cross because I have on a hand
some silk dress and Brussels lace sleeves and collar,
when I go there afterwards, though she has quite
liked me the morning before when I was in there
shabbily dressed, and Lizzie sits down to the piano
and cocks up her ugly little nose and plays away de
lightfully. One's own occupations and other people's
peculiarities remain very steadfast anchors whatever
else comes and goes I think.
Boston town is in one of its seasons when every
body is reading and talking about the same books.
The " Life of Mrs. Henry Ware," a new book of Miss
SeweU's, " The Experience of Life," and Bulwer's
" My Novel " are lying on all the tables in Beacon St.,
Park St., Summer St., Mt. Vernon St., Temple Place,
and aU kinds of people from Miss Pratt down to or
rather up to Anna Mills are reading them all.

74

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Feb. 6, 1853.
My Beautiful Comfort, — Haven't we had letters to
day from you enough to rejoice the heart of a grind
stone, and as we are aU grindstones are not our hearts
rejoiced ? I cannot tell you the inexpressible deUght
with which I saw Charlie come into my room this
morning with three letters in his hand, nor how I
seized them and read them, nor how I went to church
with my heart in my throat, nor how I love you and
trust in you, nor how you help me, nor any of the
many things that one's eyes look, but that one's tongue
cannot speak.
You don't know how my interest in pictures and
places is waked up by your letters, nor what pleasure
you give me both directly and indirectly. The avid
ity with which I seize a book on ItaUan scenery or
architecture, the way I study "IlVaticano" is posi
tively amusing to myself, and makes me admit, how
ever unwillingly, that the phrase which I hear appUed
to me on aU sides is frightfully true. I don't know
that I have told you that I am considered to have
" developed wonderfully this winter." Now if there is
not a state of things for one of the Dwight family ! If
there is one thing more dreadful than another it is a de
veloped girl ! I never thought to come to it nor to
bring such ignominy on my family. Edmund feels it
intensely, he is obliged to take " a development " on
his arm in the street, to parties, and, in fact, cannot
hide from himself that that hideous fact is his sister.

75
I pity, but cannot relieve him, and have thought it
best to confess it to you, lest when you come home
you should faU to recognize me under my new aspect.
Jane was bewailing their going to Newport the other
day because it separated her so much from Louisa, and
I could not but think that any one whose experience
was so Umited that they could place among their mis
fortunes a separation of a three hours' journey must
be excused for narrow-mindedness and want of char
ity. For, surely, there is nothing that forces one to
liberaUty and charity like the intense consciousness
of weakness and short-coming in one's self, which only
comes through some searching experience. It seems
to me that the N  's peculiar doctrines shut them
out from most experience. If one never had to add
self-reproach or self-examination to sorrow, what would
sorrow be comparatively? And they never do. Uncle
N  is very well, but thinks himself very feeble.
His sobs and groans at the table are getting more fre
quent, and the extreme difficulty of lifting so heavy a
weight as an oyster to his mouth makes him bring his
mouth nearly down to the oyster. He almost cried
the other day because Aunt C  did not hear him
ask for a piece of dark meat. Still he will talk a
whole pamphlet on any subject that is brought up,
though he does not invite any one else to join in the
conversation. . . .
There I saw Mr. Clough whom you ask about. I
am delighted to hear that Edward knows him and that
you have seen him, for I have been on the point two
or three times of speaking of him, but thought he
would be totally uninteresting to you. I am afraid

76
there is not much to tell you of his success. He has
one pupU and only one I believe. His friends tell
him that if he will wait tUl after Commencement he
will be more likely to find occupation, but it must be
a sorry business for a man Uke him to wait so long.
He has made plenty of friends here. Feltons, Long-
fellows, Nortons, and D wights. He goes to the Nor-
tons very familiarly, I should think, and has been here
a good many times, so that we feel quite easy with
him and he with us. He is verj- little of a talker, ex
cept when particularly interested in something, and
has a way of sitting silent, giving little sighs or puffs,
which is funny and EngUsh I think. He is so very
honest and kindly and one respects him so much for
his steady principles that he attracts you more than
you can quite account for. He seems to me shrewd
and quick in his perceptions and with considerable fun
in him, but he is shy and reserved and these things
very seldom show themselves. I always Uke to see
him come in, and he has such a pleasant way with the
children that he has quite won Anna's heart, too. The
Ticknors pronounce that it is quite evident he has not
been in the habit of being in the society of gentlemen.
Of coui-se there is no appeal from this, and you mil
naturally regret that Charles and Ned should find
pleasure in seeing him and will ask him here. Anna
and I do what we can to counteract liis baneful influ
ence, but bad company corrupts good manners. This
is a curious world, Mrs. Twistleton, as perhaps you
may have heard before.
Millsey has been writing you, so that I feel m}^ mind
relieved of the responsibility of telling you facts, for

77
I know she is accurate and faithful, so that you see I
have allowed myself to write in my highly discursive
style, partly for this reason and partly that I never
feel as if you were really booked up, unless I give you
impressions and sensations as well as facts.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Feb. 13, 1853.
. . . Whose birthday is that written up there, my
precious? And who is twenty-three years old this
very day ? Nobody but your Bunnie, who thinks she
is getting too old to be called any longer by nick
names and had better come down to plain Elizabeth
or Miss Betsey or something appropriate to a reverend
spinster, who has decidedly passed the spring-time of
life and had better retire into the background and
put on caps and take her knitting work. I do feel
tremendously and prodigiously old to-day. The fact
is there is no fun in growing old after you are old
enough to have all the privileges of being grown up.
When you are really young, the added years bring
added considerations and distinctions, a girl of sixteen
can do more things and is thought more of than one
of fourteen, and eighteen is stUl more grand, gloomy,
and peculiar, but after you get to be twenty it seems
to me you are thought less of and you think less of
yourself every year, so there is no longer any spree in
having a birthday. You see I choose to take the
worldly and melancholy view of the case.
The city of Boston is, at present, honored by the
company of Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Brune, of Balti-

78
more, who on Monday, the 4th inst., are to be enter
tained at Mrs. C. H. MiUs', No. 1 Park St., with a
few " select friends " and a very little supper. As
you will want to hear how we scrub through with this
business and some particulars about the present queen
of that great and constant heart, I wiU postpone the
conclusion of this epistle untU Tuesday morning,
when we shall be the other side of that. Both Mills
and I are in a state of prepared firmness, feeling that
though slow it will be sure, and that when over we
can sing " Hallelujah " with new zeal. We have
neither of us seen the young woman, as she was not
visible to the naked eye when we caUed, but we hear
that she is pretty and suppose her to be bland, passion
ate, and deeply religious.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Feb. 20, 1853.
... I cannot teU you how much I appreciate your
enjoyment in going into society with a "splendid
husband in the background." I am peculiarly quaU-
fied to sympathize with you at present, for the Boston
public are perfectly determined that I should marry
somebody this winter and consequently keep that
degree of pleasing watch on my movements that I
cannot dance and go into supper with J  G  at
Mr. Thayer's ball without having Mr. C  write to
E  at Newport the next day that every one is
expecting the announcement of my engagement to J.
G  , his " entire devotion " to me being perfectly
obvious. Don't I wish I was married ten times over

79
rather than have such Ues and nonsense talked about
me. At the same time the husband in the background
must be a splendid one or it would not be satisfactory,
and those birds don't fiy in every tree, my boy, by any
means, therefore pat yourself on the back and con
sider yourself a Jack Horner. I do not want to scold
and I do not want to worry, but I do despise Mr.
C  and hate gossip, and wish people would let me
do what " I damn please." . . .
I went to hear the Mass singing, which is really
deUghtful. They have improved very much in their
performance, and are singing now one of Beethoven's
Masses, which is the most heart-filling, soul-subduing
music possible, and made me want to get down on my
knees and cry.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Feb. 27, 1853.
My Dearest Heart, — As I have no brains at all,
nothing but a cold in my head, to write to you with
this afternoon, you wiU prepare yourself for a worse
result than common and nerve yourself accordingly.
After having successfully warded off colds and cough
during the winter, and having boasted twice within
the last week that I had done so, I am to-day pinned
down with a cold in my head, a pain in my chest, a
mustard plaster, a triumphant family, and an unregen-
erate disposition. I got up this morning, of course,
prepared to attend the sanctuary and to stand up for
it that my cold was nothing, and would lead to noth
ing, when I was interrupted in my prosperous course

80
by a most ill-timed visit from Sam, who stood up
straight and handsome on the fireplace and informed
me with barefaced and unshrinking maUce that I
ought not to go to church. The perjured Mills imme
diately faced about and joined forces with him, and
the result is that I have been at home all day,
carefuUy nursing a slight indisposition, until I now
really do feel quite iU and miserable, and think I
am on the shortest road to a lung fever. I think,
however, I am rather better off than Charles, who
after going to a dinner party yesterday afternoon
and eating an excellent breakfast this morning, dis
covered just previous to church time that he had a
very bad cold which, as he expressed it, was on his
brain, and, therefore, immediately had recourse to the
treatment usually applied to diseases on that vital
organ, i.e., standing on the head, motionless, in front
of a hot fire, in a small room with no ventUator, read
ing small print. This is the treatment for an extreme
case, almost hopeless, which Charles did not think
precisely his, that is, he thought this morning there
was a chance, so that he allows himself some allevia
tions, such as supporting his spine on a hot sofa,
while he keeps his feet in the air. I hope he is
improving, but he was not well enough at luncheon
time to join the domestic circle, I suppose fearing the
excitement, and for the same reason, as the case is a
critical one, I have avoided going into the room, so
that untU the evening we must remain in a state of
anxious suspense, in which I am sure you will give
us your heartfelt sympathy. It is curious how liable
Charles is to these attacks on Sunday. I can only

81
account for it by the rigid fasts which he has kept
during the week and by the state of religious excite
ment in which he always passes Saturday evening.
You needn't ask me about the Free-Soil Committee,
for 1 don't know an individual thing about them, and
have heard no talk about them, though I always keep
my ears open and my eyes pinned back. I will try to
make the men write you a screed on the " pint," but
I think it's doubtful whether they know much.
Monday we had Aunt Nancy to spend the day with
us and read her your letters, to which she Ustened
with that devout and reverent attention which I never
saw her bestow before upon anything but remarks
from the mighty male. She enjoys and appreciates
you to the last extent, and I felt, therefore, that we
had an immense number of points of sympathy. She
reaUy was pleasant and affectionate, and seemed to
have ceased to feel that we were an " unrighteous and
perverse generation " because we had been so unfor
tunate as to lose our dear mother, and lived in rooms
with red coverings and wore silk dresses.
Wednesday Sam and Mary came to dine, and in the
evening we all went to a tea-fight at Aunt Mary's.
Twelve women and twelve men, tea and coffee on
waiter's, a little music, children standing round look
ing rather grown up, but not feeling in the least so,
nudging each other occasionally and giving compre
hending glances at Mary and their mother, lovely
flowers on the table, and good manners prevaUing, and
the result a very good sort of time and home early.

82

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, March 6, 1853.
. . . Two days in the week have been pretty nearly
blank from my being really sick and good for nothing
so that they were iqarked by nothing but a blister, a
calomel pill, and being choked with nitrate of silver.
The rest of the time has been very comfortable and
agreeable convalescence, getting a good deal of com
passion, a great many enchanting flowers, and as many
visits as I could desire from my friends and cousins,
very little sickness, and a great deal of elegant leisure
and retirement.
My flowers really have been beautiful as poems,
beautiful enough to become facts and memories for
the future, and so deliciously comforting. I have
come distinctly to the conclusion that flowers are not
to be set down among the superfluous bounties and
be.'uties of this world, that they have their place
to fill and their duty to perform just as much as any
of us, the difference being that they do it with that
perfection of loveliness which is not earthly but
heavenly. There is such a wonderful unspoken sym
pathy in flowers. They fill empty places just as chil
dren do, but with fewer claims. I must have had
either you or these flowers, or been melancholy and
slow, I am afraid, this week. I have had the flowers,
and have loved you and missed you, but been content
about and thankful for you, too, to keep the balance.
We do feel for you intensely about the medicine.
I think of having some mixed to realize the taste
more fully. I smell it perfectly now. Bunnie says

83
you needn't take it if you didn't want to. I wish you
to remind Edward that in my presence he took you
" for better for worse," and worse means in this case
medicine ; that he would not think of refusing to
taste a piece of cake, which you wanted to share with
him, etc., etc., let his own conscience draw the moral.
TeU him if he had any sense of the ludicrous, he
would have seen what the natural view for the Eliot
[famUy] to take of such a case would be. Headed by
Mary and Anna we should with one accord say, " Yes,
now that's just like men. He's perfectly willing to
go with Ellen to aU the galleries and make sacrifices
to see all the beautiful things there are in the world,
but when she asks him to do just a little thing that
isn't pleasant, he refuses. She's sick and he doesn't
want to be put to any inconvenience about it. Poor
thing ! It is much better to face the worst. It's
plain enough how it is. Straws show which way the
wind blows." In fact, he is an EngUsh brute. You
are a wretched, broken victim. We are very
wretched, but it is some consolation to think that we
see the case in its blackest hue. I hope Edward will
appreciate that I could not resist the force of these
arguments and do not think he will be able to. We
have taken so many dreadful male minds into the
family that it is very rarely we get a chance to make
ourselves as miserable as we Uke to. We get
corrected and brought up to our bearings before we
have time to become comfortably intense. It really is
a great privation to be taken off our natural and con
stitutional food in this manner. . . .
I know it did you good to have those Utanies sung

84
so delightfuUy, and that does me good. I know, too,
that when you ge* to Heaven, the very first Sunday
you will find yourself in the Celestial Stone Chapel
with a choir of angels, a glorified and perfected Smith
for sexton, and a saint in the pulpit, who having been
perfected through earthly trials, shaU be competent
both to sympathize with and explain yours. And
then you'll have a most splendid Uttle time, and the
second Sunday I hope you'll take me.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, March 13, 1853.
. . . Mrs. Hunter looks as weU as a strong tree,
and has a sort of protecting air about her that such
large good people are apt to have ; you want to
creep into her lap and lay your head on her shoulder
and you feel as if she was a regular shelter from aU
sorts of disagreeables, internal and external, and you'd
like to be taken care of by her.
Her husband is funny and different from other
people. If you had read " Bleak House " you would
know Mr. Turveydrop, and then I could give you
some idea of him. He is tall and stout with thick,
light brown hair which looks like a wig. Sam says
his waist is long and his legs short, which makes him
peculiar in his effect. I should not have known what
the matter was. Mills studied him attentively all
the time he was here, but could not come to any satis
factory result about his legs, and therefore went to
bed with an uneasy spirit that night. Yesterday,
however, she went to dine with them at the Swifts,

85

and announced with an air of triumph when she
returned that she had found out what the matter was
with Mr. Hunter's legs. " They are very short from
the hip to the knee, and he is a little knock-kneed."
I feel that the problem is solved.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Chicopee, March 19, 1853.
. . . Don't think that there is anything more than
there was when you were here, it is only that I feel
everything more than I did then and see everything
plainer, and wonder oftentimes if I have not some re-
sponsibUity in the matter that I do not act up to. I
have put my heart so much more into all the rest since I
could not put it all into you that I have a thousand
sensations and perceptions that I never had before.
I have a certain sympathy with Mary in her severity
on Charles, or rather I should say I can see the foun
dation with which she excuses it to herself, and
therefore wish aU the more that I could bring her to
see my standpoint, which is so much the more com
fortable of the two. I wish she would console
herself for what he wants in strictness with himself
and other people, with his beautiful simpUcity and
innocence and warm-heartedness, and believe, as I can,
that his freedom from evil may stand as unrebuked in
the sight of God as the unattained good which other
people, perhaps, strive for more than he.

86

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, March 27, 1853.
. . . We had a service to-day to move the heart
of a heathen and I must have a little sympathy on the
subject. Mr. Peabody's mother is just dead, and he
returned only last evening from the funeral. He
gave us, of course, an Easter sermon, and I think it
was not wholly new, but he delivered it with such a
pathetic, subdued tone in his voice and such an
uplifted look on his face that if he had preached it
seven times before it would have had a new beauty
and excellence in it to-day. He looked and spoke as
if he had been down into the deep waters, but found
them clear and calm, and as if he had come out of
them and looked up through the open sky till he had
caught a glimpse of Heaven. And when he spoke of
his entire confidence that we shall meet our friends in
Heaven, and of his belief in their spiritual commun
ion with us even on earth, truly he spoke as one hav
ing authority, and with an earnest simpUcity that
went straight to one's heart.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, April 3, 1853.
... I am perfectly enchanted at the idea of the
profile likeness, and delighted that Richard Greenough
should be the artist. He has sent home this winter
his bust of Mrs. Curtis, which seems to me a marvel
of art, in combining so remarkably a faithful and an

87
agreeable likeness. Of course with you he has stiU
greater difficulties to contend against on account of
your extreme hideousness, but I cannot but hope he
may come off conqueror. Do you know I never
thought of your doing or thinking anything about it
for ages to come, and should not have wondered if
you never had. I consider the loss of a miniature a
decree of Providence and resigned myself to it accord
ingly, thinking only that perhaps some time or other
I should have something to take the place of it. You
can imagine, therefore, what it is to have these vague
hopes condensed into a firm expectation. Oh, my
darUng ! You and Edward are certainly very good to
me, and I must say it because I feel it intensely. I
shall wait for it very patiently, and when it comes put
it exactly where you say. It shall not be in a bad
Ught if I have a Uttle room built on purpose for it,
and the only objection that I have to putting it in this
little room is that it is rather a selfish monopoly. As
for knowing about it beforehand, I reaUy think it is
quite as pleasant. You know I am very old, so old
that the pleasure of a mere surprise has quite passed
away, and so old, too, that the little patience it will
require to wait for this will be quite easy. There
fore, my beloved, as usual you have done everything
exactly right.
About Mary, I have, through much tribulation,
come clearly to the conclusion that in all love and
peace I must sometimes differ from her, and be
content to abide by my own decision. I love her
dearly and admire her very much, but we are not
alike, and no one can be or do any thing without being

88
true to themselves. I must foUow my truth and she
must follow hers, and I am not afraid that it will ever
bring any vital separation between us, for it can never
be true to either of us not to love each other and
serve each other all our lives. Here, at least, I have
established myself and believe I shall stand.
It seems to me that love and suffering go hand in
hand, in this world, as often as love and happiness,
and unless one loves few people and loves them little,
they must be content to take the shadow that comes
with the sunlight.
Miss W  and Mr. C  are about as ugly a
couple as need be seen. She is short waisted and long
legged, he is long waisted and short legged ; she is
decidedly taller than he is ; she ambles and he trots,
but I think they are sincerely attached to each other,
and therefore it is of no consequence.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, April 11, 1853.
... I feel sure that this winter here has been " good
for one," though sometimes not so very pleasant.
There is an awful amount of things for me to learn
here and until I can fill this place better than I do,
and until some things in myself and other people run
clearer and smoother than they do now, or wUl tiU I
am more of a woman, I think it is wicked in me to
wish for any other sort of teaching.

89

To Mrs. Edward Twistleton.
Boston, April 22, 1853.
... I do think one feels intensely sometimes the
wearisomeness of the incessant pei-sonality of life, of
the eternal conflict either with your own humanity or
some one else's, and for the same reason it is delicious
to get away from feUow-creatures and among the trees
and the hills occasionally ; it must be a refreshment
to the very soul to live as you have done this winter,
among the beautiful works of art which though human
in their origin are without the painful parts of hu
manity, and in their perfection are next to works of
God. You perceive that spring has arrived, and that
I want to go into the country by the tone of my re
marks, both which things are undeniably and undoubt
edly true.
Miss Mifford has actually succeeded in making me
a gown, which has a partial resemblance to garments
that I have worn before, without either going crazy
herself or driving me to that extremity. It has made
me perpetually homesick aU the week to go into the
nursery, no longer haunted by Gray and Watson, and
see the wiry and impetuous Mifford in one chair, and
an automaton in the other, with red hair, and propor
tionately white complexion, who slowly and sedately
sews, never offering a remark or vouchsafing a look
towards the vain and frivolous being upon whose
gowns she is working. She takes not the smaUest
interest in trimmings or flowers, and it is impossible
to arouse her to any sense of buttons. Imagine me,
therefore, steering through the wildering sea of spring

90

clothes, with no Watson at the helm, constantly
wrecked on trimmings that won't match and skirts
that won't hang, and if I come out with any degree
of success, let me have the satisfaction of feeling that
in your eyes at least I appear heroic. I must not
forget Aunt Polly, either, who has mended her stock
ings this week with an expression of saintly sorrow,
truly touching to the beholder. I hope we shaU both
come out of the furnace with purified affections, but
I feel sure that it would be better for us if they had
not both been endowed with red or rather scarlet hair.
With something of the spirit of Marcus Curtius I
was the first person who dared to trust Mifford with
a new dress. I did it pressed on by a conviction that
the " Lord would fix it so that I could stand it some
how," and the Eliots and the rest of the Dwights have
been waiting to see how it would be fixed and whether
I did stand it. I feel supported by the sense that I
have not been wanting to the occasion, and that the
occasion was a great and important one.
I have had ever so many invitations for visiting
this summer and there are some that I cannot refuse,
and nobody thinks or can understand that there is any
earthly reason why I should stay at home. Mary
LoweU wants me to make her a visit, Mary Eliot
asks me to go to Sharon with her, the SaltonstaUs
want me to come to Salem, Mary wants me to go to
Lenox with her for three weeks, SaUie wants me for
three weeks at Newport, Sophia thinks I ought to pass
a month at least with her, and Ellen Coolidge is not
content with me because I won't stay with her a month
on the Beverly shore.

91
For myself, I am just as contented to stay at home
as to trot around, for there are so many books to read
and so many things to study that I never find the time
hang heavy ; then I know it is pleasanter for Ned to
have me about. StiU I think there is much wisdom
in using present opportunities, and suppose the time
may come when I shall have to stay at home, so for
this summer I shall quiet my conscience by doing half
and half and before another shall have your views on
the subject, and perhaps nobody will ever want me
any more.
To Mrs. Edward Twistleton.
Boston, May 1, 1853.
. . . Your accounts of the wet weather in Rome
remind me of a slight fact that I have meant to put
into my three last letters, but have forgotten. You
remember that Mr. Twistleton left his umbrella behind
him at the Astor House the day that you sailed, and
you also remember the umbrella, short and thick and
covered with cotton. Edmund seized it the moment
we got back from the steamer and has cherished it
ever since, like the apple of his eye, remembering in
how many perfectly sunny and dry days it accompanied
our beloved brother down the Mall ; it has had a par
ticular corner assigned to it in the library, all the
servants have stood in a righteous awe of it, and known
that though it might appear Uke cotton, it was a
mighty and mysterious fabric which was only intended
for the use of the upper classes. We have always
caUed it " Edward," and it has been a distinct person-

92
age in the house all winter. The other afternoon it
was raining and when the men went out I heard a
difficulty in the entry about the umbrellas, and Ed
mund evidently struggling between grief and rage.
I called over to know what was the matter. Edmund
had no umbrella. " Where is Edward," said I. " Ed
ward has begun to leak ; he leaked quite badly the
last time I had him." He had felt too badly about it
to tell me at the time, but the horrid truth would out,
and we were obliged to face it. " Edward leaked ; "
he will only do in future for a missile or a very gentle
rain or in a snow-storm. " Edward leaks," that is all ;
that is the point of my story, " Edward leaks." Oh,
dear, dear, dear, dear, dear, melancholy, sad ! " Ed
ward has begun to leak." I don't wish to " point a
moral," and you know I have never had the slightest
tendency to " adorn a tale." I merely state the unvar
nished fact that " Edward has begun to leak."
Anna and Charles and Mary started off for New
York at half-past seven this morning, and after a long
day alone I am quite ready to have a sister to speak
to, and as f cannot get any one else I take you, though
merely as a " pis-aller." How people live that have
no sisters it is utterly beyond me to imagine. I am
very thankful that Providence did not place me in
that " spere." It is all very pleasant being alone for
a morning or an afternoon, but I think a whole day is
" no go," and if it came to a Ufetime I should respect
fully decline the honor.

93

To Mrs. Edward Twistleton.
Boston, May 9, 1853.
... It seemed very unnatural and disagreeable,
dearest bird, to let Sunday pass without even begin
ning my letter to you, as I believe it is the very first
time it has happened this winter. But it dawned
upon me yesterday that it is a great fact that we are
Senior Warden, when John Ware came to dine, and
when after dinner it appeared to be nothing more than
a decent piece of respect to go to church and help fill
the desperately empty seats. So Edmund and I,
instead of walking upstairs after dinner to our respec
tive occupations, looked each other in the face, and
took each other by the arm and went to church.
When there I had myself to keep awake and him, too,
and the consequence was that exhausted nature loudly
demanded repose after such exertions, and my letter
had to be postponed tiU this morning. Whether this
is to be the usual course of proceeding on the Sabbath
or not remains to be proved, but Edmund loudly pro
tests that if I make him go to church he shall dine
out, so that respect need not be brought into the ques
tion and I have not yet made up my mind what it will
be best to do about such an unruly subject.
I was to have enclosed to you in this letter a note
from  containing thanks for your last letter to
her, feeble expressions of affection, and a commission.
Anna, in a delirium of neatness, burnt the note which
I carelessly left on the table. Therefore you will
never get it, but consider yourself thanked, and I will
give you the commission. She wants you to get her

94
a black lace veil " appropriate for a woman of her
size," a really handsome one. She wants to have it
sent by Mary Curtis to save duties, because you know
she's poor and Uving is expensive in Chicopee. That's
all. Just do it and don't " let on " that we lost the
note.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, May 15, 1863.
... I wish I knew exactly what you were doing
and thinking about at this present moment, my dear
est, for you seem to me for some reason or other par
ticularly far off and away this afternoon, and I feel
particularly without you. I beUeve it must be this
blessed and beautiful spring weather that brings last
spring so incessantly to my mind, and makes me feel
as if I must have you come back with all the other
loveliness in the world, and as if you must look out
the window with me at the exquisite green veil that
the young leaves make between us and the hills. It
is just exactly such weather as we had last year, the
week before you were married, and Naples and Rome
put together cannot be more beautiful, and, therefore,
I have not the usual intense satisfaction of feeUng that
our loss is greatly your gain, for I know if you were
here you would not want anything greener or fresher
or more sunny. Excuse me for wailing, I am going
to stop immediately, but it does me good occasionaUy
to express myself in an unreasonable and one-sided
manner, as if I had something to complain of. There
is one thing, however, that I want you clearly to

95
understand — that I do not in the least want you here
without Edward, and you needn't think I do. I miss
him also to a most absurd degree this spring, and have
ever since the east winds began to blow, which he
always declared he liked. Fortunately, there is a Mr.
Brinley in town who has a pair of shoulders precisely
like Edward's, and has a blue frock coat and goes up
the street every day. He does me a great deal of
good, and having, after a great deal of exertion, found
out his name, I have now serious thoughts of asking
him to dine, and if you dare laugh at me I shall feel
that you are not capable of appreciating true feeling.
I have no doubt he is a very agreeable and bald-headed
man, and I wish I could see him without his hat. I
am sorry to say that Mrs. Brinley looks in perfectly
good health, and therefore he is not likely to enquire
my name or place of residence, unless I suggest it to
him openly.
I am quite wiUing that you should have the 19th*
all to yourself. You do not know how it stands out
to me the brightest and most beautiful of all the days
in my Ufe, and how I count it your gift to your sis
ters that it should be so radiant. I shall not do any
thing about it Thursday, because unless I could make
a beautiful tree grow up, or get a choir of angels to
come down and sing to me about you, I shouldn't want
anything, but I shall keep a feast day in my heart for
you, you may be sure.
• Mrs. Twistleton's wedding day.

96

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, May 20, 1853.
... I am deeply gratified with the beetle bracelet
and appreciate its likeness to Ellen Coolidge, and feel
that you must be happier, much happier, with your
beetles that you were without. In time I hope you
will attain a necklace of bumble-bees, and another
bracelet covered with Uttle black, brick-walk ants.
Then I shall rest in the conviction that you are sur
rounded by your greatest earthly favorites. I never
have felt, and I hope that Edward never has, that
your affection for us compared for one moment with
your devotion to ants, bumble-bees, beetles, caterpil
lars, or lady bugs, but with that generosity which
characterizes me I have been content to take the
second place, and now am wiUing and even glad that
you should adorn yourself with and be constantly re
minded of my rivals in your heart.
As for your special note to me, I cannot thank you
for it adequately except in a braver heart, and, if it
be possible, a still deeper love for you. Every word
went to the right place, and every word I agree to
most profoundly. I am learning to have more confi
dence in myself, but mostly because I see it is the
only rudder by which I can steer through the diver
sity around me. I can scarcely call it confidence in
myself, but confidence in the power of an upright and
single-hearted intention, for further than that there is
very little in which I can depend on myself. That
you agree with me and believe in me and understand

97
me is my daily comfort and support. Never, darling,
for one moment wish yourself back here to help me,
for your happiness helps me infinitely more than even
your presence could and I never have wished you
back one moment since you went away, though God
only knows how I have missed you. All things are
easier and better now than they were, a great deal.
I understand myself and understand other people in
finitely better than I did six months ago, and I feel
weU and strong and perfectly able and content to take
Ufe as it comes and make the best of it. Something
must keep happening always ; we are not meant to
rest or fold our hands in this world, and perhaps this
last winter's work is no harder than other winters,
except that it came more on me than usual, and I had
infinitely rather take it than have any one else, and
ought to be and mean to be both thankful and
content. " Knowledge through suffering entereth," " And
Ufe is perfected in death." Mrs. Browning never
said anything truer, and, if one believes it, it brings
great patience.
On Thursday I took my staff in my hand and my
pack upon my back, figuratively speaking, and seized
Sophia by the hand (who, I beUeve, I wrote you has
been making Mary a visit) and went to Newburyport
to spend that long promised day and night with Aunt
Peggie. It rained pitchforks, but I was urged on by
a ruthless desire to accomplish it, and therefore per
sisted. We were received with open arms, of course,
and made welcome to a great deal of discomfort and
un-neatness, which was nearly rendered attractive by

98
the cheerful and exhilarated manner in which Aunt
Peggy regards it.
The next morning it cleared off and we had a row on
the Artichoke, calculated to make Heaven seem un
necessary, because this earth appeared so very beautiful.
I don't believe there is in the two hemispheres a place
more beautiful of its kind than the meeting of those
two rivers, seen under the sunlight of a May morning.
I enjoyed myself intensely and thought of you all
the time. I should like to go there once a month if
only for the sake of getting a sense of the beauty and
the bUss there is in this world, to counterbalance some
other ingredients. Aunt Peggy appears to me the
happiest, most inconsistent and inconsequent woman
there is now living. Her outward circumstances
might seem depressing to the casual observer. Poor
as a church-mouse, with a defunct husband, an idiotic
and intemperate son, her eldest daughter poor and
transcendental, and two younger ones poor and with
out a prospect in life worth mentioning. She says to
herself, apparently, " My husband is dead, but there
are vegetables in the garden ; my son has had the
delirium tremens three times, but he is a noble and
remarkable being, and there is water in the river, we
haven't the first red cent to bless ourselves with,
but there are leaves upon the trees and the sky is
blue, and oh, let us be joyful, joyful, joyful ! " and so
she is, positively blissful all the time, and one catches
something of her frame of mind by being with her, so
that I really enjoyed myself extremely and mean to
go again.

99

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, May 23, 1853.
. . . There ought to be in the Liturgy a thanks
giving for the happiness of those whom you love, for
certainly there is no greater blessing on this earth,
and I hope I shaU never cease to be thankful for the
sunny years that you have had and the peace that has
grown up in my heart about you.
Anna is decidedly better than she was last week,
and I gave the housekeeping back into her hands
yesterday with an easy mind. She has passed through
the moth-mania, and was miserably for two days after,
as she stood on her feet for many consecutive hours,
rummaging through every crack and corner of her
domains with eyes and mind constantly on the alert to
discover traces of the enemy, and no persuasions of
mine could induce her to slacken her pursuit.

To Miss Lizzie Eliot.
Princeton, May 29, 1853.
... I certainly have had a good time and I
think you will see it in my old ugly face when I get
home. Hills and stUlness and nothing to do are great
facts and great restoratives, and I feel greatly re
freshed and try to think I am ready to come back to
town. I have had eight most beautiful rides, starting
off every morning, except Saturday, on Fashion, and
roaming along, finding out my way as I could, con
versing with the farmers and the boys and girls, and
feeling that " my foot was on my native heath and

100

my name was Macgregor." The rest of the days I
have industriously wasted. This is really a beautiful
place. The hills are not as bold as those in Berkshire,
but they are very various and weU arranged, and I
shall always look back at them gratefully.

To Mrs. Edward Twistleton.
Moss Hill, June 18, 1853.
. . . Tuesday Anna went to Cambridge to get
Charles' mother for her annual visit, and she has been
here ever since. She is just as usual, constantly
making " odious comparisons " in which she places us
at the pinnacle of perfection, constantly inquii'ing for
books that we haven't got; constantly telling Anna
that she doesn't see that she eats anything, tiU Anna,
if the morsel were a little more tempting, would Uke
to devour her at one fell swallow, constantly calUng
Arthur in a most amiable tone " a little strut " and
heaping him with presents and kisses at the same
time, constantly apologizing to everybody for every
step that is taken on her account, and consequently
wearing Anna almost to the bone, while I feel in
clined to giggle, and converse with her on every im
possible subject of literature, morals, and theology.
She is a great and most amusing creature I think,
though I might find her less so if she were my mother-
in-law. Having made up my mind that riding is the one
thing needful for my peace of mind and health in
body, I have hired for the summer the same horse

101
that I had at Newport last autumn, Mary Chilton,
who is one of the most delightful beings that Provi
deuce ever beamed on, or man or woman rode upon.
The horse being in the stable, ride I will, and by the
force of this determination have actually succeeded
in taking six rides in as many days, spite of wind,
weather, and visitors, whom I have left in the most
unrelenting and uncivil manner in one or two instances,
Edmund is very lovely about riding with me, and has
twice this week escorted me far into the moonlight, a
privilege which I never enjoyed before, and as the
moon turns aU Brookline into an absolute fairyland it
is no small pleasure. In addition to this he has pre
sented me with a riding-whip of such a sublime
nature that I think of wearing the top of it for a
breastpin when winter obliges me to forsake my rides.
I have also a new and very fine dark blue habit, made
by Huntington, which makes me look like a mixture
of grenadier and a widowed walking-stick, and now I
hope you have a lively idea of my equipment and will
approve of my passing a considerable portion of my
afternoons in it.
To Mrs. Edward Twistleton.
Lenox, July 4, 1853.
. . . You wish also to know about Harry and Aunt
Margaret. I'll tell you with pleasure. After the
child had his first cold. Aunt Margaret instructed
him not to wash himself in the mornings, except a
little about the face, whereas a cold bath was the
very and the only thing likely to strengthen him

102

against future colds. She also instructed him not to
take his flannels off at night and not to change them
but once a week, so that the child wore the very same
garments next his poor little skin from Sunday morn
ing to Saturday night, day and night. Just think
what piggery. She found that his stockings required
a good deal of mending, and made him sit down with
a case knife and scrape his heels, because she said his
heels were hard and wore out his stockings. Just
think of the poor little fellow forced to whittle him
self down, in order to save a few stitches and a Uttle
washing. . . .
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Lenox, July 4, 1853.
... I promised to finish off my letter with some
account of Sam's wedding, dearest bird, and as it has
fairly used up my day I may as well make what
show I can on paper out of it. Anna and I tore our
selves out of our beds this morning with the terrible
thought on our minds that we must be all arrayed in
our braveries and on our way to town by half-past
nine. We swallowed our breakfasts, snubbed
Arthur, tore off our morning gowns, shoved on our
flounces and furbelows and crgpe bonnets, had a
struggle with our memories not to forget our fans, or
our pocket handkerchiefs, or our white gloves, and
were fairly down the avenue at quarter before ten
with our morning faces and our afternoon dresses on,
which is always a painful combination.

103

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Moss Hill, July 19, 1853.
. . . Here I am, my darling, safe at home again,
with my trunk unpacked, my room cleared up, and
my mind back in the old home niche, which always
feels so deliciously comfortable, however pleasantly
the time has been passed away from it. It is four
weeks to-morrow since I went away, and I certainly
never had four that were, on the whole, fuUer of
rational enjoyment, which leaves no excitements to
be recovered from and no snarls to be untangled.
Chicopee looked perfectly lovely. Just as lovely
as it is to you and me and to nobody else. It is just
a pilgrimage into the past to go there at this season
of the year, and solemnly beautiful to me for that
reason. I occasionally indulge myself there in being
thoroughly homesick after you, a luxury I never
aUow myself anywhere else. The hay had just been
cut and the moon was nearly full, and you know pre
cisely how it looked, and how I walked up and down
the brick-walk and felt as if J must have you.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Moss Hill, July 24, 1853.
... I should like to have you tell me one thing,
and that is how you feel when you find yourseU set
down to converse with such a kind of woman as Lady
Ashburton, who is horribly booked up about every
thing and constantly saying something, and expect
ing to have something said to her in return. It

104
appears to me that I should sink into the sUence of
the grave and make an ass of myself, and make my
husband ashamed of me, and be more ashamed of
myself. Now I know you are infinitely better up to
the mark than I should be, and I see perfectly how
you get along with people who have hearts as well as
minds, even if they are on more of a pinnacle as
regards learning than you are, but I should not know
how to work it with this kind, and should have a hor
ror of them instead of taking a lordly survey of them
as you do. . . .
Commencement was really pleasant and interesting
and much less fatiguing than I expected. I did not
go till eleven o'clock, and therefore did not have as
bad a time as I might in waiting before the exercises
began. Charlie Eliot, Arthur Lyman, Wilder
Dwight, and James Pierce all had parts, and of
course, with a beautiful impartiaUty, I thought the
parts of the boys I knew infinitely the best in matter
and manner. Charlie EUot graduated second scholar,
and his part was really, cousinly affection aside,
decidedly the best and the best delivered. Uncle
Sam sat just behind him with the Corporation, his
face beaming with satisfaction. After the exercises
we went to Charlie's and Arthur Lyman's room,
they having combined on the occasion. There were
Pratts and Lymans in all their state, Emily Eliot
coming, the bride and the married woman, and sitting
down with a large piece of chicken to make a good
meal, in a white lace bonnet and blonde mantiUa, Mr.
Russell Sullivan invited as Charlie's old teacher, and
looking like grim despair, and a heavy background

105

of half-grown Eliots and Lymans interspersed, with
an incidental youth or two. Besides these there
were various Guilds, Nortons, Otises, and Dwights,
and we made out to have quite a jolly time.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Aug. 8, 1853.
... It is inconceivable to me that I never men
tioned Charles Norton's effusion to you, and I am
amazed that he did not send you a copy handsomely
bound " feeUng sure that you would be interested in
it on his account." It came out in the early part of
May, and is called " Recent Social Theories." There
are two remarks in it, which are varied over seventy-
five pages ; one is " that there has been great confusion
of thought shown on these subjects and that sound
views and right feeUng are very much needed," and,
therefore, he is going to give them to us ; the other
"that the progress of nations is and must be slow."
There are also some few statistics in the book which
show that he has read up pretty well on French social
ism and that he knows how to add. He sent the pub
lication to each family and we had two. Some folks
had to write him notes, but that wasn't me. Edmund
said that he should write him that " he took it up
with interest and laid it down with pleasure," but I
am afraid he did not.

106

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Moss Hill, Aug. 15, 1853.
. . . Ned and I went to Newport as we expected,
on Wednesday, but on arriving at the wharf, instead
of Mr. Tiffany, we met one of their servants to tell
us that Sally had heard that morning very suddenly
of her sister Kitty's death, and had gone to Baltimore
by the evening boat, which pushed off just as we
came up. They had telegraphed us not to come, but
knowing that it was very uncertain whether we
received the despatch, our rooms were ready for us
and they hoped we would go to their house, and
make ourselves entirely at home. There seemed to
be nothing else for us to do, and we accordingly
went directly there with bag and baggage. We found
Elsie Tiffany stationed there to receive us, in the fuU
bloom of pretension and hypocrisy (if I may express
myself candidly). Mrs. Johnstone had gone with
SalUe, Mr. Tiffany had gone away on business that
morning, before they received the news, but Colonel
Johnstone had remained behind with Kate and son.
Elsie presided over our tea, and before we had done
George Tiffany walked in with Colonel Johnstone.
The solemnities of eating being over, we all sat down
in the drawing-room and talked tUl ten o'clock, Elsie
coming alternately the woman of feeUng and the
woman of intellect, and finally taking her leave with
her lovely uncle and allowing Edmund and me to
adjust ourselves to the peculiarities of our position.
Imagine us, therefore, ignorant recruits in garrison,
with a mUitary officer of the most rigid discipline.

107
and you will have some idea of the difficulties of
getting to bed that night and getting through break
fast the next morning. Your unfortunate sister being
perfectly unaware of the suitable military phrase for
asking where she was to sleep or whether the com
mandant would take a second cup of tea, was obliged
to bring all her moral courage to bear, to get at these
necessary facts by the circumlocutions of civilian
language. As Edmund said, he was perfectly will
ing to answer any questions that were addressed to
him, but he actually did not favor us with one volun
tary remark during the four or five hours that we
were obliged to spend in his society. But while I
compassioned myself sincerely, I felt still more for
him, for I would catch him every now and then glar
ing at me intently, and he felt me on his mind like a
perfect nightmare all the time we were there, I am
convinced, and would have gladly fought a duel in
my behalf or thrown up a fortification all round me
if he thought it would have given me pleasure, but
his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth when a
young lady in a white dress sat opposite to him at the
breakfast table and his presence of mind utterly
deserted him.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Moss Hill, Aug. 30, 1853.
. . . We have been through a scene of nightmare in
the process of having E  here to tea. We knew
that horror was hanging over us and we thought we
would face up to it while Lizzie was here. We asked

108
them, and E  and M  came without S  . It
was quite a cold, autumnal sort of evening, so that
windows had to be shut and lamps lighted. E 
appeared in a white silk berege lined with purple,
five flounces, low neck, short sleeves, bows in her
hair, and bells on her toes, I have no doubt, though
they were covered by her shoes. We were not wholly
unprepared for this blaze of grandeur and childhood
combined, for she has adopted the infantile for her
style this summer and I presume S  likes it. We
reined in our glances to a suitable restraint and
addressed ourselves to conversing, and before nine
o'clock, when a merciful Providence carried them
home, I felt as if my mind had been dwarfed for life
by the constant pressure which had been appUed to
keep it within the necessary bounds of dress, parties,
and people. E  is as flat to talk to as is possible
to be, though she certainly is a pattern of propriety
and has had already a decided effect on the manners
and behavior of that family. M  no longer sits
with open mouth and in total silence, but really does
her childish best to please.
Aunt L  has really fixed one or two days
for different members of the family to come there,
and they have been and there is less squabbling and
fewer broken cream pitchers, and this, I believe, to be
effected by E  .
But never, never, never will I have her asked
unmitigated to tea again, for I cannot stand it.
Where do you think Ned and I went last Sunday
and to see whom? Nowhere more or less than to
West Newton to see Mr. Mann who is about leaving

109
Newton and Massachusetts permanently to go to Ohio
to take charge of a college just starting at a place
called Yellow Springs. Ned and I both felt that for
the sake of " Auld Lang Syne " we should like to
drop and forget all differences of life and opinion and
go back for half an hour to the old terms, and call
upon the old love which I never have forgotten and
which I did not think could have died away entirely.
So after dinner Sunday we took Jessie and the buggj'
and rode and rode as long as ever we were able till we
came to his house at Newton, and there standing out
under the trees with just the old tip in his back and
as tall and as white-haired as ever, stood the beloved
Horace.* If I had been the little girl over again he
could not have been more truly and fatherly glad to
see me, and I felt just as fond of him that minute as
ever I did in my life. Of course we had to go into
the house forthwith and see Mrs. M., who came sailing
in with the air of a distinguished beauty just as she
used to. She is short, conceited, patronizing, and
twitchey as ever, but I didn't care one straw for her,
and sat down calmly and did my duty by her, until
Mr. Mann came and took her place, and she went off
and he curled himself down on his dear old shoulder-
blades and took my hand in both of his, and looked
into my eyes till he brought the tears into his own
and mine, too.
Then he asked and I told him about you all, and
he called you " a splendid woman, a most splendid
woman " to my heart's content, and spoke of father
* Horace Mann was an old friend of her father's and had been her teacher
years before.

110
with most grateful remembrance, and then I laughed
at him and he had all his jokes over again and we
had a splendid Uttle time together, and if I could
have grown down a few inches and scrambled up to
his knees I should have done it with dear pleasure.
Since I have been writing this Charlie has brought
me from town a lecture he has sent me, with a note
nearly equal to that he sent us with our gold-pencil
cases, and you don't know how good it feels to have
made this little bridge between the past and the
present. . . . Life seems to me to Ue in two such different
streaks, dearest heart, now, one very sufficiently pleas
ant and prosperous, and one very full of doubt and
anxiety, that I have to keep them separate in writing
to you, and take another sheet to tell you what I am
sometimes almost tempted to keep to myself, but do
not for truth's sake. And first, let me thank you
from my inmost heart for your letter to me yesterday.
I have wanted for a week to lay my head down in
your lap and have a good cry, not because I am very
unhappy, but from the accumulation of suppressed
emotions which are not meant to and cannot have
any utterance except to you.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Keene, Oct. 9, 1853.
[After a visit to Mrs. Tiffany at Newport, she writes :]
. . . SalUe does not seem to me to have admitted
the fact that this life is and must be laborious or at
least steadily industrious. She will put a thing

Ill
through at an emergency with as much spirit and
vigor as any one, but the daily bearing of the burden
or the patient continuance in well-doing, even though
it be tedious and apparently unproductive, is what
she does not seem to have arrived at yet.
Of course I also saw the N  's at Newport, who
were in a much more usual state of mind than I ex
pected to find them. If they like to call it happiness, no
one can have any objection to their giving it that name,
but it will be on the same principle that Frank called
his hat his cadwallader. Mrs. H  did not come
down-stairs, but I went up to see her and N  and
the baby. She looks very pale and very sad and her
eyes kept filUng with tears, as you know they do, and
in her black dress and her plain cap she looked, I
thought, very pathetic and just as if she had lost her
main staff in life. N  looked in a state of perfect
and entire f eUcity, and except for her black dress you
would never have dreamt that anything had happened.
She gazed at her Uttle brown ugly baby who is the
very image of Mr. B  reduced, and seemed to feel
that life could not offer a more enchanting spectacle.
K  looked pale and worn out, and either past events
or Edmund's presence, who went with me, made her
voice very shaky and her hands very cold and her
nerves altogether in a very unpleasant condition. G.
was nothing in particular, which is apt to be her con
dition, and as the result of long continued younger-
sisterhood, which, Mrs. Twistleton, you married and
went abroad to avoid for me. Next week the N  's
expect to come up from Newport, and L  is going
with them for the present. I pity them sincerely, for

112
though they like to call it " natural and happy feel
ing," it is the sort of feeling which is very exhausting
to mind and body. . . .
Nobody could set a better example of a Christian
housekeeper than she* did in those two days, actually
staying upstairs in my room and denying herself the
garret and the cellar and the soap-barrel and the bag
gage wagon, and all the endearing occupations of the
last two days in any earthly tenement.
She let me do it all and even pack her trunk, and
didn't feel herself a martyr either, but when the car
riage came to the door, cheerfully got into it and ex
changed my room at Moss Hill for her own in Park
St., where she continued to maintain the same state
of mind and let the house and household settle them
selves. The consequence was that I left her yester
day with an easy mind and conscience, building up
on beef tea and brandy and expecting to go down
stairs to-day to dine. In spite of her Ulness she was
glad to have been to the exhibition, and though it
made her physically ill, it did her infinite good men
tally. She had been wretchedly down for a week
before she went away and only went because we
begged her to, having no heart for anything herself,
but the change took the load right off her mind and
she came back sick, but possessed by her own sweet
self, which was a very merciful relief. I do not think
I have ever told you what a miserably ill summer I
think she has had. Three times within the four
months I have seen her more unhappy than she has
been before for two years, certainly. I have not wiit-
* Speaking of Mrs. MiUs.

113
ten you about it thoroughly, partly because I do not
Uke to write about other people while they are mak
ing me unhappy, and partly that I have somewhat
mistrusted my own judgment about Anna. You used
to think me and I certainly was harsh and impatient
in my judgment of her, and it is the fear that this
was still the case that has made me very often say
nothing about her this summer when my heart was
very fuU of her. I don't think this sUence is quite
fair to you, because it does not give you the whole
truth, which I promised you should have, and besides,
if I am still impatient and severe, you will see it and
tell me so, and thereby help me more than in any
other way, and if this last eighteen months has brought
me, as I hope, to the more loving appreciation of her
virtues and the more patient pity for her shortcom
ings, which I have striven for, why then you will see
that too ; at any rate you will not let my darkness
obscure your light. She was too tired when we went
out to Moss Hill with the winter's work, and at first
the rest seemed to do her good, as it always does, but
in a few days that wore away and for a week before
I went to Lenox she was perfectly miserable and un
happy and could not be comforted. Her nerves cer
tainly do work differently on her from what they used
to, for they make her really pettish and almost unkind
in her intercourse with other people and ungracious
at the head of the table. Ned irritates her when
she is sick, and she will sometimes speak to him
really crossly and sometimes scarcely speak for a
week together. Then as soon as the momentary irri-
tabiUty is over she is intensely sorry and self-con-

114
demned and yet unable the second time to resist the
same thing. When I came home from Lenox she was
nicely and so continued till she came back from New
port, and then she was not weU and Sophia was at
Moss HiU and she was overset by her and did not
treat her kindly, and then when Sophia was gone she
was miserable about that. Just before I went to
Beverly she had another attack and the morning be
fore I went she spoke so to me that I was almost
made sick by trying not to believe that she really did
wish I would go away for good and never come back,
although she said so. But in the evening that blessed
box of yours came, and we all sat around that together
and it cleared the sky and she came back to herself
and begged me to forget what she had said, and of
course it was not the least matter, and from that
time she was quite comfortable again until just before
she went to Newport. Each attack has plainly fol
lowed, I think, on over-fatigue and I have bent
my whole heart in trying to avoid that for her, but
it is very hard. Before I went to Newport I had a
long and most pathetic talk with her. She said the
time had come when she felt as if she had lost the
power of doing right, that she knew she spoke wrong
and felt wrong, and she could not help it. I begged
her to look further back and see if she could not trace
a great deal to physical causes, and try to strike at
those first before she accused herself of so much wrong.
Then I tried to show her how she over-tired herself
and thus wore out her mental and moral power, and
she did come nearer to admitting that there w^as
something in what I said than she has ever done be-

115
fore, and she said, what was peace to hear, that I did
her good because I made her feel that I loved her.
You can't tell how I have sought for a flaw in my
self to account, partly at least, for her unhappiness
and it seemed to me that I must have greatly failed
in making her feel my affection if she could think,
even for a moment, that she wished I would go and
Uve with Mary or Sophia and never come back to
her and Charles. When, therefore, she said this I
felt somewhat comforted and start on the winter now
with some hope that I shall be able to help her through.
Sometimes I think that my own equable and cheerful
temperament is just a torment to her, and that if
I were less stolid she would be less sensitive, but I
ought to be a support instead of a worry to her if
I managed rightly.
I am sure of one thing, that she did too much last
winter in going to Sam Eliot's school and in going to
too many parties, though I tried she should not go on
my account. This winter, being in black, parties will
be put aside and I do not think she will go to the
school, and if I can interest her in my reading and
studying and make living indoors pleasant to her, it
seems the best thing to try for. If you see anything
wherein I am unwise or wicked, please tell me. I
cannot feel as if I were right until I can better uphold
her peace, at least ; enjoyment I do not hope for, for
her, and scarcely happiness, but peace such a pure
heart as hers ought to have, it seems to me, and yet
she has it not. Now don't think me complaining nor
unhappy. I do not mean to be the first and I am not
the second. For three days before I came away Anna

116
was delightful enough to put all past things out of
mind, if it were right to forget them, until I have
fairly learnt the lesson they were meant to teach.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Nov. 13, 1853.
. . . Marj' says that the camp-stool Edward carries
for you to sit on " rests her," which is the most she
(poor thing) can say about anything now. I don't
need rest or anything of that kind at present, and it
is hardly possible for me to have a deeper conviction
than I have of Edward's perpetual and judicious care
of you, but every little new fact gives me the satisfac
tion of saying to myself with a little mental pat on
my back, " Just what I should have expected," and
then I hold up my head a little higher than I did
before and feel that we have indeed a husband.
I shaU give Aunt Polly your message with care
and accuracy. She gave herself last week a pretty
hard thump on her cheek just below her eye, with a
stick she had in her hand, and if you could have seen
the manner in which she pinned herself up to con
summate the cure, I think it would have been as
diverting to you as it was to me. In the first place,
a broad white bandage to support the forehead, next
a small square rag which came down to her eyebrow.
pinned to that another which covered her eye, and
pinned to that one which came on to the cheek, the
only part that was really hurt. Then she folded her
dear little chubby hands over her apron, sat back in

117

her chair, closed both eyes, and rocked and thought
what a good surgeon she was and what a complicated
case, but was quite happy. In spite of the rags she
recovered soon, and is convinced that is the only way
to do, and I think she is perfectly enchanting and
wouldn't have missed the picture for anything.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Tuesday Morning, Dec. 6, 1853.
. . . Last winter I tried to throw away that round
Taunton work-basket of yours which you left as rub
bish, but couldn't succeed, and therefore had a tin
fitted to the lower part so that it might hold flowers.
Therefore, of course, I fixed your flowers in your
basket and it was delightful and nobody can ever say
now that I am a fool or that I love you.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Monday Morning, Dec. 19, 1853.
. . . You needn't talk to me about appreciating the
advantages of steam and the nineteenth century. I
don't appreciate anything else, and even those who
haven't read Euripedes, which I am proud to say I
haven't done any such thing, can see that it wouldn't
have been at aU pleasant to many a distant Greek. I
am glad that you appreciate Mary Curtis and the
rabbit. I don't think it can be justly called a paper
weight, or any useful article, but it is heavy enough
to be used for that purpose whenever I feel practically

118
inclined about it. Generally, however, it reposes on
my table in useless state. Do you know that I
wish very much that you would have a nice bunny
cut on a seal for me and " Bunny " in some very com
plicated and incomprehensible letters over it, and then
I could seal my letters to you and to Coolidge with it
and it would be a great relaxation to me. You see
it really is my coat-of-arms and always will be and I
want it. I don't know whether you are going any
where this winter where stone-engraving is well done,
but if you do and have a great deal of time that you
don't know what to do with, you have it done for me
and I will handsomely remunerate you. It ought to
be cut on an onyx; so that there would be a white
bunny with a black or dark gray edge around it and
then white letters. Don't you sympathize with me
and don't you see how much it would add to my hap
piness to have it, and to yours to have letters sealed
with it?
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Tuesday, Jan. 3, 1854.
... It is incomprehensible to me that I could have
said that I felt unacquainted with any part of your feel
ings, and I cannot conceive under what lapse I could
have said it. It was not a month ago that Mary was
setting forth to me some sensation of separateness
from you and I fought with her for an hour to prove
that I and she knew all about you, and told her that
I felt just as close to you as if you Uved within a
stone's throw. It must have been some unconscious

119
reflection of her words that wrote itself in my letter,
for I entirely deny ever being visited by such a mis
erable feeling. My faith in you is perfect and my
comprehension absolute, and your letters have always
been just what I wanted and all that I wanted. I
remember the past and understand the present and
believe in the future beyond the power of any force
that I can now recognize to shake, and I feel your
hand in mine and cling to it as my nearest earthly
support. BeUeve me, darUng, I do not and cannot
exaggerate the perennial depths of my faith and love
for you. At the bottom of almost every life Ues some
pain I beUeve. I do not need that you should touch
the bottom with me, for we have been there together
and I know every sigh and every tear that paves it.
Our faith is the same, our hope is the same, and living
by my own I know I Uve by yours.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Monday, Jan. 16, 1854.
. . . Having passed all the early part of the morning
in the various occupations which belong to a house
keeper, my dearest, such as hounding the errand boy,
snubbing A  , skirmishing with twine and paper,
and bundles for the express, and notes to shop
keepers, and Book-Club books, and bundle-handker
chiefs, with a pleasant mixture of poor women and
unbleached cotton, and having, after that, stumbled
through my harp lesson, I feel that I am in precisely
the state of mind likely to make me an agreeable cor
respondent and therefore sit down to confer myself

120
upon you. I do not think even two winters of matri
mony, art, and education can have made you forget
the horrors of Monday morning in this blessed man
sion. If you have forgotten them, it is well that they
should be brought back to your mind. I suppose
washing day is really the foundation iniquity which
seems to blacken the whole establishment, for that is
the reason that the servants won't answer the bells
till they have rung three times and then come in a
dripping condition which makes it inevitable to send
them back to their tubs immediately, that there is no
one to take care of the children, so that the beloved
Toodles stands by my side while I am settling accounts
and says, " Aunt Lizzie, I want a piece of twine,"
" Aunt Lizzie, I want a seal," " Aunt Lizzie, I want a
piece of paper and a pencil," " Aunt Lizzie, I want a
stick," " Aunt Lizzie, who's that note for ? " " Aunt
Lizzie, where 's that bundle going ? " " Aunt Lizzie,
what is express ? " and I say, " Don't tease, darling,"
" Let alone," " Wait," " Be quiet," in a tone of sup
pressed rage, and feel by eleven o'clock as if it would
be quite a pleasure to me to wring his neck for him
and as if I were losing that amiable temper for
which I have always been so remarkable.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Saturday, Jan. 17, 1854.
... I meant to have told you last week that Mrs.
Howe's volume of poems had come out. It is called
" Passion Flowers " and forms, of couree, a most fertile
subject of conversation and criticism for all Boston.

121
There is the greatest variety of opinions about it. Some
people think it full of poetry and genius, but these
are JuUa Sumner and Mr. Field ; some people think
it shows talent, but wants taste and even principle,
and dislike her more than they did before ; some people
think it powerful, striking, wanting in beauty and
finish and taste, but pity her more and are more inter
ested in her for reading it, and this is me, and some
people say there is " neither passion nor fiowers in it "
and this is Aunt Anna, and some people are utterly
impatient and disgusted with it. She wants to send
you a copy and you will probably meet one in Paris.
There are several descriptions of Edward in it, I think,
and some pieces to gentlemen that she never ought to
have written. But there is such suffering in the book
and what seems to me sincere though fitful aspirations
for something better that I pity her deeply.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Sunday Afternoon, ,Ian. 29, 1854.
. . . Now, my dear, I wish to turn from ourselves to
yourself and give you the advantage of a great many
profound thoughts which have proceeded from the
mingled minds of Mills and Bunny.
I feel very strongly that it would be happier for you
to have a home in England before you come out here
to see us, and that the next year would give you if
you settled down there this spring ; I do not like to
think of your going back there to a second set of
uncertainties. If you were to be there a year, you
would at any rate to a degree find your place and

122
settle your possibilities and your prospects, and then
when you leave us, go back to a known instead of an
unknown life. Of course with our limited knowledge
of English life and Edward's position, our opinions
must be to a good degree founded on ignorance.
Still, we know that you would not have asked for
them if you had not wanted them, such as they are,
and we give them with a full sense of their imperfec
tions. When you have read this, you know you are
entirely at liberty to say, " I hear what you say, Betsy,
but it makes no difference," and we shall be entirely
satisfied. You will do what is right and that we
know and beUeve with all our hearts and shall believe
it, just the same, even if we do not understand exactly
why.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Sunday Afternoon, Feb. 14, 1854.
... 1 have just been looking through my diary to
see what are the interesting events of the week. I
find dinner ordered, Arthur taken care of, Anna read
to every day, and an occasional interval of practising
or a ride at the circus are the other great facts of ex
istence, but on one page I find written in capitals of
a size and shape to startle the reader, T.E.T.T.E.R.T.
F.O.W.H.D., and that brings to my mind a tale of
tribulation which I know you will sympathize with,
though the tribulation is past. Think of the state of
mind of that female who thinks for six weeks that
she has lost a whole portfolio of the letters of the
person she loves best in the world, and you will have

123
some idea of my sufferings during that time. About
three weeks after I came home from Mary's I missed
a portfolio of your letters which I was certain I had
at Mary's and equally certain that I brought home
with me. I took the earliest opportunity to ransack
every drawer, closet, cupboard, box, and trunk, that I
ever possessed, but nothing ever could be found of
them. I thought it hardly possible that they should
be at Mary's, but had every intention of looking there
as soon as possible. I was so afraid to shut out from
myself the last hope that I put it off, until it hung
over me like a perfect nightmare, and Wednesday,
finding that it snowed hard and I could not possibly
do any one of the things I planned, I determined to
take a carriage, go to Mary's, and meet my fate, what
ever it might be. I went and looked through every
hole in the room that I slept in, without the smallest
success, I rushed desperately downstairs to look in
the last place and there I found them, carefully laid
away by my own hand out of harm's way. I seized
them and rushed upstairs to Mary at a quicker pace
than any one ever passed those stairs before. A hap
pier woman than I was for the next hour never
walked the earth, I beUeve. Then I perceived how
much misery they had cost me. Every letter that
came from you, instead of being a pure pleasure has
sent a pang to my heart, every one I have sent has
been worse, for I thought it ought to contain my con
fession. I have snubbed every one who has asked
me about you, refused everybody who has asked me
to read them your letters, hated all the people I gen
eraUy Uke best, because they constantly reminded

124
me of my hidden misery. There are few kinds of
mental torture worse than the enduring a misfortune
brought about by your own carelessness or inattention,
and that I could have been really careless about these
letters, which are my daily care and my nightly
thought, was an unsearchable mystery to me. You
never in your youngest days suffered so much over a
lost ring or bracelet as I have over this portfolio, and
I think it must have been a penance sent upon me to
pay me for the many times that I have laughed at you
for your misery. I will never laugh at an}- one
again. . . .
Anna continues to gain at precisely the same rate
that she has done.
The only thing that weighs on her mind is the fear
that I shall overwork myself or the knowledge that I
am obliged to give up or lay aside a good many of
my own plans while there is so much sickness in the
house and while I am necessarily the only person to
be called upon. She knows and believes that T am
thankful to do it all, and I take every pains to rest
myself, and am really as well and strong as possible
and in no danger of breaking down, but I cannot help
her seeing that five days out of six I cannot touch
my harp, that my French lessons have been given up,
or that I am busy most of the time. She has a vision
of a Ufe for me, literary, musical, social, with time to
cultivate my own mind and enjoy other people's, and
it is very hard for her to give it up, and I think her
patience under these sensations is wonderful. I had
a vision once of such a life, too, but I have come to
the conclusion that it is not meant for me. I could

125
be perfectly happy to read and study and practise
and write to you from one year's end to the other,
and I hoped and meant that the three years of your
absence should be three years of study for me, but it
is a positive fact that there have not been two months
since you went when, from sickness, either of body or
mind, Anna or Mary or Ned have not needed a
degree of time and strength from me, which has left
me but the last end of the day and the last end of my
strength for myself. I do not regret it because I will
not, and because I believe I have learnt that about
them and myself which no books could teach, and
which rightly used may help us all, but it costs me
an occasional groan to look over the vast seas of
ignorance which envelope my mind, and the other day
when I read your appeal to me to learn German I felt
perfectly sick to think how far off that wished-for
haven still seemed. Perhaps I am not right in saying
that aU my time has been used for them, for during
the year after you went away I was more than half
sick myself with that troublesome cough, which wor
ried them all so much that I gave up whole acres of
time to getting well. This winter I am well and
now they have both been sick, and I am sure I have
been only too thankful for the chance of taking care
of them. Do you perfectly understand me, and will
you not be ashamed to find me when you come back
the same ignoramus that you left me ? I have not
been able to help it, have I ?

126
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Sunday Afternoon, March 5, 1854.
Now a few words about Mr. and Mrs. C 

... I gave my whole mind to understanding Mrs.
C  while I was at Beverly, and felt as much as
ever the fascination of her manners and appearance,
but she seemed to be intensely unsatisfactory. I
should call her stoical, amiable, sensitive, and self-
engrossed. She has had the discipline which might
have made her a saint, and a saint she is not. She
looks upon Ufe as a penance to be endured, bravely
and uncomplaining, but not in the least, it seems to
me, an opportunity to be used and improved and to
be grateful for. She never would do a mean or an
ill-tempered or an unprincipled thing, for that would
be vulgar. A certain amount of virtue is essential to
a lady and that she would never fail in ; a great deal
more is necessary to a Christian, and there I think she
is wanting. Vulgarity seems to me the worst sin in
her catalogue. Her whole treatment of E  struck
me as selfish in the extreme. I never saw her make
an affectionate gesture or speak an affectionate word
to her while I was there. E  said to me one
night, " Bunnie, your love and Ellen's is the only love
in the whole world that comes home to me. I sup
pose my mother loves me, but I don't feel it." Now
think of the desolation of this, and has not Mrs.
C  suffered bitterly enough from lack of love
herself, to understand that others need it, and to seek
to give what she cannot have ? How can life teach us
anything truly if we do not take good care that

127
others shaU not want from us what we desire of them?
The whole intercourse between E  and her mother
seems to me superficial. Several things E  asked
me about, and I said, " What does your mother think? "
"Oh," she said, "mamma does not know anything
about it." Mrs. C  told me how she loved to sit
in her own room for an hour or two before breakfast
and read some good book, Fenelon or Jeremy Taylor
or Thomas k Kempis, and she did, I have no doubt,
but she never brought the results of her reading out
of her own room. She never came to the breakfast
table cheerful or genial or self-forgetful. I know she
is an invalid and a great deal of her languor and
ennui may be excused, but not her separateness from
her daughter nor her indifference to her happiness or
unhappiness. However, she is no particular affair of
mine and there is no occasion for me to dwell on her
shortcomings, I only wanted to explain to you why
I cannot think her a " trump." Mr. C  seemed
to me one of the most infuriating of human beings.
Lazy, selfish, foolish, fussy, worldly on the outside,
and from E  's account fearfully passionate and
vindictive inside, altogether a charming character.
His urbanity to me is impossible to conceive of, but
why I cannot imagine. Now I hope this letter wUl
not be counted to me as a sin at the Judgment Day.
They are all a great deal better than I am, I have no
doubt, but Christians I cannot make them out to be.
Good-bye, dearest. If I didn't love you so I shouldn't
be obUged to tell you everything.

128

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Tuesday Evening, March 14, 1854.
Best Beloved, — Let not your faith fail nor your
heart be cast down ever in future about anything.
The Bas Relief has come, to the best of my belief,
though it is not yet actually within these four walls,
and my impatient eyes have not yet had the felicity
of seeing it. Charles has received a letter from Mr.
Meiaghean, saying that it is on board the Asia, and
the Asia is at this moment lying at the wharf. I
have been very patient and well-behaved about it
while it was across the water, but now I am in a state
verging on frenzy when I think of its being in Boston
and not in this house. I was so in hopes it would
come before I had to send off this letter, but it wiU
not evidently. Spite of the efforts of aU the friendly
males in Milk St., the Custom House will not yield
up its prey until after a most dignified delay. It is
delightful to have hold of it and to have heard from
it, and not have it lying all alone in some dark place
and thinking nobody cares for it when everybody is
so excessively fond of it.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Sunday, .lune 11, 1854.
Dearest of Living Beings, — Will you lift up your
voice with me and praise the Lord from this time forth
forevermore? Edmund is engaged to Ellen CooUdge.
It is really, undoubtedly, positively true. Read it over
and over again and then you will be as unable to

129
beUeve it as I am. I only find myself perfectly
happy, in a state of internal and external rejoicing
such as I never felt before, and that I am constantly
obliged to ask myself the reason of. I say to myself
a thousand times a day, "Edmund and Ellen are
engaged," but I cannot yet realize the full comple
tion of such happiness. You will want some facts
and I will try to be rational and give you some, but I
do not expect that anything but my subject will
render my letter readable. They have been engaged
since Wednesday afternoon, June 7th, just five days-
You will be surprised but not more than I am and
scarcely more than they are themselves. But, darl
ing, Ned is so happy and so handsome and looks
about ten years younger, and in EUen's face there
rests a clear calm hope instead of the stem endurance
which has been her habitual expression this winter,
and which I have watched as it settled over her, with
such a heartache. As for Mary and Anna and Charles
and Sam and myself, our faces shine with the glad
ness of our hearts. It seems ungrateful to say why
are you not here ? But I want you infinitely more
in this happiness than I have through all this beauti
ful, blessed, awful, dreadful winter. I long so to
know what you have been doing these last five days ;
it has seemed to me you must be in a state of invol
untary jubilation whatever might be your circum
stances. Ned came in at eight on Wednesday while we were
at tea actuaUy with Heaven in his face, rushed and
kissed me just as he did once before this winter,
slapped Charles on the shoulder and said nothing.

130
Of course I guessed all, but it was with fear and
trembling that I dared to hope. Charles went up
stairs and he told me they were engaged.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Sunday Afternoon, June 18, 1854.
. . . Such acclaim of congratulation from friends
and neighbors and even acquaintances never greeted
any engagement before, it seems to me, and the con
trast between this and the flat reception of M  's
engagement makes it particularly striking. The first
sensation in people's minds seems to be one of supreme
thankfulness that Ellen has not been driven into
marrying J. E. F., and the second, great gratification
that she has married or has promised to marry Ned.
They have both been set up with a degree of flattery
which I tell them wUl turn their heads if they
do not forget it as fast as possible. One person
writes that Ellen is such a perfect being that they are
thankful that she is engaged to a man who can appre
ciate her, and the next one remarks that Edmund is
such a noble creature that it is special mercy that he
has not thrown himself away on an inferior woman.
All sorts of changes are rung on these two senti
ments which seem to amount to very nearly the same
thing in the end, the only question in the pubUc
mind seems to be which of these two radiant creatures
is the most radiant. On Sunday Ellen threw open
her doors to her new relations and they poured in in
torrents. I went round to support her through the
process, which she somewhat dreaded. First came

131
the Nortons, Louisa and Jane, Grace and Charles, in
crepe, wreathed with smiles. They were feeling full,
particularly Charles, who poured it over me in a fuU
stream of right feeling and sound thought, but I had
neither thought nor feeUng left. Then the Eliots
supervened, who were as usual the soft green of the
soul to me, and whom Ellen deeply appreciates.
They are so thoroughly and heartily deUghted that
their beloved faces shone out with their satisfaction,
and their greeting to Ellen was the best thing I saw
that day. They were foUowed by the beloved Aunt
Eliza, who was very damp but truly affectionate and
motherly to Ellen, and most righteous in her dealings
with Mrs. Coolidge. Uncle Guild toddled in with
me and seemed quite homesick I thought, but
behaved like a man and stayed tiU it was time to go.
FinaUy, the Ticknors swashed in with their peculiar
grace. Uncle T., Aunt Ajina, and Lizzie. Anna is
at Newport. Aunt A. gave Ellen a dose of highly
peppered sentiment. Lizzie snubbed her in her best
style, and Uncle Ticknor I don't think spoke to her,
but still was, as always, the gentleman in his man
ners. Aunt Anna managed to insult Mrs. Coolidge
before she went away, and must have laid her pillow
on her head that night with a feeling of having done
herself absolute justice. . . .
Imagine me on a round of visits in your green
silk, my dear, and a white bonnet with lilies-of-the-
valley inside and a black lace mantle, and you will
see that, owing to your munificence, I strike terror into
all beholders.

132
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Mass., Sunday, June 25, 1864.
... I look round on all my little family happily set
tled in life and feel a deep sense that all responsibUity
is off my hands, and I have decided that in a few years
I shall take a little house in the country, and settle
myself in a comfortable independence where I can
enjoy the prospect of surrounding nature and improve
my understanding. Before I decide on the situation,
however, I shaU let you have farther particulars. . . .
Poor Mary had a failure. One of her gentlemen,
ElUot Cabot, didn't come and that upset her com
pany and left a vacant seat. The invitation was a
verbal one and he made a mistake about the day and
as he is at this present moment Mary's chief adorer,
constant visitor, and one of her dearest hopes in life,
she felt, naturally, bereft when all this was taken out
of her dinner. . . .
For myself, peace seems to have settled down over
me and my life- I do not feel gay, but so quiet, so
content, so free from heavy-heartedness, that I hardly
know myself. I am a Uttle soUtary as might be
expected, for to have Ned and EUen occupied with
each other leaves me many free hours which have
hitherto been theirs, but I rejoice over them so per
petually that solitude is far from loneliness.

133

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Lynn, Sunday Afternoon, July 23, 1854.
. . . Mary has had her adored EUiot Cabot here to
pass the night which has been quite an enlightenment
to her. He is a nice person, though so tremendously
stiff and shy that I cannot get used to him. Mary thinks
him one of the first of beings and has him to dine
constantly in town. He is very valuable to me to laugh
at her about, and anybody that draws as he does must
be to a degree delightful, and if I never saw him I
should think him charming. Unfortunately his ap
pearance and manners offer great obstacles to the
casual observer.
I have had three singing lessons from CoreUi and
find, though I did not realize it tUl now, that I have
reaUy been starving for the want of some singing for
the last year. I find myself suddenly in my element
again and am enjoying it intensely. The main fact
which CoreUi presents to my mind is that I know
nothing, in spite of which I have a splendid time.
CorelU is an amusing specimen of human nature, so
utterly un-Yankee that he is rather refreshing in
spite of his folly, I do not think I shall receive him
into the bosom of the family as the Ticknors do, but
in his place h is first rate.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Lynn, Monday Afternoon, July 31, 1854.
My Best Beloved, — The children having disap
peared from the parlor, and their mammas having retired

134
with exhausted energies to their respective rooms, I am
left with a clear space to begin my letter to you. I
do so devoutly wish for you every day after dinner
to see the children and sit round with the rest of us, to
witness the combats, moral and physical," that perpet
ually follow each other that there is no use beginning
a letter at this time of the day with an attempt to
disguise my real feelings. No one but the author of
" Brown, Jones & Robinson," himself, could give you
an idea of the scenes which are enacted on our parlor
floor every afternoon. Harry and Arthur are just at
the age to enjoy and tease each other alternately to
the utmost. Harry is a good deal more than six
months in advance of Arthur, though that is aU the
difference in their ages, and has a sublime sense of
superiority, which he occasionally uses in the manner
best adapted to rouse Arthur's sensibilities, which
are easily excited.
The first move after dinner is to get their blocks,
which repose in what Arthur chooses to call " Aunt
Anna's room." The boxes are quite large but well
adapted to the size of their owners and only requir
ing that degree of muscular exertion which, combined
with a good many short puffs and mild groans,
finally lands them in the parlor on their respective
toes, or not, as it may happen. In addition to their
blocks they have the legs of several amputated
bureaus which serve for steam-pipes, cupolas, towers,
etc., which originally belonged to Arthur, but which
many lectures on right feeling and sound thought
have induced him to divide with Harry. You can
imagine what a hopeful prospect such variety of

135
materials affords. The blocks being tipped out,
sUence reigns for about ten minutes, during which
time the elders, perhaps, become interested in conver
sation or a book, but are presently roused by a shriek
from Arthur. " Mamma, Harry won't tell me what
he's building." " Don't be a baby, Arthur." Arthur,
subdued momentarily, soon tries again, " Hal, what
are you building ? " No answer. " Hal, tell me what
it is," punctuated by a stamp. Harry's mamma
mentions that Harry probably doesn't know himself.
"Yes, I do," growls Harry with a pout. "Then don't
plague your little cousin." Harry's pout gradually
subsides and he confidentially mentions to Arthur that
it's a steamboat, and that he is going to Newport to
see his "Auntie Clevelum." The pleasure trip suit
ing Arthur, they decide to go together, and Arthur
expedites the journey by building a railroad. All the
little preparations being made, the steamboat rail
road and carriage buUt, they sit with the air of gentle
men travelUng over their own estates and combine
whistUng, shrieking, and howling with letting off the
steam, and ringing the beUs and whipping the horses,
untU they think they must have made noise enough
to get to Newport. Arrived at their journey's end
they conclude that they prefer going to the hospital
instead of " Auntie Clevelum's." They proceed, there
fore, to the middle of the apartment, when Arthur
is suddenly taken with a fever and Harry seizing him
by the back of the neck, in order to get his head at
the proper angle, jams a succession of blocks into his
small mouth as far as nature wiU allow. This per
formance is carried through with profound sobriety

136
by Harry, but with much giggUng on Arthur's part,
whose laugh is just Uke the gurgle of water and is
absolutely irresistible, so that I often sit and roar just
from sympathy. The horrid moment now arrives
when they are forced to pick up their blocks and
retire from the public gaze. It takes about fifteen
minutes to put them through this piece of tidiness,
but it is done in the most rigid manner by the
mammas, who picture to themselves a future day when
they will pick up their shirts and put their dirty
stockings in the clothes basket, and spare their wives
sensations of horror at entering their apartments. A
walk follows and the curtain drops.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Lynn, Tuesday, Aug. 15, 1854.
. . . Aunt EUza looked uncommonly handsome
and was highly religious and affectionate. She ex
plained to me how she couldn't like Lizzie, and how
Lizzie had been the means of giving her a reUgious
experience, and was altogether very funny and char
acteristic. She told us how she and Uncle G 
had lived on whortleberry pudding all summer and in
the next sentence recommended Mr. Mack's last book
on prayer.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Lynn, Aug. 29, 1854.
. . . We have really had Sally Tiffany here this
week. She came up Wednesday with Ned and went
home on Saturday. She brought me, you exquisite

137
beauty, the lovely book-mark which you gave her for
me. If you had looked into my heart you would
have known that I have been wishing all summer
that I could have one of your own book-marks, such
as nobody else makes, but had resigned myself to that
privation among the others that absence necessitates.
I nearly shrieked when I saw this, but restrained
myself and only cried a Uttle. Beloved, if you had
been here you could not have written out the teach
ings of the year to me better than you have in the
two sentences you put on the palm leaf, and if you
had been present at the innumerable discussions
Mary and I have had this summer you could not have
taken my side better than when you wrote " the law
of human judgment is mercy." I have longed for
you so often to teU me that I was right that this
seemed as if you held me out a helping hand across
the water. I don't mean that Mary and I have had
bad times, because they have been on the whole
very good, but we differ in our way of looking at life
and at character often and when justice seems the
law to her, love seems the law to me. She is so very,
very dear to me, and so unvaryingly loving and
careful for me, that it pains me to have to differ from
her, even when I know the difference wiU create no
barrier and yet in truth to myself I cannot always
agree with her. Do you see, dearest, how much good
you have done me ?

138

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Lynn, Monday Morning, Sept. 4, 1854.
. . . You ask, blessed darUng, whether life grows
any easier to me. I think my present mode of life
does grow easier because I have pretty much learnt
what I can do and what I cannot, under these given
circumstances, and that simplifies life and deUvers it
from so many unsuccessful attempts. But new cir
cumstances must always bring new difficulties and
you must remember how little time you have had to
study out and understand your new circumstances,
and not wonder that life is no easier to you. When
you left home you had come pretty much to the
end of that set of struggles and perplexities, and
now you have another set given to you to deal with.
Then, dearest, remember that with me the lesser
and fewer gifts bring lesser and fewer temptations
and do not judge your own bountiful and benig
nant nature by any but liberal and indulgent rules.
Last winter life was just all that I could stagger
under, full of heart-aching and heart-sinking. This
summer I have had rest and peace comparatively,
and time to settle myself and to understand other
people, and now I hope when the next plunge comes
to be ready for it, but I do not expect to find it
easy or pleasant. Edward is a wonderfully strong
soul, I think, but is not his very strength a gift
partly, though I do not mean to undervalue it, and
is not " to be perfected in weakness " a greater attain
ment, though a slower and more difficult one ? You
ask if I ever think about the Park-St. house ? I

139
could almost say that I think of nothing else, or
rather it is the thing that I am perpetuaUy trying not
to think about. I hope and think we shaU be able to
keep it. It is one of the many things that Charles
will not speak about, and I have been waiting for
Ned's plans to be settled to force him to give me
some Ught on the subject. Now that they are settled
I shall take the first good chance, but I have not
found it yet. I do not see why, if I own half the
house and Anna owns the other half, keeping it
should not be as judicious and as economical an
arrangement as they could make for the present.
We shall have to draw in our feelers, in some re
spects, but I think not uncomfortably. I am most
desirous, however, that no consideration for my feel
ings should induce Charles to accede to an arrange
ment which should be disadvantageous to him, and
I hope to be able to convince him that, though it
would be like tearing up a tree by its roots to tear
myself away from that house, I wish more than any
thing to do what is best for him and Anna. Next
spring is the earliest that we should leave it, if we
do at all, so that I do not choose yet to begin to pre
pare for what may not come. The fact is I scarcely
dare to look beyond if we have to leave, for I should
have a most homeless feeling, though I heartily be
Ueve what they have all told me, that either Anna,
Mary or Ned would gladly have me come to them.
But having three homes is not like having one
home; in fact, one cannot have but one home and
to a woman who is not married the house where her
mother and father Uved must always seem her only

140
real home, I think. But I wiU not be unreasonable
about it and I am sure I can be cheerful to do what
is right when the time comes, though the tears are in
my eyes and my heart is in my throat, now. Now I
think I have said enough. . . .
I send you two articles from the " Courier," which
represent very candidly the opinions of a portion of
the public and a portion of your famUy on the slavery
movement in Boston. Charles and Anna are on this
side decidedly, and I incline very strongly to agree
with them, but am, like Charles Sumner, afraid of my
EngUsh friends. Jane and Ned and Mary are des
perate anti-slavery. We fight some, but not as much
as might be expected. I want very much to hear a
first-rate EngUsh statesman talk about the matter,
some one neither north nor south, black nor white,
slave-holding nor aboUtion. Will you please mention
my wishes and let some one be sent over to instruct
us ? To Miss Lizzie Eliot.
Beverly, Wednesday, Sept. 14, (1854) ?
... I expect to find you hand in glove with all
the ministers in Boston this winter, and do not find
it easy to recognize in the pathfinder and flower
gatherer the Uttle man whom I have occasionally seen
perched up in the pulpit in a most uneasy attitude,
and who always seems the exact opposite of every
thing romantic or graceful. I imagine you now in
Boston again and I think I see that stern principle
of duty settling down on your face, and deep con-

141
sideration how to put two days' work into one,
taking the place of ' dolce far niente ' in which you
have been indulging at Pigeon's Cove. Please to
remember that idleness is one of Nature's first and
wisest laws, and do not grow industrious and system
atic again too fiercely. There is nothing like living
among southern people to show up the possibility of
an occupied idleness, and I think this would be an
exceUent place for you to come to take a lesson in
how Uttle may be put into a day and yet have no
time to spare. I need not tell you that I am having
a delightful time here. It is just a week to-day since I
came, and I have grown now into that most agreeable
feeling of being one of the family, and still have another
week to enjoy my position. The weather has been per
fect and we have made the most of it by keeping in the
open air and turning into true country girls. I never
was on this shore before, except for a day at Man
chester, and it would be a sufficient pleasure in itself
to me to explore the wealth of beautiful places that
there are here. It is not Uke Nahant in the least,
and you do not get here the true spirit of the ocean,
nor feel its power as you do there, for the Une of
islands that lie within a very short distance of the
coast breaks the force of the waves, and the water
here is too calm and too unvaried to give you that
sort of mermaid feeling that you always have at
Nahant. But the woods and the line of the coast and
the rocks are superb, and I should grow very fond
and very proud of Beverly if I lived here, I am sure.
But I am indulging in that most detestable style of
letter-writing, general remarks, and if I want to keep

142
any share of your attention I know I must give you
a few facts. One of the main facts of my situation is
that Ellen and I have had four enchanting rides on
horseback together. EUen is as good a guide on
horseback as Mr. Bartol is on foot, to say the least,
and has carried me through the prettiest country lanes
imaginable, and my satisfaction has been in no degree
diminished by finding Mary Chilton fiUly equal to
Betsy Trotwood. One afternoon we went in a body
(the ladies and Mr. Coolidge driving and Ellen and
I riding) to a place called Pleasant Pond, about six
miles from here, one of the thousand and one that
Mr. Coolidge has thought of buying and which is
certainly one of the loveliest places of the kind I ever
saw. I walked over it for haU an hour with Mr.
Coolidge, who was engaged in building imaginary
houses, planting shrubberies and laying out lawns
and arranging cattle of various kinds in becoming
attitudes under the trees, and though my powers of
mind were severely taxed in endeavoring to keep
pace with his lively gyrations, I thought the place
almost as irresistible as he did. Saturday evening I
went to tea at Mr. WUUam Loring's, thanks to the
beloved Mary, who was staying there. I had a very
pleasant time and was deUghted to see Mary, who
seemed as fascinating as ever. This has been the
only dissipation. For the last two days Ellen has
been a good deal occupied with her brother Algernon,
who is in his bed again with a second attack of rheu
matism. It is not a severe one and he seems to be
the most tranquil and amiable of patients, occupying
himself with worsted work and reading. You should

143
see the yellow cat on a purple ground which is the
result of his labors. Lizzie.

To Mrs. Edward Twistleton.
Newport, Monday, Oct. 2, 1854.
. . . Saturday was altogether a red-letter day, for
while I was stiU in the land of content from your
letters, Ned and Ellen brought me the beautiful,
beautiful seal ring with their love and your note and
felt and stiU feel so humbly, deeply thankful to you
all that I do not in the least know how to express
myself. It is altogether the handsomest seal ring I
ever saw. The color of the stone, the richness and
gracefulness of the setting are something perfectly
unequalled in my experience. The outside I feel
myself quaUfied and able to appreciate and to thank
you for, but the motto * and the snowdrop give me
a kind of pleasure that words do not touch. They
are perfectly lovely and enchanting in themselves,
and coming from you and Edward bring with them a
positive blessing and consolation. I always thought
there was nothing so beautiful in the world as a
snowdrop, and this cutting gives it in all its lovely
graceful humiUty, and nobody was ever so fortunate
as I am to have such brothers and sisters.
* " Muthig und Gednldig."

144

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Newport, Monday Evening, Oct. 9, 1854.
... I have had one hearty pleasure, since I have
been here, in increasing my acquaintance with Mary
Lowell, who has talked out the whole of the most
innocent, pure-minded, and loving of hearts to me.
Her eyes are weak and this, combined with Algernon's
departure and her beloved mother's death, have
waked the poor child up rather suddenly to a sense
of what life is made of and have thrown her back
upon herself entirely, after leading the most child
like and dependent life up to this time. There is one
thing about being seven hundred years old, which I
am, that is that occasionaUy you can make your ex
perience of some use to other people, and prevent
their feeling as if life had caved in under their feet
and left them nothing to stand on. Please do not
think I am croaking, for I really do not mean to do
so. You are the first safety valve I have had for a
week and I have relieved myself at your cost I am
afraid.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Park St., Sunday Evening, Oct. 15, 1854.
My Own Dearest Beloved, — Here I am back at
Park St. again, for a day between Newport and Wal-
tham, and thinking of you and writing to you always
wherever I am. Your letters to me and mine to you
are the things and the only things in the world, it
seems to me, which come and go through everything

145
and never fail and never foment. It is strange that
they should seem to me the things most to be de
pended on, least liable to the bUght or change until
one of us dies. Does any one ever suggest to you
that we shaU graduaUy stop writing to each other,
because that is done to me sometimes, but only pro
duces in my mind a sensation of pity for the igno
rance of the speaker.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
New Tork, Sunday Morning, Oct. 29, 1854.
. . . You will be surprised I think, my dearest
beloved, to see that I am still in New York and I am
certainly surprised to find myself here, as I fully ex
pected to be at home last evening. I Uke always so
much to be with EUen that where she is concerned I
doubt a little my power of discriminating very
nicely in matters of right and wrong. Two things
combined to keep me here. In the first place Ellen's
shopping turned out a longer business than she ex
pected, and Mrs. Coolidge's stock of strength turned
out much less than I expected, so that I found that
if I went home, Ellen would be left to plunge
through a great deal that is most unpleasant to do
alone, and that I could help her about if I stayed.
Also Grisi is to sing in Semiramide to-morrow even
ing, and as the chance of her coming to Boston is a
smaU one I really was cowardly about leaving New
York without hearing her, for the opera has been
closed all the week ; therefore I caved in and decided
to stay and go home Tuesday morning and hear

146
Semiramide. I went through a great deal of mental
torture about it, for fear I was doing a very dissipated
and self-indulgent thing, but Edmund encouraged me
and wanted to stay himself and I concluded, therefore,
to drown care, which I have done successfully. I
always wish at such crises that I had a husband and
ten chUdren, and realize intensely the lack of any
duties in Ufe, except those which I make myself, and
these occasionally give way under me from the fact
that they are self-imposed. However, I have returned
now to my usual state of bachelor thankfulness, and
am very glad that I remained and carried the dissipa
tion through.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Monday, Nov. 6, 1854.
... I came out here Friday afternoon and am
enjoying myself highly here. Aunt E  with all
her puzzleheadedness and all her deficiencies, is so
refreshing after Mrs. C  and is such a Uvely con
trast to her that I cannot help thinking of it perpet
ually. She stiU considers sewing the path to Heaven,
and still considers crying one of the chief necessities
of life. She told me yesterday with true pathos how
she never could cry over Uncle Dwight because " he
wasn't to her taste," so that I think as she has cried
so very often over all of us we may feel much com
plimented. She will wash up all the breakfast things
for a large family in two small china bowls, and she
will have her basin and pitcher reposing upon the
floor of her dressing-room, and combined with a

147
pleasing mixture of chips and old paper, but the
cleanness of her heart makes up for the slight un-
cleanness of her habits, and I am sure she will take
the shortest way to Heaven when she goes and wiU
not object when she does go to having the tears
wiped away from her eyes. She is as good and kind
to me as she can be and though she is not quite happy
that I do not sew more, she does not on the whole
feel anxious about my salvation. She perfectly doats
on the idea of Ufe which you and Edward present to
her mind, because though you neither of you sew
much, she thinks you lead an intellectual life and not
a luxurious one.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Tuesday, Nov. 21, 1854.
. . . Thank you, precious, for your note to me.
Indeed, I agree to aU that you say and know it aU the
time but do not always feel it. It is not easy, you
know, to do your utmost possible in such matters,
and yet feel that the result is no responsibility of yours.
But it is not because I am not mentally aware of it
that I sometimes feel and write to you as if I were
not. I ought to be able to work and watch and pray
and leave the end in God's hands, and remember that
I did not make and am not bound to justify or con
trol the circumstances of other people's lives or the
workings of their characters. This is my creed, but
not always or nearly often enough my performance.
Earnestness is not always to combine with self-sur
rendering, trustful acquiescence, and yet both are
required.

148

To Mrs. TvsrtsTLBTON.
Boston, Sunday, Jan. 14, 1855.
(Our Little Parlour.)
My Dearest Heart, — Yesterday morning when I
came down to breakfast I found your letter of Decem
ber 28th. It wrung my very heart to read it, and see
that the first stroke of our great grief * had reached
you, unsoftened by distance and only magnified by
absence. I knew it would be so, and I thought I
was prepared to read your heart-stricken words, but
it is in vain for me to try and prepare myself to see
you suffer. I am never ready, never submissive to
that. God help you and keep you through the long
fortnight of anxiety that foUowed this letter; it
seems to me you must have had to appeal each
moment to eternal truth to enable you to Uve
through the long days and nights. You have the best
earthly comfort in Edward's unfaUing, comprehend
ing sympathy, and God only knows how I have reUed
upon it for you, and how sure I feel that it has
avaUed you through aU ; and you must try to feel
that you will be more of a comfort to Mary next
summer than you or any one else can be now, for
then, perhaps, she will be able to enjoy something,
now she can only suffer and work. I hope from some
phrases in your letter that you never lost sight of the
awful possibility which hung over your next news,
and that though you hoped you also feared, and that
you may not have been wholly unprepared therefor.
But I feel perfectly uncertain whether you wUl not
• The death of Dr. Samuel Parkman.

Ni>. 1 Park Street.

149
think I might have written better and done better for
you. If I could only have gone to you instead of
writing. Only forgive me if my letters were incon
siderate. I had only the remains of strength to
write them with. I couldn't write, I didn't know
what I Avrote, and it has haunted me ever since that
you must have suffered terribly from my deficiencies.
Your letter was a comfort as well as a grief, for it
made you seem nearer, and you felt so exactly as we
aU did, — " hard as a stone," Tears have been such a
rare mercy to any of us, I cried over your letter and
it did me good thereby. Dear, dear Edward ! That
he should be " sUent and pale " and his clear eyes
watered with salt tears seems hard for him, but his
warm sympathy is such a pleasure to Mary.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Monday Morning, Jan. 22, 1855.
... It is a week to-night since I finished my last
letter, and now Ned's wedding is only two days off and
I have begun to reaUze that my home is here and to
look at life from this point of view. Each day has
oiUy made me more thankful to be here and more
grateful to Mary for letting me be, and though happi
ness seems to me a strange, unknown thing in these
days, I am infinitely happier than I could be anywhere
else. Mary's days wear on hour by hour, heavily,
drearily, bitterly often, but not despairingly. . . .
"Duty remains immutably severe." I think of
this seventy times a day, for it is the staff by which

150
she walks, and the handle seems to me a knife cutting
her to the soul as she grasps it. I am sure she is
wise not to postpone what must come sooner or later,
but I know what it is to me to see Sam's * things going
into other hands and what it must be to her. Every
body is very kind and she has many visits, often more
than are at all desirable, but in fact nothing touches
or can touch the spot where desolation has taken up its
home. I can relieve her physically, can take care of
the children and do her errands and love her and
wait and watch, but that is aU. Only He who sent
the burden can strengthen her to bear it and I beUeve
He does and will, and we must be wiUing to see her
bowed down under it if only she does not faU
beneath it. . . .
I am going to stop, darling, for I have written to
the end of my strength and if I keep on shaU only
wail, I know. Mary sends best love. My truest to
Edward. I love you with every breath I draw, think
of you, pray for you night and day, as you must for
me. Bunnie.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Feb. 13, 1855.
. . . The house is already greatly changed by the
departure of the great picture and all Ned's other
things which we urged him to take, though he felt
very diffident about it, and it wiU be only pleasant
to think of these in your house, as it is delightful to
see his house adorned as it is. Our dear beautiful
* After the death of Dr. Samuel Parkman.

151

old home divides its treasures and send its blessing to
each of our new homes.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Tuesday Morning, Feb. 27, 1855.
... I send you some newspaper extracts because I
think you wiU like to know from headquarters of some
of the disgraceful doings of the Know-Nothings since
you wUl be sure to hear of them second-hand. The
unfortunate Judge Loring is likely to be turned out
of his office as judge, merely because he decided to
send home Anthony Burns, the fugitive slave, last
spring, after going through any amount of misery
about it. The independence of the judiciary is a
phrase which we were brought up on, and this infringe
ment of it is really a frightful warning of the lengths
to which the violence of party feeling may carry
people. If they chose to pass a law which should
prevent a person holding the office of commissioner
for the United States, and judge also, no one could
complain. I, for one, am too much of an Anti-slavery
woman to object, for I have no maimer of doubt that
Judge Loring was as conscientious as the best of the
Know-Nothings, and he did what he did knowing that
it was the most unpopular act possible.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Monday Evening, March 19, 1855.
. . . Hovey's is still the great haunt of those uneasy
spirits who have to buy clothes. I go there nearly

152
every day and only wish some of my friends lived
there and tended the counters, for I see a great deal
more of the shop boys than I do of any other class of
society, it appears to me. . . .
Millsey has told you about the Agassiz School,
which appears to me to open the greatest prospect for
the rising generation of anything that could be de
vised. I only wish I was twelve years old, instead of
one hundred and fifty. I send you a circular which
I thought you would Uke to see.
We have had wonderfully mild and beautiful
weather, and it seems spring-like. Why does no one
ever say that spring is sad ? I think it is deeply so.
For among the greenness and the beauty that comes
back, the life and loveUness that come not ever again
haunt one's steps and one's eyes. ... So I take
Harry round the Common every morning, and these
are the things I think.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Monday Afternoon, March 26, 1855.
... I have learnt this winter to pity excessively
the families of those men or women whose great
abilities lead them to be trusted with offices of pubUc
responsibility, as all private considerations become
frightfully secondary in their minds. If Mary can sit
up or hold a pen she goes to work for Winchester, and
I stand by and make little statements about her health
and my anxiety and get no more attention than a
blank wall because I am not thought to understand

153

the merits of the case. Of course I don't mean that
she is ever unreasonable or wicked, but only that next
to her children and Mrs. Parkman, Winchester com
mands her noblest energies.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Sunday, April 2, 1855.
. . . Your letter to me, my darling, I cannot thank
you for except by deepening the love for you that
already makes the central feeling of my life. Nobody
who had not gone through the winter that I have, with
so many lonely struggles to see and to do and to think
what was right to myself and right for all about me,
can teU what it is to me, when finally the peace of
settled or comparatively settled convictions and a
clear conscience has come, to find that you stand so
close by my side and, with your clearer judgment and
from your calmer and more distant point of view, con
firm and strengthen what I have worked out for my
self, amid many conflicts and the pressure of severe
and sorrowful circumstances. You wrote in my Keble
on that 11th of June, " Of one hope and one calling,"
and I caimot tell how many times this winter I have
looked at that and wondered whether when this
winter's story was told you would still feel that our
paths lay towards the same point, though over such
different countries.

154
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Tuesday, April 10, 1855.
... I am sure I perfectly understand that it must
be harder for you to go where you see people who
know and ask about things and people here than it is
to go among strangers to us. I am rather glad you
did cry and behave badly, because it only keeps me in
countenance. I can't want to go anywhere, even out to
tea, and when I do, I am so speechless and so dreary
that it is as bad as if I cried and rather more dis
agreeable for my friends. I went to a concert the
other night because I was so urged to that it seemed
unkind to resist, and there I did cry and couldn't help
it and came home perfectly sick because I couldn't
cry as much as I wanted to. I can stand anything
now better than music. It stirs up aU the depths and
kUls me with its wordless sympathy. Sometimes one
can better bear harshness or indifference than sympa
thy, as I have found for the first time this winter.
You see I am not fit yet to hear the beautiful music
you have enjoyed so much, though if the time should
ever come when I can hear it with you I think I
shall have a foretaste of Heaven. . . .
Aunt Polly has been reading Edward's pamphlet
with the deepest gratification and appreciation, and
says " Why, Lizzie, I didn't know for certain he was
such a man as that ! What an excellent thing it is !
How that man does love his country and want to do
good and take notice of every little thing, now, so
particular. And how high he does seem to speak, too.

155
of this country. Now I think a great deal of aU them
things you know. You needn't laugh." I wish I
could put in her gestures, which are particularly noble
when she gets on great subjects. I do not believe
Edward's pamphlet has been perused so reverently by
any one.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boston, Monday Evening, April 16, 1855.
. . . You speak of crying over Sam's last notes to you
as I did, not a fortnight since, over a letter of his to me
that I found unexpectedly. I have not had courage
yet to coUect and face all his letters to me, for that
made me feel so agonizingly the love I had lost and
brought up such a keen longing to have it back again
that it put me out of heart and hope. Then we can
neither of us help multiplying by infinity every heart
ache we have, and thereby knowing the depths of
Mary's pain, and that is to me almost crushing some
times. Oh, it is a bitter, bitter trial, and as yet it is not
only renewed but increased to me every morning and
every night. I see now, I believe, what it was sent to
me for, but it is a hard lesson for me to learn, and I do
not make much progress. I see that I had laid up my
treasure on earth, in what I thought the secured hap
piness of the people I loved best. You and Edward
were together, and this winter I expected Ned would
be as content as he is, and I believed Sam and Mary
would go on growing happier every year they lived,
and I thought nothing else was any matter, and
beUeved I was independent of the future, and this

156
never crossed my mind. Then I know, too, I was
proud that he loved me and thought it a sort of
guarantee that there was something in me, no matter
what I seemed to myself, and so, I know, that it is aU
right that these evil things should be purged out of
me, as they best can be out of such a kind of creature
as I am, by the blasting of the hearts whose happiness
was my treasure. So I have to cry a great deal when
I get a good chance and Mary wiU not see that my
eyes are red, and also I take it out in groaning in this
way to you, and bye-and-bye I suppose the years will
bring quietness again, and you wiU forgive me, I
know, for relieving myself, and not think I mean to
rebel against the Lord's wiU, for I do not think I do,
but I do grieve, and that I am afraid is wrong.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Monday Evening, April 30, 1855.
. . . Precious and beau tif nil love you very much aU
these long days and nights, and wonder often whether
the Lord has in store for me any such blessing as to
see your face again. Do you know, beloved, I have
been through and seen this winter such deep gulfs of
suffering, and such long-continued, dreary pain, that
enjoyment has lost its reaUty to me, strangely, and I
can't imagine myself feeUng as I shaU if you come
here safe and I see your dear face among the daUy
blessings again. I don't know why I am saying this to
you now, it does not seem particularly apropos to
your house-keeping or to anything further that I have

157
to say, but sometimes the desire seizes me when I am
writing to you to let such things tumble out, no matter
where, to show you how woven in and out, with all
Ufe to me is my heart-love for you. Now I have said
enough. You know it all.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Tuesday Morning, May 8, 1855.
. . . Aunt Polly sends you a variety of messages.
I told her that you said you felt more at home in Lon
don than ever before, whereat she put on her most
experienced look and said, " Well, she's got sot down
and I don't wonder." I beUeve her only idea of trav
elUng is a constant risk of life and limb, combined
with the most frightful dearth of rocking-chairs with
their backs turned to the fire, which is her idea of
being at home and settled. You can imagine that she
has gone through a great deal in your excursions to
distant lands. She studies the newspapers and her
Bible, and finds many railroad and steamboat accidents
in one and turns to the other for support under her
afflictions and your dangers, and in that way she gets
through Ufe and maintains composure, but it is with a
deep sense of the awfulness of locomotion. She told
me to tell you she had " stopped counting the months
and years now, and begun to count the weeks and the
days tiU you come." It is something to have such a
weU of love kept for you, even though it be the other
side of the Atlantic. These remarks were deUvered
in Beacon St. mall, on Sunday morning, when Harry

158
and I, having gone out for a stroU, met her industri
ously walking to church about half-past nine, with her
large black shawl, her gray bonnet, and her black
gown, and her small figure erect with virtue and re-
Ugion and the memory of Dr. Sharp.

To Mrs. Twtstleton.
Princeton, Sunday Evening, May 20, 1855.
. . . Here we are, dearest mine, as good as our
word, put away in a deUghtful liiU-top, with nobody
to speak to but each other, and nothing to do from
morning to night but what the fancy takes us. We
arrived here Friday evening, and I have passed the
larger proportion of the time since in gazing out of
the window of our parlor, and I feel now as if that
would continue to be my occupation as long as we
stay here. The view is not as beautiful as many I
have seen, but it is so still and so bountiful that it
sinks down deep into my heart and takes the ache out
of it. We had a pleasant journey here, which is a
wonderful beginning for anything in these railroad
days. Dr. Hooper suggested our driving up from
Boston, and making a day's ride of it in a carriage,
instead of half a day's in two different sets of cars,
topped off by a few miles' staging. We considered
deeply the question of comfort versus expense, and
decided on taking the carriage and neatly combining
both. Accordingly at nine o'clock Friday morning
we started from Mary's door with our trunks tightly
strapped on behind, the carriage open in front, and

159
shawls and cloaks and luncheon packed in, with Harry
on the front seat.
About half way over the miU-dam we both tied on
large brown Uglys, and ensconced behind them we
took a firm and cheerful leave of aU the restraints of
city Ufe, and began to enjoy ourselves. About ten
Mary's moral sense erected itself, and Harry was put
through several lines of the multiplication table,
properly turned inside out and upside down, as the
maternal mind only could both conceive and execute.
" DiscipUne being thus preserved," luncheon ensued,
and then long spaces of sUence and laziness. We
stopped at Stowe to dine, where we found a very clean
house, and had plenty of eggs and bread and russet
apples. Mary found the landlord all her fancy could
picture, until she came suddenly upon the fact that
he had had three wives. Soon after that discouraging
armouncement we left, and reached here about seven,
driving for the last twenty miles through very pretty
rolling country, with everything looking like fairy
land, and the air sweet with the apple blossoms.
Of course we were tired, but only in the best way,
no headaches and comparatively little dirt, so that we
peaceably ate our suppers, and put Harry to bed, and
then after ravaging round long enough to secure tubs
and towels for the morning, went ourselves. Yester
day morning was bright and beautiful, and the air so
cool and fresh that you could not but feel better every
breath you drew. Harry found a swing and two boys
to play with before breakfast. I paid an early visit to
the stable, found Fashion there as clean and comely as
ever, and at half-past nine, when Mary had retired for

160
school with Harry, I went off on his back, for three
hours, and lounged along through the hills and the
woods, talking to all the boys and girls I met and, as
Harry said, " robbing the apple and cherry trees "
and coming home laden with branches and hungry for
a one o'clock dinner. Mary all this time had been
sitting on the doorstep sewing, and watching Harry,
and was rather tired and headachey by the time I
reached home. She lay down a whUe and then we had
dinner, and at four we started forth and walked tiU
six, picking wild fiowers at every step, cUmbing stone
walls, walking through fields purple with violets. In
the evening books and bedtime. . . .
I have forgotten to mention the occupation which
supplies any intervals I may have in looking out the
window, and that is tending " our air-tight." I know
how to make it roar and how to make it tick, and how
to make it smell Uke a burning iron-mine, and how to
make a hideous glare at twilight in one corner of the
room, and how to let it go entirely into obUvion and
radiate merely chills.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Princeton, Tuesday, May 27, 1885.
. . . My darling, darling, you cannot teU how thank
ful I am that you have spoken at last, and said the
things that I have known so well about you all this
long dreary winter. God only knows how every word
you say sinks into my heart. You can say or feel
nothing which will seem exaggerated to me of the

161
overwhelming darkness and misery of this grief. I
do not believe we can face it steadily yet, or shall be
able to until this first desolation is over. When that
will be I do not know, for as yet it seems to me new
every morning. The nights have been my only refuge
this winter. " God giveth his beloved sleep," and
sometimes three nights in a week I have dreamt that
Sam came back and that I went to him and cried it
all out on his shoulder, and looked into the peace of
those dear, dear eyes and went back to Park St. all
comforted, as I have so often done. I never knew
half how I loved him tiU this winter, nor how perfectly
I trusted in his sympathy and help my Ufe long. He
was so good to love me, and let me love him, and now
until you die there is nothing, I beUeve, can be such
a ghastly change to me.
You say life looks so different to you. Half the
time it seems to me we are all in a perfectly strange
land, and I know not the path home. I don't believe
it can ever be to me or to you again what it has been,
and yet it seems strange to me to feel so. I thought
I knew there was death and change and sorrow in this
world, but I didn't know this. We have so loved
and deUghted in each other and now we seem to me
such a blighted branch, and any happiness or pleasure
that comes only seems to show the blackness of Mary's
darkness more strongly. Even your coming, which I
have looked at as such a pure joy, even that is shad
owed, for it seems as if there was nothing for you to
see when you were here, but a great gulf. Sam and
Mary both gone, as it were, for Mary is such a heart
broken creature, though she is so steady and so un-

162
complaining that I sometimes wonder that it can be
she. All this seems ungrateful and unchristian, for surely
the Lord is good to us, even in this, but it is meant
as a trial of faith, I believe, and, taking it as such in
meekness, we shall be helped to bear it. I am at least
twenty years older than I was when you were married,
and I suppose you are prepared to meet your sister of
forty. It was only the day before I came away that
Ellen told me what a " changed " and broken creature
she and all my friends considered me. This was not
pleasant to hear, as you may suppose, but it is partly
true. I am not broken, that is a phrase, but I am
sobered and I am afraid saddened to my inmost heart.
I write on because it is such a mercy to' speak even
on paper. I do keep a bright face to Mary, and she,
I think, knows less than any one how I have felt, but
now I will stop at least about myself.

To Mr. Edward Twistleton.
Boston, June 11, 1855
... I kept your wedding day, my dear brother
Edward, wandering about on horseback among the
Princeton hills and dressing my horse in your honor
with boughs of apple and maple blossoms. You can
hardly understand without undergoing a metamor
phosis from yourself into myself, how constantly I
look back at that 19th day of May, 1852, as the
brightest and most beautiful day of my life, nor how
it keeps its shining loveliness through all the clouds

163
that have gathered since, and how, too, as the years
have passed that seemed so interminable to me, I have
learned to thank you for what you took away as well
as for what you gave me, then. Absence has had no
power to lessen the love that till that day was the
spring and centre of my Ufe, but it has compelled me
to find in myself, and in others, resources which, tiU
then, were hidden from me by the heights and depths
of an engrossing affection. I do not say that this has
always been easy or pleasant, but I should most un-
wilUngly surrender either the result or the process.
Now I know you are too wise and too strong ever to
have regarded yourself, morbidly, as an instrument of
torture used in my behalf, but I think there has some
times been ar pang mingled with your pleasure, at the
thought that some one else had lost what you had
gained, and I want you to know how truly and clearly
I see that the loss has been also a gain for me, though
perhaps it is perceptible only to myself.

To Mrs. Edward Twistleton.
Boston, Monday Morning, July 29, 1855.
. . . Perhaps I can better write you all the details
of the wedding when the freshness of your sorrow is
not brought before me, and by the time this reaches
you I hope you will have some heart to care for
them. If you were here you would have a feeling
of relief at the final reaching and passing of a point
you had looked towards so long that would be an en
joyment in itseU.

164
... I have had a great many compUments on
Edmund's appearance, which is said to have been
singularly successful. Instead of being withered up
by emotion as most men are, when they are married,
his face expanded and brightened, and for once did
justice to his character. After the ceremony Ellen's
face left its solemn look and became purely happy,
happy as I never saw it before ; it really seemed the
dawn of a new day,
... I did not dare to count the absent, though much
of the time they were infinitely more present to me
then than most of the people whose faces came only
very dimly before me. I never had so strange a feel
ing of separateness in my life. You and Sam and
Mary and mother and Edward and Ellen and Edmund
were the real presences to me that night, and I felt
you all about me all the time, more than I should if
you had been really there, perhaps. It was very mer
ciful to feel so, for I did not care the least who really
was there, and did not feel oppressed by the crowd of
strangers as I expected to do. Nothing was any mat
ter except the new peace that I felt I had possession
of, and the beloveds whose presence is always in
my heart of hearts and among whom I abode that
night. . . . Do I make you understand clearly that I feel
a great deal better ? There's more room in the world
and less flummery, a great deal, than there was a week
ago, and there's more air to breathe and everything is
relieved wonderfully. Instead of feeling each day
as if the last end of my strength, and the last cell of
my brain was reached, now I have something left each

165
day to begin another one with, and I can open my
heart to the sunshine there is in the world and temper
the deep, deep shadows therewith. God knows the
loss sinks deeper into my heart each day, but it is a
mercy to be able to feel, as well as know, that the gains
are real and heartfelt, too, and not to have them laid
under such a heavy covering of superficial unrealities
that I can only hold on to the fact that there is some
thing beneath by the most perpetual effort of mind.

To Miss Lizzie Eliot.
Brighton, England, Saturday, Dec. 1, 1855.*
. . . You ask about English beauty, and I must
say English ugUness strikes me much more. You do
not see half as many pretty faces among the young
girls as with us, though now and then you come across
one of those splendid complexions that you describe
and that are never seen at home in such perfection ;
as for the middle-aged and elderly women, they are
truly fearful to my eyes, and I cannot imagine how
they contrive to be so ugly. There seems to be a
regular rise in the scale of hideousness, from the chil
dren who are beautiful, and then grow less and less
so, tiU they are fifty, when I should think they reached
the highest conceivable pitch of ugliness. Of course
I speak only of them as seen in the street, not having
met them elsewhere, and perhaps I shall change my
mind when I do. Brighton is as much of a show
place as Newport and now is the height of the season,
» In the autumn of 1855 she went to visit her sister Ellen in England.

166
and I have found it a capital opportunity for staring
and have been excessively amused. The climate is
perfectly delicious, very mild and yet very bracing.
The long Esplanade runs close to the water's edge
for at least two miles, so that you combine the beau
ties of Nature with the smiles or, more commonly, the
frowns of Fashion, and can be sentimental or worldly
as you choose. The riders, who are innumerable, seem
to enjoy themselves more than any one else, besides
affording great entertainment to the spectators.

To Miss Lizzie Eliot.
Rutland Gate,* Feb. 3, 1856.
... I think, too, I understand your winter with
the baby, and the visits to Brookline, and the efforts
to become an aunt, according to your idea of what an
aunt should be, and the Sundays rather dreary with
out Mr. Peabody, and the week days divided between
trying to do your duty and trying to be prudent, and
long gleams of satisfaction out of Charlie and Kate
and Fan, and nightmares growing out of M. L.'s"
visit, and mild melancholy occasionally from L.'s
lame knee, and decided gratification that the ball is so
successfully accomplished.
As you were foolish enough to write to Ellen about
M. L. I hope you will get any light on the subject
that you want from her, but I myself doubt how much
she has to give, and if I were j'ou another time I
shouldn't, from a petty desire to feel your power by
• Mrs. Twistleton's home in London.

167
awakening jealousy, cut myself off from the only
person who could do me any good. Now, of course,
I shan't teU you any of the things I might tell you to
enUghten your mind. I pity you, but it is your own
fault. I have naturally a generous disposition, a sweet
temper, and a fine mind, but, Elizabeth, " the worm
will turn when trod upon."
Nothing can exceed the hospitable way in which
people have received a little American stranger with
no earthly claim upon them, and I am ready to sing
their praises to any extent. I have seen every variety
of manner, from the sudden start at hearing that I was
American, and the involuntary examination of my
complexion, to the enlightened Uberality of those
highly cultivated few who know that Americans and
English are of the same race, passing through the
various stages of the cold stare, the curious investiga
tion, the calm survey, and the friendly, cordial wel
come. You may expect to see me return a considerably
hardened sinner, for it is great training to be looked
at through a whole evening as if you were a piece of
furniture, and I am learning to return the gaze with
absolute equanimity, and enjoy myself highly all
through it. We have just come back from a visit at
Stoneleigh Abbey, and that and the ten days at Adle-
strop have been the most interesting of all the visits
to me, from being with Edward's family. I made their
acquaintance at Adlestrop and then found the five
daughters and two sons again at Stoneleigh, so that I
continued it there, with the addition of Lord and Lady
Leigh, and the beautiful stately place, which is so full
of associations to Edward that it seems as much one

168
of the family as Chicopee does, and you know how
much that is. They have every one of them shown
me a degree of kindness which is the best possible
proof how fond they are of EUen, and that, as usual,
is the key to my heart. A large family is always most
delightful I think, and therefore the size of this one
did not daunt me at aU, and I have seen enough of
them to have a distinct idea of each individuality.
Their intelUgence, strong feelings, and principles
make them seem like an American family, and it is
highly entertaining, with this background of sym
pathy, to make out the differences of education, cir
cumstances, and ideas. They all teU me that I am
very English, so if you can make out what that means
perhaps you will teU me. I always thought I was
very American.
I always used to wonder how the days went at these
country houses, but since I have been there it seems
remarkably simple and easy to get rid of one's time,
without either being bored or boring other people.
You breakfast, nominally, at ten, but really have pray
ers at ten, which at Stoneleigh were in a beautiful
little chapel opening out of the HaU, and which are
always read by Lord Leigh. Then breakfast follows
immediately and is a very informal meal, where those
who have letters read them, and other people talk, eat,
or hold their tongues as they like, nothing particular
being expected of you. After breakfast the lady of
the house generally disappears, and the guests are left
to their own disposal. At Stoneleigh there were only
three parlors and a library with a fire in each, besides
your own room for you to take refuge in, so that it was

169
naturally difficult to amuse yourself. You may prac
tise or write or read or look at picture-books or draw or
sew or talk to any one who is about, or do anything
else, provided you take care of yourself till luncheon
time. Luncheon is a regular meal, with meat, vege
tables, and puddings, but no servants to speak of, and
you streak about and get what you want to eat. After
luncheon caniages are always to be had, and walking
parties for those who do not fancy driving, and you
generally are out till five o'clock, always taking an
umbrella and dressing for a ducking, which you usu
aUy get. When you come in, if you are fagged, there
is always a cup of tea to be had, which is altogether
a new invention, but not a bad one, when dinner is at
seven. Then there is an interval for rest and then
dinner, at which you are expected to make yourself
agreeable to both your neighbors and after dinner to
be pleasant to the ladies, and do your " childish best
to please " tiU eleven, when you go to bed. You can
imagine that a week of this would give you an excel
lent chance to find out what was in people, and when
you get used to it, it is not fatiguing and is a thor
oughly wholesome way of seeing society, it seems to
me, as late hours are not necessary.

To Miss C. A. Eliot.
London, April 13, 1856.
My Dearest Kate, — Having allowed your con
science peacefully to rest upon its laurels for several
weeks, I am going now to rouse up all those twinges

170
of remorse from which you represent yourself as
having suffered after the receipt of my last despatch.
It was very unreasonable in you to be remorseful, you
darling, for I had been thinking how beautifully you
had treated me, and feeling that you gave me more
than I deserved in the several dear Uttle postscripts
which you have attached to Lizzie's letters. You
can't expect to equal Elizabeth, for I never knew
any human being who lavished such stores of delight
ful letters on a distant friend without even requiring
a ' thank you ' or any but faint and occasional signs
of gratitude and appreciation, except her noble self.
But then, you know, we mustn't expect to come up
to her, any of us, but be content to follow humbly in
the way which she points out, and I am sure you have
done that faithfully.
I do sympathize with you, with all my heart, in
your summer prospects, and consider them the just
reward of patient virtue on your part. I have no
doubt you will have (God willing) just as delightful
a time at Single Tree as you expect, and wiU prove
Elizabeth entirely mistaken in her prognostications of
dearth and dulness. Country Ufe is really the only
thing that Elizabeth is not bright about ; perhaps she
may grow brighter with experience, and if she doesn't,
we can only pity her and send her in occasionally to
visit the red bricks and Gammell. If I were only at
home wouldn't I beg for an invitation to come out
and spend a week with you and help you to convert
the heretic by showing her what real enjoyment was ?
As for her declining to cultivate her mind, Catherine,
there is no telUng how we might feel if we had as

171
large an expanse of inteUectual ground to till as she
has. It might discourage us, too, who have only
smaU patches to be fenced in and made the most of.
I have the most vivid sense of your journeys to Pitts
St., and your labors over the children. About this
time I rather think you are beginning to count the
weeks tUl the school closes, for the drag up the hill,
when the weather begins to be warm, is anything but
exhilarating. I had a class there three years, and I
think it is one of the most harmless forms of charity,
but also one of the most fatiguing. Parties are a
bore, Kate, as long as one goes with the idea that they
are not, but when one has fairly recovered from that
delusion, and sets one's self to making the best and the
most of them, they become cheerful. I consider them
only one form of duty and not by any means the
simplest, but still not to be neglected, and like
others when faithfully performed leaving a kind of
mild satisfaction behind them. I know I used to go
to parties with the impression that my enjoyment was
to be provided for me, and I had nothing to do but to
receive amiably and graciously, but the result of a
long life is that all the fun I ever had out of them I
made for myself. Of course these severe remarks do
not hold good, if one is a raving beauty or a Mme. de
Stael, but the bulk of the community are neither, and
though I do not mean to condemn you to the peace
ful mediocrity where I reside myself, perhaps my
remarks in a mitigated form apply to every one. It
suddenly strikes me that I have written you a sermon,
which is the last thing I meant to do. Excuse
me. . . .

172

The season has begun and Ellen is consequently
busier than ever, but as the burden of receiving and
making visits does not rest on me, I do not find that
season or no season makes any great difference. Ellen
does the work, and I have only the play, which is aU
very capital, except that I find myself occasionally
sUghtly envious of the people who absorb so much of
her valuable time. All 'the famUy' are in town
now. Lady Leigh and her five daughters and Lord
Saye and Sele and a considerable portion of his ac
companiments, and as there is a wedding in the case
this week, there is an unusual degree of excitement
going on. The future Lord Saye and Sele, the Hon.
John Finnes, is to be married on Thursday to Lady
Augusta Hay, and therefore there are presents to be
bought and sent and notes to be written, and I am
kept in a constant state of amusement by the affec
tionate but respectful manner in which all these
grown-up people of very nearly her own age address
Ellen as 'My dearest Aunt EUen.' They really
seem to be so fond of her and so easily pleased with
whatever she does that I do not care much what they
call her. Lady Augusta is about your age, and the
simplest, brightest, cheeriest little body you ever saw.
Marriage not being regarded in the light of a solem
nity here, but rather as a splendid piece of fun, she is
not at all subdued by her circumstances, but talks
about her wedding day and her trousseau and all the
pretty new bonnets she has got with as much uncon
cern and frankness as if she were going to a ball and
going to take a journey afterwards, and she is so
honest and so pretty and amiable all the time that

173
you can't possibly dislike it, and, on the contrary, you
feel rather disposed to think that is the best view to
take of it. I am particularly fortunate, I think, to
come in for such an occasion, as she has been good-
natured enough to include me in aU her invitations to
EUen, so that I shall go to see the trousseau and to
the wedding and breakfast, and be prepared when I
come home to superintend your wedding, my dear,
a I'Anglaise, if you wiU only get engaged and be
ready for me. I don't think I have any particular
adventures to tell you of this week, for, except one
dinner at Lady Ashburton's, I have been quite
domestic and have been digging away at my German
dictionary and grammar in a very peaceful manner.
Edward conveyed me one day to Mme. Tussaud's
horrible exhibition of wax figures. You may think I
use a strong term, but I don't know when I have seen
anything which aroused my indignation more from the
libel of Washington, which is the first thing you see
when you enter the exhibition, to the Chamber of
Horrors, where, among thieves and murderers, are
the figures of the three fraudulent bankers, Paul,
Strahan, and Bates, who, in spite of their crimes,
hardly seem to deserve to be degraded so very low,
and when you remember that their wives and daugh
ters are women of the education and feelings (proba^
bly) of ladies, your compassion rises so very high
that it ceases to be at all moral.
Next week we are going to the drawing-room.
Tuesday, the 29th, is the day, and our trains are
already disposing their lengths and mights on the bed
in the spare room. I have taken the French dress

174
which I had for Ned's wedding, and didn't wear, and
had a train trimmed with white acacias and blonde to
match, and the effect is considered stunning, but what
will become of little me, when I am enveloped in this
huge paraphernalia I have not the least idea. I do not
expect to be perceptible without a magnifying glass.
Ellen has a white dress trimmed with roses and a pink
train, trimmed with blonde and lined with white
satin, so you can imagine us, though the great occa
sion wiU be past before this reaches you. I must say
I look forward to it with some horror, as the prospect
of standing four hours, which is generally the process
by which you arrive at the queen, is rather a formid
able one. To Miss Lizzie Eliot.
3 Rutland Gate, Sunday, May 4, 1856.
. . . The past week has been particularly busy.
Last Sunday we dined at Lord Lansdowne's and met
Macauley, and I sat with my ears pinned very far back
and listened to the most agreeable conversation I ever
heard by far, and came away with the impression that
if one could not talk like that it was better to hold
one's tongue permanently, from which impression,
however, I have since entirely recovered. Tuesday
we went to Court and returned alive, in spite of five
hours standing. Wednesday we rested ourselves
with all pains and consideration. Thursday we went
to a christening of one of Edward's second cousins.
Master George Arthur Bowyear Adderley, and heard
the poor little wretch sent first to perdition and then

175
brought back to salvation (a process which rather
makes my blood run cold always), and afterwards
had two of the Leighs to dine. Friday Mr. Vaughan
arrived to dinner, unexpectedly, and last night all of
a sudden, too, I found myself going to the Opera to
hear Grisi in Norma, with Mr. and Mrs. James
Marshall (friends of Edward's, who, like all the rest
of the world here, invest their hospitable feeling in
me). This is a London week, and if I were to run
on with the string of engagements for next week you
would be tired of the story. Grisi was magnificent.
She is singing in a small house here, so that, with
care, her voice does very well, and her appearance
and acting are wonderful, as you know. I am so glad
to have seen her, even if hearing her best is no longer
possible. Last week I went to a concert here where
they gave the beloved and beautiful Fifth Symphony,
and played it in twenty-five minutes, my dear. Is not
that faster than you have ever heard it ? ...
I think no one ever had so satisfactory a visit, if all
our plans are completed, for I have seen all Ellen's
friends, over and over again, so that my acquaintance
with them does not seem superficial, and now if I
may see some of the mountains and pictures which
we all love without seeing them, my eyes and heart
wiU really be " satisfied with seeing." I only wish
the sea did not divide my best and dearest darlings
so unmercifully. However, it is a shame to wish for
anything more or better than I have. These spring
days are most lovely, so long and light that they seem
most generous, and almost let one do all that one de
sires. The piano is moved upstairs, and Ellen sits

176
and paints and sews and I sing and play to our
hearts' content, and have beautiful, beautiful times.

To Miss Lizzie Eliot. London, May 27, 1856.
Darling Heart, — It is perfectly plain to me that
you are losing your mind, and so I think the most
judicious thing I can do, as weU as the kindest, is to
write and teU you so. What do you mean by asking
me whether I missed your letter, when it didn't come,
or whether I knew that it was only the second time
since I came away that I had passed a fortnight with
out hearing from you? Elizabeth, do you think I
should feel hungry if I was deprived of my dinner for
a day or two, or do you think I am aware that
the sun doesn't fail to rise every morning and should
know that it was dark if it didn't, or do you need to
be informed that you are just as necessary and just as
important to me as my daily bread and morning light,
and that I shall be much obliged to you in future to
refrain from shocking my nerves by showing such a
fearful ignorance of your position ? I hope, EUzabeth,
you feel that you said a very wrong thing, a remark
ably wrong thing, a much wronger thing than I should
have expected from you.
I didn't know that I " let out " about C  N  's
letters, but you express my very sentiments, and my
heart leapt up with wickedness to find that you
thought so. You're a bad girl again to hint that your
letters have the most distant traces of a resemblance ;
yours are never long enough, and I am always dis-

177
gusted with all other Uterature after them for several
days. Do you hear what I say?
Arthur Lyman has breakfasted and dined here, and
been with us to Kew and to the British Museum, and
with Edward to the clubs and so forth. He has been
very pleasant always, and Edward's heart is quite
won by his sense and his straightforward way of
talking, while Ellen and I appreciate his good looks
and good manners and hope he does not find us very
old and fogey. To Miss Lizzie Eliot.
Martigny, July 24, 1856.
. . . Your visit to Mary* was a success, though
you in your modesty were not sure of it, and you did
exactly the right thing in going. I do not know
whether I ought to be glad that you should have had
such a sorrowful look into my past and future, and
yet I am very grateful for the comprehension and
sympathy which come to me in consequence. All
that you say is true, word for word, but one thing you
must remember in thinking of my Ufe there, and that
is that I, too, had an irretrievable loss in Sam's death,
which, though a mere shadow on my Ufe compared
with the abiding darkness in which she dwells, yet
makes a certain harmony between us, springing from
a vital sympathy, so that her bitter grief often seems
to me but the natural expression of a feeling which
Ues underneath aU cheerfulness and aU enjoyment,
and will enter as an essential element into all the
remainder of our lives. * Mrs. Sam Parkman.

178
At the same time I feel that in going to live in the
perpetual presence of such a sorrow I have need of a
whole panoply of faith, hope, and courage, and I do
not undertake it except very humbly and with the
beUef that a steadfast purpose of weU-doing will bring
some good result, even though the hands that work
are feeble and clumsy. There seems not much use in
saying all this, and except to you I should not, but it
is a great help to me to have you understand my
point of view, and, therefore, I indulge myself, and
hope I shall not make you feel sorrowful. This Ufe
cannot be meant to be easy for us or it would have
been very differently arranged from what it is, and I
am getting to feel as if the only peace was in the wiU-
ingness to surrender and to Uve without even our
chief happiness and greatest hopes. , , ,
... Of course we have had a lull on the subject
of politics since we left England, but I follow the
steamer's news in Galignani with the most intense
interest, and to-day we have been vainly endeavoring
to decipher whether Kansas has been or has not been
admitted as a free State. You might think a fact of
this kind might be plainly stated, but it is only
botched, so that one knows nothing. Chamouni, August 2, 1856.
. . . The ten days which we passed in Paris,
though I enjoyed them very much at the time, have
rather faded away from me since I came into this
magnificent Switzerland where one seems to Uve in a
perpetual face to face with the powers that mould the
universe. We spent five days at Geneva, resting from

179
rather a hard journey over the Jura, and taking in the
full beauty and loveliness of that placid, gentle lake.
From there we took a carriage journey through the
valley of the Rhone, over the Simplon route as far as
Visp, and then mounting our mules we rode twenty-
five miles up and up into what seems the very heart
of the Alps, to Zermatt, a little, dirty town with a
large, clean hotel ruUng over it, and standing just at
the foot of Mt. Cervin, a mountain still unknown to
the mass of traveUers, and holding a kind of private
court for a few adventurous tourists. There we
stayed more than a week, quite by ourselves, the
invading hordes of EngUsh not having reached there.
We had a parlor looking full out at the mountain, so
that it breakfasted, dined, and supped with us, except
once or twice when it retired into its cloud chamber
to attend to its own affairs. We wandered up and
down the vaUey, tiU we knew each peak by heart.
Ellen sketched and painted innumerable fiowers, and
by the time we came away we felt as if the place
belonged to us, and had quite a homesick dislike to
leaving it. Crushing all these minor sensations with
the heels of our mental boots, we sternly came away,
and retraced our steps to Martigny. From there we
passed two days and a night in going up to the Hos
pice of the St. Bernard, which is, beyond all places
that I have seen, the fulfilment of one's ideal. The
scenery as wild and dreary and weird, the monks as
hospitable and gracious, the dogs as brave and as
nobly intelligent as the story-books we all read when
we were chUdren promised us they should be. When
I bring you abroad, my dear, I certainly shall take

180
you up there, no matter how much you may object to
riding for three-quarters of an hour over rather shaky
snow. A day's journey from Martigny brought us
here, where we are perpetually admiring and wonder
ing at beauty which it seems almost impossible to
appreciate comprehendingly. The vastness and love
liness together are beyond words. It seems to me I
might as weU try to describe Heaven to you, with
mortal words, as to give you any idea of this place in
a letter. . . .
On the top of St. Bernard who should seize me
round the neck but Annie Robbins and make me feel
as if the rest of Summer St. would foUow her im
mediately. To Miss Lizzie Eliot.
Dresden, Aug. 31, 1856.
. . . Last night, dearest Lizzie, when we arrived
here, I found your " gaUuptious " letter of August 7,
which, as usual, went more to the right place than I
can tell you. I didn't think I should be led away to
write to you again, and now do not mean to be led far,
but want to tell you that I shall be delighted to get
the caps, gloves, and wreaths in Paris, and think it the
most amiable set of commissions I ever received, with
such a magnificent stock of undeserved confidence to
draw upon as makes commissions mere play.
I see the BuUard's domestic circle with an absolute
distinctness of vision which only your peculiarly
graphic pen could give. I like L  and respect her
extremely, and I think her a particularly happy and

181
excellent woman, and hear your little vicious remarks
without my sense of these superiorities being dis
turbed, which is the comfort of discriminating vice
Uke yours. People are not perfect in this world, and
what is the use of pretending to one's intimate friends
that they are. Therefore, Elizabeth, go on and let us
both be comfortable.
I have not written to you since Chamouni, which
now seems a great way off. A week after I sent that
letter I had a noble one from you, and one of the same
kind from Kate. WiU you thank her very profoundly
and with your best smile, and tell her that I have not
the faintest idea of answering her until we can take a
walk down Beacon St. together, or sit all in a
bunch together as we used to, some on the floor and
some on the bed and chairs of your room, which, D.
v., is not very far off.
We expect to be here a fortnight and hope to see
the Ticknors on Wednesday, and to have several days
with them. It will be really fine to see some relatives
again. Dresden is a great deal handsomer city and
more attractive in every way than I expected, and the
pictures unspeakably delightful. Ellen and Edward
are very well and very fond of you all, and I am as
ever your fourth sister,
Elizabeth Dwight.

To Miss Lizzie Eliot.
3 Rutland Gate, Wednesday, Nov. 21, 1856.
. . , Nowhere have I so intensely realized that I
was in London as at St, Paul's, where we went the

182
other day to the afternoon service, and where the
roar of the city around you is so tremendous that it is
with difficulty you can hear the reading, and even the
chanting and the rich beautiful organ only make it
seem like a deep monotonous undertone to their own
sweet sounds. It seems as if one's bodily ears heard
the strife between the voice of God and the voice of
men in the world's heart there, and it is most impres
sive, not to say awful. I cannot tell you how I
enjoyed the cathedral service. I expected that the
form would be too much for the feeUng, but I do not
think it is so, certainly not to me. The intoning
which, as we hear it is purely ridiculous, is only in
harmony with the chanting when you hear it alternat
ing with that, and when it is well done you lose the
unnaturalness which strikes you at first, in the sense
of appropriateness (which struck me at once), and as
your ear becomes accustomed to it, the uplifting of
the voice and the sustained note seems almost a bet
ter vehicle for an ascending prayer than the ordinary
tones which we use for our feUow mortals.
Perhaps aU this will seem very incomprehensible
to you, and I was perfectly amazed to find myself
thinking so, but I do not find that in other respects I
am at all more " Puseyitical " in my principles than I
was before, so don't be afraid that I shall desert the
King's Chapel for the Church of the Advent when I
come home.

183

To Miss Lizzie Eliot.
3 Rutland Gate, Tuesday, Nov. 27, 1856.
. . . You ask about my room which has become so
natural and homelike to me that it seems almost
strange to think you do not know it. In the first
place I dwell among white jessamines and ivy leaves
which deUght my eyes morning, noon, and night.
The chintz which makes bed-curtains, window cur
tains, and which covers the couch and the window
seat, has a Ught green ground with white jessamines
growing, actually growing, all over it, and which never
fade, but look at me every day just as fresh and smell
just as sweet as they did the first night I saw them.
Then the carpet is brown with brown ivy leaves, and
the paper has green ivy leaves and brown berries
upon it. The furniture aU black walnut, the best of
beds and of dressing-tables. The china, which ought to
have a page to itself, is white with wreaths of scarlet
fuschias tied round it in various places where they
look happy and pleasant. You see there is the most
deUghtful combination of the grave and gay, and the
result is lovely.
Our quiet days are just such as one might pass at
home. We breakfast at ten, Edward and I together.
EUen in her room as yet. Then I spend an indefinite
time in EUen's room, talking and scolding mutually,
as we prefer. Then she dresses, and I go downstairs
and perhaps improve my mind a little till she comes
down, about one. At two comes lunch, to which
Edward never comes, but which we find quite essen-

184
tial. After lunch a walk with Edward, unless
visitors come, or I prefer to stay at home. This is
the time for visits, never earlier. Ellen reads and
writes or sews, and I buzz about and plague her if I
Uke. Dinner at seven, and in the evening never
visitors, and always Edward reads aloud and EUen
and I work worsted, and we have splendid times. If
I go sightseeing we go from twelve to three. This
will give you a general idea of the way time goes,
which I think you wUl like. I am astonished to find
how readUy one falls into the late breakfasts and
dinners.

[Diary.'\ Good Friday, April 10, 1857.
. . . Was up early, finished my breakfast, and went
upstairs. Was called down to see Ned, found
Elliot * there, had no idea of seeing him, couldn't
imagine why he came, found out before he went
away. God help us both. Went to church, to see
Anna and Aunt Polly. Came home and copied for
dear life. Had my luncheon, and came with Ned to
Chicopee. * She came home in the late autumn of 1856. Before this there are very
few references to J. E. C. in her lettera. They had met occasionally at
Mrs. Parkman's, but J. E. C. had been supposed to be there as a friend of
the latter. At this time he was 37 years old and was generally supposed to
be a conflrmed bachelor. The events hinted at in the following extracts
seem almost as sudden in the letters as they do in the extracts printed here.

185

Wednesday, April 15, 1857.
. . . Breakfasted in tolerable season, marked stock
ings innumerable. Mrs. Willard came. I went to
the Post-office and found only the paper. Came home
and dined. My letter came. I rested and dressed.
Went down and talked and sang to Mrs. W  . In
the evening Edwin and Julia Carter, no Mr. Wells.
Exceeding peace.
To J. E. C.
Chicopee, April 15, 1857.
Dear Heart, — I have just received your letter, for
we are too good in the country to get letters on
Sunday, and I doubt very much whether this can
reach you before you leave town, but will take the
chance if you care to see a little of my handwriting.
I am very glad I didn't disturb your books, nor put
out your fire, nor do any mischief in your room
Friday evening, and hope I have done all the tor
menting I have to do to you for the present; for
future torment I wiU not promise, but you must
learn to defend yourself.
Postmarks are traitors, but it isn't any matter, for
I have no doubt both your brother and Mrs. Lee can
hold their tongues, though it is a rare accomplish
ment. As for your dear mother, I hope you made her
understand that I shouldn't care.
Do you think she ever will really love me a little
bit? I don't want her to have to tolerate me, because
toleration is wearisome work both sides, and I could

186
love her so easily, if she will let me, for her own sake
and mother's, leaving you quite out of the question.
Friday, after you were gone, my dear Lizzie Eliot
came, and I let her rest in peace until Saturday
morning and then gave her " a few facts." She has
been an angel of goodness to me, and adopts you on
my account without a murmur, which seems to me a
friend worth having and keeping. Yesterday I wrote
and wrote and wrote to EUen, until there was noth
ing left of me except a white creature lying on the
sofa which she would have called " Bunny." One
can write such a letter once in a lifetime, but not
more, I should think. I send it off with this, and am
thankful to be the other side of a job I dreaded.
Perhaps you may meet Mr. Wells in the 6.05 train
to-morrow evening, and in that case you wUl come
home with him in his wagon. No one will be
inconvenienced but yourself by your coming here,
and I think you wiU be better off than at that dirty
tavern, though your room is about five feet square.
I shall be as glad to see you as if you hadn't made me
turn pale at least twice in the last week, and only
know that you are my home. Yrs always, Lizzie.
To J. E. C.
170 Tremont St., Monday, April 20, 1857.
Dearly Beloved, — The skies do not look propitious
for an evening drive in an open vehicle, so I think we
had better make another arrangement for getting in

187
from Cambridge to-night. I shall go out in the cars
at half-past four, and you shall follow by the same
conveyance when your Atheneum meeting is over. I
will get a carriage in Cambridge to take me to Mrs.
Norton's, and order it to come back for us at an early
hour, so that you may be safe in town for the haU-past
nine cars. The only responsibility you have is to
have yourself safely deUvered at Mrs. Norton's before
seven o'clock.
If you have any little objections to make, please let
me know before half-past four.
I have written to Mrs. Agassiz, and shall take my
note out with me to teU her that her tongue may be
loosed to-morrow.
There is somebody in Tremont St. getting into a
curious habit of loving you and wanting to see you.
Can you imagine who ? I never give names, but
remain, " Yours with sincere regards,"
Elizabeth Dwight.

To Mrs. Edward Twistleton.
Boston, Sept. 26, 1857.
Dearest Ellen, — Another misfortune has come,
but it is a light one compared with many others, for
we are aU alive and weU. Charles H. MUls & Co.
have failed.
We all agreed Friday evening what was best to be
done. I am to be married next week, and then Anna
and Charles wiU come and pass the winter with Mary.
She can accommodate them all, and it is the cheapest

188
and most comfortable thing on the whole. I am
coming to you on the 14th, D. V. still. It seems
brutal to leave them, but what can I do but go when
Charles tells me if I would not add another disap
pointment to what he has, I must not change my
plans, and the EUots and all say the same, and I do
not want to stay to be a victim in their eyes, though,
God knows, nothing but this and the feeling that you
wiU want some one to speak to makes me do it. I
wish I knew you would approve of it. I never can
tell you what a rock of strength and love ElUot is,
and I do beUeve both Anna and Marj^ know how he
cares for them, and they let him do what he can ; and
I feel rich and prosperous so long as I have him. We
shaU make no plans tiU we see you — you must think
what wiU be the wisest and cheapest. I shall be
married at church, in the morning. My wedding-
dress is not made and wiU not be. AU I want about
it is to have the least thought for any one and the least
fuss, to obliterate myseU, if I could, for I know it
hurts them aU that at this time I should be shadowed,
and it is so infinitely no matter. I am married to ElUot
now in heart and soul, and nothing about myself costs
me a single pang except to leave them. Don't you
grieve over it either, darling, please.

Sunday Evening, Sept. 27, 1857.
... It is ten o'clock, darUng, and Millsey has just
gone home, telling me to go to bed immediately, but
I must write you something, if it is only half a page,
this last evening.

189
We are all well, dearest heart. The week has been
very crowded, very busy, very fuU of confiicting
feeUngs, but to-night all seems peaceful, and if we are
not prosperous people we are, at least, loving to each
other, and not rebeUious under the Lord's dispensa
tions. Millsey is nothing less than heroic in her
cheerfulness and strength and never-ending thought
for everybody but herself.
To-morrow is my Wedding Day, darling, twelve
o'clock at the Stone Chapel, Mr. Huntington for the
service. Straight to Beverly from the church. My
heart is just as stiU and as content for myself as
human heart can be. Only these darlings whom I
leave to work and suffer weigh upon me. This week
has given ElUot such a sense of MiUsey as makes it
precious to me, really, spite of the suffering.
Good-night, dearest, dearest, dearest Ellen and
Edward. Love me one-half that I love you, and it
wUl be enough for your own
Elizabeth " Bunny."

CHAPTER III.

FROM HEK marriage TO HER SISTER ELLEN'S
death, 1857 TO 1862.

To Miss Lizzie Eliot.
Pisa, Nov. 25, 1857.
. . . How often my thoughts have traveUed back
to you no numbers would count, nor how I have
longed to box up and send back some of the many
pleasures that have crowded my time and made it
seem months instead of weeks. The great drawback
of travelling is always the necessity of monopolizing
the pleasures that would be so much increased by
being shared, and this I have felt more than ever, as
I have thought how the days that were so adding to
my life were taking away from yours, and how gladly
I would change the current if I might. Darling, do
you think every day that in my heart I am close, close
by your side, though I have wandered so far away,
sundered our daily Uves so absolutely that I can be
no help to you ? Please remember it if you can, for
it truly seems to me no hour passes that I do not pic
ture to myself your whereabouts and think over and
over again of what may be coming and going in the
house that has been my second home, and wish I
190

191
could just go in at sunset and see for myself how all
the beloved faces look and whether there is any Uttle
thing I might do. . . .
Our visit at Rutland Gate, though it was really
very short, accomplished a great deal more than I
hoped from it, convincing me in the first place that
we were right to come, if only for the sake of seeing
Ellen, and, in the second place, making Ellen and
Elliot such good friends that it seemed to me the
work of years was accomplished in those few days,
the fact reaUy being that the work was all done
before, but they needed the actual face to face contact
to make them both aware of it and to satisfy me of it,
and I am sure you can well understand what a com
fort it is to feel that they are no longer strangers to
each other, and to have heard them call each other
" Ellen " and " ElUot." Furthermore, ElUot enjoyed
seeing England so much more than when he was there
before that he could realize how much I had enjoyed
my visit there before, so that you see all things com
bined to make our visit a soUd satisfaction. . . .
You know I am not one of the people whose
imaginations are so Uvely that they are led into per
petual disappointment, and so far it has been as when
I was abroad before, everything has been better and
more beautiful than my expectations.
To Mrs. Edward Twistleton.
Florence, Dec. 3, 1857.
. . , Now just let me tell you two things. You did
very wrong about the toothache and you shan't come

192
from Marseilles to Leghorn by water, if I come back
to England and lock you up in your room to prevent
it. I don't care what it costs or doesn't cost, you
mustn't and you shan't do it, and if you don't write
me that you won't, I will write to Edward myself
about it, so you'd better mind what I say.
If only that beautiful tower were straight. You
can't teU how I wished it. I felt as if something
must be done about it immediately. As for the
Baptistery, no one ever said half enough about it. It
seemed to me like a vessel of hoUness in itself, and as
if a child baptized might be speciaUy blessed.
We walked about Pisa a great deal, too, and went
to see the various curiosities in architecture among
the old churches, which I find very entertaining with
Elliot, as he opens my eyes to a great many things
which I should never see without him, so that I no
longer feel incUned to regard an old church as an old
humbug. There I saw three Fra Bartolomeos, the one in my
room at Rutland Gate, the Madonna pleading for the
Lucchese, and the Madonna and St. Catherine kneel
ing at the open grave. They were the first I have
seen and you can tell how I admired them all, but I
think I never saw anything in a picture which
touched me so profoundly as that one figure of the
Madonna at the grave. You must remember it. It
seemed to me so Uke mother that I felt almost as if
she would turn round and speak to me, and apart
from that the beauty of that attitude and coloring
and the intense pathos in every line and shade are
something that were never so expressed before or

193
smce, I should think. I told EUiot I would have
walked twenty miles to see that one picture, and cer
tainly if there had been nothing else in the whole day
I should have been repaid for all the time and
trouble. . . ,
The fireplace is in the queerest position, in one
corner between the door and the waU, and an English
man who occupied the room last year, finding it
impossible to warm, had an air-tight stove made and
erected here, in the corner close to the fireplace. It
isn't ornamental certainly, and at first I thought we
should not use it, but one might as well throw wood
out of the window as into the fireplace, and we have
resulted to-night in two fires, one for use and one for
ventilation and ornament, and find ourselves extremely
comfortable, ElUot patiently tends both fires and
writes letters between. Twice in the course of the
evening our Uttle stove has heaved a deep sigh and
puffed a little ashes out of its door, but hasn't blown
up and I don't think means to.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Rome, Tuesday, Dec. 29, 1857.
. , , EUiot is a perfect darling all the time and
does everything and is everything I want, and if I
could only separate myself in feeling from all the
people I love, I should be as happy as the day is long,
and, as it is, am in a constant state of wonder why
the Lord lets me have such a husband.

lit 4

To Miss Lizzie Eliot.
Rome, Jan. 8, 1858.
My Dearest Lizzie, — ... We have been here nearly
a fortnight, which seems a long time when I remember
all the new sensations that have been crowded into
it, and yet is like nothing among the endless interests
of this wonderful place. We have settled into pretty
regular days, however, and the rest of the winter
promises a delightful succession of them. Breakfast
at nine, then odds and ends of writing, etc., till eleven
or twelve, then out till four. Home for rest and a
little quiet time before dinner at half-past five. In
the evening Elliot generally reads aloud awhile (since
we have been here we have begun on Roman history,
of course), and then we read to ourselves till bedtime,
which generally comes early for me. We are fed in
the most scriptural manner without knowing or think
ing anything about it. Breakfast appears on a small
plated tray before I am dressed, in the morning, and
I find it smoking good-morning when I appear.
Dinner is announced by the thump of a large tin
trunk on the floor of the outer room, out of which
proceeds a most comfortable series of dishes, and
generally a different set every day. It is certainly
" housekeeping made easy," and a splendid spoiling
for a beginner like me. I am getting to be a great
mistress of pantomime, however, under this system,
for our ItaUan maid understands not a word of
French, and I find my small vocabulary of Italian
easily exhausted, so I am learning the language of
signs, and shall be fit for head teacher in a deaf and

195
dumb asylum when we come home. I found it diffi
cult, at first, to express such delicate distinctions as
tablespoon and teaspoon, or soup-plate and dinner-
plate, but I am rapidly triumphing over these obstacles,
and shall be able to talk metaphysics and theology if
necessary in a short time. Fortunately "Checha"
(diminutive for Francesca) is as bright as a French
woman, and understands once for all when she is told
to do a thing. She has not begun to steal yet, either,
and until she does we shall remain good friends. . . .
ElUot has done all the work and made all the
bargains, bought candles, hired bathing-tubs, and does
all the housekeeping beautifully and is no trouble
to look after. The Forum, where we keep going
and looking, and should if we were here ten years,
has an engrossing fascination which only increases
with every visit. I learnt more Roman history by
ten minutes looking at those wonderful ruins than
out of all the books I ever read about it, or am Ukely
to. They tell the story of might and empire and
ruin in one breath, and are more solemnly and patheti
cally beautiful than one can ever imagine tUl you
stand within the magic circle. That seems to me the
heart of Rome now, as much as ever it was in the
olden time. From the Forum we kept right out to
the Colosseum. It is the first time we have been there
and we found it hard to get away, but were frightened
home by rainy clouds and remembering that we had
a long walk before us.
On the way, my dear, I met my fate in the shape
of the prettiest Uttle bonnet you ever saw, and
dragged my patient husband into a milliner's while I

196
tried it on and bought it. It is a lovely gray uncut
velvet trimmed with a wreath of feathery brown and
gray and a blue flower inside and doesn't look old at
all, and cost only eight dollars. So now you can
imagine me in my winter costume. . . . Lizzie.
To Mrs. Edward Twistleton.
Tuesday, Jan. 12, 1858.
... I suppose you take it for granted that I am
rejoicing over Rome, though I haven't expended any
time on my sentiments. The first few days I felt
rather like a chUd trying to hold a ball that was too
large for its hands, and kept rolUng away on the floor,
but now I think I have a slight grab on it, to express
it elegantly, and enjoy myself more every day. There
never was such a place for convincing one of igno
rance, I think. I am more frantic than usual to know
everything. Give my best love to Edward, and don't
say what a looking letter ! ElUot sends best love to
both. I love you awfully and don't know how to
bear it at all. Ever and ever
Your Bhnny,
To Mrs. Edward Twistleton.
Wednesday, Jan. 13, 1858.
(Finished Friday 15.)
. . . We mean to stay here till the 25th of March
about, so if you are here the 6th of Feb. we shaU
have seven weeks together. I don't mind losing

197
Naples, but couldn't stand leaving you before the last
of March for the sake of seeing any place short of
Heaven, and won't do it. Elliot and I are precisely
of the same mind about it. If we could go to Naples
and stay tUl after Easter we could come back here
then and get nice rooms and cheap, I have no doubt,
but we must have more time for the north of Italy
than that could give us, if we mean to see it comfort
ably or thoroughly. Now please to realize that your
beloved presence is more to me than all the sunshine
and loveliness of Naples could be, and don't think any
more about that. , , ,
\_From J. E. C] Having got possession of the pen,
who is to stop me from proceeding to congratulate
you on being on the Lung' Arno and not in that poky
H. de York. . . . Too bad, is it not, about Gen.
Havelock. Pity they had not done something more
for him before he died. However, we may at least
be thankful he had a chance to show what he was,
and did not die a mere unknown. Lizzie desires
me to say that dinner's ready, and that I must stop.
She is well and at this moment looking like a beauty,
so no more at present from your devoted admirer,
J. E. C. A pleasing declaration to find in one's
husband's letter ! Really, ma'am, perhaps you may
as weU remain in Florence. The small potion of
flattery directed at me doesn't carry this sort of thing
down at aU.
Rome is perfectly deUcious. To-day we have made
" the grand tour " of St. Peter's with Cora and How-
land Shaw, and to-morrow go with them again to the
Crypt. After this we went to the pictures in the

198
Vatican. Oh, Ellen, what a look there is on the face
of Christ in the Transfiguration! There is a new
Murillo there, since you were here. Perfectly lovely.
Elliot was fascinated with it, and of course said the
Madonna reminded him of you. I'm sure I don't
know what he meant. P.S. EUiot has been reading
this and says he's ' ashamed of me.' Isn't that a
jolly state of mind to have driven him to ?
I don't think I've got no more to say to you.
You're not an interesting correspondent to me, you're
not, I don't feel at ease writing to you. So adieu.
I adore you, and am ever and ever yrs, Lizzie Cabot.
To Miss Lizzie Eliot.
Rome, Tuesday, Jan. 21, 1858.
, , , It is rainy and dirty out this morning, Eliza
beth, so that I don't feel inclined to go drabbUng
through the streets, and therefore take the chance to
talk to you a little. Roman streets, though not so
dirty as I expected, are a good deal worse than Boston
or even New York, and as they take the opportunity
to sweep them during the showers, it makes it pecuUarly
Uvely to attempt a promenade on a rainy day, one's
whole soul residing in the bottom of one's dress,
which grows muddier and muddier in spite of every
exertion. . . .
We have made a rule not to go out in the even
ing at all, which reUeves us from Mrs. Apthorp's and
Mrs. Mountford's festivities, though it cuts us off
from Cora's. I Uke it much better, for as our time

199
here is rather short, our days are very busy and there
is plenty of reading and writing and going to bed
early to be done in the evenings. . . .
Monday we "assisted," as the English say, at a
grand ceremony at St. Peter's on the anniversary of
the finishing of the building. I am very glad to have
seen one such show, and shall never want to see a
second. The pope looked weak and pleasant, and
had a sort of half-tickled smile on his face all the time.
He was too dizzy to keep his eyes open as he came
up the broad aisle, but peeked out occasionally to
twist his fingers at the people. I was very much
shocked to see him pull out in the midst of the
ceremony from the folds of his magnificent garments
the most dreadful red and yellow bandana handker
chief you ever saw, and think of sending him a few
cambric ones to be used on great occasions. You will
perceive from the tone of my remarks that I wasn't
impressed with awe, and can't imagine how a person
should be by these Catholic ceremonies. There is no
apparent reverence or devotion in them, only a succes
sion of unmeaning, Ufeless performances, which seem
almost mockeries to me. The show of the clergy and
the miUtary was a splendid one and fit for the magnifi
cence and brUliance of St. Peter's. There was no
music to speak of, which rather disappointed me.
To Miss Lizzie Eliot.
Rome, Friday, March 6, 1858.
... I was SO thankful to hear from you again
and to get such a splendid, long, satisfactory letter.

200
ElUot thinks nobody ever was as fortunate in a cor
respondent as I am in you, so you see I get sympathy
on some subjects out of my husband that I never
should have got from you.
The stupefying cold turned out to be the Grippe,
and it has taken me aU this time to get rid of it, by
giving it my undivided attention, as it wiU not be
fought off like a common cold, but insists on being
treated like a serious illness, tho' it is really nothing
more than a persevering hard-hearted cold, of great
pretension and an exacting disposition.
I do so thank you, beloved, for loving me and
beUeving me as you do, and I don't in the least care
what nice little argument you arrange for yourself to
make it seem reasonable and accountable, though I
have not the faintest idea what you mean by a curious
remark about mind and heart and soul, which you say
ElUot wUl understand, and which he says he does, and
as he is a very honest man, I am obUged to beUeve
him. There is one flower here which grows every
where and is the gayest, most graceful Uttle creature,
enough to make one forget there is any trouble in the
world. It is shaped somewhat like our white-weed,
but with deUcate stalk, so that it hangs its head a
Uttle. It is the color of the purple azalia, and the
centre is almost black. I saw it growing the other
day all over the side of a sunny hiU, and as I sat at
the foot of it and looked up, the sun struck down,
lighting up each of their beautiful faces, and it looked
like a fit pavement for Heaven, and as if the angels
might be tempted down to walk over it. Beyond,
five splendid stone pines sprung up against the sky.

201
looking as grave and solemn and strong as they only
can, and just behind me a fountain sung peacefully,
so that I felt as if I had found actual Paradise, and
wished for all of you and thought how Aunt Mary
would rejoice over those lovely fiowers.
, , , Do you know that Ellen and Edward are trying
to tempt us to stay another winter and either pass it in
Greece or Egypt with them ? Doesn't it sound de
Ughtful and wouldn't it be so ? We should both of
us like it very much if we could but forget that we
have a home and home duties. I wish I knew what
you thought about it. Sometimes it seems a wicked
throwing away of opportunities to lose such a winter
in those places and that company, and when no very
definite duties call us home, but still the feeling comes
back very strongly that we might be losing more
precious opportunities of helping the people we love
best, and who have a right to the health and strength
and leisure which here we should spend on our own
enjoyments. , . .
Nothing strikes me more in the landscape than the
evanescent look of the hills, an expression which I fear
will convey no idea to your mind, but it is something
taking nothing from the expression of permanence
and repose which belongs to all hUls, but adding to
them an unearthly spirituality which would fit them
for the Kingdom of Heaven, and makes one feel as if
one had been granted a glimpse into it.

202

To Mrs. Samuel Eliot.
Rome, April 20, 1858.
My Dearest Aunt Mary, — I do not think you can
have any idea of the pleasure it gave me when I came
home the other afternoon to find that little package
from you lying on the table, directed by your own hand
and with no postmark or sign of hard travelling about
it, and looking as if one of the girls might have
brought it in, and as if you yourself could not be far
off ; and then the lovely bookmark and your deUght
ful note inside. It really was such a touch of home
as one very seldom gets on this side of the Atlantic,
and for a moment seemed to annihilate the sense of
distance and separation, which is the only drawback
in the unspeakable pleasures of seeing Italy. No
thoughtfulness or loving kindness from you, dear
Aunt Mary, would be a surprise to me, for I can
remember an uninterrupted succession of them ever
since I could remember anything, but the last always
seems the best, and this seemed to bring me a deeper
sense than ever before of your unfaiUng goodness to
me, and made me remember how every year had added
to the love and honor and gratitude that always live
in my heart towards you. I will not try to tell you
how I have grieved over the sacrifices and depriva
tions you have had to bear this winter, for I know you
do not desire that other people should be sharers of
your sufferings, even by sympathy, but you must let
me say once what I think perpetually, how you and
Uncle Sam have stood before me all my life as exam-

203
pies of the noble use of earthly blessings and how you
stand now as still more precious examples of noble
surrender, and make me more than ever thankful that
I Uve where I can know and love you. Please do
not think I exaggerate, for I cannot say the half I
feel. I am writing you as complete a Boston letter as
if I were Uving in Tremont St., but I think one's
friends are always the most interesting point and there
happen to be several of yours here. We are just getting
out our trunks and looking at them in the serious
manner that people do when they are very much
afraid they won't hold all the things that it would be
convenient to put in them. It is never very pleasant
to get into one's trunk again, after we have been in
dulged in the luxury of bureaus and wardrobes for
several months ; but I suppose it would not grow any
pleasanter by being postponed, and I know, too, that
after a week's travelUng my carpet bag and my trunk
will get to be as much indispensable accompaniments
as my feet and hands are now, and I shall no longer
think of rebelling against their requirements, but kneel
and stand over them with patient pushing and per
suading, consulting all their little peculiarities and
making the most, very thankf uUy, of their accommo
dating dispositions ! As for leaving Rome, I believe I
am as ready now as I ever should be, and as I really do
not wish to spend the rest of my life here, endeavor to
take a philosophical view of the necessity of depart
ure. We have had a most delightful winter and
spring here, brimful of present enjoyment and a store
house of pleasant recollections for the rest of our

204
Uves, I do not know how any place can combine
greater advantages for both entertainment and culti
vation, and as we have been most fortunate in good
health and good weather and have had Ellen and
Edward's delightful society, there has been nothing
wanting to our absolute contentment, except that the
beloved people at home might share it all with us.
Lately we have been visiting the various beautiful
places near Rome : TivoU, Veil, Albano, and Frascati,
From each one you get different views of the wonder
ful campagna and the mountains round it, and find,
too, in each place picturesque beauties of its own.
The two lakes at Albano, the fall at TivoU and the
magnificent villas both there and at Frascati, These
" villas " are something which one never gets an idea
of except here ; and it seems to me simple folly to
attempt the same sort of cultivation or arrangement
elsewhere, for the beauty of them depends so entirely
on their fitness for the climate, and on the luxurious
growth of the trees and shrubs which are native here.
The long, dark alleys of ilex are just what one wants
here for shelter from the heat of the sun, but with us
they would be damp and gloomy and miserable, and
the tall stiff hedges only look beautiful when they are
full of laurustinus and bay-laurel in full bloom. So
you see I shall not attempt the Italian villa style on
that large landed estate I am coming home to take care
of ! In fact, the more I see of different countries and
different customs the less I understand or sympathize
with the disposition to transplant the ways of one
place into another, and the more heartily I wish that
people would leave European habits for Europe and

205
let our beloved, blessed America be and remain
American, which is aU it ever can be genuinely or
successfully.
To Mrs. Edward Twistleton,
Perugia, Monday Evening, April 26, 1858.
, . . I have discovered that the true mode of con
ducting one's self at an Italian inn is to discard Chris
tian principle and human feeling altogether, to plant
one's self on first arriving in the middle of the room,
casting looks of suppressed indignation, and demand
firmly everything you want, whereby you generally
get it, a disposition to accommodate one's self to cir
cumstances or not to be particular being the last one
to be encouraged. We spent the first night at Civita
Castellana, the second at Narni, where we arrived
about 2 o'clock and so had the whole of a most lovely
afternoon for looking at the bridge and the beautiful
valley. I thought EUiot would never stop looking at
the bridge ; he admired it indefinitely, and took two
nice sketches of it.
To Miss Lizzie Eliot,
Florence, May 6, 1858.
... I hear all you say about Chestnut HiU, my
sweet, and agree with most of it. Our chief induce
ments thereto are the low rent and the neighbor
hood to Elliot's people. We want to be very
economical for a year or more, so as to spend as little
capital as possible in the necessary outfit, and for a
time I am willing to take considerable separation

206
from my own people for the sake of being near
Elliot's family and getting thoroughly acquainted
with them aU. There are many things about it that
I don't like, but one doesn't expect perfection, partic
ularly for a low rent, and I hope you wiU come and
stay, darling, and I shaU come to you wherever you
are and make as little of the distance as possible, and
when we can we will do better for ourselves. . . .
We are here on our way north passing a week and
renewing our pleasant recollections of Florence. It
was rather hard to leave both Rome and Ellen, but
one has not the face in these days to make a trial out
of such a thing, and my strongest feeUng in coming
away was of thankfulness for the intense enjoyment
we have had there, of the innumerable treasures of
the place, and the inestimable blessing and satisfac
tion of ten weeks with EUen and Edward. It has
been an unalloyed happiness, taking it merely by
itself, no small disagreements or want of sympathy to
bring in Uttle dark spots. It seemed as if every day
we loved Rome and loved each other better, and you
can understand what a gift such a time in life is. It
casts a light over all the past and the future, and
makes one feel very humble and very, very grate
ful. . . .
I am very fond of Ufe in a carriage. The long,
sunny days and the beautiful scenery and the luxury
of being all the time in the open air, with books if
you want to read, and some one to listen if you want
to talk, and a vei"r comfortable corner for a nap if you
are sleepy, make a most satisfactory combination and
I grow actually fat and rosy under it.

207

To Mrs. Twistleton.
PisTOYA, Wednesday, May 12, 1858.
. . . We feel glad that you should see the new
tomb on the Lateran, because you don't know as
much as we do about those things and Edward
knows hardly anything, and perhaps you may both
get some ideas and information, but we have reached
such a high state of cultivation that we consider one
thing more or less of no importance and of course
didn't for a moment wish ourselves back in that
" Roman-Chicopee " which you expect, driving out of
a lovely afternoon with you to see it. Oh, no !
As for the box, I have handed it over to its
gloomy fate, which plainly is to wander over the Con
tinent seeking rest and finding none; my beloved
gowns unworn and unappreciated. I advise you to do
the same. " If any calm, a calm despair " is a valu
able and permanent frame for such matters ; it wears
well and makes no noise, and after a short time
doesn't affect the countenance.
Isn't the cathedral beautiful ? We happened
upon the funeral service of an archbishop and heard
delicious music, the best we have heard in Italy,
Also we fell irretrievably in love with the brick
palaces and decided that the future Palazzo Cabotiano
shaU be brick, and expect that the date of the build
ing of it wiU be in the future history of American
architecture what the Pisani are in Italian sculpture
— a new dawn upon the benighted world. The Pre-
Raphaelites of Sienna were too Pre-, even for us ;
there seemed to me nothing but fingers and feet in

208
them, and a general longitudinal expression calcu
lated to make one wish one's self farther.
Elliot sends best love to both you and Edward,
and is a very nice man, now drawing an architectural
scrap recently acquired and on the whole very
happy.
To Mrs. Twistleton,
Venice, May 16, 1858.
. . . We are in the apartment I told you of, 4178
Riva dei Schiavone, and are living cheaper if any
thing than in Rome, gondola included. The rooms
are three, all in front with splendid view, comforta
ble and sufficient furniture, delicious breeze from the
water and a piano. Landlady seems respectable.
Service consists of two colts ; one, landlady's daugh
ter ; the other a servant. They thrashed the cups and
saucers round considerably at first, but are becoming
more tame, and when Elliot keeps his countenance we
do very respectably; when he breaks down he is
responded to by a loud neigh from the colt in attend
ance, and it takes some time to restore discipUne.
Nothing is of the slightest consequence here. To-day
we went in a gondola to see the Assunta. What
more can mortals want? We are having a most
splendid time, the weather is delicious, and no place
ever fascinated me as this does. I don't know
whether I shall ever go away or not. I feel Uke the
Lotus-eaters. Elliot has nearly filled a small sketch
book with Venetian decorations, and is as happy and
as pleasant as he can be. Yesterday we went over

209
the Doge's palace and made two visits to St. Mark's,
where all those wonderful lamps were lighted for
Whitsunday. There is a fine Austrian band here,
and we heard it the other day in the Piazza. So there
is nothing wanting but you and Edward and peace at
home to make it Paradise.

To Miss Lizzie Eliot.
Cologne, Sept. 13, 1858.
. . . Now we are going into Belgium per Aix,
Brussels, and Antwerp, and then to Paris by way of
Rheims for the cathedral there. Paris a week or so.
Then good-bye to my dearest Ellen, which can be
endured only for the hope of seeing home and all
your dear faces. Oh, Lizzie, the tug grows harder,
not easier, every time we part, though I am so heart
content in my own life, it does not seem to touch
that separation which hangs like a dark cloud over
all the future. These seem ungrateful words, for the
year has given all and more than all I hoped from it,
and I feel that I cannot be thankful enough for what
I have had.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Cologne, Tuesday, Sept. 14, 1858.
. . . Bingen was not much like my vision of the
place where the hero of the song was born. Many
large hotels and a general air of watering-place. We
spent the night there very comfortably, and the next
day ElUot treated me to a drive from Bingen to Bop-

210
part, which was perfectly lovely, with cloudless
weather, a deUghtful easy carriage and the Rhine for
a third member of the party aU the way. In spite of
these advantages I must admit I found the Rhine in
this part like myself, — " not exactly pretty but inter
esting."
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Lyndenham, Eng., Tuesday, Oct. 8, 1858.
. . . We found our letter had been received and
nice comfortable rooms were ready for us. The
examination of luggage amounted to nothing. I had
some supper and went to bed forthwith, and with the
most intense sense of pleasure at being again in this
dear England, where no one has told us a lie, or
cheated us, or been rude or negligent since we
landed and like my grandfather's own chUd I felt as
if I could gladly kiss the very ground we trod on.
Wasn't Monday most dreadful ? I didn't behave
well, but I couldn't do any better. I feel as if I owed
that dear Edward an apology for my tearful face, at
the last. Nothing but death ever made me feel so
broken-hearted before, and I truly think such partings
must be the next greatest suffering. I don't wish I
loved you any less, however. It wasn't till the after
noon of the next day that I began to feel as if I
wanted to do anything but come straight back to you,
then I seemed to resume Ufe on its old terms again,
only with this great gain — that Elliot knows now, what
he could only believe before, that you and Edward
belong where I shall ever keep you in my heart of

211
hearts and are no vain imaginations of a deluding
affection.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Liverpool, Oct. 15, 1868.
. . . My precious, your good-bye note has come
this morning and is a real comfort and I have it in
my pocket to go on board with. Everything has gone
smoothly up to this last moment and I feel quite weU.
Slept splendidly last night and am not either tired or
nervous. It is hard, hard to leave this dear England,
your home, and I don't pretend to feel jolly doing it ;
but I feel quiet and sure it is the best tiling, and
intensely thankful for what we have had in this last
year. You never were so precious or so beloved as
now. Your birthday was Thursday and I thought
enough of you and of the two radiant, beautiful Uves,
one that began and one that had its earthly end the
14th of October. God bless and keep you, my precious,
precious darUng, and your dear, dear Edward. Do
not feel anxious about me. I do not for myself. The
perils of the sea nobody can measure, but I believe I
am as well able to bear the discomfort of it as usual.
I shaU write from New York the first possible moment
and never be far from you in spirit till we meet again
face to face, which God grant may be before many
years go by. ElUot sends dearest love to you and
Edward, and is as bright as a bird. Think cheerfully
of us, my darling, tiU you hear good news, I trust.
Yours everywhere, Lizzie,

212

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Cambridge, Mass., Monday, Nov. 8, 1858.
. . . After that we went to Brookline for the daj'-,
carrying out as many things as we could. Mrs. Cabot
Uked her cap extremely and Sadie's things were aU
right, Martha's also. We carried the Endymion Bas
ReUef and the dear bunch of Roman flowers you
painted, and Mrs. Cabot sat in the state of silent,
soUd enjoyment peculiar to her looking from one to
the other and drinking in a draught of her dear Italy,
saying how very kind of you. The various members
of the family dropped in by degrees and sat round,
and we came away at nine with the feeUng that we
had given " perfect satisfaction " to all parties, which,
whether produced by their goodness or my conceit, is
a gratifying and peaceful result of a day with your
family-in-law, calculated to give one a thankful heart.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Nov. 26, 1858.
... As for my Thanksgiving it was here and very
pleasant. I saw more of my new family together
than ever before, and felt very fond of them. More
than thirty children and grandchildren. They gave
me the seat of honor between Mr. Cabot and Sam
Cabot, they drank my health, which was kind but
overwhelming, and they all looked so pleasant at me
that I felt very grateful and happy.

213

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Friday, Dec. 3, 1858.
... It must have been an entertaining dinner, and
it is fun to think of you entertaining the ponderous
Lord Chancellor. Darling, I feel what you say pro
foundly as to the difficult contrast between this
splendid society and your limited means and how
compUcated it must be to jog it off keenly, as you
must, because you are fitted for it, and yet to with
hold your heart and hand from it steadfastly, neither
resting in it for the present, nor counting on it for
the future, nor making any but measured efforts about
it in any way. It is that being " in the world and
not of it " which we on this side of the water have
no temptations to, and makes the path in which you
may tread literally " straight and narrow ; " but I
know no one more capable of that wary walking than
you, darling, only at first it must be constraining and
depressing.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Monday, Dec. 13, 1858.
... I have had a nice, pleasant, perfectly well
week. We have had some lovely weather, so that I
have been out-of-doors a great deal ; one day so mild
that after my walk ElUot rolled me up in plaids and
cloaks and left me sitting in the sun under the porch,
and enjoying myself of course. EUiot has been out
of town all the time too, which doesn't make it more
unpleasant, and we have been working together over

214
the Athenaeum Photographs which I beUeve I told
you EUiot decided to mount himself, not finding any
one in town whom he could comfortably trust with
them. It is a long job, for there are 130 or more and they
must all be squared and nicely fitted to the paper and
then have the names written on each. The compen
sation is in the chance to get familiar with their de
lightful faces and the hope that when arranged they
wiU be satisfactory and accessible, and we have very
pleasant mornings over them. Besides this I have
had a little German almost every day and have taken
to reading the PsaUns, which I find very refreshing.
To Mrs. Edward Twistleton.
Tuesday, Jan. 11, 1859.
. . . The history of it is this. They first met in
the summer of '57 when S  B  was here on a
visit before returning to India. " At dat time," he
realized E  , but she did not so much as perceive
him. He went back to India and returned here in
February, '58. In the spring he was observed to be
lending books to Uncle S  in a manner which
showed a great deal of " right feeling." In the sum
mer he began to visit them regularly, and L 
tho't he enjoyed himself very much, but could not
perceive that he made any distinctions among the
three young ladies, and had reaUy never tho't of his
being in love with her, when he precipitated himself
early in September. Of course she refused him forth
with, but never supposed he would give it up I think.

215
Then there was a lull. She found her family all Uked
him extremely, and she herself had nothing to say to
the contrary. About November flowers and visits
revived, and she used to see him a good deal at
Mary's and continued to Uke him, but couldn't faU in
love with him. About Xmas they had another skir
mish. He very firm and very, very much in love, and
leaving the strongest impression on her mind. She
told him just how she felt. That she could not wish
him to give it up, and yet that she did not feel as if
she loved him as he ought to be loved, and the end of
this interview was an agreement that she would leave
it in suspense, and that he might come and see her
frequently. The frantic being came to see her every
day, and naturaUy at the end of a week told her he
couldn't bear it any longer and that something must
be settled.
So then she " advised him as a friend to give it
up " and they parted on that Ukely footing for perma
nence. Then he was perfectly wretched and L 
knew it through C  G  ; her family were truly
disappointed and she herself thoroughly uneasy. So
then she came to me and we talked it over thoroughly.
She wanted to know whether I would advise her to
engage herself to him without more decided feeling.
This I would not do. But I told her what I truly
thought, that probably were she engaged her difficul
ties would be over, as intercourse became at once so
different, so much freer and so much more actual
that there was much more chance for the growth of
feeUng, the foundations of respect and interest being
already laid. But I warned her not to act on any one's

216
conviction but her own, and thought the end would
probably be that he would go to India for six months,
and when he came home she would know who was
who and what was what. She went home and didn't
feel any better at aU, in fact worse, and the next
Monday S  B  came to see Uncle S  and
told him he was going to India for six months, and
when he came home should try again. When L 
heard this her heart went down to the heels of her
boots and she bleated out at her father that she didn't
want Mr. B  to go to India. " Well, you can't
have what you want," said Uncle S  . Whereat
L  said she thought she should write to Mr.
B  a note. Whereat her father said nothing.
L  then went to bed and arose in the same mind
Tuesday morning. She sat down and invited Mr.
B  to come and see her, and at the same time
Mr. B  wrote her a note to know if he might,
and Tuesday evening he came and they had no more
talkmg to do about it. They were engaged and his
plan of going to India went to glory.
Sunday morning I went out to see her and found
her very serene and happy, just as she ought to be.
She still says she doesn't think she is exactly in love
with Mr. B  , but I told her I would excuse her
from drawing the deUcate distinction. As for Uncle
S  and Aunt M  , it is nothing short of de
Ucious to see them, they are so pleased, so thoroughly
satisfied. Uncle S  and Mr. B  have always
hitched particularly weU. AU this time, my love, I
never had laid eyes on my cousin S  . Last night
he came to see us, I having previously written him

217
the prettiest note I could. He looks like his brother,
but is shorter and stouter. He hasn't a vestige of
beauty or elegance in his appearance. If Mrs. Coolidge
chose to call him " Bourgeois," she would have to.
He has hardly any eyes, a moustache, a dim com
plexion, and nice teeth. But his expression is partic
ularly manly, and at the same time sweet tempered
and frank. His manner perfectly quiet and decided.
He speaks rather fast, but with a low, pleasant voice.
His dress was careful and gentlemanly. His conver
sation I could not judge of as he made a most ju
diciously short visit, and we reUeved him as far as
possible of the responsibility of talking. I liked him
most decidedly and so did Mary. They dine with us
on Friday with none besides to disturb or molest, and
then you shall hear more.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Jan. 16, 1859.
... I dwell with a most quiet mind and comforta
ble body. I have begun to sleep again, long dream
less nights. I walk every day with Elliot and some
times go to see any very familiar friend. Mrs. Cabot
and Sadie, Mary Curtis, Mrs. Dabney, Anna Ticknor,
Kate EUot, and William Minot and Loring and Mr.
Heard have aU been to see me this week. Flowers
dwell here from dear Mrs. Cabot, and Mr. Cabot sent
me a book last night. In short, I am walled round
with pleasant things and the dearest friends that can
be, and feel it to my inmost heart. For you there is
and must be ever a little ache, but you are well, I

218
trust, and good, I know, so God bless you and
Edward, and good-night for now.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
170 Tremont St., Sunday Afternoon, Jan. 25, 1859.
. , , The other important topic of the week in our
private concerns has been the revival of the former
plan of our building on Mr. Cabot's land at Brook-
Une. You know I declined having anything done
about it before, but my visit there has made me feel
as if we had the grounds necessary for a decision. I
see that I need not be afraid of losing our indepen
dence, nor fighting with any of them to preserve it.
EUiot does not look with a favorable eye on the
inconveniences of " the Pulsifer " for me and thinks
we certainly could not live there without keeping a
horse, carryall, and man, the expense of which at
present we should rather avoid.
Mr. Cabot is willing to build for us such a house
as we shall plan, and let us pay him rent for it. We
could not build elsewhere without buying land, which
we do not want to do at present either. There is a
very pretty place, quite high so that we should have
a good prospect, but still sheltered. We can have our
own avenue. ElUot thinks that for a rent of $600 he
can build a very comfortable house, and that would
leave us free for seashore in summer and not .use up
our daily comfort money too much. I think it would
save us much time to be close by one family ; that I
should be freer to leave home for a day with Mrs.
Cabot close at hand, and that in any case of illness

219
the girls would feel easier about me. You see we are
very strongly tending in that direction. I do not
want to have anything done until after February, but
if our minds hold then as they are now and aU goes
well, I think we shall erect a small mansion and go
into it in the autumn.
Think of me as the wellest, happiest, and best-cared
for woman in America and you won't exaggerate my
blessings, and only pray that I may keep a humble
and a thankful heart. Bless you, my precious, precious
darling. Ever and ever yours and Edward's, Lizzie Cabot.
Elliot's best love, and Mary's.
To Mrs. Twistleton,
108 Boylston St.,* Sunday, April 3, 1859.
, . . I agree with you through every pore of my
mind and body about an aristocratic form of society.
It seems to me neither natural nor Christian. " Let
him who would be chiefest among you be your ser
vant." If I lived in it I should look at it simply as a
cross and a crook in my lot. I love Edward very
much though, and I wish I didn't disagree with
him. . . . You darUng sweetest I am so sorry you feel
wet-brown-papery, mind and body, for I know it's an
awful way to feel. I wish you could go into the
country for a fortnight and get rest and change, for it
might make you feel better. I think it isn't alto
gether strange you should feel so, for you have had
* Mrs. Parkman's new house.

220
very hard work in rearranging your household and in
keeping your mind in order about me, and now that
both jobs are over you have to take the consequences.
Then you see, darling, you never have what is such
an infinite relief and refreshment to the female mind,
perfectly familiar and perfectly affectionate society
out of your own house, and that is an awful depriva
tion and one which you ought to allow for as much as
if you had lost a leg. You have another kind of
society which answers another purpose, but not that
one. I think this is the " fundamental wrongness "
which you are suspicious of, which is no sin, only a
circumstance calculated to "establish a raw spot"
particularly when you are tired. So please don't cud
gel yourself, but be very kind and sympathizing to
yourself and treat yourself Uke a favorite sister and
friend, as I should treat you if I had the perception
and the power and was on the spot, in fact be a
Bunny to yourseU and something better. Now I wish
I could make you feel as well as I do this very
moment, not only neither pains nor aches of any
kind, but a positive distinct sensation of being weU
and strong which is delightful. I wonder what I
have got to tell you. My greatest event is confined
to the nui-sery * from which the cheerful and careful
Ginnf .has departed and where a nursery maid is
installed, so far much to the baby's satisfaction and
mine. She is as ugly as can weU be, with a nose like
Lord Brougham's, and a mouth " extending from ear
to ear," but she seems gentle and thorough and neat
* F. E. C. was born in February, 1859.
t The nurse.

221
and obUging, or rather I should say she has been so
for five days; how long these qualities will hold
out to burn I do not venture to surmise even. The
baby seems to admire her personal appearance and
lavishes upon her the same winning smiles and long
ing looks that he formerly bestowed upon Ginn.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Boylston St., Saturday, April 9, 1859.
. . . Do you know the baby is actually beginning
to laugh and crow and look about like an intelligent
being. His Aunt Mary pronounces him an uncom
monly bright>-looking child for his age, and his Aunt
Anna says he is decidedly pretty, so how to get along
any longer without your seeing and telling me what
you think of him I don't know, and if you can sug
gest any way of bearing it I wish you would. T
didn't care so long as his chief motions bore a close
resemblance to Sue's " dying sculpin," and his only
language was bad vociferation implying simply too
Uttle or too much food or sleep, whether you saw him
or not, but now that, as Hannah Cabot would say,
" his little soul has begun to develop," and he grins
quite frightfully but with an expression of glee when
he is squealed at in the right tone, I am possessed
that you should come and do your share of the squeal
ing and be rewarded with a wide-mouthed grin which
I feel would repay you. It is very amusing to me to
watch people's different ways with him. Mary holds
him with a firm grip, looks at him sternly and

222
addresses reasonable and coherent remarks to him ;
EUiot takes him and immediately begins to walk up
and down the room with him, has a concerned ex
pression on his countenance, and tries to introduce
him to the Venus of Milo. Only Ginn, who has
called on him several times since she left, can pitch
her voice at its topmost note, and sustain by the hour
together a conversation with him in which she takes
both parts and lisps from one incoherency to another
with an undaunted mind and an unwavering voice
and to his infinite delight.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Wednesday, April 11, 1859.
... I send you a description of Ralph Waldo
Emerson by Father Taylor reported verbatim from his
own mouth, so good that it does me good to think
of it, and I think you will enjoy it too, though you
don't hear Mr, Emerson quoted and appealed to as
much as I do. I admire him very much myself, but
I do like to have distinctions made and I think
Father Taylor has done it so splendidly. There is,
however, a curious and delightful reaction going on
in these parts now from the nothingarianism which he
and Mr. Parker have uncurtained. The young girls
are such regular church-goers and such Bible readers
as it warms one's heart to see.

223

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Beverly, Friday Evening, June 3, 1859.
, , , I worked at the china-closet with Mary till
I had neither mind nor body left, drilled the parlor
girl over the dinner table, had the baby at one o'clock,
who waked up bright and sweet after a nice nap.
We had a most excellent dinner with no reminders
of yesterday's starvation. The baby came down after
dinner and was very tranquil, but had a hard cry
when he went upstairs, apparently from the fatigue
of a new place for he dropped instantly asleep and
had a remarkably long and sound nap for the after
noon. It cleared up beautifully this afternoon, and
he went out a little while and was aU right at 6.30.
I laid down and went to walk before tea. Every
thing looked very lovely, but one pair of eyes is
precious little for seeing out of when you're used to
two. It's ten o'clock, dearest, and you would say I must
go to bed if you were here. So good-night. God
bless you, beloved heart.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Beverly, Monday, June 13, 1859.
. . . Your letter did not reach me at Brookline,
dearest, so your pleasant message to Mr. and Mrs.
Cabot remains undeUvered. It was lovely out there.
They pet me too much, that is aU, and spoil me for
other folks. As for the baby he was in his kingdom

224
come. His grandmother loves every inch of him,
and went in to see him just as regularly every morn
ing before her breakfast as I did. Then he had nurse
besides, who is next to Aunt Polly in her powers of
adoration and cried when we came away. . . .
Elliot has been pursued to Lake Champlain by our
weather and writes that no sketching has been possi
ble. I expect him home Saturday at farthest and it
will be good enough to have him back again, though
thus far we have been mercifully preserved without
him. I don't know that I shall ever voluntarily let
him go off so again, for it is too unpleasant. Writing
to him does no good, and hearing from him very
Uttle. I cudgel myself for being selfish, but find that
dodge ineffectual for I can't persuade myself that he
wouldn't be very happy here with us. Then I tiy
doing things and being tremendously busy, but I
don't find that anything appears to be worth doing.
In fact, I am obliged to confess myself much more in
love with my husband than when I was married, for
before that I could do tolerably without him and now
I can't do at all, which is a pretty state of things to
arrive at. My advice to you is never to aUow
Edward to leave you for more than three days at the
outside. I think that might be borne.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Beverly, Sunday, June 19, 1859.
. . . Now don't you congratulate me? Elliot
has come back looking splendidly well and having
enjoyed himself in spite of hateful weather, and

225
now I shaU have the comfort of having him here.
It is perfectly horrid to be so dependent on any human
being as one is upon one's husband, and I cudgel
myself a great deal, as it seems wrong as well as
inconvenient. I don't know that [it] is any use cud-
gelUng, for the fact remains that I do not feel like
more than half myself when he is gone.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Beverly, Sunday, July 17, 1859.
. . . Here exhausted nature had to lie down till
dinner time, and now it is getting late in the after
noon and what I call my Sunday work is done, but I
am pretty much done, too. I perceive that with
children in the house Sunday ceases entirely to be a
day of rest and becomes decidedly the most fatiguing
day of the week. I have Mary's* lessons to look after
and then to have her write to her mother and then to
provide her with some innocent and moderately quiet
occupation for the rest of the day. Every other
Sunday I send my nursery maid to church and Elliot
and I go shares with the baby till one o'clock. The
alternate Sunday Kate Maguire, my little parlor girl,
goes, but the Sunday that she stays at home she has
to have lessons and reading provided for her. So I
feel on Sunday as if I had three children, a grown-up
daughter of fourteen, another one eight years old, and
the baby. Therefore, my darling, when I am so foolish
as to leave my letter till Sunday to write, you may
*Her niece. Miss Wells.

226
except to find me whittled down to the last end of
nothing. The children are all good, and all interest
me, but they tire me, too.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Beverly, Wednesday July 28, 1859.
... I have had such an unutterable longing to see
you lately, worse than common. These long summer
days with their uninterrupted hours bring back so
vividly the days at Giessbach, and it seems as if I
must go into your room and see how the angel is
coming on, or at least if I cannot do that I do not
want to do anything. I don't Uke to howl at EUiot,
for a discontented wife is what he shall never have if
I can help it, and everything is beautiful here and I
am more than well in every respect, only forever I
want you and shall tiU we reach the heavenly king
dom, if we only may, where you and Edward wiU
surely be, as well as the beloved ElUot, Millsey, and
Mary, or it will be no Heaven for me.
The book-mark gives me a Uttle Uft every time I
see it. " Jeder Schritt ist Gottes WiUe."
Then I have your dear brown and white hat
which is the admiration of all beholders and my
external convenience. I am so glad you gave it to me
and should always like the hats you are done with,
please, only I know you wouldn't have indulged in
giving away this one if it had fitted you.
Have I ever told you that our home in BrookUne
is almost finished ? We could go into it in a fortnight

227
if we liked. We want the beautiful autumn here and
therefore shall not move in till the last of October,
but did you ever hear of a house before that was
finished sooner than was expected ?

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Beverly, Aug. 8, 1859.
. . , Oh, EUen, Tennyson ! We had just bought it
when your letter arrived and it was such a pleasure
to have your sympathy on the spot. What an addi
tion to one's Ufe it is, I never read any poem that
affected me so powerfully as Enid, and in spite of the
wonders and glories of the other three, I remain faith
ful to that. I cried over it so, and felt every word of
it so intensely that it was like going into another
world. EUiot admires the third * most.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Beverly, Aug. 15, 1859.
... As for the education question, we beUeve
that it is undoubtedly easier to get the appliances of
education abroad than here, and that people who wish
to be reUeved of their children's education can be
reUeved more easily and with more apparent safety.
We don't beUeve in anybody's taking care of chUdren
but their parents, and think it no harm to have shirk
ing made difficult instead of easy.
* Merlin and Vivien.

228

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Sunday, Oct. 16, 1859.
. . . We came out here Monday as we expected,
and have been here six days which seem Uke six weeks,.
from the multitude of small decisions that have been
crowded into them. The carpet-women began on the
same day with their operations, and have gone on in
the most triumphant manner, finishing Saturday
afternoon and leaving the mansion swept and carpeted
for Sunday, and I hope good spirits are dwelling
there this day; at any rate Hannah Hutchins is
peacefully meandering about the kitchen and the sun
is happily shining into the windows, and everything
looks most inviting. The Park St. carpets have
turned out enough for all the chambers, except my
dressing-room and the nursery bedroom, and those we
have suppUed with a young Kidderminster of a meek
disposition, which looks very sunny and clean and
has a very small figure. The lower floor and stairs
we have carpeted in a manner which strikes awe into
some minds, at first, but wins approbation at last. A
green carpet tapestry, with no figure, only clouded
with several shades of green and black goes over all,
rooms, hall, and stairs, and has to my eyes a very
pleasant mossy look and saves all the jars which one
generally feels at going from a red patch in the draw
ing-room to a yellow patch in the entry, from which
you pass to a blue study and a pink dining-room.
Also the uniformity increases the apparent size and
makes the house seem a whole instead of a series of

229
parts. I wonder how you would like it. The stairs
are made of chestnut and the green is to go up in
strips as yours does, fastened down with rods with
the wood showing each side of it. To-morrow the
furniture is to be brought out from town and landed
here, and then begins the great question of curtains
and coverings. To smooth the way my dear Mrs.
Cabot has given me to-day |100, which will make us
particularly free to get whatever we like. Isn't she
a lovely mother-in-law? Further than this we have
accomplished washing and ironing in our own
laundry. I brought out our future laundress to help
Hannah and to do our washing while we are here,
and thereby also to make sure that aU those most
important, though unseen elements of domestic hap
piness, the boiler, the ironing stove, and the water
works, generally were in working order. Everything
went well and I felt very proud of the pile of Elliot's
shirts and the baby's dresses which resulted yester
day. Also the weather has been magnificent, such as
makes all work easy and makes one veiy thankful
for being in the country. Twice I have had to go
into town, but both times I have gone in the carriage
and that is very easy work. So you see I am wafted
through this job with no trouble and no torment of
mind or body. Frank is good and merry and well as
he can possibly be and is such a dear joy to his grand
mother and so entertaining to his grandfather that
my pleasure in him is doubled here.
The Whartons have almost driven their friends
distracted by their undisguised disgust at their own
country, and their open hesitation whether they should

230

not return to Paris this autumn and leave America
permanently. They have finaUy decided to Uve in
Boston this winter, and have taken Mrs. Loring's
house in Mt. Vernon St., and there intend to protract
a wretched existence. I have ceased to desire that
any one, even so nice a person as Nancy Wharton,
should live here unless they want to ; this talk about
the superiority of European cUmate, education,
clothes, food, and morals would make one think it
was the inner gate of Heaven, and is enough, if you
know better than that, to make one wish there were
no such place !

To Mrs, Edward Twistleton,
(Undated, probably 1860.)
... I wish I could comfort you about your country
in the least, but I am afraid not. Don't you see that
we can't, can't compromise about slavery, no matter
how much we may want to save the Union? We
want to save our country as much as you can want to
have us, but we shouldn't consider it saved but lost
if we compromised on that point.
The most humane interpretation of Buchanan's
conduct is that he has tried to save the shedding of
blood and has hoped that the Southerners would find
out their folly and return if not aggravated by vio
lence and coercion. The other interpretation is
treason ; that he has been really aiding and abetting
the secession movement. People think one or the
other according to their temperaments.

231

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Jan. 14, 1860.
. . . The only news is political and that you will
not find very comforting. I feel very unpleasantly
and very homesick at the Union going to pieces, and
feel very much as if it was a divorce between man
and wife, and as if we had better stand any evils
together than meet the evils of separation. Elliot on
the other hand feels as happy as ever, and has full
faith that " the Lord will fix it so as we can stan' it
somehow," doesn't feel the slightest anxiety about
free institutions, thinks they will flourish just as well
as ever, if not in the Union then out of it, and sits
calmly by watching this horrible experiment of seces
sion as if it was a new plant in his mother's green
house or any other production of nature which was
interesting and curious, but not in the least alarming.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Jan. 17, 1860.
... I do nothing but take care of the house and
Frank and Elliot's clothes and my own health, noth
ing, and I don't do any of them well and don't ex
pect to, but I presume that's the object, to keep us
struggling, so I endeavor to struggle persistently and
leave the result for my betters to contemplate.
Results don't seem to be our affair, only efforts.
There's a moral sentiment.

232
To Mrs. Twistleton.
[Brookline], Sunday, Feb. 6, 1860.
. . . Have you seen Miss Mulock's poems, the
authoress of John Halifax ? because in them are
" Philip, my King," " My Christian Name," " Douglas,"
" Two Hands Across the Breast," and ever so many
besides that we have all been reading and copying one
by one. So please get and read them and the rest, for
there are beautiful verses, tho' few complete poems.
That was no doubt a very pretty story about Frank's
clapping his hands under the bed-clothes.
Just think what a happy, happy year we have had
with the darUng, and what dear comfort he has been.
I think you are very eloquent and delightful
about the Union, and I'm sure I agree with you and
should feel very unhappy were it dissolved. But I
don't think we are " doing evil," only resisting evil in
opposing the extension of slavery and that is what
makes the South so angry. Also I think John Brown
did very wrong, but I think he did a wrong thing in
the right direction and that his courage will help men
of weaker consciences, tho' perhaps better judgments,
towards the right.
I have been scolding all my servants and endeavor
ing to make my mind content under the conviction
that they wiU not learn to do things up to a satisfactory
standard, but will always Unger between the real
excellence which is one's own ideal, and the barely
tolerable which is theirs. The cook will leave pieces
of meat in the kitchen closet and will not get up at

233
six. The laundress will waste the kindlings and leave
her tubs untidy. The parlor girl will half dust the
drawing-room. At the same time they are an uncom
monly respectable set of servants, and I don't wish to
turn them away and know I shall do no better.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
[Brookline], Thursday, Feb. 9, 1860.
. . . Have I told you that I am taking some piano
lessons of Dresel? One each week. He brings me
nice music and drills me well, and it is a great
pleasure. ElUot likes me to play every evening, and
this being the case I want to play better, and it seems
no waste, since it is a gain to us both. What Elliot
likes is the gentlest kind of German music, Beethoven,
Mozart, Mendelssohn, Schubert. This is Dresel's
specialty, so we get on nicely and it is most refresh
ing and I should say inspiring, for refreshment is only
for the weary or the sad and not for the most fortunate
of women like me. February 13.
. . . To-day is my birthday. I am thirty years old.
Can you understand that I am really so old ? I do not
feel so. ElUot has given me one of my favorite
Beverly sketches all framed for my dressing-room,
and the girls coming has made it a very pleasant day,
only all anniversaries need you, my dearest, grievously.
Oh, darling, there, where years are no more counted,
the Lord will surely let us be together.

234

To Her Sisters.
[Brookline], Thursday, Feb. 19, 1860.
. . . Dearest perfect beauties. How encouraging
it is to think that to-morrow two of these scattered
sparrows will be together, and can say " pip, pip " to
each other all day if they want to. But I ain't
" together " and neither is Twistleton — far from it,
" That boy," as his grandmother calls him, is fast
asleep in his crib and I am sitting with my dressing-
room door open looking after him, and sun is stream
ing in here and it is perfectly lovely outdoors and I
want nothing but those other sparrows. " That boy "
walked half across the room this morning all by
"hisself " and in a week will be all over the house.
He rebels against being carried upstairs, and can
crawl splendidly all the way up. I wish I had a good
pattern for his summer dresses. He is so enormously
big round that belts behave dreadfully on him. Per
haps he will begin to go down when he is weaned.
To-morrow he is to begin on bread and milk once a
day. I don't want to wean him a mite. There's
weakness for you !

To Mrs. Edward Twistleton.
Brooikline, Feb. 28, 1860.
... I think the way they [the EUots] all sat and
heard the psalms in their mother's room the night she
died was perfectly lovely, and that is the beauty of
their beautiful church ; and we who Uve without

235
forms are the losers and the wanderers at such times,
it seems to me. It is terribly dreary for those four
girls.
To Mrs. Edward Twistleton.
[Brookline], March 4, 1860.
EUiot has just finished Darwin and sees no answer
to be made to it, and does not at all agree with
Agassiz that there is anything " dangerous " about the
book, though he has discussed it with him. He thinks
just what you say, that there is no less design in one
plan of creation than the other.

To Mrs. Edward Twistleton.
Brookline, Sunday, March 4, 1860.
... I long to get her [Mrs. Mills] here where
she couldn't but feel her immeasurable superiority to
me in every respect, and where the quiet would rest
her and where ElUot would honor her so that she
would feel it all over, and Mrs. Cabot would love and
be tender to her, and she could sleep all day and all
night, too.
I have had another busy week, but a satisfactory
one — Monday taking care of Frank till one, and to
see Millsey in the afternoon ; Tuesday, Frank again
all the morning, and to see Lizzie Lee in the after
noon ; Wednesday, mantua-makers arrived for four
days, Lucy and John Lowell to dinner, music lesson
from Dresel; Thursday, to see Lizzie Lee again,
practising, looking after Frank and the dressmakers.

236
and in the evening to town to a party at Aunt
Nancy's, the first dissipation of the winter, and very
pleasant; Friday, to town again to see Mary, and
shop, and in the evening practising and German ;
Saturday, housekeeping, marking shirts, to see Martha
and Mrs. Cabot and Lizzie Lee, practising, and in the
evening to Mrs. Cabot's again to hear Emma Cary
play most beautifully. I have read Miss Nightin
gale's notes with the utmost pleasure. I think I
never read any book where the communication
between writer and reader seemed to me so direct.
It is Uke talking to her, asking her questions, and hear
ing all the results of her experience. It seems to
me, too, that people must mind what she says, worked
out as it has been with heart and life, and her
instructions are certainly most valuable and not to be
misunderstood. She makes me feel as if our house
was a den of dirt and disorder in spite of my best
efforts — and that is a most desirable result, I am
sure. It seems to me a book for servants and chil
dren as well as housekeepers and nurses, in short I
am thoroughly delighted with it.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Monday, March 27, 1860.
. . . No one on earth but you could make letters
do the work they do for me. They raise such a clear
vision of your beloved beautiful self before me as for
the time takes off that weight of absence which one
has always to carry and I feel the days they come so

237
refreshed, so added unto, that I have to stop and
think sometimes what has happened.
I have been applying my mind this week to learn
ing to sew on Mrs. Cabot's sewing machine, which she
freely offers me the use of aud which I think all
women who have sewing to put through ought to
understand in these days. I think I have mastered
it and feel very grand. It is a new sensation to
accomplish a yard of beautiful even stitching in two
or three minutes and such a saving of labor in all
long seams that it is delightful. The m.achine behaves
like an imp sometimes, will break the needle and then
the thread, and do all manner of odious things with
no apparent cause, but I found that like a horse or a
child it became more manageable as I became bolder,
and I concluded that it would be excellent training
to work on it because it so insists on having every
thing perfectly adjusted, your mind calm, and your
foot and hand steady and quiet and regular in their
motions.
To Her Sisters.
Brookline, Early Spring, 1860.
Dearest Family, — Sunday Elliot and I took a long
walk in the morning all round through Mr. Tom Lee's
place, found green grass and other signs of spring.
Then home, luncheon, and a visit from Sadie. In the
afternoon we sat in my dressing-room. Elliot is read
ing a very interesting German criticism of the Old
Testament and reads to me from it occasionally. We
always read the psalms and the lessons for the day

238
together, and then I take Robertson or Stanley and
he takes Ewald and we have most peaceful times,
with Frank coming for half an hour at his dinner
time. To Mrs. Edward Twistleton.
[Brookline], Monday Evening, April 2, 1860.
. . . Saturday I took my card-case in one hand and
my sister Sadie in the other, went to town and caUed
on twenty-two of my fellow-beings, and saw only
four, returned to my family a good deal exhausted
and did nothing but look after my son the rest of the
day. Yesterday I took care of my son all the morn
ing and in the afternoon we had a visit from Frank
Parkman, who is just now obliged to give up his
horseback riding and is rather more forlorn than
common. He drives himself about in a chaise.
To-day I went to town again with Sadie and caUed on
twenty-six females and this afternoon have been prac
tising and Frank-tending and am landed in the even
ing comfortably with ElUot reading his newspaper,
a bright fire, and a dish of roses too beautiful to have
to ourselves. This is my short history, darling.

To Her Sisters.
Brookline, Wednesday, April II, 1860.
My very dear family, — I have a wooden nose
to-night, and a throat composed of the roughest sort
of haircloth, no taste and no smell, and how much
brains you may imagine, but I feel pretty smart

239
" myself " notwithstanding, and therefore purpose to
start the Circular. I was to have gone to spend the
day with MiUs to-day, but the weather and my cold
seemed to make it plainly absurd, so I stayed at home,
and now mean to go on Saturday, by which time I
should think it must clear up. If the sun would only
come out, I should get well immediately, so how
stupid it is of the sun to stay in. There are advan
tages in being confined to the house. I have sorted
over my " give-away " drawer, and put away some of
EUiot's woolen things, and mended my own muslins,
and contemplated my household in a still and stupid
manner which is profitable, I think. Also I have
held interviews with five cooks whom Providence has
wafted to the doors, settled my accounts, and blown
my nose and coughed steadily aU the time, snubbed
Frank, who showed the good effects of it this morning
by lying down on the fioor at my feet and going to
sleep, when I refused sterrUy to take him in my lap
and offered him the privilege of the floor if he was
tired. Yesterday Aunt Susan came to dine and
seemed very patient, but very much bereft and solitary,
Mr, and Mrs. Cabot and Sadie and Louis started on
their journey Monday, and Aunt Susan and Walter
are keeping house. I wanted her to come here but
she prefers to stay there and sort over old letters and
rest her poor weary heart with soUtude. Oh, I do pity
her so ! CharUe FoUen has not come here and wiU
not, I think, as he finds it best to sleep in his own
house to see that no one runs away with it.
I think I shaU get a cook. I have seen a conceited,
capable, strong Irishwoman who was anxious to come

240
and had a four years' recommendation. I refused her
because her family Uve close by and are numerous
and incUned to beg and flatter, and I thought would
pass too much of their time here.
A pert Nova Scotia woman, who kept telUng me
how far it was from the vUlage, and whom I kept
telUng that it was a great ways, until she concluded
not to take me into consideration.
A firm Irishwoman, from Chestnut St., who has
me under consideration, but wants too many " privi
leges," I fear.
An elderly Irishwoman, very respectable looking,
with no friends, and no desires, who thinks it very
good of me to send the folks to church, doesn't want
to go to town but once in six weeks, aud I rather think
would be permanent, obstinate, respectable, and lazy.
A young American woman of Brookline who wants
to come, would have to be taught a good deal I guess,
but looks clean, smart, and good-natured, and would
probably be engaged to Alman at the end of the
summer. As I have a passion for Americans I incline to this
last creature, but feel that Metternich himself might
be puzzled.
Furthermore, I have been reading Aire. Browning's
Napoleon III., and though she sends her curse to
America and is hard upon England and is infatuated
about Louis Napoleon, it does one's heart good to
hear her eloquent defence of what she believes right,
Avhether one agrees with her or not. This morning I
had an hour and a half with Martha,* to whom I
*Mrs. Samuel Cabot, Jr., wife of Dr. Samuel Cabot.

241
preached economy, accounts, and the savings bank,
another hour and a half with Lizzie Lee, who was as
always sensible and kind, and thinks Hal never will
wake up. So you see I am alive, and should my nose
and throat ever appear in the flesh again shall be
remarkably joUy, and in the meanwhile am your most
affectionate Elizabeth JAifrE,

To Mrs. Edwajbd Twistleton.
Brookline, Monday, April 16, 1860.
. . . More and more I feel how lovable imperfect
people are, and how rare to find are any more such as
we have known and still have among our dearest
ones. The Marys and Annas and Sarahs and Edwards
and Sams we have had our share of early in Ufe, and
our lesson is to learn not to require too much, because
we have had all, but to be content and thankful for
parts of characters.
Mrs. Cabot is in her own way as complete as any
person I have ever known, but her goodness is a
hidden spring doing itself no justice outside and
drawing one towards her not by the lovely expressive
ness we have been used to, but by the magnetic
power, as it were, of such a solid, unvarying weight
of passive purity and virtue and a most loving heart,
as makes her a kind of rock of shelter and repose,
where you know no petty thought or poor suspicion
will ever come. I try to love her and appreciate her
as I shall when the day comes to say good-bye to her,
which must be before long as she is nearly seventy.

242
I hate and despise all that you and Parkman say
about weak-mindedness. Flowers must have sun and
air and earth. Stones are very strong and useful and
can live very well without either. Are we to have no
flowers in this world, — only stones therefor, you
disagreeable creatures ?
Now when you get to London and have much else
to tax your head, be content, beloved, to write very
short letters. Keep to business in them. Answer
questions and ask them and say how you are, but
don't describe or explain. We shaU aU understand
it. Now do, dearest. Economize on us where love
and faith are plentiful and spend on other people and
other things for the time. I don't want to know
where you dine nor who you see nor what you wear,
only how your head is and how your heart is and
how Edward is, and whether you get the letters
properly. Now you wiU call this one of the plans
that make life perfectly detestable I know, but we
can't have everything and must choose.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, April 21, 1860.
Dearest Darling, — It is always so pleasant to come
back to one's own house after each absence, no matter
how pleasant one's visits may have been. I think it
must be something the feeling that shell-fish have for
their shells, other shells are very nice, perhaps much
handsomer, but one's own sheU is particularly fitted
to one's owu back and is so comfortable and soothing.
Lizzie.

243

To Mrs. Twistleton.
[Brookline], Monday Afternoon, May 7, 1860.
. . . How curious it is that a man should have been
found who Ukes to go about with IsabeUa Webb and
stare at shop windows and Rotten Row. I can't con
ceive of it. I should say they lived Uke two very
lazy quadrupeds of some kind and can't imagine why
they were not put in that class of life.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Sunday, May 13, 1860.
, , , Yesterday one of my Irish neighbors lost a Uttle
boy with membraneous croup and I had to be there
two hours in the morning seeing the poor little child
suffer such agony as I shall never forget, and this
morning went down to find his poor mother sitting by
his side so miserable, though he lay at peace and
looking so sweet and tranquil. So to-night I feel a
good deal used up, which may be evident from my
style of writing. I keep looking at Frank and
wondering if I could bear to lose him as this poor
woman has lost her darling, and pray only that the
Lord wiU send us strength to bear our trials when
they come.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
[Brookline], Friday Evening, May 19, 1860.
... I have had various visitors this week, beginning
with Mr. and Mrs. Harry Lee,* who really came to-
* Father of her brother-in-law, Col. Henry Lee.

244
gether in person. I felt a good deal as if Park-St.
Church and the Masonic Temple had come to call, and
didn't know what to do to show how very inexpe
rienced and respectful I felt. However, Mr. Lee
talked political economy, and his wife firmly inter
rupted him with famUy and domestic inquiries when
she thought fit, he as firmly resuming his own topic
when she paused. I never saw two such detached
and attached beings and wonder whether Elliot and I
shall do so when we are as old.
To-day Miss Susan Quincy came and was reaUy
quite lovely, spoke about mother and wept and did
everything that was pleasant, and asked me to come
and see her without ceremony. Does that mean
without my bonnet or how, for I'm sure I don't know.
ElUot has been on a ladder at the Athenaeum all
the week and has gone over every book in it, identify
ing those that were there and making a Ust of the
missing. Those missing are chiefly among the books
used by schoolboys and clergymen. How satisfac
tory ! I have been trying how I Uked having him
away all day, and am rather relieved to find that the
house hasn't burned down, nor Frank fallen out of
the windows in consequence. To-night he is what
the servants call " Through," which is jolly, and he
feels very much as females do when they have over
hauled their closets and piece-bags, only he doesn't
know it.
My aunt, Mary Cary, has been at Mrs. Cabot's aU
the week and has begun to caU me Lizzie and make
up delightful faces at me and I should think in two
or three years would have a clear idea that I exist, if

245
I don't interrupt the progress of the Perkins mind by
paying her any of the common civilities, such as
"good-morning" or "good-bye," or expect any from
her. Some people, no doubt, would find Perkinses
trying, but I don't mind them at all. Now, dearest
friends, I am very sleepy, and as it is ten o'clock I
have a right to go to bed, so good-night. ElUot sends
his love to everybody, and I am your slave and sister,
Elizabeth.

To Mrs. Edward Twistleton.
Brookline, May 21, 1860.
, , , You will see this week the republican nomi
nation for president, Mr. Lincoln. He is an IlUnois
man, an opponent of Douglas', said to be a rough cus
tomer, but a very upright and straight-forward one ;
somewhat of the General Jackson order. He began
Ufe as a flatboatman on the Ohio river, and the last
time he was heard of was running against Douglas
for the Senate, and coming very near success.
Elliot thinks well of the nomination, and is really
sanguine of success, as he thinks the split in the
Democratic party a fatal one. I am firm in the faith
that the Democrats wiU yet unite on some one and
carry the day, but I hope I am mistaken.
. . . "Abe Lincoln" is a genuine Westerner,
Douglas' great foe there, and got 4,000 more than
Douglas as senator the last time, but owing to cunning
districting on the part of the Democrats, did not get
chosen. The " Boston Courier " (Wm. Hilliard &
Co.) calls him a " taU, coarse, illiterate man," which I

246
daresay may be correct. I have heard of his going on
a tour of some days without any luggage but what he
wore about him. But we can put up with that.
Frank Pierce was a perfect gentleman in his manners,
and most of the Southern fire-eaters are the same. I
like him the better as a candidate for being a Western
man, for I look upon Douglas as our only danger, and
then he will be a free-trader, which some Eastern
Republicans are not.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, May 28, 1860.
. . . Edward's offer of the clerkship of the Privy
Council does not tempt me in the least for him,
though I Uke to have everything offered him and ex
pect yet to see him in public Ufe, and the right place.
I think you are so wise not to urge him any more, for
he has full knowledge of what you would Uke best to
see him doing, and it seems to me that when we have
faithfully explained our views to our husbands and
they have listened to them lovingly, as they do, our
responsibility ceases, and their own consciences must
decide their plan of life and we must take our faith
and patience and love in both hands and beUeve that
they will not be let to go far astray, and be content to
tread with them the path they choose. I think our
husbands are very much aUke in many things and
especially in their views of Ufe. The way they can
not be brought to count upon an act for the future is
as strong in one as the other.

247

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Monday Evening, June 4, 1860.
. . . The office does not attract me for Edward and
I dread for you the added time in London, and what
I fear wUl be the added calls on your strength —
when you become the wife of a man in office. Dar
Ung, I don't think it is selfishness that makes you plan
and wish for Edward, but I fear it is ambition, partly,
though partly I am sure it is a real desire that his great
and beautiful faculties should be of service to his fellow
creatures. Now I do suppose ambition is a sin in us
and that we must root it out or let it die out through
disappointment, and I suppose we ought to be quite
content with the real usefulness that an upright and
pure and noble life like Edward's must have in this
world, without longing to see the baskets-full of
loaves and fishes brought in as the apparent fruits.
I am weak and do often long for it, but I believe in
the other with my inmost heart and am sometimes
able to make my convictions and my behavior agree.
EUiot agrees with Edward's feeling about time and
freedom as much as if they were one man, and to him
any amount of money would be poverty if he had to
pay for it with his time. Now, darling, if when this
reaches you Edward is in office, don't think I am going
to be sorry, for I shall believe that it will all come out
weU, but if he is out I shall still be very content.

248

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Chicopee, Monday Morning, June 17, 1860.
, , , We made a successful descent upon Sophia* on
Tuesday, Frank conducted himself throughout the
journey in the most approved manner. He required
neither food nor water all the way. He occasionaUy
represented that it would be agreeable and profitable
for him to get out of the cars, but seemed to feel all
the time that his father and I were his lawful tyrants
and submitted even to our unwise decrees with a
peaceful mind. He slept a while and was very hand
some and funny when he waked up. Since we
arrived here he has been rather more jolly than usual.
The children's swing and rabbits and chickens and
doves make a brilliant series of pageants for him
which he profoundly appreciates, and it has been a
great pleasure to me to see the dear Uttle soul making
acquaintance with this beloved place which is just
Uke a dear friend to me, and which I settle into
always with a deUcious home feeling. ElUot roams
round and sketches now and then a pretty scrap for
me, and comes home and settles down to his reading
as peacefuUy as an inteUigent and artistic lamb, and
he appreciates the place and gives me as much sym
pathy as if he had known it as we did when the
angels lived there. * Her sister, Mrs. Wells.

249

To J. E. C*
[Beverly Farms], Saturday, Aug. 11, 1860.
, , . Frank talks about you a great deal and misses
you decidedly. Yesterday he got a notion in his
head that you would be in the drawing-room when he
came down before dinner, and when he came into the
room and found Charles [Mills] there instead he
cried as I never heard him and would not be com
forted nor speak to Charlie for a long wliile. I am
afraid his feeUngs will give him as much trouble as
mine give me, which is very inconvenient.

To Mrs. Cleveland.
Beverly [Farms], Aug. 29, 1860.
... I realize intensely that every one's temperament
goes with them to the ends of the world and to the
end of their Uves, and that what one feels in America
one wUl also feel in Europe after a short time, and
these things take the heart out of me for urging a
person to do what they do not see the way clearly to
do, though I can most heartUy forward any plan which
they wUl undertake for themselves.
Then perhaps I feel what you do not so much
as if you had been in America these last few years,
that it is a very substantial evil to give children an
unsettled feeling about their home. I would infinitely
rather have a child perfectly ignorant of European
languages and deprived of European tastes and pleas-
* Who was absent on a camping trip.

250
ures than feel that he didn't care where he Uved,
whether in England or America, that he had no par
ticular home, and all those chaotic sensations which
seem often to follow on the wandering life which many
modern children lead.
Anna writes to you now and then and tells you, no
doubt, how well she is getting on with a life that
would weary and baffle most people completely. She
grows more and more of a saint every year, and there
fore leaves behiiid her, more and more, the worry
which seems to me the besetting sin of modern
women's Uves and one that must be conquered from
within, and not soothed from without as one is
tempted to try to do.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Beverly [Farms], Sept. 3, 1860.
At Harry Lee's.
. . . We are finishing our sea-side vacation here at
Harry Lee's after the days of peace and plenty at Mrs.
Cabot's, whose loving kindness to me and enthusias
tic fondness for Frank and never-failing welcome
make her house a real home for us all.
Here we come into a very different atmosphere.
Harry and Lizzie are in the midst of the tussle of
middle Ufe with five children ranging from fourteen
to two years old. Harry very conscientious and
almost too particular about details. Lizzie equaUy
conscientious, very delicate, and with a strong streak
of Cabot absent-mindedness. Their house the very

251
ideal of nice arrangements and neatness and method.
Their hours early, their meals simple, and their lives
very busUy employed. It strikes one very much in
coining from the other house where the leisure and
luxuries of old age abide in perfection, the children
all grown up, and the work of life very nearly com
pleted.
To Mrs. Stephen Bullard.
Lynn, Monday, Sept. 4 [after 1859].
. . . You say, dearest, you wish I could make you
more grateful for his [Charles W. Eliot's] and your
merciful escape. I do not believe you need to be more
grateful for that particular mercy, for I am sure you
never think of it without the greatest thankfulness ;
what you do want and what we all want is an habitual
gratitude, so that when these especial blessings come,
the feelings that they awaken may blend naturally
with one prevaiUng condition of mind, and not seem
like strangers and outsiders which come and go, but
do not dweU with us. Now, beloved, this gratitude to
people of sensitive temperaments must be a virtue to
be acquired day by day, and we cannot hope to attain
to it in weeks or months. I know no better way to
reach it than to train our minds to admit, truthfully,
the evils and sorrows of our lot, but to dwell on its
blessings and hopes. Evils which we cannot remedy
we had better not think about any more than we can
help, but we caimot think too much of the mercies
that are so infinitely beyond our deserts. Did you
expect to bring such a sermon down upon yourself ?
I have written it to myself quite as much as you.

252
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Oct. 7, I860.
... Do you realize that your nephew is about to
close his career of white, and dash into a blue morning
dress and a crimson afternoon. That his legs are to
be adorned with dark cloth gaiters when he goes out
and a black felt hat tops off his youthful figure. The
baby is fast disappearing and the boy emerging. Mary
said this afternoon he behaved Uke four years old
and he really did. We measured him the other rught.
He is just 36 inches, 3 inches taUer than Harry [Park-
man] at his age, and nearly twice as broad, so that he
is a regular roly-poly. He has been promoted to
coming down to breakfast lately. He has his high-
chair by his father's side and sits there whUe we eat
our breakfast, devouring what he caUs a " Cust o' b'ed,"
and also, by Elliot's foolish indulgence, a small lump
of sugar, which he takes into his mouth with such
an expression of anxious care and responsibiUty for
fear he should lose a crumb of it that he makes me
laugh at him every day. I only wish you had him to
use up your spare time for you, for he can absorb
any amount.
Elliot and I are to start off to-morrow morning, if it
doesn't rain, for a small journey. We are going in a
wagon with one horse and two carpet bags. Our first
day to Hingham and from there where we please. To
be gone till Saturday and then at home for Sunday,
where Elliot will stay and I mean to go to Chicopee
for a few days.

253
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Sunday, Oct. 14, 1860.
. . . Your birthday, my dearest. How I wish I could
spend it with you, and how I hope your dear head is
quiet at last and allowing you a day in peace and
comfort. Oh, darUng, do you know what a blessed
day it is to me that brought you on this earth ? There
ought to be in the prayer-book a special form of thanks
giving to be used on the birthdays of our best friends.
Only words could never express the numberless bless
ings and happiness and helps that have come to me
through you, and my thankfulness for them must lie
silent in the deep places of my heart and only express
itself to you in a love which is very true, darling, and
very strong, though so powerless to help or profit you
in any way.
To-day I am at home for a visit, having returned yes
terday from our Uttle journey to Hingham, and intend
ing to start to-morrow for Chicopee. We had five very
pleasant days driving about and seeing all that was to
be seen of what is called the South Shore, in reality
the North Shore of Cape Cod, but South from Boston,
which accounts for its name. Hingham is one of the
prettiest old towns I ever saw, looking more like an
English country town than any I know, settled and
comfortable, with large old houses and large gardens
round them and just enough going on to keep it from
duUiess. The drives from there to Cohasset, Scituate,
and Hull occupied the three whole days we had there
and the pieces of the other two we used up in visiting

254
the curiosities of Hingham. We had very fine weather
and made a sort of daily picnic, taking our dinner
with us in sandwiches and cold chicken when we
started after breakfast, and not coming back tiU tea-
time. Nantasket Beach, which stretches out six miles
between Hingham and HuU, is one of the most
impressive places I ever saw. Margaret Forbes said
when she first went to it, " Thank God there is enough
of something." It seems at least three times as large
as the great Newport Beach, is very broad, and has no
islands between it and the open sea so that you see
the long horizon line uninterrupted, and on the other
side a great plain stretches off to the water of Hing
ham Harbor, and the cliffs and rocks and island hills
at either end make most picturesque terminations to
this broad, wild, desert place. I certainly never
enjoyed a day more than the one we passed there,
though the soUtude and the wUdness of the place
were almost awful.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Nov. 6, 1860.
. . . There is no end of talk of disunion at the
South, but the wise folks say it is all bluster and that
a baby might as well say it would separate from its
mother, since the South would simply starve and go
naked without the North, wliich would not pay
probably.

255

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Sunday, Nov. 11, I860.
. , , I think you have a very particularly hard time
of it, because under circumstances of great difficulty
you have to get on without the health and strength
which would enable you to master them with com
parative ease, I wonder if you reaUze how hard a
task you have set before you ? You see you married
Edward because you couldn't help it, because he
loved you and you loved him intensely, and you did
exactly the right thing, but then you have to take the
consequences, which involve having a "remarkably
hard row to hoe," First you had to leave the people
you love so much at home, and though leaving them
you stiU continue to love them just as much, so that
the separation is a continual wear and tear upon your
dear heart. Then you have to make a new set of
friends in England in which you have been very suc
cessful, but which process has been a most exciting
and exhausting one and has worn upon you in every
way very much. Then you are obUged to live in a very
different atmosphere from what you would at home
where you would naturally have lived in your feel
ings and those of other people very much. In England
people Uve much more in their intellects it seems
to me, and neither expend or receive into daily
Ufe half as much feeling as we do. Now the beloved
Edward is an Englishman in this respect. With
untold depths of feeling in him on which he is really
living all the time, he does not expect to bring
them to the surface often and is rather amazed and

256
puzzled at you when you do so. So in the long
run your Uttle feelings get a good deal starved and
after a while cry out and are unhappy. They must
positively learn to go without, to live on a low diet.
Edward feels a great deal about great things, but
hardly anything about little things, whereas you feel
a great deal about great things and a great deal
about Uttle things, too. Now don't you see, here is
one great deprivation which you must correct and
allow for its strain upon you. When you can draw
and paint, your dear feelings are much more satisfied
through that expression, but this summer you haven't
even been allowed to do that. So you see here is
your problem, — how to live with an English hus
band, in an English atmosphere, and satisfy an
American temperament. Now you can't expect to
find this an easy or a pleasant process and must
expect many downfalls and heart>«inkings in it. All
women find, I beUeve, a great part of the discipUne
of their lives in adapting their own characters to
their husbands, and at the same time to the laws of
God, and whatever may be the difficulties, no doubt it
is our business to work away at it without being dis
couraged. This you have to do with double difficul
ties, so don't mind finding it hard, please. In the
second place, you say life seems to you an opportunity.
Now, darling, an opportunity for what? Certainly
for growing in grace and goodness, but not certainly
it seems to me for anything else. Some people
like Florence Nightingale appear to accomplish great
tangible results for the good of their fellow-creatures,
but they are the exceptions, and most lives it seems

257
are meant to be expended in a daily, humble routine
of duty in which our own souls may grow and shall
grow if they are faithful, but which will not build up
any monument but that of a Christian perfectness.
Occupation we must certainly have and I think if
one has health one can always find it, but to see a
beautiful result grow up outside of ourselves seems
to me rarely granted and to be looked at as excep
tional. Here you have another difficulty in being
without the family claims of children and family in
which most women's lives are expended without any
planning or questioning of theirs. Your life is more
Uke a man's who does not need to work for his living,
and I should think when you have strength for it,
some regular work would be a help to you, and I
don't believe studying is the right kind of work for
you, but some work among your fellow-creatures,
some charity work or other which you should take up
for the sake of the occupation more than for the sake
of the result so that "the motive might be in the
means and not in the end," and so you be shielded
from disappointment.
As I think over my life I am sure I don't see that
I am of the least use in the world. I look after the
house and Frank, and sew, and make visits and read ;
I do a great many things about and with other people,
but I don't think they are of the slightest importance,
except to me. They are my duties, but I don't
accomplish anything by it aU that wouldn't be accom
plished without me. So you see all the " purpose "
that seems necessary to me is the purpose to do my
duty as it comes up each day, and let the rest alone.

258
As for old age, darling, why do you trouble yourself
about it ? Surely the present contains the future and
and if we take care of our middle life we are all the
time providing for our old age. The Lord could so
easily strip us in a day of any besides spiritual
possessions that we may acquire, that I do not see
how one could put much heart into any gains lest
they should turn to losses in our hands. You look at
my darling Frank as a gain of mine, but if you had
him you would not feel that he was yours to count
upon for an instant beyond to-day, and the more
lovely and delightful he seemed the more you would
feel it. Here endeth the wisdom of Elizabeth, which
may seem to you simple foolishness and shallowness,
but is the best I have for the present.
. . . The Southerners are making a terrible bluster
about secession, and Mr. Buchanan seems to intend
to help the mischief as far as possible. ElUot thinks
probably it will all come to naught, but says if they
choose to secede on the slavery question there is
nothing to be regretted. Slavery cannot be allowed
to go farther, and we must stop it and take the con
sequences and as weU now as any time. I send you
a paper containing Lincoln's views on slavery. It is
difficult to see how South Carolina can secede alone,
and no other State but Georgia seems to sympathize
with her. So we wait and don't feel particularly
serious. . . . Frank has cut three eye-teeth this week with
out any trouble and is a most joyful little creature.
He didn't appreciate the beautiful white feathers, so I
shall reserve them for maturer years. He demanded

259
to " kiss and love " your picture the other day, and was
pretty lovely with it. He is as affectionate as can be,
will come and kiss my hand two or three times in the
midst of his play, sometimes, and without any sug
gestion from me.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Monday, Nov. 19, 1860.
. . . Politics are rather exciting here this week for
the South continues to bluster a good deal.
. . . To-day the Southerners seem to be decidedly
subsiding and the universal opinion is, as far as I can
learn, that it will all end in talk. We are all pleased
with Lincoln for holding his tongue so steadily, and
making no further declaration of policy. Mrs. Cabot
who remembers old Nullification times, says that
South CaroUna behaved much worse then.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Nov. 26, 1860.
. . . The Secessionists do not seem to make any
particular progress. There has been a great money
crisis at the South and a great panic here and in New
York, quite as hard a week as in '57, they say. The
South must have gone through this at any rate this
autumn from their short crops, and from overtrading.
The Northern trouble is only sympathetic and wiU
soon be over, I hear, as we are really in a very pros
perous condition and have not been overtrading. Our

260
banks have not suspended and the extension of the
New York banks relieves things here.
One hears all sorts of opinions about secession, —
about half expecting it and about half laughing at
the idea. ElUot is inclined to think it must come and
does not in the least object to it. He thinks it would
be a great relief to be rid of all responsibility for
Southern action which is constantly against our con
sciences, but which we are forced to compromise with
because we are in the Union. That it would hasten
the end of slavery by confining it within such narrow
limits, because he thinks by seceding the South for
feits all claim upon the territories and must keep
their favorite institution within their own States.
This done he thinks they must soon feel the full force
of its evils, whereas now we keep a great many
burdens off of them in various ways. No doubt the
African Slave Trade would be opened, but he thinks
we should be able to do more towards stopping it than
we are now, as we should at once declare it piracy and
seize upon their ships whenever we could. Now it is
carried on all the time really, and we know it but
have no power against it. As to our own suffering he
thinks it would make us pretty poor for a year or two
but that we should recover, and that we ought to
take it bravely. Charles MiUs on the other hand
thinks it would be dreadful if it came, but that it
won't come. I can't help wishing we could go along
together and get rid graduaUy of this horrid curse of
slavery in peace, for I think it is partly the fault of
the North, which for years never protested against
slavery, but allowed it peaceably because we wanted

261
the cotton, and so allowed the Southerners to fall
back from their original feeling that it was an evil to
be ended as soon as possible.
Calhoun first started the doctrine that slavery was
a beautiful and scriptural institution, and the South
erners, degraded as they are by the very presence of
the thing, naturally lent ready ears to the idea.
Then it seems to me our Personal Liberty Bills are
very aggravating and had better be repealed. Alto
gether I feel that the Southerners have a great many
excuses and I should rather bear with them if it is
practicable without compromising our consciences
any farther, but I feel so doubtful whether this is pos
sible, whether they will not demand more than we
could righteously give, that I shan't dare to complain
if secession comes, but shaU peaceably try to make
12,000 take the place of $6,000, which would be the
practical working of it on our incomes, and trust " that
the Lord would fix it so's that we can stan' it
somehow."

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Monday Evening, Dec. 3, 1860.
. . . The secession of South Carolina seems to be
certain, but how many States she can take with her
is very doubtful. Congress has met to-day. I think
ElUot dreads a weak compromise more than anything,
and thinks the very best thing that could happen
would be a peaceable secession of the Southern slave
States with amicable commercial relations maintained,
but the governments of North and South quite sepa-

262
rate. I send you an account of a row in Boston to
day by which the Union men have done the very thing
best suited to excite the Abolitionists to every degree
of extra vengeance. It is a great pity and a real dis
grace to Boston, I think, that such a thing should
have happened.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Dec. 10, 1860.
... Is it really possible that you think of coming
here for the summer? When Mary Perkins told me
so the other day I could not possibly believe her and
thought she must have misunderstood you. It is too
joyful a thought. Oh, darling, to see you again and
show you Frank and have you in my home and have
you with Millsey and Mary, I don't know what to say
or think, it seems so delightful. You musn't come
unless Sir James gives you free leave. I shan't ex
pect you or be disappointed. If secession comes, do
you know I am afraid we may all be too poor for any
extra expenses, and that may stop you as we could
not pay even half the rent of a house at the seashore,
I fear. But this is uncertain and we wiU tell you in
time if we find our funds sinking too low for it. We
feel pretty sober here to-night about the Union.
The secession of some of the States seems inevitable
and the only question is how many. Elliot and
Edmund are as firm and cheerful as possible, but most
people are dreadfully blue. Charles told me the other
day that I should see fighting in the streets of Brook
line and a great many of the Bell-Everetts really

263
expect a universal civil war. Why they expect it I
can't find out, and therefore am inclined to think it
part of the panic which has been severe in the busi
ness world this week. Elliot thinks we shall all feel
it in our incomes and that it is impossible to say how
much, but more and more he feels that it is inevitable
and that no compromise ought to be made ; that the
trouble springs from a radical difference in civilization,
and that it is impossible to overcome it without con
cessions of principle from the Southerners which they
will never make. They declare that slavery is a
divine institution and that we are " Atheistic " in our
view of it. I can't realize it, though I read the papers
as hard as I can. I hope I shall be able to be brave and
steady when the pinch comes, but if it deprives us of
your visit I can't promise. Perhaps it is as well that
I don't suffer beforehand.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Dec. 16, 1860.
. . . We are reading the newspapers busily here
and I am endeavoring to be ready to hear that all the
slave States have determined to secede before the 4th
of March. I can't help feeling a pang at the disrup
tion of this great country which has always seemed to
me one and inseparable, though I agree thatit willnever
do for us to legalize slavery in the territories, which
is the only concession which will satisfy the South.
EUiot is so full of opposition to slavery and determi
nation to have nothing to do with the enlargement
of its boundaries that he has no room for regrets or

264
fears at the consequences. It seems to me very
much Uke a family quarrel which may be unavoidable,
but must always be profoundly painful and distress
ing, at any rate to the ladies of the family. I send
you an article from the " New York Times " which
explains one cause of the determination of the South,
though Elliot thinks not the principal one as here
stated. Have you seen Mr. Emerson's new book, "The
Conduct of Life " ? It is very interesting, more so to
me than anything he has pubUshed. It seems to me
brim fuU of faith, though he has no creed and never
uses any religious phraseology, in fact he writes as a
heathen might who was unconsciously imbued with
the spirit of Christianity, but had never heard of its
name, nor in the slightest degree acknowledged its
supremacy. He is a very curious being, but every one
who has the element strongly developed in them
becomes helpful to their feUow-creatures it seems to
me sooner or later, and where it is united as in him
with such strength and delicacy of perception and so
much poetical insight, it creates something that will
abide in the hearts and Uves of his generation.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Dec. 23, I860.
... It is nearly enough to comfort me for aU my
patriotic suffering that England really sympathizes
with us instead of with those naughty Southerners.
We think, too, that the Southerners will be very
sensitive to English public opinion, since they seem

265
to have calculated on English support. South Caro
Una has voted herself out of the Union and done all
she can do to make herself an independent State, and
Mr. Buchanan has done all he possibly can to help her
by refusing to reenforce Fort Moultrie and giving
orders that it shall be surrendered if attacked. The
only solution of his behavior is that he is overwhelmed
with personal cowardice. It is said the Southerners
have promised him their protection in case he is
attacked by the Union men. What he is afraid of
nobody knows, whether he thinks he shall be beheaded
or hung. If he would only resign and take himself
anywhere where he would feel safe, it is all anybody
wants of him. As yet the other cotton States do not
foUow South Carolina and if anything the Union
feeling seems to gain ground, still we expect they will
go, since there is no hope they would be satisfied with
anything less than protection of slavery in the terri
tories, and that the Republicans will not yield.
EUiot thinks secession wUl end there and that the
tobacco States will not go, and he remains perfectly
happy since he believes it a necessary step towards
the destruction of slavery. I " lean up " against
him of course, and am very thankful I haven't got
the howling kind of husband who thinks the world is
coming to an end and the devil certainly reigns be
cause these Southerner fire-eaters have succeeded in
getting up a secession.
It is said to be a great blow to the Southerners that
Louis Napoleon declines to back them up. Elliot's
only fear is that the Republicans will break down and
make unworthy concessions. Then he would begin

266
to howl and to think the country hopeless. No slavery
in the territories protected by Congress. If the
people when the territories are settled choose to hold
slaves, he thinks we must submit, but no protection
before the territories become States.

To Mrs. Tvststleton.
Brookline, Monday, Dec. 31, 1860.
. . . Our poUtics are in worse confusion than ever.
I do not know that I can say anything to make the
newspaper accounts clearer. The evacuation of Fort
Moultrie is very much applauded, but it is entirely
doubtful whether Major Anderson's orders wUl sup
port him in it.
The President has received the commissioners from
South Carolina, which many persons think an abomin
ation. The horrible defalcation from the Treasury
makes the administration more contemptible than
ever. Nobody sees how South Carolina can keep from
starving, and it is pretty evident that mob law is
ruling there and that the respectable part of the com
munity are kept down by fear.
The best hope that I hear suggested is that things
may be kept in suspense till Lincoln comes in and
then vigorous measures are looked for. And there is
also a possibility that by that time the CaroUnians
may have had enough of this Uttle farce of self-gov
ernment. Still I don't think even the most hopeful
look for a restoration of the Union, but only for the
movement being confined to the cotton States. There

267
is no doubt that the robbery of the Treasury is due to
a clerk, a South Carolinian, and that the money was
spent for bribing voters, for Breckinridge, the Demo
cratic candidate, I beUeve, Who else was implicated
has not appeared. . . .
ElUot says, " It has not been proved that the money
taken from the Treasury was used for election pur
poses," so please modify my statement.
I only wish Edward was President of these United
States. Buchanan is the worst disgrace we have had
to bear yet. I am inclined to wish he would go a
Uttle farther and do something that could rouse Con
gress to impeach him, that the country might have
some chance to express their contempt and indigna
tion at his conduct. He goes by the name of " Old
Poultice" in Washington, we hear. Much too good
a name for him.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Jan. 7, 1861.
. . . You wUl see by the papers that the President
has at last stiffened up a Uttle, but I am afraid it is
too late to do much good. South Carolina seems
bent on fighting, and blood once shed, one cannot tell
what the end wiU be. The leader in the "Times"
was perfectly satisfactory. I only wish we had
a few more people here who took the same views. It
is very remarkable how Uttle as yet the markets are
affected by the state of politics. Elliot had some
Trust money to invest the other day and found great
difficulty in finding any cheap stocks for investing.

268
Several that a month ago were below are now above
par. This looks as though there was great faith in
the Union still, and as if people were more frightened
than hurt. . . .
I wish I could pack Frank into an envelope and
send him to you for an afternoon, for he is a Uttle
nicer now than ever before. He understands aU that
is said to him and says almost everything himself in
his own little funny way. He is dramatic and
demonstrative, in the highest spirits from morning tiU
night, but not yet a tom-boy. He is very pretty,
his hair bright gold-color and curly, his eyes
as dark as yours, and his skin perfectly fair. His
eyes are not large but very bright and expressive,
with long eyelashes ; altogether he is very attractive
and very entertaining and I am very much devoted
to him.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Jan. 21 [1861].
... I feel so sorry at all you and Edward are
going through about the Union and I don't wonder in
the least that you are puzzled at our calmness ; some
times it puzzles me. In the first place you must
remember that we think very Uttle, almost nothing, of
our "prestige" and our effect on other nations. We
live far away from Europe, we are very independent
of it, and we are a world to ourselves, and too much
absorbed in our own busy, active lives to think what
other people are thinking about us. We believe that
self-government is going to go on and thrive in spite
of the breaking up of the Union, and we have a pro-

269
found conviction that if the Union has not strength
enough to hold together without what we consider
concessions of principle on the part of the North, it
had better be dissolved. Then we don't feel sure that
it will be dissolved yet. Since Buchanan has taken a
firmer stand it seems possible that the Southerners
may yet repent and return, and many people think
that Lincoln once inaugurated, matters will put on a
different face. Now can you understand that philos
ophy at all? I think you are quite right in saying
that the feeling is very different in the Middle States.
There they are much more disturbed and excited,
partly from the mixture of Southern blood and partly
because their interests and their business are more
closely connected with the Southerners than ours.
Aunt Susan Cabot, the sister who lived always
with Mrs. FoUen, is very ill, probably dying, because
she could not live any longer without her. It is just
a year since Mrs. FoUen died, and it seems to me so
natural that Aunt Susan should follow that I cannot
be sorry. Aunt Susan is one of the very most unsel
fish, loving souls that ever lived, and Mrs. FoUen was
her sunshine and her support, and she has starved to
death without her. I feel as if I knew exactly how.
If I had spent my Ufe with you I should have done
just so.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Jan. 27, 1861.
. , , C  takes a more beaming view of the coun
try than any one I have seen, considering it all
glorious and beautiful. He makes such a fuss with

270
his mouth and his manners before he ¦ can say any
thing that I get entirely worn out with him and can't
remember why he thinks anything, but he promised
to write you again very soon, and on paper I've no
doubt his views would be consoling.
The foolish mob have been breaking up the Anti-
slavery meetings in Boston this week and the worse
than foolish mayor has done next to nothing to pre
vent it, and thereby the Abolitionists have become
martyrs and heroes and are rubbing their hands in
unmixed joy and satisfaction and expect to be invited
to hold their meetings in the State House and I've no
doubt they will be, for people won't stand the idea
that if a man " chooses to call his hat his cadwallader "
he is to be prevented. So all this is very aggravating
to us, who very much dislike to see the Abolitionists
made of such unnecessary importance.
Southern affairs seem to be in much the same
place. . . .
The important point now seems to be to keep Mary
land from seceding before the 4th of March, as it is
thought that there would be difficulty in holding the
city of Washington were that to happen. Lincoln
once in, every one seems to hope he will set things
straight. All the Republicans here are very anxious
lest the Crittenden Compromise should pass, and a
paper is going about for signatures petitioning against
it.

271

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Monday Morning, Feb. 18, 1861.
. . . Last Monday morning Elliot went off to town
as he always does Monday for the day, leaving me to
find out how I should Uke to have him go every day
as most men do. I wash the breakfast dishes always
Monday and Tuesday and at the same time superin
tend the education of my son Frank whose nurse
washes once a fortnight. He likes to think he helps
me by wiping a spoon or two and taking up the
crumb cloth, but requires a good many ejaculations
on my part to keep him out of mischief, so that it is
rather fatiguing. This job done he says his letters,
which is considerably like teaching a very high wind.
He knows eleven of them, but finds it so difficult to
mind what he is about even long enough to say one
that it sometimes takes twenty minutes to get through.
I don't care whether he learns his letters or not, but
ElUot thinks it important that he should realize that
there is something he must do every day whether he
likes it or not.
Tuesday began much like Monday, with Frank and
breakfast things. I thought I would commence
another fight with him, which I knew had to come,
to break up a habit he has always had of putting his
small thumb in his mouth when he went to sleep.
He never has done it when he was up, so that he has
not been one of the dreadful thumb-sucking children,
but he has taken it as a narcotic to go to sleep by.
So I made him a smaU cot out of a light kid glove
and put a white string on it and his nurse put it on

272
when she laid him in his crib. You would have
thought by the shrieks of anguish that I had cut his
thumb off. I let him howl ten minutes and then told
Catherine he might have it off if he would lay his
hand down by his side. She took if off and up went
the thumb involuntarily to his mouth, but down
again like a flash of lightning, and from that day
he has never put it in except for an instant twice
and right out again. It is a week to-morrow, so that
I hope the trick is broken. This done I started out
for my constitutional, which is rather an effort in
these days when the roads are muddy. I feel lazy,
but as it is a good deal more important for me than
either eating or sleeping I try to be stern with myself
and go. In the evening Tuesday we always go to
Mrs. Cabot's where are " the family " and whist,
which Mr. Cabot * likes very much, and it is one of my
little satisfactions to play with him all the evening.
Wednesday I passed the day at home with Frank
for my companion most of the time, either outdoors
or in, and in the evening we went to the whist club
to which we belong in Boston. I believe I told you
that we had joined. It meets once a fortnight and
Agassizs, Wards, Hoopers, Lymans, Parkman, Frank
Parker, and Horace Gray belong to it, and other parties
are invited by the hostess occasionally. It is very
pleasant to see the Bostonians now and then in this
easy jolly way.
Thursday I went to Boston and spent most of the
day, taking Frank with me to make an attempt at
getting another photograph. He behaved Uke a
• Her father-in-law.

Mus. EiiHAKii Twist], KTiJN.

273
king, taking such pains to stand still as made it quite
touching to see him, but the result was a small
mulatto child instead of the fair-haired, fair-faced
creature he is. Friday we had a long rainy day,
which I spent at home sitting with EUiot in his study,
studying German, sewing, and reading the papers.
Saturday was a spring day and I was outdoors a
great deal, and in the evening we went over and took
tea with the Dabneys.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Monday, Feb. 24, 1861.
. . . Now for my journal. I left you Monday
evening. Tuesday I took care of Frank a Uttle
while, did up my housekeeping, and then set forth to
see the invaUds.
Wednesday was rainy so I kept Frank with me till
eleven, as when he cannot go out I like better to do.
He was very happy building a long train of cars and
many high towers, which made a splendid appearance
standing up and a splendid noise tumbling down.
After that I had my hair brushed, and at three I
started for town to hear one of the course of lectures
I have been going to by a woman whose unpro
nounceable name is spelt Larewska. She is a Polish
woman who has been thoroughly educated in one of
the women's hospitals in Berlin, and has established
herself as a professor in the Female Medical College
in Boston. All this sounds strong-minded and
quackish, but she is so weU thought of by the phy
sicians here that many of them, and Sarn Cabot among

274
others, are glad to consult with her, and I do not con
sider her at all of the quack kind. Her lectures are
on female anatomy, physiology, and hygiene, and so
far as I have heard them they are both sensible and
suggestive, and I think if the mammas of the present
generation of women had known a little more of
what they might have learnt from her they would
have saved their daughters a great deal of trouble.
The set of women who go there are to me perfectly
awful. Some of them I know go from nothing but
curiosity, and as it is simply inconceivable to me that
any woman who has not been married and been
through the miU should go at all, I am disgusted
with every unmarried female I find there.
Sam Cabot has decided that Millsey has water on
the knee. He has put her knee in splints and she
sits in a wheel chair which she can roll round the
room herself. Parkman has turned her back drawing-
room into a bedroom for her to save her going over
the stairs and she lives entirely in the two parlors.
This was an awful blow to me, as the last day I saw
Millsey she thought her knees were better. Of
course it makes her more desponding than ever. It
is terribly hard to her to have Mary's house re
arranged for her, and she can't realize that nothing
we can either of us do for her is any trouble. Park-
man does everything she possibly can for her, but
nothing goes right.
I certainly think the Lord seldom sends greater afflUic-
tions to any soul than to that precious, pure MiUsey of
ours. Parkman and I talked and cried there in the lec
ture-room after every one was gone, and I agreed to go

275
in on Friday for the whole day and Parkman promised
to go off and take a vacation and then I came home,
dined with Elliot, and made him miserable about
Millsey and then played Don Giovanni all the
evening. Thursday the sun came out bright and the wind
only was disagreeable. I went to see the invalids
early, sent Frank out for a blow, and then knowing
it my duty to take a constitutional waded through
the mud and against the wind to Lizzie Lee's, who I
knew was on the sofa. I made her an hour's visit,
scolding her a great deal about her impatience in not
teaching stupid servants to help her instead of mak
ing herself sick with work, knew I shouldn't have
practised what I preached, and came home to go to
Mrs. Cabot's tiU dinner-time. Her arm is getting on
weU, and her spirits keep up wonderfully. I stayed
there tUl five and then came home, dined, and in the
evening drove over with Elliot to see his Aunt Mary
Cary at Cambridge. They are nicely settled in a
perfectly charming new house which Edward Cabot
buUt for them last winter. It looks just like Mrs.
Cary — ample, cheerful, and cosey as it can be.
Yesterday I entertained my son all the morning
that his nurse might go to church, and then we had
our little reading, went to walk, and in the evening I
made myself and Elliot miserable over my being
unable to do anything about your coming here this
summer, was very wicked and went to bed to repent
at leisure.

276

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Sunday Afternoon, March 10, 1861.
. . . Wednesday we had a specimen of our very
worst March weather, so cold that you required all
your winter clothes and so windy that you might as
well have nothing on for all the comfort you had
from them. This being the case of course I went to
town for shopping. I accomplished a good deal,
supplied Frank with boots, hat and shoes, skirts,
waists, and got a prospect for a coat, so, comparatively
at peace, I returned to my nest and passed a most
deUcious evening from the mere fact of being in out
of the wind. Thursday was Wednesday over again,
several degrees worse, and of course we were engaged
to dine with the Agassizs. ElUot ignominiously
proposed that we should send an excuse, but I
scorned his words and said we would go. So at half
past two we set forth with hot water at our feet and
every conceivable form of shawl and cloak, and reaUy
succeeded in being very comfortable and having a
pleasant time. Sunday Evening, March 10, 1861.
... I have persisted in going to see both Anna and
Mary this week, though I had to go to Cambridge in
a hard rain and to Boston in a snowstorm. I find if
I let weather stand in my way when nothing else
prevents I am very irregular about seeing them and
then they feel as if I was farther away than I am, and
this time I have taken no cold and am only the better
for my excursions. The fact is I am so contented

277 -
and so fully occupied at home that unless I am stem
with myself about going to town I inevitably put it
off, and when the visiting has all to be on my side, as
it must be in winter, that does not do.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Sunday, March 17, 1861.
... It gave me a fresh turn of misery to find that
you were just as much disappointed not to come home
as I knew of course you must be. I pondered and
pondered over it to see if I could have done other
wise than I did, but was not able to make out that I
could, and so must conclude that the Lord knows
what is best about it better than we do, and that since
he doesn't aUow me to do anything towards helping
you, he wiU provide better help and better ends than
mine. . . .
Besides getting my mind subdued again, on Tuesday
I had a morning of my son's company and in the
evening went to whist at Mrs. Cabot's. Here, after
dragging the reluctant ElUot from his chair and his
newspaper at what he considered a frightfully early
hour, I was greeted with howls because we were so
late, and felt of course that I had a great deal of
injustice to endure, which I succeeded in doing un
commonly easUy, as I am not one atom afraid of any
member of my family-in-law. Monday Morning.
. . . Such a fountain of unfeigned joy as has
opened upon me this morning from two beloved.

278

precious, deUcious letters from you I cannot express
to you. Oh, darling, I do miss your letters when you
cannot write, though I never admit it, even to myself,
but make beUeve all the time that I am glad, very-
glad of it, but when I get two at once, it is such a
revelation of satisfaction and contentment as makes
me wonder what is the matter with me.
Now next, darling, for your proposition about
Anna. Do you really mean it ? Do you and Edward
think you are strong enough for it? For it comes
like a beam of Heaven-sent light on the blackest place
in life that I ever saw. I feel as if nothing but some
such absolute change could possibly restore her to
herself, and I have thought of proposing it to you,
but did not, because I was afraid you could not do it
without hurting yourself. If you think you could, I
will move Heaven and earth to bring it about. To see
you and Sarah and to leave absolutely behind her
everything that she is accustomed to would revive
her I truly believe, but I cannot see that anything we
could do here would. I spent Friday morning with
her and talked with her all over the same set of
incurable miseries that we have been over so many
times before together, and I could not see that she
had gained one inch since last December when I
brought her here. "If I were only dead, if I could
only die," was her answer to everything I could say.
Now when one remembers her faith and courage and
patience through everything when she is well, what
seas of suffering and of weary effort must she have
been through to bring her to this. I feel as if her
mind would give way unless this intolerable anguish

279
could be relieved, and I believe such entire change
would be more likely to reUeve it than anything.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, April 1, 1861.
Dearest Barling, — Your letter of March 16 came
to-day and rejoiced my heart, though you thought it
so unsatisfactory. You mustn't ever mind at all
sending a short letter when I send a long one, for how
many times more of everything would you do than I
if only you were well, and my own thought about
your letters to me is that you do too much. So,
darUng, never count the pages ; one means just as
much love and sympathy as sixteen, though I don't
mean to say that sixteen wouldn't be Paradise to
read, but we don't expect Paradise.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Monday Evening, April 8, 1861.
... I should think breakfast in bed was perfectly
reasonable and virtuous where there is no Frank to
call " mamma " in a Uttle high voice at your door at
seven o'clock in the morning, all clean and rosy and
wide awake, but where there is a young reprobate of
that description one has no choice about being up to
breakfast. . . .
Wednesday was the day fixed for Harry's * and
Nellie's * party and the desire of their hearts was that
Frank should come. It had snowed all night and
* Parkman.

280

was still snowing and tremendously drifted on the
avenue, but I was determined, if possible, to go and
take a carriage-full of children that those darlings
shouldn't be disappointed. So I sent for a " booby-
hut " from the village and for a snow-plough to plough
out the avenue, and by the afternoon it cleared up
and we went off in triumph at four o'clock with
Frank and Walter * and one Cabot and three Appleton
children. Mrs. Cabot sent in a tin trunk of fiowers
with a bouquet for each of the chUdren in it, and the
children had a beautiful time and I felt very glad that
I had seized the day by the hair of the head and
forced it to let me have my own way. Frank took
no cold and we had no disaster to mar our satis
faction. Friday again Sophia pursued her way to town and
again I schooled Walter and had also two dressmakers
to attend to, and Bessie Lee came to dine and I was
much too tired and couldn't sleep. Saturday at one
o'clock, after an early dinner, Sophia and Walter
departed and your dear letter came that day, and in
the afternoon I prepared for a long rest when I was
roused by a message from Mrs. Cabot to say that poor
LiUie's wet-nurse had given out and the baby was
starving and Powell Mason was at her house and
would I come over. So I roused up and trotted over,
and thought I could raise a wet-nurse in the village,
and dressed forthwith and started in the carryall with
Powell, invaded four Irish mansions, succeeded in
raising a nurse and a woman to take her baby, and
sent her off with Powell into town to be examined by
*WeIls.

281
Sam and go to Lillie. It worked right and I hope
the woman will continue to do well. Just before I
started Harry appeared and a note from Mary to say
he wasn't quite well and she would like him to stay
three or four days and build up. This is the joy of
my heart, so I fixed his dinner and his room and then
was off.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Monday, April 15, 1861.
. . . The news of the surrender of Fort Sumter is
the only thing any one can think of in these parts
to-day. It is something that it was not evacuated
without a struggle, but why the fleet stood by there
without even an effort to sustain or reenforce Ander
son is a mystery, and seems horribly as if there were
traitors on board. Lincoln's proclamation to-day and
his reply to the Virginia commissioners seem to me
just what they should be, and revive the confidence
his inaugural gave me in him, which the silence of
the last month and the constant reports that Sum
ter was to be evacuated have rather weakened.
To-day I hope we have got a man at the head of the
government after all, and that our troubles won't be
made worse by weakness and indecision in the Presi
dent. It is horrible that war has begun, and we none
of us know how or where it wiU be brought home to
our own households, but I suppose we need this bitter
lesson to teach us how to bear our prosperity better,
and we must believe that it will not be all in vain.
What makes me feel worse is the thought that the

282
government has been in the hands of traitors for four
years past and that we are as much the victims of
conspirators as any people that ever suffered under
that vilest of sins, betrayal of trust. But then again
we need to be taught that it is not a mere joke whom
we make President and vice-president. Heaven
only grant that we may learn it now. Every one
seems to think that this defeat wUl unite all parties in
support of the government, and that there wiU be no
ultimate difficulty in putting down the Southern
army. ElUot does not believe in the possibiUty of
the South and the North being again united, and
thinks we must recognize the Confederacy in the end
and that we shall lose nothing by so doing, and per
haps this is so, but at any rate it seems to me the
President has no right to recognize the right of seces
sion and cannot do it without making us liable to
revolutions at any moment upon the smaUest griev
ance of any State.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Monday, April 22, 1861.
. . . Ever since I wrote you last the papers have
been brimful of mUitary preparations, and in the
midst of the solemnity and sorrow that one caimot
but feel when one remembers that the horrors of civil
war are upon us, it is impossible to help taking pride and
comfort in the absolute union of the North now and
their zeal and devotion to the government. We have
sent off four thousand men this week fully equipped
and provisioned not only with arms and clothing, but

283
with food for six weeks. Some of them reached Bal
timore on Thursday and there the first blood was
spilled, and our men were the first to reach Washing
ton in answer to the President's summons. . . .
Governor Andrew seems to have come up to the
mark splendidly. Harry Lee is one of the aides and
has been working tremendously all the week and
through him we know more of what is going on than
we usually should. The proffers of money and men
are endless, and the governor's warm-heartedness
makes him just the right person to respond.
We have sent the first requisition and now must
make ready to supply their places at the end of three
months when these men have a right to return.
None of our immediate circle have gone yet, but all
are making ready. Every one is drilUng. Even Elliot
has gone this afternoon, which made me feel pretty
sober, though I should feel horribly ashamed if he
didn't do aU his duty at such a time. Of course all
the volunteer companies wiU be summoned before the
private citizens are' called out, but all the men under
a certain age belong to the militia and must go or
provide substitutes if they are called upon. We all
hope it is not to be a long war, but we may as well
face the worst. Of course the men we have sent
now are mostly very green and cannot be relied upon
for much but pluck, but all winter a large club of
gentlemen among whom are all our relations and
acquaintance have been drilUng under Salignac, a
Frenchman who is considered to have a first-rate sys
tem and has been drilling them for officers. These
young men have offered their services to the gov-

284
ernor to be distributed through the State to driU miU
tia and I suppose are very likely to be called upon
for that purpose first, so that we hope when our first
requisition returns, if we are obUged to fiU their
places, we shall do it with better men. The women
are all endeavoring to do their part, and the towns are
organizing thoroughly. To-morrow all the Brookline
ladies meet to cut and make garments for the militia,
a subscription having been started Saturday evening
at the town-meeting to raise money for materials. Then
there are the families of the men who have gone to
be looked after, so that the people who stay at home
are provided with occupations, which is one of the
alleviations of war that I never remembered. We do
not expect to feel the times in our incomes for six
months, as the manufacturers have cotton enough on
hand to last them that time. But should the war
last longer we are certain to feel it and must try to
save something of this half year's income to help
along the next. I am not in a good plight for econo
mizing at present and shall not attempt much of it, as
it would not pay to get run down, but perhaps I can
do a Uttle.
Ned * sent me this week Edward's letter to him to
read, which was a great comfort to me as it showed he
did not think civil war the worst thing that could
befaU us. Also I want you to underatand that Elliot
and I feel about the tariff just as you do, though
most northern Republicans do not. Elliot considers
it a bribe to Pennsylvania, whose support gave the
RepubUcans the victory. *Her brother Edmund.

285
There have been some queer changes of opinion in
these parts this week. Uncle Ticknor has come out
strong in support of the Administration. The " Cou
rier " (Mr. Willard's paper) published Monday morning,
when the news of the fall of Sumter was already
known, an editorial sympathizing with the South.
Tuesday morning thirty people went down in a body
and withdrew their subscriptions. Chief Justice
Bigelow when he took his seat in court and the crier
rose to announce that the court was open said, " Stop
a moment," and turning to the page, " go down to
the ' Courier ' office and stop my subscription." Mr.
Beebe, a large wholesale dry goods merchant, whose
advertisements are said to amount to six thousand
dollars a year, also sent word that he should withdraw
his subscription. At noon there was flung out from
the " Courier " office a United States flag, and the next
morning appeared a strong article in support of the
Administration.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, April, 1861.
. . . Every day that has passed without bringing
news of an attack on Washington has been so much
to be thankful for. This present week will probably
bring graver work, and one cannot but feel very sober
at the thought of the lives that may be lost. The
North continues splendidly united, and there is some
thing beautiful in the way everybody is at work in
the same cause. I had twelve pair of flannel drawers

286
all finished last Saturday and if I had strength should
take more work to-morrow, and it is the same in every
household. There is a great hall in Boston entirely
given up to prepaiing and distributing the work.
There the governor sends his orders, the work is cut
out, given to the people who offer, and returned at
the time named. It is very business-Uke and satis
factory. I can't help hoping that you wUl find some
thing to love and honor and sympathize with in the
position the North holds now, for it is no matter of
dollars and cents that holds us together, but a com
mon love of law and Uberty and a courage that is
founded on obedience to the noblest motives and not
on any sordid calculations. Even Parkman is proud
of her country now.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Monday Afternoon, May 13, 1861.
. . . Oh, beloved, beloved, precious darling creature,
how I wish I could be eyes and head and feet for
you, but how sure it is that the Lord does not mean we
should do much for any Uving soul in this world, that
each individual should work out his own problem and
be content with its small result, and how sure it is, too,
that this is much the best way it could be arranged,
though it makes one's heart ache so often.
I send you a lot of Elliot's sketches of Beverly to
make you a visit, though I don't feel sure that you
will care for them.

287

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Sunday, May 26, 1861.
... I am so glad your Uttle dog has come back to
you and hope he wUl be a permanence with all my
heart. Don't think your family are such fools as to
" despise you for being so fond of him." I admire
you for it. It is very narrow and uncomprehending
to love only human beings when the Lord has made
so many different kinds of beings, and I believe I
should love the other kinds if I knew them, only I
never had a chance. . . .
There is a good deal of disappointment felt here
at the position the English have taken, as it is
said that in recognizing the Southern right of priva
teering they are helping them, and we hoped they
would treat them as rebels instead of treating them
as a nation.
ElUot, however, thinks we had no right to expect
more, and I can't help hoping that as the real state
of the case dawns on the slow minds of our cousins
they wiU at last express a little sympathy for the
Northern side.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Monday Evening, June 3, 1861.
. . . Saturday we went to the drill at Longwood,
and yesterday to hear Mr. Clark preach at the camp
at Brook Farm. ElUot has been steadily pursuing
his driU, and amused us infinitely on Friday by re
porting that when they went to drill on the Common
that afternoon they were marched straight up to the

288
fence and ordered to go over it, which they proceeded
to do, muskets in hand, and then were driUed all the
afternoon in skirmishing, which required them to pass
most of their time stretched at full length on the
ground, loading on their backs, and then roUing over,
without rising, and firing on their faces. Imagine,
my friends, your brother Elliot passing the whole of a
lovely summer afternoon, first in scaUng the iron fence
of the Common and then in rolling over and over on
its grassy surface, accompanied in his pursuits by all
our most respectable citizens, and enjoying it highlj'-.
The camp j'csterday was very interesting. The place
is beautiful, and there was no play there, for one could
not but remember all the time that these men were
already pledged to all the realities of war. We had
plenty of acquaintances among the officers. Wilder
Dwight, Harry Russell, and Bob Shaw were all on
duty. They are not half equipped yet, and therefore
the effect was pretty shabby, but the essentials of food
and cleanliness seemed to be looked after, and it was
touching to hear them sing the hymns. . . .
We should not be surprised to hear of a great fight
at any moment, which is not a pleasant condition of
mind, however much confidence we may have inside.
All the ladies are still sewing their fingers off.
Kings Chapel congregation has "adopted," as they
call it, Greeley Curtis's company, which means pro
viding them with everything that the State does not
provide, before they start, and standing ready to send
them whatever they want afterwards. It is a very
satisfactory way to work. Mr. Clark's congregation
set the fashion by adopting James Savage's company.

289

To Mrs, Twistleton.
Brookline, Monday, June 24 (1861).
. . . The disaster at Great Bethel has only proved
what we knew before must be the incompetence of our
officers, and the victory at Booneville is more impor
tant and is confirmed now by official reports. We
don't dare to believe anything the newspapers say
until they have said it at least a dozen times, for the
rumors are so carelessly printed. At present we are
wondering whether there is anything in the report
that the Southern Confederacy are asking for terms
from the United States. We hope not, as we fear
compromise more than anything. The only thing that
gives it the sUghtest probabiUty is that Congress meets
on the fourth of July, and this offer would be just the
very best thing to divide them, and of course that is
what the Southerners wish to do. We are so much
afraid that Congress wiU be tempted into terms which
wiU render aU we have been through useless that we
cordiaUy hope they wiU have no opportunity given
them, and that the South will maintain a steady
attitude of defiance.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Monday, July 1, 1861.
Darling Ellen, — We were deUghted to get yours
and Anna's letters of June 18th. They seemed to
bring just the very best news we could hope for

290
about Millsey, and I have felt as if it was comfort
and satisfaction enough to last me for the summer.
I am so pleased Edward is on the Commission for the
PubUc Schools. It is so exactly the work for him,
and there are so few people who are both able and
wiUing to do it. I don't wonder you feel shaky
about the journey without him, but I don't see what
better you could do, and only hope your maid will
prove competent. I can't help a slight hope that
you will find something at Schwalbach to help you,
if the doctor is a wise man, as Sarah * seems to think.
I know Millsey will enjoy Paris and the journey, too,
and I dare say she will sleep better when she is
moving about, though the lying awake she does now
isn't very bad.
Now, dearest Uttle creature, Parkman and I wish to
make a petition to you, not to write to any of us any
more while Millsey is with you, unless there is some
special fact about her that you wish to state, and then
we want you to restrict yourself to ten lines UteraUy.
It is evidently bad for you to write, and now when
Millsey is writing to Charles every week we shall
hear about you, and letters from you are a luxury
which we both think we ought to give up. Of
course it is unpleasant, but it is worse to feel that your
head is made to ache by every letter you send. Now
we are perfectly serious. I shall write just the same
up to the last minute that I continue perpendicular,
and while I am horizontal Elliot wiU keep you booked
up and it will really be a relief not to see your hand
writing. Believe us, you precious darling, and mind
* Mrs. Cleveland.

291
us, which is more important. Now I know Millsey
and Sarah will agree with us, and you really ought
not to exercise your mind on the subject at all. . . .
I have read Mr. Gregory's letter and can under
stand that his is " a view which may be held."
They do not realize that the Southerners never would
be satisfied with any limit to slavery, whatever they
may pretend; what else is the whole fight about?
First separation and then extension must be their
plan, otherwise what is their objection to having
slavery kept out of the territories ? Isn't it funny to
you that the English can put the absurdities of the
MorriU Tariff, call it by any name of folly you may
choose, against the sin of slavery, which all our lives
they have been abusing us for.
ElUot wants me to tell you that if you see a great
commotion in the English papers about the Presi
dent's having accepted a Canadian regiment, it is all
a mistake ; he has not done it. There was a part of
a regiment of Canadians collected in New York and
offered to the President, but he never accepted them
and they have disbanded.
Also ElUot wishes me to state that it is a mistake
that the blockade has ever been removed at Charles
ton as Russell states. The Niagara was taken off and
other vessels took her place at once.
Good-bye, darUng. No answer, remember.
Yours always, Lizzie.

292

To Mrs. Twistleton,
Brookline, Monday, July 22, 1861.
... I left my letter open this morning hoping to
finish it with good news from Virginia, but instead of
that comes the news of a severe defeat ; * a panic and
a rout. It is very bad. Elliot is just from town and
as brave as an Indian, Says there are no cowards in
the city, the only word is to " keep at it," We can
not tell how badly we are beaten yet, but evidently
there was great want of discipline and our green men
and officers could not stand. You will know more
than I do by the time this reaches you. Don't be
afraid that we shan't beat finally, for we must and
shaU. You may judge how disappointed I am when
all day long I have been beUeving we were
victorious.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Sunday Evening, July 29, 1861.
... I really desire above all things to be wiped off
your list of correspondents for the present and Mill-
sey's too, for I know it is bad for both of you and
wicked for you, and I can't bear to be on your mind
in the sUghtest degree. The best expression of love
and remembrance now, darUng, is silence, and the
greatest comfort and help for me is to have no letters,
for then I have a chance to hope that perhaps you
have had one headache the less.
I wish I had better news to send you from the
South. We are picking ourselves up graduaUy after
•The battle of BuU Run, July 21, 1861.

293
our defeat ; some people think it is best to say that it
was not a defeat, but I think that is absurd. It was
a defeat and a very serious one, and though it does
not make us doubt the end will come aU right, yet it
shows us our deficiencies in such glaring colors that
one can't but feel very soberly about it. It gives the
Southerners, too, great prestige and great encourage
ment, and lengthens the war, I fear, formidably. It
is very difficult to find out any portion of the truth
among the exaggerations and contradictions of the
newspapers, but as far as one can see now it looks as
if the fault lay more with the officers than with the
men. The men, when they were decently led, seem
to have fought gaUantly until the panic set in. The
panic no doubt originated among the teamsters and
civiUans, and probably was first started by seeing
some men returning who were sent back for more am
munition when the army was reenforced. Their
return was mistaken for flight, and the civilians took
the alarm first and the rest followed. I think it was
an abomination that such a troop of civilians should
have been allowed on the field, and wish, with all my
heart, that one or two members of Congress and one
or two women had been killed, which might perhaps
have satisfied the curiosity of their companions for
several months to come.
Now for the more cheerful view which ElUot
steadily maintains. First, nobody is at heart discour
aged, there is no cowardice or backwardness to be
heard of. Secondly, we hope it will stop our bragging
and teach us that great things are not to be accom
plished without great pains, and that we must main-

294
tain sobriety and thorough discipUne in camp if we
expect to do anything in the field. There is a great
deal too much drinking among both soldiers and
officers for steady work, and a great deal too much of
the Yankee notion that anybody can do anything,
whether he has previously fitted himself for it or not,
for the patient preparation that is needed now. If
these things can be beaten into us, it wiU be better
for us than many victories, so we must hope that our
fellow country-men will be ready and able to learn.
I feel as if our gentlemen must go for officers now, for
I think their training in other ways would help them
to acquire what is new more readily, and that charac
ter will give moral courage, which must take the place
of the nerve which I suppose old soldiers acquire from
habit and experience.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Aug. 5, 1861.
. . . EUen Twistleton, I should as soon suspect
the stars in Heaven of affectation as you, and had
really rather know nothing about you for the next
six months than have you tu'e yourself with vrriting,
I am perfectly delighted you want St. Francis de
Sales. It is a real consolation. If you would like my
wedding-ring you could have it just as well as not,
and Elliot would get me another. . . .
I read and sew and feast my eyes and my spirit on
Frank, who thrives on the heat and is very funny and
jolly and affectionate. He came running up to me
this morning after breakfast when I felt cross as an

295
Indian. " I want you, mamma. I want to kiss you,
mamma," when I should as soon have thought of kiss
ing a wasp. His hair curls perfectly tight all over
his head, and his eyes are blacker and brighter than
ever and his cheeks redder, and he certainly is a sight
to comfort his mother's eyes if nobody else's.
To J. E. C. *
Aug. 11, 1861.
Dearest Elliot, — Please at the time of my death
give to each of my sisters and to Edmund and to May
Loring and Lizzie Bullard some small sum not ex
ceeding fiity dollars and less according to your
judgment. Also, my property being left entirely at your dis
posal, I want you to divide any portion of my income
which you do not require for yourself or the children
among my sisters and Edmund according to your
judgment of their necessities at the time, reserving
for yourself from this overplus each year fifty dollars
to be spent on books for your own particular pleasure
and satisfaction, unless of course there should be such
need of the money in my own family as I do not at
aU anticipate.
Also please give Catherine Mackintosh, if she is
stiU taking care of Frank, some present in money or
otherwise, and the other servants in the house at the
time each five doUars. Yours always,
Elizabeth Cabot.
* This letter was written about a month before E. T. C.'s birth.

296

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Aug. 19, 1861.
, . , As for you, beloved darling, I don't know
whether I am too old or too hard or too wicked, but
certain it is, I no longer feel the awful disappointment
when I hear that any of my sisters are ill that I
used, I feel intensely thankful that they are still
alive, in spite of such misery, and a kind of numb
ache all over me, which makes me want to be sUent
for twenty-four hours.
General Lyons' death is a very great loss, and makes
us feel more than ever how long and costly is the
work we have begun. Volunteers seem to require a
degree of personal exposure on the part of the officers
which makes the risk of losing them enormous, and we
can so ill spare them. We have a hope of a change
in the Cabinet, and should feel, if Seward and Cam
eron could be ousted, that our chances of deUverance
were increased a thousandfold. We hear from most
excellent authority that the New York bankers are to
make it something very like a condition of the loan
to the government that these two men should be dis
placed. Seward was never anything but a politician,
and, they say, is now a drunkard, and Cameron's con
tracts have proved to any one who needed to have it
proved to them that his view of the war was strictly an
improving speculation for the pockets of his personal
friends. Elliot has never thought the war was an
agreeable entertainment nor believed that we should
find it an easy matter to walk over the Southerners, so
that I do not have the discomfort of seeing him in the

297
woful state of disappointment that overwhelms some
of our friends, but these are certainly hard times and
will be harder before they are easier.
E. Cabot.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brooicline, Sept. 7, 1861.
My Beloved Darling, — I won't wait till letter day to
thank you for these two perfectly delightful presents.
The shawl makes me feel as if you put your dear arms
tight round me, and is the very thing I shall need
most for the next two months. It will be a habitation
and a home to me.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Tuesday, Sept. 9, 1861.
, , , You wUlfind that I understand the " Hatteras "
affair. It is considered a very helpful step, though
not a great naval victory as the papers would make
one think. If it is true, as it seems now, that North
Carolina has stiU some Union feeling, it may carry seri
ous disaffection and disorder into the Southern affairs
to have us in command of the coast. We are expecting
every day the news of another battle at or near
Washington, and until that is over there is nothing
like peace or comfort or a well-grounded hope to be
felt, for our men must wipe out Bull Run before we
can teU where we stand or recover our confidence in
the army. We are disappointed that there is no
change in the Cabinet. Lincoln, when urged to turn
out Cameron, is said to have replied, " I don't see
what you want to change horses for when the team

298
is in the middle of the river." Charles Sumner, who
has just been at home and of course is at the bottom
of everything that is successful and in everybody's
secrets, says Cameron is doing better than we think.
So any one who can get any comfort out of his opin
ion may have it. There is stiU but one opinion
of McClellan. The only thing I hear about him
that troubles me is that they say, like Lyons, if
he doesn't beat in the next battle he wiU be killed.
I believe there is no one so consistently firm and
cheerful about the war as Elliot is, and as at present I
live in the atmosphere that he makes, I suppose I feel
steadier than most people. Eliza and William Dwight
are in the doleful dumps about it, though four of
their boys are in it. Ingersoll Bowditch is firm, but I
think every one who has any mind has a sober sense
of our great shortcomings and our great difficulties.
To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Oct. 14, 1861.
... I wanted to thank you for the lovely photo
graph of Georgie,* which I do so rejoice to have.
Her dear, dear face does not look as much older and
sadder as I expected it would in those four years since
I saw her. I do love her so very much. It is one of
the feelings which have to lie silent in the very bot>-
tom of my heart, having no share in daily life and
probably never to have again, but it lives and wiU
live and perhaps in Heaven will be granted an activ
ity again. Bless her !
* Mrs. Newdegate, daughter of Lord Leigh, who was Mr. Twistleton's

299
I am so very sorry and disappointed, darling, that
you have had another such attack of pain. I had
really hoped you were to have at least one interval
of comfort. If I could only take a part of it, how
thankfully I would. It seems when I compare my
life with yours as if I grudged myself the blessings of
health and strength which have been granted me so
uninterruptedly. To return to that baby, * do you know we want to
name him Edward Twistleton for my two brothers-in-
law, your Edward and Edward Cabot. I shall not
do it if you think it would be in the least disagree
able to him, or if he would regard it as a claim on
him for any earthly thing. We don't do it for a com-
pUment to him, but for the pleasure of having in our
household a name which has such a delightful asso
ciation with it. I want to know the real truth about
it, and you must not even speak of it to Edward if
you think it would bore him to have it done, for we
have not set our hearts on it in the least, and there
are other names to be found if this will not answer.
Now be sure that you understand me.

Brookline, Oct. 20, 1861.
. . . Frank is out and the baby asleep, so out
of the mincemeat which is made of my time in
these days I am able to rescue a piece for you,
beloved. To-morrow I expect Elliot home from his
fortnight's duck shooting at Lake St. Clare, and the
next morning my nurse departs and I begin my
* Bora September 13.

300
winter's work. I am so very weU that I feel good
courage to undertake it, and it is a great thing to
take up a new present with such a thankful heart for
the past as I do. Everything has gone so well with
us thus far, Frank's Uttle precious Ufe has been so
healthy and so happy that my strength is fresh for
this new baby, and the second time is not so helpless
as the first. I do not expect to kill this Uttle creat
ure within twenty-four hours after the nurse's
departure, which was my only expectation before.
The only thing that irks me is that I cannot quite
like to be so tied at home, when there is so much
work to be done for the war, and so much need of
people to do it. Every one is preparing to do their
utmost for the comfort of the soldiers in camp, for
the supply of the hospitals, and for the reUef as far as
possible of the poor, who will be brought -very low by
the hard times. As it is impossible for me to go to
town this winter, or to be away from home, except
for an hour or two, I see nothing to do but to econo
mize as far as possible, and have some money to give
away. We have shut up our big parlor and moved
into our little one, to save work and fuel, dismissed
our washerwoman, to save food and wages, and have
every intention of screwing and skimping to the last
extent in every department. My women have all
volunteered to knit soclis for the soldiers in their
spare moments if I will supply the yarn, so for the last
fortnight socles in various stages have been to be found
in all parts of the house, and this house is only a speci
men of the condition of all houses. At the Museum
the women are all knitting. If you pass three or

301
four ladies in a carriage each has a blue sock in prog
ress, and they say in Boston every woman you meet
has her knitting visible, either in her hand or her
pocket. My eyes wiU not allow me to read the newspapers
yet, so that I am able to give you no details of the
state of affairs at Washington, and in Elliot's absence
I hear nothing of what people are saying and think
ing, but I hope soon to be a better correspondent, for
I feel that domestic matters must be of secondary
interest to you now.

To Her Sisters.
Brookline, Saturday Evening, Nov. 9, 1861.
My Dearest Family, — I think it is a splendid little
plan for me always to begin the circular, for you will
find my report so deadly dull that your own additions
wiU have an air of unearthly briUiancy to you, and
you wiU regard your own exploits with a just wonder
and amazement when you compare them with my
vegetation in my own four walls. So here beginneth.
— Monday morning I rose some time before peep of
dawn, as I find it much more serene to be up and
master the situation before the children, as the baby
declines taking his breakfast before seven at the
earliest, and punctually at seven Frank appears at
my door, looking like a great, big, happy rose, to en
quire whether I am ready for breakfast. So, usually,
I am not, in spite of my best efforts, and he begins
his day's festivities with putting away my slippers,
getting my handkerchief, and other small entertain-

302
ments to divert his mind from my unfinished aspect.
After a little while Elliot appears at the door look
ing as if there were neither children, nor meal times,
nor washing days, nor any particular hurry ever about
anything, but only eternal leisure and human beings
interspersed in an abstract manner in the midst. He
seems to throw an air of repose over the scene, and we
go down to breakfast and have a very sunny and
cheery little time. Frank careers freely over his
plate and cup and spoon, with intervals, quite momen
tary, of very decent behavior. If he becomes quite
intolerable he finds himself suddenly deposited in the
corner by his father, from which he shortly emerges in
rather better spirits than he went in. I do very little
"moral suasion" at breakfast, but let Frank and
Elliot work it out between them, and enjoy myself a
good deal seeing them. After breakfast Frank is put
through his letters by his father, and I make a " grand
tour " of the house, beginning wdth the ceUar, which
is one of my favorite resorts, and endeavoring to
throw out discouraging remarks to each servant as I
go along, and to order dinner in the intervals. Then
I collect my mind, if I happen to have any that morn
ing, and get ready the errands for the express, hai-ass
Elliot if he is going to town, as he does every Monday,
and at half past eight am ready to escort Frank to the
nursery where the baby awaits me, having had his
bath and his little nap and looking very pink and
clean. Then begins my " double shuffle " between
Frank and the baby, which, for the first few days I
thought would end fatally for me, and I should be
found prostrated on the floor, having tumbled on top

303
of the baby, knocking Frank into the fire on the way
in some unsuccessful effort to do something to satisfy
both at the same moment. This tragic scene, how
ever, is still deferred, and I begin to hope may be per
manently so, as I find I am becoming hardened to a
great many small coincidences which at first I
struggled to avoid. For instance, when Frank is
seized with a sudden desire to shout " Glory Hallilu-
jah," his favorite song, just as the baby is going to
sleep, I no longer feel that it is because I am an idiot
and don't know how to manage either of them, but
philosophize calmly that probably all children do so,
let the baby yeU, and Frank shout, and when both
subside take a fresh start and generally find that their
health is unimpaired at the end of it all.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Nov. 11, 1861.
My Bear est Darling Ellen, ... I am so very thank
ful you have decided that it is not best for you to
make a round of visits this winter, and become " con
vinced that quiet is best for you," for if I have any
convictions on any subject, none is stronger than that
as much quiet as can be had, without producing de
pression, is an essential element in any cure for such
troubles as yours, where disordered nerves give at
least half the suffering. There is a degree of solitude
and monotony which aches as much as any neuralgia,
and brings neuralgia as its consequence, but anything
short of this is good, I beUeve. (I should think, by
the air of that last paragraph, that I had been a prac-

304
tising physician for several years ; please excuse my
apparent presumption and beUeve that I only mean to
speak in humiUty and ignorance, only this is borne in
upon my mind.) Anna also sent me Edward's letter
from the " Daily News," which delighted us. I won
dered after reading it what had put me in such good
spirits, and then perceived that it was the gleam of kind
ness and justice and sympathy it had brought out of
the chiU that has fallen over us from the England
that we believed was our friend. One does not
realize tiU some kind and true word comes from
England how one has suffered from the want of them.
I have gone about a good deal with the letter pinned
on the front of my dress, and when I met those who
deserved it have allowed them to read it. Murmurs
are beginning to rise that it ought to be printed in
our papers, so you need not be surprised if we do
it, for I think I should have the courage to do it
without waiting for Edward's leave, as I think he
could not object, since any one might extract it from
the " Daily News " if they chose, without leave or
Ucense. That dear, dear Edward, who is so loyal an
EngUshman and yet so liberal and comprehending to
us. Tell him he does me good every time I think of
him, which is very often.
My work has gone on as usual, with the children
and Elliot and outdoors. We have been very well,
all of us, and as happy as the war will let us be. The
fieet does not seem to have been destroyed by the
gale as we feared, but yet there is no official news
from it and the rumors are only aggravating. I have
made up my mind for another defeat, as it is evident

305
the rebels have prepared for us at Beaufort, which is
undoubtedly our point of attack, and there has been
so much bragging in the papers about the great
things we were going to do that it is evident we need
more beating to bring us where we ought to be. If I
could see a little less fuss and flourish and a little
more sober determination in our spirit I should feel
better, but strong as my faith is in the final result, I
feel sure that our reverses will be many before we
shaU attain it. . , .
I hope [Louis] won't be disappointed, for he is set
to go. There has been a mutiny among the men of
the cavalry regiment owing to the appointment of
new officers. " Down with the Beacon-St. Aristoc
racy," was their cry. But the " Beacon-St. Aristoc
racy," in the shape of Horace Sargeant, succeeded in
putting them down, and I imagine there will be no
more trouble. . . .
I hope to take an evening excursion [to camp] this
week. I find I " have my evenings," as the servants
say, and that is pretty much my only chance for culti
vating my friends at present. Now, darling, I must
stop, for ElUot is becoming restive under the impres
sion that I am writing too much. Good-night and
good-bye. Do get better if you can, for nothing is
such a comfort to your,
Bunny Elizabeth,
To Mrs, Twistleton,
Brookline, Sunday, Nov. 24, 1861.
. . . My other entertainment was our great Thanks
giving dinner at Mrs. Cabot's, where, in spite of the

306
war, the usual number of turkeys and oyster and
chicken pies and the magnificent blazing plum-pud
ding appeared in full glory. I have grown old enough
thoroughly to enjoy a family party now. It seems to
link one with one's elders and youngers in a comfort
able way, and makes you feel that you belong to some
body, in place, for the time, of the sensation that you
have set up for yourself, which is the predominant one
on most days of the year. Then the twenty-four grand
children are very interesting now that two of them
belong to us, and I see in their cousins more or less
the future of my own smaU boys. Frank remained
the baby, the beauty, and the darling this year as the
four younger grandsons were all absent, and was
placed by his Uncle Louis on the great table and
allowed to walk to me, to his infinite delight. He
was a splendidly handsome creature that evening, in a
white piqu6 dress and crimson bows and sash, and
smUing as a summer morning. How I wish you could
see him !
It has been a wonderful week from the absence of
bad news. The capture of Mason and SUdell is re
garded still as the best of jokes, and we reflect with
infinite satisfaction that they were safely housed in
Fort Warren down in our harbor yesterday morning.
There seems very Uttle anxiety felt as to the position
England will take about it, and I trust there is no
reason for any. The " New York Herald " daily
assures us that we shall go to war in consequence of
it, but that only makes us more hopeful that there
will be no trouble.

307

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Dec. 30, 1861.
... I am afraid my letter to you last week will
seem to you very fierce. " I don't know, my dear, I
don't know," It is pretty hard work for me to give
them * up, though certainly I wish to do it if it is right,
and above all things I don't wish to be fierce towards
England if I can possibly help it. If I said anything
last week that hurt that beautiful Edward's feelings
" I am all sorry," as Frank says, and I wish to be
taught better. WiU the English government be satis
fied now, or wiU Mr. Seward's refusal to apologize be
considered ground for war ? Did you see Seward's
explanation of the Ashmun story in a letter to Mr.
Adams ? If true, that was not disgraceful, for cer
tainly we have a right to watch privateers preparing
in Canada. I cannot see in Seward's despatches, as
far as I have read them, anything which justifies the
idea that he wishes to go to war with England, and I
hope now that will be thrown aside. I do not see
either how Sir E. Head could have been ignorant of
the reason that Mr. Ashmun was sent to Canada, as it
seems the name of the privateer was in all our papers,
and in teUing one part of the story, it seems to me, he
was bound not to omit the other.
I enclose a letter from an M.P. which we found in
the " New York Times " last evening and which we
found soothing, as stating partly, at least, our view of
the case. If I could only believe that the English
would not rejoice over the defeat of the North I
* Mason and SUdell.

308
would not mind the rest, but it is hard work to be so
hard-pressed at home and to be buUied and despised
abroad. By this I don't mean Edward nor Lady
LyeU nor any one that does us justice, but the class
represented by the " Times " and other papers agree
ing with it in tone. . . .
Beloved heart, God only knows how I suffer with
you and for you, and how I long to take care of you,
and envy the hands and feet that serve you. I wish
you could have seen your dear Millsey Xmas evening.
She came in to Mary's beautifully dressed in the
cashmere shawl you gave her, with her black brocade
dress and a lovely piece of Venetian lace on her head,
a present from Sarah. She looked more like mother
than I ever saw her, very delicate, very pale, some
what sad, but not anxious nor depressed nor excited
— touchingly quiet and sweet, perfectly delighted
with your present. To ]VIiss Katherine Eliot. Brookline, 1862?
My Dearest Kate, — I have tried to content myself
with sending you a message, but find stUl the thought
of you keeps running in my head and I must speak to
you. I know so well how great a part you have in
whatever comes to Fanny,* that what happens in her
life is almost as vital to you as to her. I know how
her happiness seems a positive possession to you, and
a blessed one it is, too, and I know how you push
away with a strong hand every thought of yourself
* Miss Fanny EUot was engaged to Rev. Henry M. Foote.

309
that might mar your rejoicing and sympathy with her.
But you cannot quite know as I do, by the most lovely
experience, that you and Fanny will be all the closer
and dearer to each other for this new bond that she is
making, that she will give you only a richer and deeper
affection out of the abundant happiness of her own
heart, and prize more than ever your love for her by
learning aU that love means to her. Beyond this you
wUl gain a friend iu Mr. Foote, I beUeve, who will
give you more than you can hope for now, though I
do not mean to imply that you under-rate him, not
only most deUghtful intercourse, but real brother's
friendship, such as I have had and still have from Sam
Parkman and Edward Twistleton, who stand close to
me as most beloved friends.
Oh, my darling, how I wish I could put my arms
round you and make you feel how tenderly I love you
and think of you. I can ask for you and Fanny no
deeper blessing than has rested in the past on me, and
I know that the future can bring you nothing for
which you will not bless God, for He giveth joy and
sorrow, the pang of absence, and the delight of pres
ence with a loving hand. Yrs ever,
Lizzie Cabot.

To Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, Monday, Jan. 6, 1862.
. . . By this time you have received the decision
in regard to the Trent, and I have decided that we
were distinctly wrong in taking Mason and SUdell,

310
and right in giving them up, though I still think
England began the wrong by taking them on board
with full knowledge of the character in which they
went. I hope you or Edward wiU let us have your
view of this part of the question.
The notes you sent give me a hopeless feeUng of
EngUsh misunderstanding. They must think Seward
has the genius as well as the wickedness of the devU
himself to have had a plan of this business. How is
it possible ? I am puzzled to imagine what Mr.
Lindsay's idea of insolence is, if the " Times " has not
been insolent. Here we feel very proud of the way
in which the decision of the government has been
taken by the people. For nothing could have been
more against the grain of a very large portion of the
community, but you neither hear nor see any dis
content ; on the contrary, almost every one, Uke my
important self, has come round to think they were
wrong and the government right. So all the English
prophecies of the rule of the mob have been dis
appointed, but now I suppose it will be the rule of
something else as bad. I only wait to see what, prob
ably cowardice or love of money. I send you an
article from the " Journal " which represents fairly
enough the way in which English criticism looks to
us. I am afraid I seem very fierce to you. I seem
sadly so to myself, for I had such an affection for
England that it is a real grief to me to find that now
my affection is confined to a few deUghtful and beloved
English people. You will see Gasparin's paper in the
" Deb§,ts," I suppose. We have had it in the " New
York Post," and Uked it excessively. In fact, it has

311
been an immense assistance and comfort to me in
settUng my mind, which has been dreadfully tossed.
Do read it, if you have not, and tell us whether you
do not like it.
We are trying very hard to be patient here over
our long delay. Sensible people say the delay shows
strength and not weakness, and that when we strike
again we shall not fail. It seems impossible that
many weeks more should pass without some results
from the enormous preparations on the Mississippi
and from Burnside's expedition. I only hope the
women won't lose their minds first with waiting and
hoping and fearing. Louis Cabot was summoned
very suddenly the other day to join the cavalry regi
ment, where he had applied some time since for a
commission. He left home at twenty-four hours'
notice, and left his mother without her mainstay.
She has been quite UI in consequence, partly of the
worry she felt for him and partly from the very
severe cold we have had. She is better again and
there is nothing to regret, but Louis is a real loss to
us aU as well as to her. He has been in New York
so far and is to sail for Port Royal this week, but
wUl not go into action at present, as the regiment is
not sufficiently drilled. He was here playing with
Frank when his summons arrived, and I did not see
him again, he was so hurried and busy. Elliot fol
lowed him to New York with a box of necessaries
which could not be made ready for him before he
started, but which his mother tearfully and prayer-
fuUy arranged for him afterwards. All this has been
very interesting and pathetic to me, as we have known

312
all Louis's doubts and fears, first about applying for a
commission and leaving his mother and then whether
or not he should get a chance to go when his mind
was made up, and at last this sudden wrench, over
which his mother folded her hands in sUence. And
this has been repeated in thousands of homes under
infinitely more trying circumstances. . . .
" Edward " continues the sweetest and calmest
and wellest creature I ever saw, and begins to turn
his quiet blue eyes at me when I call him by his dear
name. He is an absolute contrast to Frank thus far.
I do not think he will be so handsome and perhaps
not so winning, but I see a strong character in him, I
beUeve, and a sweet nature, so that I trust he wUl
not disgrace his uncle. He is an uncommonly large
child, tall and broad-shouldered, and wears now at
four months the dresses that Frank wore at nine
months, and they will soon be too small for him.
To Mr. and Mrs. Twistleton and Mrs.
Parkman.*
Brookline, March 16, 1862.
Dearest Beloved Friends and Sisters, — Day before
yesterday Edward's letter of March 1st arrived and
cheered me up again with a better account of Ellen,
and made me hope that you, dearest Parkman, would
find her much more comfortable than you feared.
Providence having seen fit to torture me with every
variety of heartache for the last six weeks has re
sulted this week in completely flooring me, which has
* Mrs. Parkman had joined Mrs. Twistleton in England owing to the
serious illness of the latter.

313
forced me to send the children and household " to the
winds " and to lie on the sofa and " hope and be undis
mayed " as much as possible, so you may imagine how
thankful I have been for the better news, for I am afraid
I should have tumbled through entirely if the letters
had been bad. As it is I am all right again, and Sam
Cabot will see to it, I assure you, that such things
don't happen again to me. So you needn't have me
at aU on your minds, for there's no occasion. ElUot
has me on his steadily, and pushes me round and
forces me to do nothing and then stands over me and
sees that I do it, in a manner worthy of any woman.
Edward tells me just how the rooms are to be
arranged for the Parkman family, and I keep think
ing of you all, aU the time, and how comfortable the
Parkmans wiU be, and hoping, hoping for better days
for my darling Ellen soon. Does she think I am as
dumb as a fish, as hard as a rock, that I don't care
anything about her ? I don't feel as if anything that
I had written could have given any other impression.
I think perhaps a photograph of me taken at the pres
ent moment would be the most convincing thing, for
I'm a remarkably pretty object, and get a great many
compUments on my appearance. . . .
Since that pleasant little conflict with the " Merri-
mac " last Sunday we have had no bad news from the
war. The " Monitor " is the great topic of discus
sion. Wasn't she cleverly managed and wasn't it
mortifying that we should have been so ill-prepared
to receive the " Merrimac " when we knew she was
coming out perfectly well ? The " Merrimac " or the
" Virginia," as they call her, was admirably managed.

314
too, and is still a very formidable fact, it appears to
me. Some people insist upon it that she draws too
much water for them to venture far out with her, but
I have a profound conviction that the rebels know
what they are about, uncommonly well, and that they
understand how to bamboozle us, and that she may
draw much less water than we think, as we have to
take their statements for it. Therefore untU she is
sunk, I shall not be surprised to see her in Boston
Harbor any day. Neither do I take any particular
satisfaction in the rebels leaving Manassas. I don't
believe they left it because they were obUged to, but
because they preferred to, and they have some fiend
ish trap prepared for us elsewhere, which nothing but
my confidence in McClellan would enable me to
bear up against at all. There was every sign of
plenty in what they left behind them, both clothing
and food were there in abundance. I think they
have ground their winter's support out of Virginia,
and probably never meant to hold their line there
any longer than was quite convenient. In short, I am
in a "preternatural state of suspicion," and though
ElUot isn't quite as bad, he hasn't much to say against
me. If they had fought at Manassas we should at
least have known where we were, now they wiU
choose their ground again and they will be clever
enough to choose it well.
I keep wishing for you, Parkman, all the time to
be entertained with your favorite Frank's new devel
opments. He never was so handsome or so funny as
he is now, and he has broken out in a Uterary streak
lately, which is irresistible. When the " Nonsense "

315
book came out from your house he pounced upon it,
and for the next ten days he never saw it without
fastening upon it, and either poring over it himself
or prevaiUng upon some one to read it to him, and all
at once I found he knew it by heart, and that done
he quotes it continually, according to circumstances.
One day I had been talking to him about his man
ners, and telling him that if he wanted to go with me
he must be polite and answer if he was spoken to.
We set forth on our walk soon after and met some
one in the road, who called out " how d'ye do " to
him. He nodded but didn't speak, and I looked at him
sternly, but said nothing. Presently I perceived he
was talking to himself and I said, " What are you say
ing, Frank ? " He gave me his most mischievous look
and said, " There was an old person of Burton, Whose
answers were rather uncertain. When they said ' How
d'ye do,' He replied ' Who are you ? ' That distressing
old person of Burton." The next day he was cram
ming his mouth with bread and I said, " Frank, you
will certainly choke yourself if you do so." He
cleared his mouth and tipped me a wink, " There was
an old man of Calcutta, Who 'petually (for perpetu
ally) ate bread and butter. When a great piece of
muffin with which he was stuffin'. Choked that
horrid old man of Calcutta." You may imagine
how easy it is to maintain discipline with him. He
has also developed a passion for spelling, and asks all
the time how to spell his favorite animals or friends
or plays, so that he will read in a year, without any
help, if he keeps on, for his vocabulary increases rap
idly, I find, and the joy of finding cow or ox in a

316
book is nearly equal to the joy of making me laugh
when I am trying to be firm with him. He is alto
gether a most refreshing little creature and how I
should have dragged through the last few weeks with
out him I can't conceive, for his alternate fun and
affection make him a lovely companion. . . .
I think children are the best of company when you
are down, for you can supply their little wants, and
they do not suffer from our suffering as grown people
who love you must.
To Mrs. Parkman and Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, March 21, 1862.
... I was in town on Tuesday and at your house
where Mary [the maid] and I had a Uttle amicable con
versation, and decided to leave the curtains up for
ten days longer, as it is so much more becoming to
the house. I consulted both Anna and Mrs. Parkman
about it (thinking no worse moth haters existed), and
they both consider it a cold spring and backed me in
the delay. I have also paid your subscription to
Harriet Ryan's home, as I thought you would wish
it, from your fund, |500. These, I beUeve, are the
only business transactions of the week. I think no
one ever left so little behind them undone as you.
Mrs. Parkman is minus a cook, and I fortunately had
heard of one minus a place when I saw her. I do
not know what happened in consequence, but you
can imagine the activity of her mind on the subject.
There is a great event in the family of which I
suppose you will receive the intelligence by this

317
steamer, though it was told to me under horrible
oaths of secrecy yesterday, as the family are not
yet informed. C  is engaged to S  .
The girls feel weU acquainted with her, and it is
impossible to express greater pleasure about such a
thing than they do. I love them so much that I
can't help rejoicing over whatever pleases them, and
I appreciate fully what a tremendous thing the mar
riage of such a being as they fondly suppose C 
to be is to them.
I believe I am writing in a vicious manner in spite
of myseK, but I certainly don't feel vicious at bottom,
only C  's surface goosicalities make one incline to
a surface vice in speaking of him. Monday Evening.
. . . Your letter has come, dearest Mary, and what
a letter it is. I feel after reading it as I did when I
was engaged and when I was married, perfectly satis
fied and perfectly exhausted and perfectly silent, so
don't be surprised if I say but little except " Praise
the Lord for his mercy."
There never was such a letter written, dear. Elliot
says " what a gigantic creature Mary is." You mustn't
ever write such another because it would kill you,
and I hope we shall meet again in this world and
you can teU me everything, if it is years hence.
We send a portrait of McClellan, so much better
than any we have had that we think you will be glad
of it. The attacks on him enrage me. I don't think
we are worthy to have a great man, and the more he
is abused the more I believe in him.

318

To Mrs. Parkman.
Brookline, March 30, 1862.
. . . What you say of Ellen is as good as I hoped,
except in one respect.
It is a very dreary outlook. One has no right to
choose for one's self or for one's beloveds the path to
everlasting peace, for one knows they will be led
along the best for them, but, Parkman, it is very
hard to give up the dearest to such suffering peace-
fuUy. " Not to the darlings of thy aching heart. Not to
thine own weak soul. Grudge thou the poor Cyrenean's
patient part. The cross that maketh whole."
I try, but I don't succeed very weU. I find I have
to take up my life at a much lower pitch every day
that it may bear steadily this new weight of suffering.
But I didn't mean to talk about myself, for I do very
nicely and always stop each complaining thought
with a thankful remembrance that you are there,
bless you !
As for your voyage, my love, we all think you had
a remarkably pleasant passage.
I should think a person who could go to her meals
and sit on deck and felt hungry in the morning was
"lapt in lUusium" myself. Then the idea of writ
ing that letter before you landed. You may say it
was resolution or conscience or something which is
all very likely, but if you had been really sea-sick
you would have lost your moral character, I tell you,
and as you evidently retained it, you couldp't have
been sea-sick.

319
The cook hunt stiU continues, and Malvmy is
installed as temporary. EUzabeth Grant stUl goes
mewing round there. Excuse me, but I think she
would kiU me in a week and Mrs. Parkman has had
her four. Some people can't stop talking about their
circumstances when they have once lost anybody they
cared for, and she kept telling me that her " circum
stances " did this and her " circumstances " did that
till I very nearly asked her what she referred to.
Don't you think she's awful?

To Mrs. Parkman.
Brookline, April 7, 1862.
... It grows very clear to me that reasonableness
is a part of the goodness the Lord requires of us, and
that we must seek it for ourselves and others if we
desire to fulfil the law.
Do send to Westerton's every morning and have a
new novel every evening, and have a box of crackers
and gingerbread in your room (for the children), and
don't read the " Court Guide " nor be hungry. Also,
you really must not write a book every week for us.
We must not expect to know the details of every day,
and much as I thank you for it I don't think it is a
lawful indulgence. Please write only one sheet,
giving the general drift of better or worse and such
things as you have to say on your own account.
You must understand about me, darling. My heart
isn't broken or breaking over Ellen. I can hardly
express it, but it seems as if between me and the

320
great, wonderful happiness I have had in my own life
and the hope of seeing her again and that she was
prospering had come a thick veil of suffering and loss
which dims and darkens everything, but is not an
impenetrable shade. I know the veU hangs down
from Heaven, and I feel aU my great blessings remain
ing, and love and mercy reign through the world to
me as much as ever and in my life as much as ever,
though with pain and grief for their ministers as well
as happiness. You see this is not even unhappiness,
so do not labor for my consolation because I do not
need that. That you are with or near EUen has
taken out all the misery.

To Mrs. Twistleton and Mrs. Paukman.
Broojkline, April 7, 1862.
... I am so thankful about the new nurse and
hope that she wiU continue aU that could be desired
to live with. Do you remember the awful creature
that took Gibson's place before, worse than a large
wardrobe to have moving about the room, and equally
unconscious of any one duty? As for the children,
all their contemporaries here are gazing at their situ
ations with envy and admiration, and ask every kind
of hopeless question about them which I don't try to
answer, thinking vagueness very healthy for the
infant mind. Georgie Leigh is a wonder and a dar
ling, and seems to adapt herself to each new equip
ment with new genius. Parkman, I am so glad you
own her fascinating. I shall never have any further

321

difficulty in your education now, but it really was
necessary we should agree about Georgie, or I should
have been obUged to give you up, which would have
annoyed me, Parkman, as you interest me and I am
accustomed to you.

To Mrs. Parkman.
Brookxine, April 14, 1862.
, , , I am sorry if you are dreary. I know just
how those sudden crying turns of Ellen's make you
feel, and I never could do any better than, as you say,
" not cry and say my prayers." I think if it were
possible to look at them as you would at a crying
turn of Frank's it would be nearest the truth. If
one could let it be as superficial to one's self as it is to
her. It is so difficult, because with a grown person's
tears, if they do not come from physical pain, one is
apt to associate some deeper meaning. It must be
merely a childish want of control from childish physi
cal weakness I suppose. It cannot have much mental
or moral root, or she could not leave it behind her so
completely in an hour. She never had just this with
me, but sudden turns of nervous impatience she
would have, which were very puzzUng and burden
some to me, though they meant only weakness.
EUen's nature when she is well is so much more
expressive than that of any of the rest of us that I
have no doubt it makes quietness a later gain with
her in convalescence. Her emotions all have their
natural outlet on the surface when she is well, and

322

there has been Uttle in her life of late years to force
them back into silence, not so much as with most
other women I think. Children make one wait to
speak so long and so often. One thing is certain, it
is never your fault ; be sure to keep your mind clear
about that.

To Mrs. Parkman and Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, April 15, 1862.
Dearest Darlings in England, — Your letter of
March 29th came yesterday morning and took me up
on the wings of its good tidings and has carried me
on them ever since without any downfall. How beau
tiful of you, darling Ellen, to be able to walk from
the bed to the fireplace, and have on your down skirt
and eat such a good breakfast.
I wish I was the lucky possessor of anything you
wanted. If you had ever seen Frank I think you
might Uke him, at present he is the handsomest thing
we have about, though Edward is becoming a rival,
being rounder and rosier and jolUer than anything
you ever met with. His hair is very firm about not
curling, I am sorry to say, which, considering who he
is named after, I think is very disrespectful on his
part. I saw Millsey Tuesday, who was under the convic
tion that she was wicked because she said she had
been very cross. I endeavored to convince her that
the Dwight family never were cross unless they were
unwell or tired, and am happy to say that the next
day she had a fit of neuralgia, which removed her in-

323

tellectual doubts and I hope inspired her with renewed
confidence in my wisdom.

To Mrs. Parkman and Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, April 21, 1862.
. . . Frank wants me to tell you, " Auntie," that
" you're a darUng," and that he " eats gingerbread
outdoors in a wooden tree-house." " I cook outdoors,
and then I feed my cows and pigs with hay ; some
pigs Uke hay." (A new and valuable fact about
pigs). He has just come in for a moment and this
was his own message entirely, finding me writing,
I have been renewing my youth this week, my
friends, by riding on horseback. Wasn't it an origi
nal idea of ElUot's ? He has been riding the vener
able Trudge lately, much to his own edification, and
he suddenly affirmed that there was no reason why I
shouldn't go, too, whereupon he hired a horse and
carried me off and I have had two most beautiful
times, really forgotten my sisters and my children and
every earthly joy and duty and responsibility, except
the aU-engrossing ones of my ride, and felt stronger
and fresher and pleasanter to live with ever since, I
shall try to keep it up till the warm weather, for it is
reaUy rejuvenating, and Elliot enjoys it almost as much
as I, and Frank is put up in front of his father and has
a joyful entertainment before we start, while the
baby placidly surveys us from his own dignified dis
tance, so that it becomes a family spree.

324

To Mrs. Parkman and Mrs. Twistleton.
Brookline, April 28, 1862.
... I cannot help hoping the better days are
beginning again, as Ellen had been more comfort
able the day and night before you wrote. You know
I always had a " sanguinary " disposition, and it fol
lows me still, I never hated writing as I do now ; it
positively seems to me no use at all. How can a
person go blundering into a sick room on crutches, and
pen and ink are certainly Uttle better. I feel after and
before each letter I send as if I should say and had
said the very things you wouldn't want to hear, and
never any of those you do want, and here I sit loving
you and thinking about you till I am ready to scream,
and it's of no more use to you than if I were an
oyster. There now !
To Mrs. Parkman.
Brookline, May 7, 1862.
... I don't feel that my suggestions can be of any
value to you, but I know just how you feel and how
perplexing and sorrowful are such hours and days as
you have to see Ellen pass through. One thing I
know and that is that these fits of blackness and
misery are nothing pecuUar to this time or this ill
ness. Ever since her vision of the angels fell before
Edward's doubts and disbeUefs, she has had these
times. They seem to me to come only from the ex
haustion of her mind and body at once. The confUct
is forever going on in her mind between what Edward

325
doesn't beUeve and what she longs to believe, and I
do not think there is any rest for her until she reaches
the Lord's own presence ; that is, I cannot see it.
She bears up against this conflict when she is weU
enough to control her thoughts, but when she is
pressed beyond control her thoughts drive her to
despair, and her faith flickers dimly in the blast. I
never could help her in the least at the time, and over
and over again I have seen the next day dawn serene
and it has seemed to me a sort of delirium that she
had been through. It is terrible suffering to witness,
for it always seems as if the right word would quiet
it, I think perhaps she might learn to control it, but
I do not beUeve it can be reasoned or soothed away
by the most loving and aching heart. Truly, I sup
pose a reproof would be the best tonic for her, and if
there were any one in authority over her who could do
it for her there might be a remedy, but we churchless
people are bereft of reprovers early in life, and a sister
who nurses her stands too close to do it I am afraid.
So there seems nothing for you but to endure it as a
delirium, for though I think reproof might help her
to control it, I do not blame her for it more than for
a brain-fever. About food, Parkman, I am glad you allow the " I,
the me, and the mine " to be in your way, and do not
order for yourself as if you were another person.
This, dearest Parkman, is a great weakness, and one
wliich ElUot is constantly explaining to me as one of
my favorite forms of vice, so that I am familiar with
all the forms of it. Why, oh, Parkman, do you con
fuse a need of variety with intemperance ? It may be

326
that if you were a very strong person you could bear
eternal monotony of diet, but not being Hercules you
cannot, and there's no particular object in trying to
acquire new accomplishments just now in that form.
I love you, darUng. Do have different things at dif
ferent times and what you want.
As I write I seem to myself hard and stupid and
ignorant and presumptuous and intolerable in every
way. Therefore, if it should strike you in the same
light I shouldn't be surprised. I do feel so pleased
and happy that my precious darUngs Harry and NeUie
are getting on weU and wUl be gainers rather than
losers by this, I love them at any rate. I am very
weU, dear Parkman, and my babies are beautiful, and
EUiot is the comfort of Ufe, of course. I do love you
ever so much. Lizzie.
To Mrs. Parkman.
Brookline, June, 1862.
. . . Your boy Frank is as Uvely as ever and as
jolly as the day is long. He can walk as far as I can
without fatigue, and he and ElUot and I have had
most beautiful walks together in these most beautiful
woods. The baby is a splendid looking fellow, though
not so handsome as Frank. He is developing a tem
per which both alarms and amuses me. He roared
three-quarters of an hour yesterday from sheer rage and
seemed to feel the better for it. He is the strongest
and the wellest creature I ever saw. He swallowed
a considerable quantity of green apple the other day,
but it never cost him a pang nor a regret. He stands

327
by a chair, creeps everywhere, and wants everything.
Frank loves him dearly and will give him his last and
dearest stick if the baby demands it, so that I have to
stand up for my eldest son. They are intensely inter
esting, dear Parkman, and as long as they have Elliot
I feel sure that they are well off.
As for England, I regard her as an interesting-
acquaintance, not the least as a friend. She is
very agreeable, very beautiful, very pleasant in her
manners when she's pleased, but she will do noth
ing for us, except what is for her interest to do. I
don't beUeve nations ever are friends to each other.
I'm sure America hasn't a friend on the face of the
globe, but I can't help beUeving that the " Lord is on
our side," and therefore it isn't any matter, and I
expect through great tribulation to come into a
blessed inheritance of freedom and honesty for our
children, if not for ourselves.

m

3 9002 00613 3400