% 
 
 Si- 
 
 c 
 
 % 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
J^ 
 

 > 
 
 ..-.., 
 
 ~) 
 
u* 
 
THE 
 
 OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; 
 
 OR, THE 
 
 EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVEKY-DAY PEOPLE 
 
 "I love old houses best for the sake of the odd closets and cupboards, 
 and good, thick walls that don't let the wind blow in, and little out-of- 
 the-way polyaugular rooms with great beams running across the ceil- 
 ing — old heart of oak, that has outlasted half a score of generations." — 
 
 Southey. 
 
 CINCINNATI: 
 
 TRUMAN AND SPOFFORD 
 1856. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, by 
 
 TRUMAN & SPOFFORD, 
 
 In the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of Ohio. 
 
 E. MORGAN & SONS, 
 stereotypers, printers, and binders, 
 111 Main Street. 
 
To S. H. H., 
 
 MY EARLIEST AND BEST FRIEND, WHOSE AFFECTION 
 IMPARTS A VALUE TO 
 
 "EVERY-DAY LIFE," 
 
 THESE FRAGMENTS OF A FAMILIAR CORRESPONDENCE 
 ARE DEDICATED . 
 
 iviS 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Some people have a habit of preserving everything that ever 
 belonged to them — old letters among other relics — the more out 
 of date, the more sacred apparently. To one whose life is a 
 present reality, this may seem an unaccountable fancy, yet it is 
 not without its peculiar satisfactions. 
 
 Dear Miss Margarette Singleside, or, as everybody in the 
 village called her, aunt Margarette, was a genuine devotee to 
 old relics. In one corner of her own chamber — that room 
 which had been her sanctum from childhood, was a closet, or, 
 as it »sed to be called in old times, " a cupboard," in which 
 all the gifts and treasures she had accumulated in the course 
 of her life were carefully preserved. On one shelf of this 
 cupboard, was a curiously-carved box, itself an heirloom in the 
 family, brought over doubtless by some of her Puritan ances- 
 tors, in that capacious cabinet of curiosities, the Mayflower. 
 
 This box was the only thing she did not like to have moved 
 by other hands than her own. When the children of the vil- 
 lage went to pass a Saturday afternoon with aunt Margarette, 
 all the treasures of the odd, little triangular closet were brought 
 out for their inspection, with the exception of this box, of 
 which she kept the key. Some of the older girls, within 
 whose imagination the germs of romance were just unfolding, 
 used to joke with aunt Margarette about the love-letters which 
 they said they knew the box contained, and declared that they 
 had rather take a peep within it, than to see everything else 
 in the closet. 
 
 She bore their innocent raillery with great good nature, but 
 at the same time, one acquainted with her history might have 
 
 known how to interpret the flush that spread over her thin, 
 
 (v > 
 
Vi PREFACE. 
 
 pale cheek, as the silent depths of memory were stirred by 
 the thoughtless badinage of the merry-hearted children. But 
 it faded as it came, the sudden glow, and the same calm 
 brooded over her features as before. It may be that there 
 were letters within that sealed box, that would reveal the his- 
 tory of her life — long fidelity to one who did not live to repay 
 it by his manly devotion — one in whom all the hope and love of 
 her youth culminated. But the sorrows she chose to conceal, 
 those who loved her can do no less than respect. 
 
 At my last visit to her, I found her busily employed looking 
 over her closet, and " setting to rights," her treasures. 
 
 To an outward observer, this was a very mysterious process, 
 and comprehended the putting them wrong first. Still she 
 found a good deal to be done, in adjusting and re-adjusting, 
 packing and re-packing. The truth is, Margarette's life was 
 devoid of incident, and the pleasing excitement of looking 
 over the old reminiscences of past years, was a real gratifica- 
 tion to her. 
 
 " Here," said she, unlocking the box as she spoke, " here, 
 I have preserved all the letters and manuscripts of our mutual 
 friend Alice Dearbon, including a correspondence of many 
 years — extending back to our school-girl days, and continuing 
 with but slight interruptions, to within a short time of her 
 death. 
 
 " Of course there is much, which to our mature judgment 
 must appear childish and frivolous in these letters; but I love 
 to read them over even now, and although I should be very 
 unwilling to have them fall into careless hands after my death, 
 I cannot make up my mind to burn them. 
 
 " I have had it in my thoughts for some time, to give this 
 box into your keeping. There may be something here that 
 you can use. Alice was not an ordinary woman, although she 
 never accomplished in life, the destiny of which she gave early 
 promise. No one was more painfully conscious of her short- 
 comings than herself. 
 
PREFACE. Vll 
 
 " You knew and loved her. Not as I did, for she was my 
 bosom friend. She was true to me to the last, after most of 
 my early companions were scattered or dead. She confided 
 to me every thought and feeling of her heart. But you loved 
 her well enough to appreciate these relics, and I transfer them 
 to you now, because I feel sure that this is the last time I 
 shall look over my papers. 
 
 " If you should ever decide to make a book out of these 
 fragments of her life and writings, I rely upon your judgment 
 and discretion, how much it is best to unfold of her domestic 
 history. Her friends were often obliged to be prudent for her, 
 for indeed she had little prudence of her own. Her heart 
 was open as the day; so free from hypocrisy, as often to be 
 misunderstood by cautious and worldly minds. Of herself, 
 she had nothing to conceal, for she did not wish to hide even 
 her faults or her foibles. She desired to be known, and to 
 pass, for what she was, and no more. Yet, few understood 
 her as she was. Those who overrated her, were the friends 
 who loved her best — who saw her capabilities rather than her 
 achievements. Those who depreciated her, were people who 
 are apt to be misled by the glare and glitter of extraneous ac- 
 complishments, and have not that true insight, which is a key 
 to unlock the secrets of character. But among all those with 
 whom her lot was cast, she retained, if I mistake not, her 
 freedom from affectation. It troubled her far more to feel that 
 she was over-estimated, than to know she had not justice; 
 while at the same time, she confessed her consciousness of a 
 power latent within, that never had been and never could be 
 brought into action in this world. A heavy weight of trial 
 crushed the buoyancy of her youth, and her peculiar tempera- 
 ment predisposed her to sadness and introspection. 
 
 " But let me not speak of her in tones of regret. Life 
 became brighter to her as she advanced. The clouds which 
 had enveloped her youth rolled back, and the serene light of 
 Heaven poured in upon her soul, and she found peace." 
 
Vlll PREFACE. 
 
 I need not say with what real pleasure I received these re- 
 membrances of our mutual friend; and it has been a pleasant 
 task, to select from the letters transferred to my care, enough 
 to form a short biography, which may be read perhaps, with 
 real heart-interest at some quiet fireside, where her living 
 presence would have found a welcome and a benediction. 
 
 Editor. 
 Cincinnati, Oct. 26, 1855. 
 
THE 
 
 OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; 
 
 OE, 
 
 THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OP EVERY-DAY PEOPLE, 
 
 Here I am, perched on a hill as hard to climb as 
 " the steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar." 
 Put right down upon it — and the trouble is, instead of 
 trying to gain entrance into the temple, I am all the time 
 looking away down the sides of the hills, and off into the 
 pleasant valleys beyond. O dear! what will become of 
 me in this straight line marked out for me ? How can I 
 exist, shut up in this awful building called the Academy, 
 six hours a day % How shall I learn to walk through this 
 one straight street, with tall, white houses on one side, and 
 a row of public buildings on the other? How can I go 
 to and return from school on these beaten paths chalked 
 off for me, through the common ? How shall I ever learn 
 to be a very proper young woman, and so many people 
 watching me — looking out for faults too — can you help 
 me, Margarette ? 
 
 You ask me to describe the place. I cannot do it. I 
 am always looking beyond it into the green woods, where 
 I long to be. What am I here for ? To get my education. 
 In that great building yonder, it is locked up somewhere, 
 and I am to find it. That sombre, lugubrious-looking 
 
 man there, is to help me, and if I can't succeed, he is to 
 
 (9) 
 
10 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD ; OR 
 
 crush me, and he caii do it. Yet it is a pretty place out- 
 side the houses. All the little breezes that run riot 
 among the leaves on a summer day, are at home here ; 
 and blustering Boreas takes up his winter-quarters in the 
 old woods, sweeping over the hills through the long nights, 
 piling the snow in huge drifts, uprooting the trees, blow- 
 ing off roofs and thundering above the chimneys in a 
 manner that would affright any but " the oldest inhabi- 
 tant." 
 
 Do I like the place, you ask ? Pretty well ; but I 
 yearn for the green meadows of our own quiet valley, and 
 for the freedom with which I was allowed to wander 
 whole days among the woods and by the brooks. 1 don't 
 know whether it is the old home or the dear friends I most 
 long for, but I think if you were here, this place would 
 seem more beautiful. 
 
 They tell me this academy is one of the oldest in New 
 England, and has fitted more of our distinguished men 
 for college than any other institution in the country. 
 This does not make it sublime in my eyes. You know I 
 am not fond of study, and I have no head for figures and 
 dates ; I have not a verbal memory, and only retain 
 what is made interesting to me. Mr. Stonecraft, the 
 teacher, makes nothing interesting to me. My reputation 
 for being a wild and troublesome child, which always 
 precedes me everywhere, I found had been received here; 
 and I am treated accord ingly. Before I discovered this 
 fact, I thought I would set about a reform, but I soon 
 found it was of no use trying. It is hopeless to work 
 against prejudice. 
 
 My teacher hates and despises me. If he liked me I 
 should improve under him. Once in a while I try to do 
 well for the sake of doing well, and for my own satisfac- 
 tion; but the old Adam is continually being aroused 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 1J 
 
 within me by the injustice and seventy with which he 
 treats me ; and not content with making me miserable 
 at school, he must needs excite the indignation of 
 my friends at home against me, that I may have joy 
 nowhere. 
 
 I sigh to think how hard it is, not to be loved. My 
 own heart is full of love and I long to be permitted to 
 show it. Shall I ever be able to act without restraint ? 
 
 But I have my consolation. I live in two worlds — one 
 outward and compelled, the other in my own heart and 
 imagination. All I want, to make the last perfect, is 
 sympathy ; but I am ashamed to speak of sympathy, 
 
 because people ridicule me. Dear Lucy A , you know 
 
 her, she is older by many years than I am, and is dying 
 with consumption. She loved me and had a way of 
 showing it that went to my heart. I always liked to hear 
 advice from her. She told me to shun the habit of day- 
 dreaming ; to read, to work, to live out of myself, to do 
 anything but dream. But how can I live out of myself, 
 when the very moment I make a home with others, they 
 frown me back upon myself? but I must speak out, I 
 should die if I could not. I take my pen and try to ex- 
 press myself in poetry. I think God meant me to be a 
 poet. When I read the poetry of others, I feel so much 
 in myself that I long to utter. I feel that I should 
 speak if there were no human ears to hear me, because it 
 is within me and must come out. The trouble is it 
 doesn't come out the same that it is within. My verses 
 are poor and cold, but they make my heart lighter, and 
 perhaps in time I shall learn to write better, that others 
 may feel what 1 say. 
 
 # # # # * 
 
 I hear so often that I am a troublesome, wilful girl. 
 that I am half-tempted to believe it. Troublesome I may 
 
12 THP2 OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR 
 
 be, and I suppose I am ; but wilful I am not, unless pro- 
 voked beyond endurance. My teacher continues his per- 
 secutions. He looks daggers at me. Sometimes it rouses 
 such an evil spirit within me, I sit and think of the 
 torments I should like to inflict upon him. If the wicked- 
 ness and cruelty were not first in him, it would never be 
 in me. Hatred and contempt look out of his eyes and 
 ooze out of his lips when he speaks to me. I am a stupid 
 scholar, but nobody can accomplish much, who is never 
 encouraged. I am not happy. My companions are 
 friendly, but I crave something more than their com- 
 panionship. 
 
 I want to be led by a stronger nature, not driven. I 
 am beyond my schoolmates in many things, although 
 they are far in advance of me in book learning. 
 
 You ask me about my relations. They are kind. They 
 do all for my good, but I see they have more fear than 
 hope on my account. They are apprehensive that I shall 
 never do anything or be anything, that I shall not turn out 
 well. They are strong-minded people. They pride them- 
 selves upon their force, of character. I guess it runs in 
 the family to have a good opinion of ourselves. They 
 are independent, plain-spoken, sometimes too much so, in 
 my opinion. They are not given to caresses or endear- 
 ments, to words of tenderness or encouragement. Exter- 
 nally they are cold and hard, but I know they have 
 warmth within. I say I know it, but I do not feel it. 
 Young people need the spoken word, the tender look, the 
 fond caress, and the approving smile. I know if I had 
 it, I should be better, and, O! much happier. Nobody 
 ever kisses me. Nobody ever puts a loving arm around 
 my neck, as your mother does to you. I suppose I am 
 foolish to long for such things, but God made me so. I 
 
THE EYEKY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 13 
 
 know my relations love me as well as they can, seeing 
 that I am, as everybody says, a troublesome girl. 
 
 To day is my fifteenth birthday. I have been away on 
 a visit to an aunt, who lives in the most charming spot 
 you ever saw. A friend of mine came from town to see 
 
 us. She drove out with a young gentleman from B . 
 
 He seemed to take a liking to me, and said very pretty 
 things which put me in a flutter. I am not used to it, 
 you know. Besides that, he took a real interest in my 
 poetical efforts, and praised me for something he had 
 read, which Miss D had shown him. What a plea- 
 sure it was to know that anybody, he particularly, liked 
 my verses. I understand now what a stimulus to im- 
 provement such commendation is. I am not ambitious, 
 but when one likes my verses, I feel they understand me. 
 In the afternoon, we sailed on the lake. Mr. Coburn, 
 that is my new friend's name, rowed the boat along the 
 shore. The waters were crimson with the glowing 
 twilight ; life seemed full of poetry — too full ! it made me 
 sad. 1 couldn't talk. I knew I could not express what I 
 felt, and that only made me sadder. I sang after we re- 
 turned to the house. Mr. Coburn praised my voice. 
 Here now is somebody that likes me in spite of my being 
 a poor scholar, and a wild girl. I was happy to know 
 that he liked me ; and my happiness must have made me 
 look well, for he said, (I believe it will look very silly 
 written, but you will excuse it,) I was beautiful; and 
 when I went up-stairs, I looked in the glass, and really I 
 never saw myself look so well. I felt a greater respect 
 for myself than I ever had done, and resolved that I was 
 a young lady, and wouldn't be put down any more. 
 
 I hoped Mr. C would come out again to see us. 
 
 He said he would. I learned after I went away, that my 
 
14 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD ; OR 
 
 aunt sent a remonstrance to him through Miss D . 
 
 She was afraid we might fall in love with each other. I 
 must say, I don't see the harm even if we had. O ! how 
 watchful they are of me. 
 
 ft ft ft tt ft 
 
 Here I am again, but no longer a school-girl. Fifteen 
 years old, and my education finished, as far as school is 
 concerned. Now for learning housekeeping. I like to 
 work well enough ; cooking comes naturally to me, but 
 I have moods of hating it. 
 
 I am always finding heroes ; you know, even at school 
 I had my beaux. I cannot see any harm in it ; it seems 
 all innocent and natural to me, but my friends think 
 otherwise, so I take very little pleasure after all, in being 
 admired, except in the consciousness that I am so. My 
 loves are not very deep ; my heroes are disrobed of their 
 enchantments very suddenly sometimes. I suppose when 
 I really fall in love, it will be something different. But 
 these make life poetical, and mine needs something to en- 
 liven it. The actual, with me, is dull and prosy, t 
 
 ft ft ft : .V ft 
 
 You ask me if I am happier now than I used to be as 
 a school-girl. No, dear, I think I am less happy. I used 
 to have intimations of sadness then, which were not really 
 sadness, but now, I am often really sad. Life disappoints 
 me; it is not what I thought it would be; I feel dissatis- 
 fied with myself. I aspire to something better than I 
 have yet known, but I know not how to attain it. I am 
 not happy, and the want of some one to whom I can un- 
 bosom myself, grows deeper and deeper. I think if such 
 a friend I had, who would hear all I have to say ; some 
 one older and wiser, who could help me, I might be some- 
 thing yet. It seems to me I am a kind of isolated being. 
 
 You laugh at me about Frank Duncan, and ask if he 
 
THE EVEEY-DAT LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 15 
 
 is one of my heroes. No — yes — I don't know. I think he 
 is fast becoming a hero. He says he feels the deepest in- 
 terest in me. He is a great favorite of everybody here, 
 teachers and all; and yet, I think they overrate him. If 
 he really likes me so much as he says he does when we are 
 alone, why is he afraid or ashamed to let others see it ? 
 Nobody need be ashamed to like me. His non-committal- 
 ism gets me into difficulty sometimes with my relations. 
 ***** 
 
 Life looks more and more mysterious to me every year. 
 I am a joy to no one ; I make no one's heart glad, and 
 my own is seldom so. I am only happy when I live in 
 my own thoughts, or when I write, but everything I write 
 is sad. What can it mean? Is reality so sad a thing? 
 Then let me live in dreams. I have read of unhealthy 
 minds ; I fear my mind is becoming unhealthy, but 
 where is the physician that can heal it ? If I were reli- 
 gious, should I not be happy? But what is religion, and 
 how am I to find it? Eeligion should make people kind, 
 gentle, forgiving, sympathizing. I don't find that it 
 makes people in general, all this. The prayer my mother 
 taught me, is not enough. It doesn't ease my heart. I 
 sometimes think I will tell all my wants, all my griefs 
 and joys to God ; but he sees my heart and knows them 
 without my telling. If you are religious, do help me. 
 I take the Bible and read ; I mean to do it every day, for 
 it was my mother's dying injunction, but sometimes I 
 forget it. I cannot understand it. Now and then I 
 meet with some verse that I can understand, and feel ; 
 then my heart prays to God for more light. 
 
 ***** 
 
 This is the coldest of winter nights. The ground is 
 white with snow, and the moon is bright and full. All 
 the folks have gone to bed, and I have been sitting by 
 
16 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 the fire writing, till I am in a nervous tremor. I am 
 afraid almost of my own shadow. A dark figure has just 
 passed enveloped in a cloak ; the only living thing awake 
 and stirring. I know who it is ; I know why he passes 
 the window, and he knows I see him. He knew he 
 should see me. He has a strange influence over me, with 
 his dark, deep-set eyes ; but there is something in' him I 
 do not quite like. He has not impulse, enthusiasm 
 enough. By-and-by, he will act from expediency, and 
 with a regard to what others will say. I cannot forgive 
 him for not walking before the windows in the light of 
 day to see me, and for allowing it to be said, that I seek 
 him. I never sought him. He knows that he seeks me. 
 He is not half so frank as I am, and a great deal more 
 worldly. He says I am too impulsive ; that he fears for 
 my future; that I shall be "like a rudderless ship in 
 perilous seas." But he is a rock ; I don't think I shall 
 be wrecked there. 
 
 Only to think of my surprise yesterday, in seeing two 
 of my poems in print, and receiving three dollars by mail 
 from the publisher. I knew in a moment who did it. I 
 have never forgotten the sail on the pond, that pleasant 
 summer evening. There was a young man who was not 
 ashamed to be seen looking at me. I wonder if I shall 
 
 ever see him again. 
 
 # # # # # 
 
 Here I am again in my native place, no longer a child, no 
 longer a school-girl, invited to parties and balls and rides. 
 I suppose it is a fine thing to be a young lady. I begin 
 to hope I shall be happy now. Miss Howard has left 
 school too, and has just come out; she is very beautiful 
 and much admired. I hear that some people say I am 
 the better looking of the two, but I think she bears off the 
 palm ; and she is rich. How provoking it is to be poor. 
 
THE EVERT-DAT LIFE OF EYERY-DAY PEOPLE. 17 
 
 If I had money now, wouldn't I do something ? Instead 
 of that, I must do something to make money. What 
 can I do best ? Teach music I suppose. You would be 
 astonished if you knew how I dreaded it ; I am so proud. 
 It is false pride I know, but I can't root it out. Next 
 week I shall begin, and you shall hear how I get along. 
 # # # * * 
 
 The ordeal is past. I have three pupils who come to 
 me. I find I must study myself, before I can teach others. 
 Miss Howard came to pay a call while I was giving a les- 
 son. How awkward and ashamed I felt. Poverty is 
 hateful ! What a contemptible spirit I have ! I must get 
 over it. I suppose Miss Howard and perhaps some 
 others, feel above me because they are not obliged 
 to exert themselves. She can play the fine lady, 
 dress tastefully, etc., etc. I must make the most of the 
 capital I have. I have been summing up the items. 
 First, a good-looking face, clear brunette complexion, 
 small, but expressive eyes — at least, that is what Mr. 
 Coburn told me — rosy cheeks and a pleasant mouth, 
 though rather large. My figure is not very good. I am 
 by no means a sylph, but I have seen girls more awkward. 
 My looks are well enough, and I am satisfied, since I 
 cannot alter them. As to the internal, I have — at least 
 so people say — good gifts, an aptitude at versification, 
 abundance of sentiment, and a warm heart. I feel a 
 good-will towards everybody, and I should like to show 
 it, but I am somewhat bashful and sheepish. I am rather 
 diffident of myself, yet not wanting in self-esteem, as is 
 manifest, when others withhold from me what I consider 
 my just due. 
 
 I write very foolishly, but my heart is not in it. At 
 the bottom of all this nonsense, there lies still a feeling 
 of discontent. I am not satisfied with my life, but I 
 
18 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 don't know how to make it better. Some of my young 
 friends are very good, pious girls. They never go to 
 balls ; they think amusements sinful. I cannot agree 
 with them. Then say that dancing is a poor preparation 
 for death. To me, it seems an innocent amusement and 
 natural to life ; and as to a preparation for death, I don't 
 understand what it means. I have a feeling that God 
 meant us to enjoy the innocent pleasures which belong to 
 youth. The young animals frisk about with an overflow- 
 ing delight ; the birds sing for joy, and even the fish in 
 the brook glide about for nothing but gladness ; and why 
 shouldn't young people like to dance for the same reason ? 
 I may change my mind when I am older. The secret of 
 my discontent lies deeper than this ; it is because I have 
 no definite object in life. Perhaps I am not old enough 
 yet to have one. I suppose I never shall have, till I am 
 married ; but what if I never marry ? 
 
 # # * # * 
 
 To-day has been a sad time. Ellen Kosevelt was buried 
 this afternoon from the church. She was just my age. 
 She had been sick a long, long time and none of her young 
 friends had been permitted to visit her. 1 well remember 
 how she looked the last time I saw her in the family par- 
 lor. Her beautiful face was whiter than alabaster, and 
 her dark hair was combed plain and twisted in a little 
 knot behind. She looked like a Madonna, only that 
 there was no happiness in her face. I remember what 
 she said: " The highest virtue we can attain in this life, 
 is resignation." She felt so at the time, but she had not 
 been made perfect through suffering. Afterwards, when 
 her bodily anguish was more intense, and she knew that 
 nothing could save her, a higher revelation of God's love 
 came to her. She became sweetly patient and cheerful. 
 Her thoughts were all of others. She employed her time 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EYERY-DAY PEOPLE. 19 
 
 and strength in making garments for the poor. Long 
 after she was confined to her bed she sewed, propped up 
 by pillows. A few days before her death, she became a 
 member of the Church and received the communion. 
 The nearer she approached her home, the more bright 
 the way became to her, and she heard with joy the Lord's 
 invitation, "Come unto me." She went without fear. 
 The shadows, which had hung above her spirit, cleared 
 away, and light from heaven streamed in upon her soul. 
 All her young friends were at the funeral. " How solemn 
 it is!" said Aynette Brown to me as we left the church. 
 Was my soul dead that I did not feel the solemnity ? No. 
 I almost envied her. Human life is before me with its 
 temptations and trials. I may fall, I may be over- 
 whelmed, and drag out years of sorrow and regret; but 
 she is safe. I do not find life so rich. I say to myself 
 often — Is this all ? I have reached the age that promised 
 so much, and where is the joy I thought to feel? 
 
 The paths that I longed to be treading, 
 
 Long since have I traversed them o'er ; 
 But where is the light that shone round them, 
 
 The beauty and freshness they wore ? 
 # * # * 
 
 Last night I went to the weekly meeting of our Book 
 Club. I think I have told you about this association for 
 mutual improvement and social intercourse. Almost 
 every family of our acquaintance belongs to it. The 
 yearly subscription is two or three dollars — I am never 
 accurate in dollars and cents. With the funds we buy 
 books, which are circulated among the members and 
 then collected to form a library. Our meetings are for 
 social chat, music, and to hear our own smart productions 
 read aloud. We have every variety of literary effort; 
 some very grand and high-sounding, others of a humor- 
 
20 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 ous character, and others still of a sentimental cast. Of 
 course, mine belong to the latter class. I have no reason- 
 ing powers, no humor; nothing but a kind of poetic sen- 
 timent. Cold shivers ran all over me while my piece was 
 being read, and I could hardly help choking. I suppose 
 everybody knew it to be mine. I brought the .book home 
 containing the Articles and laid it on the parlor table. 
 The next day father came into the sitting-room where I 
 was, and asked me who wrote that piece of poetry called 
 " Early Friends. " My heart began to beat, and I 
 answered as well as I could: "I did." "Hem /" said 
 my father and walked out of the room. Not a word of 
 praise, not the slightest indication of liking it. How 
 mortified I felt ! I knew that was his way, and that he 
 never would have told me he liked it under any circum- 
 stances. I concluded that he thought me a fool. I went 
 and read it over. It read pretty well, but did it mean 
 anything? "Early friends!" What are all mine but 
 early friends? and are they not mine now as much as 
 ever ? Anybody might think me fourscore, and to have 
 outlived all my early attachments. A new light seemed 
 to open on my mind. Have I not been feeding my- 
 self with sickly forebodings? anticipating misfortune? 
 Now, thought I, I will have done with this nonsense and 
 write in earnest and from the heart. The next evening I 
 mustered courage to ask my step-mother if she ever heard 
 father say what he thought of the piece. She said he 
 liked it very much, and she thought he was proud of its 
 being mine. I was too happy; but why could he not 
 have praised it to me? How much good it might have 
 done me! Somebody had told me once that he was very 
 proud of me! What a thrill of joy ran through me, 
 when I heard it! but I could not help feeling it would 
 be better in many ways, if he could show it to me. But 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EYERY-DAY PEOPLE. 21 
 
 our family never show their feelings to each other. I will 
 copy the verses for you, but remember, when you read 
 them, I am but sixteen, and you " must not expect one 
 of my age," etc. 
 
 I will criticise it as I go along to save you the trouble. 
 
 Our early friends ! How warm their love 
 
 Ere selfish dreams steal on, 
 And fancy's gorgeous coloring 
 
 Of future years is gone. 
 Ere tried in sorrow's school the heart, 
 
 Or learned the mournful truth, 
 That life brings many a load of care 
 
 We cannot know in youth. 
 
 happy youth ! no sordid hope 
 
 Of gain attracts and binds ; 
 But all the treasure that it seeks, 
 
 The trusting spirit finds— (Quory.) 
 A free return of generous love, 
 
 For love bestowed as free ; 
 And raptures, never found again, 
 
 That spring from sympathy. 
 
 Note.— Precious little of that rapture have I known in reality. 
 
 Our early friends ! a happy band ! 
 
 Slow, oft, in after years, 
 They come, like angel visitants, 
 
 Amid our griefs and tears ; 
 Till we, forgetting every pang, 
 
 Live only in the past, 
 And clasp them, beautiful and young, 
 As when we saw them last. 
 
 The friends of childhood's sunny hours 
 
 Are severed from our side ; 
 Distance or jarring interest 
 
 The warmest hearts divide. 
 We meet them in the busy world, 
 
 In pleasure's wild career, 
 And as we pass, almost forget 
 
 That they were ever dear. 
 
 Note.— At least people say we do, and I presume, I shall find it so to my sorrow, 
 though now, thank beaten I it is only an imaginary trial. 
 
22 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 Our early friends ! How still their sleep 
 
 Of death, where never more 
 The softest hreath of summer air 
 
 Can their lost bloom restore. 
 We linger where their feet have been, 
 
 "We listen for their voice, 
 And yearn for tokens of their love — 
 
 Which made us once rejoice. 
 
 So must it be, as life steals on, 
 
 From off our changeful track ; 
 Those early friends pass one by one, 
 
 Whence none can call them back ; 
 And then we turn aside to weep, 
 
 That there are left so few 
 Of the bright forms and loving hearts 
 
 We prized when life was new. 
 
 Who will not cherish then the ties 
 
 Of early, happy years, 
 To soothe the heart bowed down with grief, 
 
 And chase away our tears ? 
 And who, that o'er the varied past, 
 
 His busy memory sends, 
 Will not, through sorrow and regret, 
 
 Still bless his early friends ? 
 
 I anticipate your criticism, you perceive. I write as if 
 I were sixty instead of sixteen ; that is, the spirit belongs 
 to one who has had a long and sorrowful life of trial and 
 bereavement, whereas I never lost but one friend by death, 
 and none by estrangement. The friends of childhood's 
 sunny hours have never been severed from my side, and 
 what reason have I to anticipate such calamities ? No 
 reason in the world. Rhyme is not reason. Somehow 
 there is a luxury in being sad, after all, and in conjuring 
 up calamities. 
 
 # # * # # 
 
 You make me ashamed of my own indolence when you 
 give an account of all you accomplish ; what is the secret 
 of your happiness ? I know you will say, constant em- 
 ployment — persevering industry. Is this virtue yours 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 23 
 
 by nature or by grace ? How did you learn it ? I accom- 
 plish a good deal, but I do it by fits and starts. I work 
 hard while I work, that I may get through ; and when I 
 get through, I am uneasy from the want of some new object 
 to work for. Sometimes I think it will be sweet to have a 
 whole day to myself, to go off into the woods and read and 
 muse and write poetry. So I try it, and off I go, occa- 
 sionally with a friend, but oftener alone. But I don't find 
 the delight. I wander by the mill-stream — plunge into 
 the wood — get my hands full of flowers — sit on the shady 
 side of some green slope, and take out a book, a poem, 
 or a novel, and think I shall by-and-by find myself on 
 the summit of happiness, but, instead of that, the flies 
 or the musquitoes, or the heat, or something else, annoy 
 me, and scatter my fine fancies to the winds. I look 
 down at the river and up at the sky, until I feel stupefied. 
 Then I fancy a sleeping dream would be more welcome 
 than a waking one ; but, if I lie on the ground, the worms 
 may crawl into my ears, or the great spiders drop down 
 upon me from the trees. Some cows at a distance fill 
 me with dread, and the idea of a mad dog suddenly pre- 
 sents itself to my imagination. This being the climax of 
 horror, I can't think of staying any longer, notwithstand- 
 ing that by this time, the noontide blaze is hottest. So 
 I go home, and take a long nap. In the cool of the 
 evenino; I think it all over, and I see the streams and the 
 hills through the softening light of memory, and then I 
 feel the rapture. "What I seek flies from me ever — the 
 glory lies before me in hope, or behind me in memory. 
 It is seldom present with me. When it is, it comes un- 
 sought. Unfold me this riddle, and tell me if there is no 
 reality of bliss in life ? 
 
 # # # # # 
 
 Summer has passed, and the clays are getting shorter 
 
24 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD ; OR, 
 
 and shorter. Aunt E bas sent me a package of 
 
 books to read this winter— history and biography. She 
 is desirous that I should know something. I fear it is a 
 hopeless case. I care little about these old musty kings 
 and queens that were always picking quarrels with each 
 other, and full of all manner of mischief. I shall never 
 be a literary woman — I am always losing the thread of 
 history — I am very much afraid I shall never know much. 
 Very little book-learning adheres to my memory. 
 # # * * * 
 
 We have had a round of parties this winter, which I 
 profess to have enjoyed very much, although this terrible 
 annoyance of small means has prevented me from dress- 
 ing as tastefully as I should like. I have great ideas of 
 becomingness in dress, and picture myself in divers cos- 
 tumes that I think would set me off finely, but the reality 
 of my apparel is very simple. I shall be glad after all 
 when the gayety is at an end ; for if others are not tired 
 of seeing me, I am weary of myself always in the same 
 garb. I try to vary it as much as I can by divers bows 
 and trimmings, but to very little purpose. However, if 
 the object of dressing up for company is what it is said 
 to be, the being admired by gentlemen, I have nothing to 
 complain of, although Miss Howard certainly is the 
 "bright particular star," in our firmament. 
 
 But seriously there is very little satisfaction in parties. 
 I am convinced I was never meant to shine in society. I 
 have no conversation — no quickness of repartee. The 
 smart things I might have said, always come too late. 
 What am I good for ? what am I meant for ? That is a 
 
 question. M thinks 1 should be good for a wife. 
 
 Perhaps so, but not for him. When will the right one 
 present himself? I have so many fancies, but they are 
 fleeting as the dew. They come at evening and often 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 25 
 
 disappear by broad daylight. M says I expect too 
 
 much rapture, and all that sort of thing. Perhaps so ; but 
 I will expect a while longer before I take up with any- 
 thing less. History does not progress rapidly. I read 
 enough, but I am always losing my place, and do not 
 discover from one day to another, except that I am no 
 nearer the end of the volume, that I keep reading the 
 same pages over and over. Other pages are more attrac- 
 tive to me. The fresh, bright page of nature, and tho 
 mysterious page of my own heart, written all over with 
 hieroglyphics that 1 puzzle over and try to decipher, but 
 cannot. It 's no use trying to make a learned woman of 
 me, I lack the ambition. 
 
 # * # # # 
 
 You will wonder at my many changes. Indeed I have 
 no abiding-place, and never had ; but may I never find 
 myself with less agreeable surroundings than at present! 
 I ought to feel light-hearted here ; and to-day I do. This 
 mountain region is charming ; the air is bracing and pure; 
 the scenery varied and beautiful ; but the people, after all, 
 that is the grand desideratum — the people are after my 
 own heart. So cordial, so affectionate, so full of all warm 
 sympathies, and so free from conventionalities — I might 
 add, so cultivated and intellectual — but that is a matter 
 of course, for here I am in the midst of the most literary 
 circle in New England, authors and authoresses in the 
 very house with me. Bless me ! how much they know ! 
 I should be suffocated with the weight of this literary 
 atmosphere, if it were not kept in perpetual and healthy 
 motion by the affections — surrounded by books on every 
 side. Books up-stairs and books down-stairs ; books in 
 the halls and books in the dining-room. I feel that I 
 must begin to read aud study in earnest. Some of these 
 learned people might expect me to join in their conver- 
 3 
 
36 THE OLD COKNER CUPBOARD ; OR, 
 
 sation ; but where shall I begin ? "Would it not be best 
 at once to give out, I know nothing? Such frankness is 
 rare, and who knows but it would be quite taking ? Or, 
 shall I preserve a modest silence, and, perhaps, pass for 
 one who knows a great deal. But suppose somebody 
 should ask me a question? Well, I can feign abstraction. 
 If the conversation is intensely learned I should not be 
 obliged to feign it ; but, if feigned, I might suddenly start 
 up and leave the room (eccentric geniuses always go by 
 starts) and by some fanciful idea of my own, and by my 
 vagaries in general, perhaps I might pass for a genius. 
 Seriously, I feel the strivings of an honorable ambition 
 to deserve the good opinion of my friends, and what the 
 desire for fame could never accomplish, the love of these 
 dear people may inspire. I am convinced they overrate 
 my capacity, but I will strive to come up to the standard 
 of their appreciation. My poetical efforts are highly ap- 
 plauded. A new feeling is awakened within me, to write 
 something that may reach other hearts — to create a bond 
 of sympathy in many minds — to send these children of my 
 heart and brain abroad, and find them warmed and cher- 
 ished by many a soul, ready and eager to receive them. 
 This would be sweet ; but shall I ever be able to accom- 
 plish it ? "Would it not take away this feeling of loneli- 
 ness I have, thus to be met and understood ? I long to 
 do it, but is it not beyond my power ? If anything out- 
 ward could inspire me, it would be these hills and lakes 
 upon which I gaze at this moment from the piazza where 
 I am writing. Sleeping in quiet beauty at my right is a 
 little gem, named " The Mountain Mirror," where, at the 
 first flush of morning, the green hills look down upon 
 their veiled loveliness, and throw their cool shadow 
 over its surface throughout the summer day. But I won't 
 tire you with descriptions of scenery, except to copy a 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 27 
 
 fragment of verse which I scribbled the other day; but 
 do not try to build the fair fabric of my future fame upon 
 its merits, or think that I send it as a type of what I 
 shall yet accomplish. Take it for what it is — the bub- 
 bling over of a full heart that has not yet learned how to 
 express itself. 
 
 'Tis morning and the mist hangs o'er the plain 
 Like a cloud-woven curtain — now it parts, 
 And rising slowly, emerald islands gleam 
 From out the filmy tissue, newly born — • 
 And tremulous 'neath the smile of the young day. 
 Ascending still, like a dissolving cloud, 
 It melts into the deep blue of the sky ; 
 And all the meadows and the wooded hills 
 Spread their green freshness to the noonday sun. 
 The little flowers lift up their drooping heads, 
 And give their incense to the silent air ; 
 And birds start up from out the shadowy woods, 
 And pour their hearts out in full notes of joy. 
 I, too, am joyous, and the tide of life 
 That dances through my veins and swells my heart, 
 Would overflow in music full of hope, 
 Had I the spell to clothe my thought in words — 
 
 But I have not, and, therefore, I end as I began, in an 
 aspiration — would to heaven it were an inspiration. 
 ***** 
 Still you ask me, with something too of reproach — are 
 you not happy now? If you had not asked, I should have 
 said nothing about it; but if I answer at all, truth compels 
 me to say no — not happy — for happiness, as I dream of it, 
 comprehends a great deal which I have not yet attained. 
 I do not covet tumultuous and overwhelming joy, but 
 deep and silent repose — yes, that is the word, repose. Of 
 raptures, I have my share I presume. I am intensely 
 happy at times, but I dream of something higher. Peace, 
 that is the idea. I am too restless, too unequal, too subject 
 to ups and downs. There is a middle state, which seems 
 in every way more desirable — not to lose the capacity for 
 
28 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 the deepest and strongest emotion, but to have acquired 
 that control over myself, that I can say to the swelling 
 tide, " thus far and no farther." I should like to be 
 bathed in bliss, but not drowned in it ; you understand 
 me. 
 
 I still drudge on with my teaching, but never shall be 
 forehanded, as the Yankees say. I am working now, to 
 pay old scores; at the same time, running up new ones, 
 to be paid hereafter. However, I find when I have no 
 money in my purse, I never think of wanting anything. 
 The moment it is well-filled, I cannot enumerate my ne- 
 cessities, and never know what I can do without, till my 
 funds are exhausted. 
 
 My fellow-lodgers are numerous and varied. My dear 
 companion on the first floor, is younger a few years than 
 I am, and gifted like myself, with an ease of versifica- 
 tion. We talk by the hour in rhyme, suiting the measure 
 to the subject; now grave and stately, and again, as 
 lighter themes suggest themselves, running glibly over 
 the short lines, and so prodigal of rhymes, you would 
 think we studied nothing but the rhyming dictionary. 
 We are enough alike, to enjoy being sentimental together. 
 She is really in advance of me, because she has a vigorous 
 intellect, as well as a poetical temperament. She studies 
 and thinks ; I muse and sentimentalize. She has fine 
 eyes, and when her hair is braided and wreathed around 
 her head, in a certain fashion peculiar to her, she looks 
 like a sibyl. We have some beaux, of course, but not of 
 the stuff that heroes are made of. We are now working 
 upon a large tent of unbleached cloth, to shelter us when 
 we go out pic-nic-ing. But the greatest excitement we 
 have at present, is in the anticipation of Mrs. Derby's 
 arrival. What we expect to see, it would be difficult to 
 say. A woman of great genius, great beauty, great 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 29 
 
 eminence, and decided eccentricities — so we are told. 
 She is expected daily. She is to occupy the room that 
 opens on the piazza, our trysting-place and evening pro- 
 menade ; where we always go, to discuss the beauties of 
 nature, recite our rhymes, and reveal our secrets. Will 
 she descend from her pinnacle to speak to us ? 
 
 # * # * # 
 
 The great event has taken place. She has come! I 
 have seen her ! spoken to her ! I will tell you all about 
 it. I had thrown myself on the bed to muse, and per- 
 chance to sleep; in fact, I had fallen into a doze, from 
 which I was awakened by such tones of music, as I 
 never heard before; not that the voice itself was faultless, 
 but its pathos and power thrilled through and through 
 me — " Here's to the year that's awa'." I started up, and 
 rushed to Mary's room. She has come, and I hear 
 her singing, I exclaimed ; and we sat listening, with ears 
 and soul open, as if afraid of losing a note. Yes, it was 
 she, it could be no other. Our room was no longer large 
 enough to hold us, and we flew to the piazza, to unbur- 
 then our hearts. The music ceased. We walked past 
 the windows, and there she sat, leaning over her writing- 
 table. Never have I seen such a face; it is more than 
 handsome ; genius glows in every lineament. She did 
 not see us; if she had, she might well have rebuked our 
 impertinent curiosity. What right had we to be gazing 
 in upon her with our wide-open eyes ? We were invited to 
 Mrs. Grey's, to meet her in the evening. What an even- 
 ing it was ; such singing of old ballads, that made the flesh 
 creep. Of course, we can think and talk of nothing else 
 at present. 
 
 # * # * # 
 
 The village is now full of strangers, for it is a summer 
 resort for city people. Parties on horseback, parties on 
 
30 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 foot and in carriages, parties in the evening — how excit- 
 ing ! Next week there is to be an excursion — an explor- 
 ing expedition. I am invited, thanks to Mrs. Derby. 
 Is it not nattering to be the object of her kind attention ? 
 I am going. Let me see, who will comprise the party: 
 Mr. and Mrs. Grey, sons and daughters; the two Misses 
 
 S ; Miss V ; Mr. W , who has written a book 
 
 and plays on the flute, and talks sentimentally to very 
 
 young ladies ; Mr. E. , who is also a genius and will 
 
 write a book sometime, doubtless ; Miss O , a splen- 
 did Roman-looking girl; two or three school-girls, and 
 myself. We are to go in carriages and on horseback, and 
 to be absent a week. What bliss in anticipation ! I 
 wonder if the reality will prove as delightful. I will tell 
 you all about it when I return. 
 
 Here I am at home again, and now I think it all over, 
 I am convinced we had a splendid time. The heat, the 
 dust, and the musquitoes don't trouble me now. Memory 
 has no legs to be weary, or head to be heavy. Memory 
 can climb the longest hill and not faint, sit under the 
 hottest sun and not melt — Yes, we enjoyed the expedition 
 highly. The first setting out with flying colors, horses in 
 good condition, the fresh morning air, the beautiful 
 scenery, the poetic associations — for we passed by the 
 homes of two, at least, of our American poets. We rode 
 by the side of Green Eiver, where, 
 
 u When breezes are soft and skies are fair, 
 
 the poet loved to 
 
 " Steal an hour from study and care, 
 And hie him away to the woodland scene, 
 Where wanders the stream with its waters of green ; 
 As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink 
 Had given their hue to the waves they drink." 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVEKY-DAY TEOPLE. 31 
 
 We passed the first night in Canaan — may it not be the 
 last that I set foot therein. It was a romantic night, a 
 romantic place, a romantic hour, and we were romantic 
 people. We strayed by moonlight to the Falls, so called 
 probably because there was every preparation made but 
 water to form cascades, and that, for lack of rain, was 
 wanting. Some few silver threads wandered over the 
 gray masses of rock, like straggling moonbeams, and 
 rippled along the bed of what, in spring, may have been 
 a stream ; but now it was so dry that we seated ourselves 
 in the very middle of it, and with the full moon shining 
 
 over us, listened to Mr. "W" 's flute and Mrs. Derby's 
 
 singing, and also — can you believe it? to my feeble tum- 
 ming of the strings of my guitar. I had the honor also 
 of singing with Mrs. Derby that duett, 
 
 *' Drink to me only with thine eyes," 
 
 which was very appropriate, as we could not have slaked 
 any other than 
 
 " The thirst that from the soul doth rise." 
 
 The third day we reached the summit of the mountain 
 we had come to visit; where a little thread of water pre- 
 cipitates itself into a natural basin, the distance of several 
 feet. Imagine it as high as you please, for I never could 
 calculate by feet, nor remember distances. It was high 
 enough to make one giddy to look down from above, and 
 blind to look up from below. It was an intimation of a 
 cataract ; all it needed was water ; but the hill itself was 
 magnificent. I can tell you now without the least fatigue, 
 how we ascended, Indian file, to the summit, laid our 
 lengths on the ground and looked down over the edge of 
 the precipice ; and when we were satisfied with that, how 
 we retraced our steps and went beneath the rocks and 
 
32 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 looked up in the very face of a noonday sun, and then, 
 after resting awhile, how we ate our dinner under the 
 trees, and got into our vehicles and drove through the 
 woods 
 
 "By the side of a murmuring stream;' 
 
 and how we got out and bathed in the cold water that the 
 sun of summer never warms, choosing the deep gullies 
 among the rocks, in which to plunge, and then rode on 
 expecting to pick up those who had straggled on before ; 
 and our horror and consternation to find Mrs. Derby was 
 missing. I don't think she lost herself on purpose to get 
 up a scene, and yet I in my simplicity may have been 
 gulled. 
 
 And then, when we arrived at last, dusty and tired at 
 the village inn, how the people stared at us, wondering 
 what sent us there. Poor country folks! they had no idea 
 what a chase cultivated people will take for pleasure, and 
 what inconveniences they will put up with, in the search 
 for happiness. They gave us a good supper, and as good 
 beds as the house afforded, and sleep was none the less 
 sweet, from the circumstance of our being stowed away, 
 the greater number of us, in one room. 
 
 "Well, we are home again, and as I have tried to believe, 
 it was all very charming and very delightful. I want you 
 to think so too, partly for my sake, and partly for the sen- 
 timent of the thing. 
 
 I daresay, I shall write some verses about it some day> 
 when it has become altogether a thing of memory, and I 
 have rested from the fatigue of the excursion. I wonder 
 if anybody really enjoyed at the time, what he anticipated ; 
 or, if I am the only person that is always seeking and 
 
 never finding. My excellent friend, Mr. P , said to me 
 
 once: " Happiness is not found in seeking it, but in seek- 
 ing something else." It does not lie in green fields, or 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 33 
 
 blue skies, in waterfalls or running brooks. The eye sees 
 all these lovely pictures, but the soul must feel them, and 
 to excite happiness, the soul must be in harmony with 
 nature. Let the instrument be in tune, and every ray of 
 sunshine, every motion of the summer wind will waken 
 sweet music from the quivering strings. But how shall 
 we keep it in tune ? I have my ideas on this point, but 
 they are too vague to be expressed. When the heart sees 
 God in every object in nature — feels his love in every 
 throb of joy, as well as sorrow; aspires towards Him in 
 every thought ; lives, moves and has its being in Him — 
 that is happiness. Then every object of beauty has a 
 meaning that reaches up towards the Infinite; then 
 there is a soul in everything. I have jested about my 
 own incapacity to find in nature all I seek ; but apart 
 from this frivolous way of speaking, or rather writing, I 
 acknowledge to you, I am angry with myself, that little 
 annoyances, such as flies and musquitoes, lassitude and 
 heaviness, should shut up the avenues of enjoyment to 
 my inner being. 
 
 * # * # # 
 
 Last night, we had a treat. I sometimes complain that 
 I do not enjoy enough ; but I cannot say I am not enough, 
 wretched when I listen to such a tale of woe as I heard 
 last night read aloud, by Mrs. Derby. The production 
 was her own, founded upon actual occurrences, and de- 
 scribed with a power and pathos, that nothing less than 
 genius could give. I endured as long as I could, the read- 
 ing of one scene after another, of misery and remorse, and 
 then broke down entirely. I rushed into another room, 
 and hung out of the window, watering the ground with 
 my tears, and making the darkness audible with my sobs. 
 I was ashamed of myself, but I could not help it. By- 
 and by, Mrs. Derby came to me, and putting her arm 
 
34: THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 around my waist, said very sweet things to cheer me. I 
 certainly had paid her the highest compliment I was able 
 to give, and with the most unequivocal sincerity. That 
 night, she took me into her own apartments, where I 
 slept on the floor, in a room adjoining hers. I wore her 
 night-cap, but on awaking the next morning, I did not 
 find my brain teeming with new and beautiful fancies, or 
 vivid imaginations. Alas ! could I for the wishing, have 
 had the genius of her to whom it belonged, would I have 
 accepted the gift ? Would such a brilliant career, would 
 the homage of multitudes, would the consciousness of 
 power, satisfy my soul? Does it satisfy hers? No, I am 
 not ambitious. These are not mere words. A quiet 
 home-life, the love of friends, and the smile of Heaven, 
 my constant companion — this is sweeter than fame; 
 sweeter than the world's applause. 
 
 So Bessie is to be married soon! That attachment, on 
 the whole, comes nearer to my ideal of a love-match, than 
 any I have met with in real life. I love them both — they 
 seem to have the innocence and trust of children, with 
 the reflection and stability of maturity. They are suited 
 to each other, and how happy they are in each other's 
 love ! When I asked Bessie the last time I saw her, what 
 book of poetry she was reading, she answered, " She had 
 no need of books of poetry. Life was all poetry." And so 
 it is to her, now. That handsome young man, with his 
 dark eyes and hair, wooing in true lover's fashion, with 
 music and flowers, like the knights of olden romance. 
 Well, some souls are born, no doubt, for each other ; and 
 is not Linnwood just the spot for lovers ? and Bessie's 
 home just the home for romance? Those ancient elms, 
 with their waving boughs — those beds of flowers and 
 labyrinths of shrubs — hedges of roses and clustering 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 35 
 
 vines of sweetbrier and clematis. I can almost fancy 
 the odor of the seringa floating past me at this moment, 
 and I dream I am standing, an invisible spectator at that 
 southern window, where I have stood often with Bessie, 
 and I watch her, as her soft blue eyes gaze out upon the 
 mountains with a dreamy delight. She knows, as the 
 twilight deepens, he will appear and beckon her to come 
 down and wander with him along the sequestered paths, 
 where the silent stars alone can be witness of their joy. 
 What sentiment for me ! But confess it is no more than 
 the facts of the case warrant. 
 
 You say you like to read my verses once in a while, 
 and, therefore, I send you this serenade, suggested by the 
 idea of this romantic love-affair, and my recollections of 
 Rudolf's singing: 
 
 Wake, dearest, wake ! for the moonbeams are glowing, 
 
 In light and in beauty o'er forest and bill, 
 Tbe fair Susquehanna is noiselessly flowing — 
 
 When o'er the green meadows the night dews distill. 
 
 The cool breath of evening shall murmur around thee, 
 And blend with my song the sweet incense of flowers ; 
 
 Then break the soft fetters of sleep which have bound thee, 
 And joy that is sweeter than dreams shall be ours. 
 
 (You see I was obliged to substitute Susquehanna for our dear Connecticut, In order 
 to fit into that line, and for the sake of euphony.) 
 
 While the light of our love no dark shadow has shrouded, 
 Each sound that thou hearest will tell thee of joy ; 
 
 For the heart, whose young life is still pure and unclouded, 
 Is a world of delight which no fears can destroy. 
 
 But if thou lov'st better the breathings of sadness, 
 
 If sorrow has blighted one hope that was dear, 
 My heart shall forget its own rapturous gladness, 
 
 And whisper to thine words of comfort and cheer. 
 
 Then wake, dearest, wake ! 'mid the quiet of even — 
 'Tis hard to remember that life has its woes ; 
 
 This world, in its beauty, seems almost like heaven, 
 So holy and deep is its breathless repose. 
 
36 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 Drive not from my heart the illusions that borrow 
 
 Their brightness from hope, and their sweetness from love ; 
 
 Let our heaven be on earth for to-night — and to-morrow — 
 If clouds gather here, let our hopes rise above. 
 
 I generally write from the memory of a by -gone emo- 
 tion. This was a present impulse. I don't know why, 
 but the love of these, my dear, romantic friends, seems to 
 me very poetical and beautiful. Few people could experi- 
 ence just such an attachment. She has grown up like a 
 flower, in her quiet home, shielded from sorrow and 
 temptation — unfolding in an atmosphere of affection, and 
 just as her soul has expanded to womanhood, a new glory 
 clothes the earth and sky, and sinks into the inmost 
 depths of her being. Pshaw! I am going beyond my 
 depth now in sentiment. What day are they to be mar- 
 ried ? I wish they would put it off awhile. Are they 
 not happy enough? What a riddle is the human heart; 
 even they are not satisfied with the present. With mar- 
 riage come such realities; such an unmasking, such a 
 dropping off of illusions. Eating and — out upon it! — 
 cooking — sweeping and dusting — every-day business, 
 every-day annoyances, that ruffle the temper; servants 
 that won't do their duty — or homely duties to be done, and 
 no servants — and hosts of natural evils too numerous to 
 mention ; then what becomes of moonlight walks and seren- 
 ades! The sweet hours vanished, never come again. 
 Others better and happier may come, but of their nature 
 and quality, I am not prepared to speak. " Things 
 doubtful are very uncertain." If the present is really so 
 charming, why not cling to it? why be forever looking 
 beyond ? It makes one weary, 
 
 " This longing, this forever sighing 
 For the far-off, unattained and dim." 
 
 # # * # # 
 
 Another change of place. My father has left Linn- 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 37 
 
 wood, and we are to consider this, as our future home. I 
 feel quite antiquated. I certainly am no more a child. I 
 begin to look very sober and matter-of-fact. My young 
 brothers and sisters are growing up around me. 
 
 I have made one delightful and improving acquaintance, 
 in our new home, that of the clergyman, and the only min- 
 ister I ever dared to talk with. He has a saint-like charac- 
 ter, but, oh ! how sad a face he wears ! What inward con- 
 flicts must he have passed through to leave such deep traces 
 of suffering! They must have been internal sorrows, for 
 his outward life is apparently a happy one. A lovely 
 wife, interesting children, and a devoted flock. But the 
 warfare, whatever it was, is past. He appears always 
 cheerful, and sometimes mirthful. He has the most 
 graceful and gentle humor; it becomes him well as a man 
 and a Christian. Why should not a clergyman be play- 
 ful ? I love to hear him preach — I love better to hear 
 him talk. I sent him some lines, which he acknowledged 
 in a charming note. I was introduced at his house, to a 
 Miss Pomfret, an intelligent, funny little person, who has 
 a great fondness for cats. 
 
 When I called to see her, I was introduced to a long- 
 haired, white pussy, who had made her bed on the parlor 
 lounge. That was Fairy. Dagon was summoned, but 
 did not appear. I had the honor of meeting him after- 
 wards, and was very much impressed. 
 
 * * * * H 
 
 I went to a musical club last evening, and met — no 
 matter who. But do you believe in love at first sight? 
 Treasure up this circumstance for future speculation. 
 
 ***** 
 
 [Here follows a long interval, and the next date opens 
 a new chapter in life.] — Editor. 
 
38 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 I am half provoked with you for following ine up with 
 that everlasting question, " Are you happy now 2" Didn't 
 I tell you the last time I saw you, which, you recollect, 
 was when you were pinning that long white vail on my 
 head, that I supposed I was very happy, although I was 
 not conscious of any feeling, and was rather petrified 
 than excited ? The presence of so many people, and the 
 busy preparations going on around, confused and bewil- 
 dered me. I really think my dear friends felt more than 
 I did at the time, but you must remember, I had been 
 thinking of the probable event a year or more, and had 
 passed through many stages of feeling respecting it. 
 Confess you were a little fearful that my constancy could 
 not stand so protracted a test as a two years' engagement. 
 Confess you were a little afraid I should wake up some 
 morning to the conviction, that this was but one more of 
 my passing fancies. You had heard me say so many 
 times (I wonder I could ever have been so foolish as to 
 speak out, whatever I might have thought,) "I have found 
 my ideal;" and in a little time, the illusion vanished, 
 and the enchantment was broken, that you were every 
 day expecting to receive the announcement that another 
 bubble had burst, another dream of love ended. I can 
 understand with what anxiety you awaited the arrival of 
 my letters, expecting in each one to read the old story, 
 " Romance dispelled ; Illusion gone" etc.; and when, 
 after months of anxious suspense, you were summoned to 
 attend my wedding, what a sense of relief you felt; and 
 so did I, dear, I felt something of that peace for which I 
 have always longed. 
 
 You cannot be so unreasonable as to expect, now that 
 I am married and my life is no longer wholly my own, 
 that I can open my heart as wide as heretofore for my 
 friends to come in and my thoughts to go out? Ought I 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EYERY-DAY PEOPLE. 39 
 
 not to lock it up and give the key to my husband ? You 
 are a very prudent and proper person, tell me — ought I to 
 do so or not? (Entre nous) my dear, I have no key, and 
 the windows and doors of my heart are never shut; if I try 
 to close them they don't fit tight, and so anybody can peep 
 in. I shall set about repairs in earnest; I owe it to my 
 husband to be less free with my other friends than I have 
 been, for although I have no secrets of my own, I wish to 
 be faithful to the trust he reposes in me. Besides he may 
 like to feel he has the exclusive right to my confidence. 
 I beseech you do not ask many questions — I might say 
 something I ought not. Come and see whether I am 
 happy or not, but believe this, if I were not so, I would 
 not tell you, if I could help it. You would say, if you 
 saw me, that if I am not happy it is my own fault. 
 Everything that affection and kindness can do for me is 
 mine. Ah yes ! if I am not happy the fault is indeed in 
 me. You know we begin the world with nothing but 
 health, affection, and good prospects. The first and last 
 may give out, but the other is a mine too rich ever to be 
 exhausted. I never think whether we shall get along in 
 a worldly sense or not. I suppose we shall. "We live 
 pleasantly, have few acquaintances, and for the present, 
 are well satisfied with each other. 
 
 ***** 
 I did not think when I last wrote you, that I should so 
 soon have to tell you of losses and crosses, but so it is. 
 The firm of Banks & Co. have failed — broken up and dis- 
 persed — and my husband will now be obliged to go forth 
 and seek his fortune. I don't feel discouraged. We shall 
 have hard times no doubt, but with health, and love, and 
 hope we shall weather the storm. We leave here in a 
 short time for New York, which is to be our home. 
 We are to begin life again there. The fair prospects with 
 
40 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 which we commenced our married career are changed into 
 uncertainty. I go to New York almost a stranger. One of 
 the dear friends of my youth lives there in opulence and 
 splendor; our paths in life are widely separated now. 
 I doubt if we renew the golden thread of our early friend- 
 ship. In the world her position is widely different from 
 mine; her friends, her associations, her outward sur- 
 roundings, her habits, and pursuits all are different, and 
 I feel with^pain for my own sake, that we shall not meet 
 as formerly ; but my heart will ever retain sweet recollec- 
 tions of a friendship that beautified many years of youth, 
 and that hereafter, when nothing external stands between 
 us, may add another to the enjoyments of a better world. 
 # # * # # 
 
 I find much to amuse and interest me in this great 
 city. I do not feel the need of society, for my time is 
 wholly occupied. I have always thought it a wife's duty 
 to assist her husband in his exertions for their mutual 
 support, and am determined to do so, if circumstances ren- 
 der it expedient. Some women have a gift of saving, 
 and going without, and by the most rigid economy, and 
 thrift, helping their husband's fortunes ; but this gift is 
 not mine. I have, however, a deal of energy, and a love 
 of activity. I had rather work to earn than to save, 
 although I can do without cheerfully, when I am com- 
 pelled to. "Where there's a will, there's a way," as 
 I can prove to you. 
 
 We were sitting in our third-story room in a boarding- 
 house in Leonard street — when the servant announced a 
 gentleman down-stairs who wished to see me. On enter- 
 ing the parlor, a stranger advanced, and introduced him- 
 self as Mr. Briggs, publisher. He opened his business 
 at once, saying he had been directed by Miss Grey (God 
 bless her), to call on me, about a matter of writing. He 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 41 
 
 ■wished to get up a book for children, to be published 
 in numbers. He had obtained plates from England, 
 originally engraved for a work now out of print, and he 
 desired to have short poems and stories adapted to the 
 pictures, some of -which he had with him and showed 
 to me. 
 
 He asked me if I w r ould undertake it ? I had learned 
 enough of the ways of the world, to conceal the eagerness 
 with which I contemplated his proposition, not only for 
 the profit, but the pleasure of the undertaking. Putting 
 on as important a bearing as I could assume, I questioned 
 him respecting the compensation to be allowed. 
 
 He asked what I should consider sufficient? Being 
 profoundly ignorant, yet not wishing to appear so, I 
 had foresight enough to reply, that I would take the 
 matter into consideration, and in the meantime, I 
 desired him to make me an offer for the work, which 
 if I considered sufficient, I would accept and begin 
 immediately. He took his leave and I flew, as fast as 
 I was able, up three flights of stairs to our room, waving 
 the pictures in triumph before my husband's face, and 
 quite too much out of breath all at once to explain the 
 errand of my mysterious visitor. We sat down, and 
 looked at the prints together. " Can you do it," asked my 
 husband ? "Oh I can do anything," I replied, for I felt an 
 energy and a joy in having an opportunity thus opened 
 to me, that had it been a task a hundred times more 
 difficult, I would have undertaken it with hearty good- 
 will. "And what do you think it is worth," I asked? 
 
 "I declare I dont know," said he. "We must consider 
 awhile." After a good deal of debate we at length fixed 
 upon a sum, that seemed sufficient compensation, but 
 thought it wiser to ask our good friend Miss Grey's 
 advice, before the matter were settled. The next day 
 
42 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 Mr. Briggs came for his answer. I inquired what terms 
 he had to propose. Imagine my feelings when he men- 
 tioned a sum just double the one we had agreed upon, 
 as sufficient. I felt as if my fortune was made. My 
 career as an author was begun; I saw the golden har- 
 vest before me. I am ashamed almost to confess that 
 my emotions were of a very mercenary character. The 
 ambition to be an author, to write well, to earn a reputa- 
 tion and deserve one, had little place in my mind at that 
 moment. I thought only of the ability to help my hus- 
 band, to relieve him of anxiety, to lighten his labors, and 
 I was happy. Yes, dear — that moment I was happy ; 
 but then, as in all instances when my heart swells with 
 real joy, it comes unsought — unexpectedly. 
 
 I am now every day busy with my writing. I find the 
 task more difficult than I supposed, but by no means irk- 
 some. Circumstances render it necessary that I should 
 prepare several numbers in advance, as we are to make 
 some changes in our way of life soon. If I had more 
 time, I should do the work better, but the publisher is 
 satisfied, although I am not. I am getting to feel a little 
 sensitive at the thought of giving my hasty and imperfect 
 productions to the world, and wish I had a choice of 
 subjects ; but the end — that is the thing after all, that I 
 contemplate with the most satisfaction. 
 
 ***** 
 
 You remember my allusion in a former letter to my 
 dear friend Grace Langdon ! how enthusiastically 1 
 loved her ! how beautiful and captivating I thought 
 her! and you know also how affectionate and kind she 
 was to me ; what charming letters she wrote, and how 
 gracefully she performed a thousand nameless acts of 
 love, which bound my young heart closely to her in an 
 almost passionate friendship? — And now. our homes are 
 
THE EVEEY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 43 
 
 in the same city — yet what different homes ! I feel that 
 we are more widely separated, though in the same town, 
 than years ago, when the ocean rolled between us. 
 There's no use denying it, there is a gulf between the 
 poor and the rich, if not spiritually, yet conventionally. 
 They do not meet on equal grounds. Affection may 
 be preserved amidst this inequality of station, but the 
 pleasure of social intercourse, the satisfactions of friend- 
 ship are painfully marred; our interests are no longer 
 in common, we cannot mutually understand each other's 
 lives. With us poor ones suspicion is apt to creep in, 
 not always without foundation, but of a nature to destroy 
 perfect freedom of intercourse. "We are over-sensitive 
 perhaps, and imagine slights where none were intended. 
 We do not understand the difficulties of our friend's 
 position, we only feel, that, somehow, their gain in 
 worldly ways, is our loss in the heart's goods ; we meet 
 infrequently, who were wont to meet daily. The 
 intervals become longer and longer, until finally our 
 visits almost cease. Whose fault is it? Our hearts 
 yearn for the old companionship. We dwell on the past 
 till we feel a burning sense of injustice at the change 
 which has come over our mutual relations. Our pride 
 aggravates the evil, and increases the distance between 
 us. We rail against society — sneer at wealth — losing, 
 while we do so, our genuine self-respect, although we 
 seem to be establishing it on a firmer foundation than 
 ever. 
 
 There is no help for it; we are poor. We are in 
 nowise distinguished, even as belonging to the class 
 of intellectual poor. We cannot impress our value upon 
 anything or anybody. We will not be toadies ; we hold 
 ourselves too high for patronage. Our self-love is 
 wounded, our heart aches also to be obliged to surrender 
 
44: THE OLD COKNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 a friend we have loved — but it is not our fault. "We 
 must get over it the best way we can. And we do get 
 over it. Even I do, with all my tenacity. But it robs 
 life of some of its rainbow hues after all. Let nobody 
 6ay the change that difference of circumstances induces, 
 owes its existence to the imagination only, or that it is 
 the offspring of jealousy and suspicion. What the heart 
 feels is often truer, and more real than what the head tries 
 to reason about. Not the hardest part of the trial is the 
 mockery of those who set it down to the low suggestions 
 of mortified pride, and baseless suspicion . The fact is, 
 and all the talk of all the wiseacres in Christendom 
 cannot alter it, or take out the pang of wounded friend- 
 ship. But if "things must be as they may," there's no 
 use in grumbling at fate, or at friends. Thank God, 1 
 have the memory and the written-record of years of sweet 
 communion, and unnumbered acts of kindness which 
 time and change can never efface. Let me now describe 
 my first dining out with my friend in her elegant home. 
 What to wear was a question that did not require long 
 deliberation, as my wardrobe, if it lacked variety, had 
 the advantage, so lauded in works of art and taste, unity. 
 My dress was one, and soon put on. I could have 
 imagined many other dresses more becoming to my 
 style of beauty, but perhaps none better suited to my 
 circumstances. My husband was not going with me — 
 it was a social day to which I was invited, and he was 
 to come for me in the evening. I had learned how to use 
 silver forks — thanks to the instructions of one member 
 of our family, who not only had a taste for the elegancies 
 of life but the means of gratifying it. Fortunately, this 
 acquisition to my polite education was not to be made 
 for the first time ; but there was one dread which hung 
 over me like a nightmare from the moment I realized 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 45 
 
 what it was to dine with people who lived in style. 
 Finger-bowls — what they were — how large — what form — 
 how and when required — I was profoundly ignorant ; yet 
 I had an intuitive conviction that, as "finger-bowls" 
 were indispensable at fashionable tables, I must be pre- 
 pared for the encounter with them. I knew I should 
 not drink the contents, for I had read an account of an 
 unlucky countryman who had been guilty of that mon- 
 strous impropriety, in his ignorance of the use for which 
 they were designed, but I did not know but I might be 
 guilty of some other equally monstrous absurdity. "If I 
 only knew how people used finger-bowls," said I to my 
 husband, " I should go with a light heart to this dinner. 
 As it is, they weigh, upon my spirits like so much lead." 
 "Do as you see others do," was the very sage counsel 
 of my husband. " But being company they will come 
 to me first," I replied, and what shall I do to disguise 
 my ignorance? Am I to take the bowl and put it beside 
 my plate, or on my plate ? Am I to dip the tips of my 
 fingers in, as the servant holds it?" 
 
 Alas ! he could not enlighten me. I tried to get a little 
 nap before I set out, to strengthen my nervous system for 
 the occasion, but I saw in my disturbed visions nothing 
 but finger-bowls. "I must meet them as bravely as I 
 can," said I; "the thing can't be got over now. How 
 dearly do we buy experience in this world, and what a 
 ' howwid-vulgar'' thing it is to be poor !" I went. I sat 
 with my friend in pleasant chat, an hour or two before din- 
 ner. I really had quite forgotten the ordeal through 
 which I was to pass, when the summons came that dinner 
 was ready. Then the terrible fact came over me with 
 such a rush as almost to overwhelm me. The lady's hus- 
 band was almost a stranger, and besides him, there was a 
 young man, whom I had never met before, to witness my 
 
46 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD ; OR, 
 
 awkwardness and ignorance. But it was too late to 
 retreat. We walked through the hall to the dining-room ; 
 we entered the door. The first thing that caught my eye 
 was a sideboard upon which was ranged a regiment of 
 blue-glass bowls half-filled with water. I knew what they 
 were as well as if they had been stamped, in letters of 
 flame, finger-bowls. They did not look so very formida- 
 ble. If one only could be genteel by instinct ! I mentally 
 ejaculated. How I wished that I felt at 7iome, that I 
 might just unburthen my heart and confide the whole of 
 my stupid ignorance to my friend. But the truth was, I 
 was anxious to appear to know all about it, and that was 
 the source of my discomfort. I did not enjoy my dinner. 
 The finger-bowls seemed to be grinning at me from their 
 elevated position. What a contemptible thing poverty 
 is! I exclaimed inwardly, cramping one in every way, 
 and making one feel so ill at ease that even the very ser- 
 vants chuckle at you in their sleeves ! That great Irish- 
 man, standing behind my lady's chair, knows that I never 
 saw a finger-bowl before. I see it in his very smile, and 
 he feels his own superiority. 
 
 How I wished I was a man and wore a boot ! As it 
 was, I simpered, talked, and tried to appear "au fait" in 
 everything. "C'est le premier pas qui coute," said I to 
 myself, I shall never be caught so again. I shall have 
 learned one lesson after these protracted sufferings. I 
 shall have passed one more barrier in the road to gen- 
 tility. I wondered what Pelions and Ossas yet remained. 
 But the result proved the truth of what has so often been 
 repeated: "No evil is so terrible in reality as it is in ap- 
 prehension." 
 
 When the appointed hour came, the finger-bowls were 
 placed beside each one. My apprehensions were thus 
 removed: I leered out of a little corner of mv eve. to pee 
 
THE EVEKY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 47 
 
 bow my friend managed, and did as nearly like her as 1 
 could. After it was over I should have been glad to 
 begin my dinner over again and to have made a hearty 
 meal. Everything was so nice and tempting as it took 
 its flight; but I made up my losses at tea-time. What 
 sport we had, my husband and I, as we walked along 
 Broadway home! How we joked about finger-bowls! 
 How good-natured and satisfied we were with ourselves, 
 each other, and our homely surroundings ! How we con- 
 gratulated ourselves on our freedom ! We would go where 
 we pleased, eat our dinners with steel forks and without 
 finger-bowls, and nobody be the wiser. 
 
 Our dear little room, in the third story, never looked 
 so bright as when the morning sun looked lovingly in the 
 window, and hour after hour, we sat together talking, and 
 planning, and contriving how we should make the two 
 ends meet, and it did not trouble us to know that the pro- 
 babilities were that we should neither of us, for many 
 years to come, perhaps never in our lives, require the 
 luxury of finger-bowls. 
 
 ***** 
 
 After this long silence, you may suppose I have much 
 to communicate, that will be interesting to you. Let me 
 open my budget, and you can decide for yourself of its 
 importance. Yes, literally, I would open my budget, a 
 little bundle of flannel, soft and fine. Turn down this 
 corner that lies over my left arm, close to my heart — you 
 stare ! Why don't you say something ? " What is it ?" " Is 
 this the question you ask ? It is my baby — yes, mine. 
 Take it in your kind arms ; feel its soft breath on your 
 cheek ; look into its blue eyes, and don't ask me if I am 
 happy now. Deep, deep within my heart is a joy which 
 throbs with every pulse, and you may call it bliss. It is 
 
4:8 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 bliss, such as I never even dreamed of till this new foun- 
 tain of blessedness was unsealed within me. 
 
 You had not heard of the advent of this young spirit 
 before, because, while I was quietly staying at home, too 
 happy to write, you were running hither and thither in 
 search of pleasure in variety. I heard of you at Nia- 
 gara, at Trenton, at Montreal, and Quebec, and I longed 
 to learn of your return home, that I might tell you of the 
 new treasure that had been added to my life. 
 
 And it is three months since these blue eyes, that now 
 smile upon me, opened upon this great round world. In 
 the meantime, I have left the city, and am living in Linn- 
 wood. I have brought my child to the home of his 
 mother's childhood, where I too, in unconscious infancy, 
 first learned to love a mother. How often I have thought 
 of her since the birth of my child has given me this new 
 revelation in life — a mother's love. Can it be possible, 
 that one human heart ever felt for me, what I now feel 
 for this helpless little creature ? And she died. Even a 
 mother's love cannot triumph over the doom of mortality. 
 She died, giving up all she held dear in life, without a 
 murmur. Could I die thus peacefully if God should sum- 
 mon me to leave this little one behind ? Now I believe 
 and feel for the first time, that there is no death to the 
 affections, or God who made us is not a tender Father. 
 A mother's love is immortal, and I am convinced that 
 this new consciousness I feel, of my mother's spiritual 
 presence, is a token that she is drawn nearer my heart by 
 the bond of maternity. 
 
 I go on with my writing, and my husband too is occu- 
 pied, and we shall remain here during the summer. I 
 have very little time for musing, although the old haunts 
 invite me to wander as of yore, and dream amidst their 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVEKY-DAY PEOPLE. 49 
 
 quiet beauty as I used to do. But I dream no longer. 
 Life has become a reality to me, and reality satisfies me 
 better than dreaming. Sometimes in my leisure moments, 
 I take my little boy across the field, and sit down with 
 him upon my knee, beside the old mill-stream. Old, I 
 say; but no, that is as young as ever ; that, and the sun- 
 light can never grow old. It is I who am older than I 
 was, when I used to wander along the green banks, and 
 picture the time to come, yearning for something to fill 
 my soul. I sit here now, with my blue-eyed boy in my 
 lap, and while he watches the waves dancing onward and 
 ever onward, I watch him alone. I see the sunshine and 
 the shadows reflected in his eyes. I am afraid it is not 
 wise. Do you think it is idolatry ? I believe I am 
 glad that we are poor. I am convinced I should never 
 know the value of life, if I had no need of exertion. I 
 makes my husband and child dearer that I can give my 
 strength and life in their behalf. What I had no spirit 
 to do for myself, it is sweet to do for them. And yet 
 something whispers in my soul, it is selfishness to narrow 
 myself within my own little home-circle. If it is, I 
 shall live to do better. 
 
 I wish I were not so anxious a mother. I feel it to be 
 wrong. I lack something yet to establish within me that 
 peace which I have always coveted. Do you know what 
 it is ? I will tell you. I lack the Christian's trust in 
 God. The thought, that this little life may be snatched 
 from me — the bare possibility of being so bereft, fills me 
 with dread. I walked to the burying-ground yesterday, 
 to visit the graves of those I have lost. Overgrown with 
 moss and hardly discernible among the tangled weeds and 
 briers, is the headstone that marks my mother's grave. 
 So many, many years since she parted from us, her young 
 children, from her faithful husband, from a happy home, 
 5 
 
50 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 from the gladsome earth ; and where is she now ? Is not 
 the thought of death awful? To part from those we love, 
 to go away into darkness, it makes my heart faint. 
 
 After wandering through the quiet paths some time, I 
 came to a newly-erected monument, to the memory of a 
 Polish exile, who came to Linnwood as a teacher, and 
 died in a few months after his arrival. I remember well 
 the evening he came to our door. He had a letter of in- 
 troduction from a physician to my father. I opened the 
 door as he rang. It was late twilight, and almost dark. 
 A deformed little man stood before me. Such a face, 
 such eyes, I never saw. There was a light in them that 
 seemed unearthly ; it was certainly unnatural. He deli- 
 vered his letter, and remained awhile talking with father. 
 We saw him often after that, and every day he seemed 
 weaker and nearer his last hour; but he continued to 
 teach, for he was penniless, and would not be dependent. 
 The light in his eyes grew more and more intense, and 
 his cheek paler and thinner. 
 
 He was in every sense, a poet. A little work that he 
 had written in his own language, had been translated by 
 some American. It contained a history of the Eevolu- 
 tion in Poland, a few snatches of song, and a short story. 
 Whether there was really any merit in them, or whether 
 the sympathy his misfortunes inspired, prepared me to 
 discover indications of genius in his productions, I cannot 
 say. I felt an intense interest in him. He did not ap- 
 pear to think his illness dangerous, and fully expected to 
 recover. A pretty young girl, an orphan, whose heart was 
 full of tenderness for the suffering everywhere, manifested 
 the greatest sympathy for him, and inspired him with the 
 most romantic passion. Her society beguiled many of his 
 hours of weariness. He used to listen to her sweet songs, 
 gazing upon her with those strange bright eyes, from which 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 51 
 
 his very soul looked out. It made me sad to see them, 
 yet she made his life brighter. One day, he was missing 
 from the school, where he had been faithful at his duties, in 
 sunshine and storm. Days passed, and he did not ap- 
 pear. We learned that he was ill. Kind friends minis- 
 tered to his necessities. The day before he died, he sent 
 for our young friend to come and see him for the last 
 time. She was advised not to go — people might talk. 
 Her heart prompted her to go. She could not decide 
 whether to obey her heart or public opinion. While she 
 was deliberating how to act, he died. 
 
 Isn't it a hard world that thus fetters the impulses of a 
 young, pure nature ? Here he sleeps now, in peace. 
 Some one has planted roses over his grave. 
 
 # * * * # 
 
 I enjoy my summer very much ; my days are devoted 
 to my writing and to the care of my little boy, but in the 
 evening we meet our friends, hear good music, or take 
 long walks. It is a beautiful thing to live! 
 
 You have many times heard me speak of one of 
 
 the friends of my early days. How disinterested, how 
 devoted she is, living only to do good, and to make others 
 happy. Alas ! the fading roses on her cheek, and a gra- 
 dual decline of physical strength and energy, warn us 
 that she is " wearing awa' to the land o' the leal." I 
 walked with her yesterday-evening, and she told me that 
 she was persuaded she should live but two years. I tried 
 to laugh her out of her presentiment, telling her I had no 
 faith in anything of the kind; but she knows, she says, 
 that she is slowly dying, and shall last about two years. 
 She speaks of it with the greatest cheerfulness, and with- 
 out the least dread. Yet how much she has to live for — 
 apparently. A home of elegance and refinement ; mother, 
 
52 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 brothers and sisters, by whom she is most tenderly beloved. 
 How can she bear the thought of death ? 
 
 Home again in the city. Now here and now there, 
 but everywhere at home, because I have always my loved 
 ones with me. Times are hard, in a worldly point of view, 
 and if it were not for health and hope, we should be 
 poorly off. But it is only the actual inconveniences of small 
 means that annoy us. The absence of luxury, the coldness 
 of false friends, the slights, and the whole catalogue of vex- 
 ations one meets in the world and in society, these all go 
 by without leaving any wound except an occasional con- 
 tusion to our pride and our self-love. These, everybody 
 must expect in a large city, where so many are scrambling 
 for the highest place. I cannot say but it was galling to 
 my self-esteem, to be chalked out of the visiting list of 
 one who, when I first came hither, was in a situation to 
 understand fully the privations of poverty. But fortune 
 having now placed my former friend on a higher plat- 
 form, I find myself recognized as only an acquaintance. 
 Then, too, it is vexatious to feel ones-self separated, cut 
 off by conventionalities from intimate communion with a 
 person really loved and valued, with whom are intimately 
 associated many pleasant hours of youth. It is hard, in 
 short, to be no longer necessary to one who once felt the 
 need of our friendship. But I don't complain. It is one 
 of the unavoidable results of the inequalities of society. 
 
 By the way, the combination of words in this last sen- 
 tence, suggests a topic which I wonder has not made the 
 subject of my letters long ago. What an egotist I am, 
 to fill these pages about myself and my little domestic 
 affairs, in the midst of all this excitement about Keform, 
 Fourierism — and the reorganization of Society! Do I 
 not every Sunday go to the hall in C y street, and 
 
THE EVERY- DAY LIFE OF EVEKY-DAY PEOPLE. 53 
 
 there listen to the most eloquent man of the age ? And 
 do I not come away every time convinced that Society 
 is in a very bad state, and something must be done 
 immediately to make it better ? Are not my sympathies 
 painfully excited, by tales of the misery of the poor, 
 and do I not feel that their great wrongs cry out to all 
 reflecting people for redress ? Have I not often left the 
 presence of that inspired man, feeling, that henceforth 
 no narrow, selfish aims shall find quarter in my breast — 
 resolved to live for my race — to work for " the brother- 
 hood of man" and to follow the ranks of those who, 
 wishing to begin a .better order of things, intend to 
 organize a community of interests, where equal rights 
 and privileges shall be secured to each? But after 
 thinking it over at home, my enthusiasm cools off. 
 Present duties to those nearest to me, engross my time, 
 and I decide that it is not for such as I, to be a pioneer 
 in that reform. There is a diversity of gifts, and mine 
 are of a quiet, homely kind. I see that there are great 
 evils in the world and in society, which must exist till 
 people are Christianized. I doubt if association and 
 Fourierism will prove the sovereign remedy. Selfishness 
 in some form or other, actuates many of those who come 
 into the community, as well as those who stay out of it, 
 like myself. All are not willing to work, and many are 
 glad to adopt a way of life which they think will help 
 them to live without any great personal exertion. The 
 element of discord is in our own bosoms. It is the infernal 
 fire of self-love which we all nurse up and try to disguise 
 by different names. And although we cannot cheat others 
 into the belief that our zeal is philanthropy, we can easily 
 become dupes ourselves. Evil is in the heart of man, and 
 will stay there until the human race is regenerated. I 
 don't know how this agrees with your Doctrine ; and per- 
 
54 THE OLD COENER CDPBOARD; OK, 
 
 haps it sounds to you very like the old cry of Total De- 
 pravity. "God made man upright," but that was a great 
 while ago, and since then, he has " sought out many in- 
 ventions." My creed would be a puzzle to theologians I 
 imagine. It is simply this — God is infinite goodness, and 
 wisdom, and love. He made man with capacities for the 
 highest virtue and happiness, and placed him here in 
 freedom. He fell, and must continue to fall into many 
 errors and mistakes, because he is finite and imperfect. 
 What is called the punishment of transgression, is the 
 result of violation of laws, which, as they are perfectly 
 adapted to promote man's highest good, cannot be vio- 
 lated without suffering. This is retribution. Not arbi- 
 trary, but inevitable as the law of cause and effect. This 
 suffering is the check and restraint necessary to society 
 and the individual. 
 
 The origin of all good is God, the origin of all evil is 
 with man. "Whether the burthen is to be laid on one 
 man or on the race, I leave to scholars to decide. The 
 evil in the world grows out of a love of self in one form 
 or another. The Lord came to teach love to God and the 
 neighbor. When this is learned, we shall have no need 
 to go into Association. The whole earth will be a com- 
 munity of peace and good- will. We have made but slow 
 progress in eighteen hundred years, but all great changes 
 
 are slow, as our old parson W used to say, and as 
 
 the present state of civilization proves. The race, as well 
 as the individual, must work out its own salvation. But if 
 the principles of Love to God and the neighbor were vital 
 in every heart, the Millennium would surely smile upon the 
 world. Perhaps you don't believe in the Millennium. I do. 
 Are you one of those who accept and reject, as your reason 
 thinks best, the words of Holy Writ ? or do you feel bound 
 to receive all just as you find it in the letter? Or are you 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EYERY-DAY PEOPLE. 55 
 
 timid about expressing your opinion since honest Judge 
 
 H was branded an infidel for daring, in the face of a 
 
 puritanical community, to avow that he did not believe 
 an ark, of the dimensions given in the Bible, was capable 
 of containing the immense family appointed to fill it? It 
 went against common sense and sound philosophy. 
 
 I have lately read a work on the " Internal Sense of the 
 Word." I like it, and if we may credit the authority of 
 those who have made it a study, the Word of God, thus 
 explained, forms a beautiful and consistent whole. 
 
 I cannot, nor do I wish to divest my mind of that reve- 
 rence for the Bible, with which my mother inspired me in 
 my earliest childhood, when I was scarce able to read, 
 and much less to understand its inspired words. The 
 Psalms I committed to memory then are still fresh in my 
 mind, and what was but a mere form at the time, has 
 since been imbued with a soul. I believe that we should 
 teach our children to reverence the Bible. The truths we 
 impart to them from its pages are not dead, they will not 
 die. The angels that watch over young children are 
 always near when they read, or are taught from the word, 
 and celestial love flows into their young hearts, which will 
 vivify the seed thus implanted, and cause it to grow, and 
 bear fruit in after years. The angels guard these truths 
 and preserve them pure amid the temptations and allure- 
 ments of the world, and they become the instruments of 
 regeneration in mature life. Whether this be fancy or 
 reality, it is a sweet belief, and as I have no head to 
 reason, for which I am glad, I receive this doctrine into 
 my heart, and as far as I am able, shall act upon it in my 
 own spiritual education and that of my child 
 
 This intellectual faith that some people require would 
 not satisfy me. It is the heart that cries out for God — 
 with my heart I believe in Him, but with my head I 
 
56 THE OLD OORNEK CUPBOARD; OB, 
 
 doubt everything. I suppose my deficiency in what is 
 called the reasoning faculty, or intellect, for which so 
 many people run wild, and which, when they think they 
 have found it, they bow down to and worship, accounts 
 for the joy I feel in the contemplation of simple goodness. 
 Whenever I find it, whether in learned or unlearned, rich 
 or poor, high or low, it wins my highest reverence. 
 Therefore I can love and respect common-place people, as 
 they are called, and do not require that my friends should 
 have great gifts and learning to satisfy my demands. Still 
 the most gifted minds are really the most simple and true 
 in the intercourse of daily life, for they are too much in 
 earnest to think of the effect they produce. Pedantry 
 and affectation are hateful to me. Goodness that flows 
 forth in kind deeds and words, in warm sympathies and 
 unselfish devotion to others, this brings down heaven to 
 earth. I don't mean to disparage intellect, but give me 
 the true, warm heart, rather than the keen sharp intel- 
 lect, if I cannot have both; and as for the judgment, I 
 would sooner trust the impulses of a good heart than the 
 reasoning of a logical head. It is very natural that I 
 should write so, having, as is well known to myself and 
 my friends, no power of logic, no wit, no smartness 
 whatever; and I ought not, I suppose, to have felt piqued 
 when Miss Grey, who has been a little injured by flattery, 
 pronounced me " a good sort of person, but very common- 
 place." But we are often perfectly willing to depreciate 
 ourselves, while we are vexed with others for doing it, 
 perhaps on our authority. 
 
 # # # # * 
 
 We are very pleasantly situated this winter, boarding 
 
 with friends : intelligent, cultivated people. We ought to 
 
 be happy in an atmosphere of poetry. Our eyes and 
 
 souls have refreshment and variety, but the perplexities 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 57 
 
 of life thicken, and a certain inward anxiety often closes 
 the heart against mirth and enjoyment. Yet we are by 
 no means discouraged. One instance such as we met 
 with the other day, of real generosity, disperses many a 
 dark cloud of distrust. The rich are not always those 
 most ready to assist, but there is one man here, living in 
 luxury and elegance, who perhaps does not know and 
 never may, the extent of the kindness he has rendered us. 
 But I hope we shall all live long enough to be mutually 
 understood ; we to prove our gratitude and honesty, he to 
 be convinced that we never can forget his kindness. 
 
 Our boy grows in grace and in favor with his loving 
 parents; but he is too fair, too frail, too like the early May 
 buds, which a breath may destroy. His mind outgrows his 
 tiny frame, and is too mature for his body. If he had 
 other playmates of his own age, it would be better for 
 him. He is always with me, plying me with such strange 
 questions and making such wise observations. I do not 
 like to see such precocity, but how can I help it ? When 
 next summer comes, we will let him run wild in the coun- 
 try, and associate with other children. I long to see him 
 playing in the dirt, and I wish he were not so good and 
 so gentle. I almost wish I did not love him so well. 
 Next summer, we shall go in the country again. I think 
 care and anxiety are beginning to drag me down a little ; 
 perhaps it is because those feel it who are dear to me. 
 We talk of changes— of going west ; but how can I bear a 
 separation from so many of my friends. Can I ever make 
 new ones who will be half so dear? Fortunately we are 
 placed in a condition at present, cheered by sympathy as 
 well as congenial tastes and pursuits. We are all pretty 
 much in the same worldly condition, requiring patience 
 and hope for our constant attendants. Patience under 
 present annoyances, and hope for better times. It is true, 
 
58 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 that " misery loves company," and only those in strait- 
 ened circumstances, can understand the privations of po- 
 verty. Sometimes I work myself up into quite a misan- 
 thropic state of mind, and enjoy the luxury of hating the 
 world for a while; the cold hard world, that does us so 
 great injustice ; but I cannot retain my grudge long. My 
 world is not without, but close at hand, and why should 
 I rail against outsiders? Let them go their ways and I 
 will go mine. 
 
 t^F "V v£ ■?? 4£. 
 
 A wedding — to me a sad one, for I can foresee no hap- 
 piness in such a union. It may be under certain circum- 
 stances, a fine thing to marry a poet, provided he is a 
 genuine poet, and a good man. And then, if he must 
 be poor, let the pair go off into the wilderness, and live 
 on berries, and sing to the echoes. Don't let them at- 
 tempt to live in the world, and in society. Let us have 
 no aping of what worldlings do. Away with the super- 
 fluity of houses with kitchens, where the wife must fry 
 herself over the coals. It is not fair that the poetry of 
 life should be all on one side. I am not angel enough to 
 be willing to roast my mortal body over material fire to 
 keep my husband's soul in a glow with the flame of 
 genius. I could do it a little while, but I know I should 
 have no heart for it long. 
 
 Let those who marry genius in poverty, live on angels' 
 food, or let them go off to the wilderness and live in a cave 
 on ' roots and herbs.' One can't enjoy poetry, or appreciate 
 inspiration, when one's head aches and one's limbs are 
 weary, and one's back is broken. I could not dream of nec- 
 tar and ambrosia, when my hands were in the wash-tub; 
 nor could I bear to hear of Olympus and the gods, while I 
 was on my knees, scrubbing a floor. Yet, if we live in 
 society, all this must be done, by somebody, or else con- 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 59 
 
 fusion and dire disorder will drive one distracted ; and if 
 one is too poor to have it done, one must do it one's-self. 
 But should I have patience to do it, day after day, and 
 year after year ? Illusion may last a little while, but reality 
 will come in the end, and our poor poet's wife will not be 
 content to be a household drudge. She will be very 
 likely to say to her hero, " descend from your Olympus, 
 and cut down some of your trees to make the pot boil for 
 dinner, and bring a bucket of water from your Hippo- 
 crene, to wash the children's clothes, or the sooner we 
 get out of this great working-day world the better." But 
 our poet, what does he know whether the pot boils or 
 not, or whether the children are clean or otherwise? 
 What cares he for eating? Ah! he cares enough, silly 
 woman that thou art. Your poets don't live on air; the 
 divine spark would very soon go out, if thy kitchen-fire 
 did not its duty. Poets must eat and drink like other 
 men, and they are the harder to please, inasmuch as 
 they cannot live on coarse fare like ordinary mortals, 
 but must have something as near nectar and ambrosia as 
 possible, which everybody knows is not to be obtained by 
 the mere asking. To be sure, it is a sweet privilege in 
 the abstract, to minister to these tine natures, but in 
 reality, the every-day drudgery of life, to one not habitu- 
 ated to it, and to one whose tastes and habits incline her 
 to pursuits more refined and intellectual, takes away the 
 charm wherewith the sentiment of the thing idealized 
 life. I cannot but feel sad at this wedding. Lizzie is a 
 girl of a beautiful nature, but not in the least practical. 
 She has no bodily strength for labor, and no faculty for 
 living upon nothing. Although her father is not rich, his 
 daughters have always lived in comparative ease and ele- 
 gance. With the best intentions, and the most devoted 
 
60 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 love, I feel that she is unequal to the life she has assumed. 
 It must end in disappointment to both. And then, I do 
 not like the idea of Edward's thinking he can live by 
 writing poetry. In our country it cannot be : and I think 
 too, he would write better poetry, if he lived in the world, 
 and mingled with his fellow-men. I like the fresh, living 
 thought that has humanity in it. I like the genial sym- 
 pathies that have real objects to bless; that go out amidst 
 the dusty highways of actual life, and scatter roses along 
 the beaten track. I have outgrown much of a certain 
 sort of sentiment, and have learned to value the unwritten 
 poetry which we meet often in the daily lives of those 
 who never joined two lines together in rhyme, more than 
 the inspirations of a genius that never went out of the 
 narrow sphere of selfish interest. Edward may be a 
 genius. He certainly has passed his life, thus much of 
 it, amidst books, and with his own imaginations, but 
 that does not fit him to appreciate the worth of a loving 
 heart and a self-sacrificing devotion, half so much as to 
 have lived with his fellows, would have done. His habits 
 have made him selfish. His family, proud of what they 
 considered his genius, has also done its share, and he will 
 be very apt to forget, in the demand of his nature for 
 sympathy, that those connected with him have also a 
 similar necessity, although forsooth, they have not the 
 gift of expressing it in verse. Lizzie, I know, has this 
 want, and has always found it answered, as far as is pos- 
 sible, by a devotedly affectionate family. However sweet 
 it will be for her to give — and to a true woman, it is a 
 holy privilege — yet there will be times, when her own 
 heart will yearn to be understood, when the wants and 
 weaknesses of her nature will cry out for sympathy, and 
 she will feel lonely and sad. And if, added to this, she 
 
THE EVERT-DAT LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 61 
 
 is compelled to perform laborious duties, beyond her 
 strength, and unsuited to her condition, can she be happy ? 
 I look at the facts of the case. If there were any reason- 
 able ground to hope that the future would grow brighter, 
 it might not be amiss that they should have a taste of the 
 actual in life. But unless somebody leaves them a for- 
 tune, of which there seems no probability, there will be a 
 good deal of hard work to be done, and I fear she will be 
 obliged to do it. 
 
 However, this ends my croaking. It may be that this 
 is the very discipline necessary for them both. You do 
 not believe, perhaps, that every body must be born 
 anew — born from above, through trial and conflict, 
 before the kingdom of heaven is formed within the soul. 
 I am not beginning a theological discussion however. 
 We will begin that at a more favorable moment. Lizzie 
 and Edward have my best wishes, and their happiness, as 
 well as ours, is in God's keeping. Perhaps she will make 
 him less selfish and exacting ; and her love for him may 
 make her more active and industrious. But I very much 
 fear there will be but little poetry in their actual life. 
 * # # * # 
 
 How refreshing it is, to leave the "deavin, dusty town," 
 and breathe the fresh mountain air once more! How it 
 gladdens my heart to see my boy happy, amid green fields 
 and flowers! I wish you could see him at this moment — 
 his straw hat wreathed with the bright golden coreopsis 
 and crimson poppy — childlike, choosing the gayest and 
 gaudiest flowers to decorate himself with. I cannot tell 
 you the swelling of the heart I feel sometimes, as I watch 
 him at play, or fold him in my arms. I do not think we 
 can love these little lambs too well, but we may love un- 
 wisely. I know not where or how the strength would 
 come, to bear his loss ; for the very contemplation of the 
 
62 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 possibility of it, overwhelms me. But why should I think 
 of it? It is by asking and appropriating wisely and 
 thankfully our daily bread, that we are strengthened and 
 nourished, spiritually, as well as physical!} 7 . We cannot 
 lay up for future emergency of this manna from God. If 
 every day I remember, with a grateful heart, Him to whom 
 I owe this treasure, and the capacity to feel such blessed- 
 ness in its possession, day by day, and hour by hour, 
 cherishing it as a sacred trust, to train for an eternity of 
 happiness and virtue, can I love it too well? Oh! the 
 strength of this natural yearning! This it is, that I need 
 to restrain.. This it is, that makes me forget the higher 
 love, that asks only the best good of its object, whether 
 here or there, as God wills. 
 
 Mrs. Derby is here, delighting us again with her inim- 
 itable readings from Shakspeare. What a privilege to 
 be allowed to hear her! What a higher appreciation 
 one has of these plays, through her magnificent render- 
 ing! I never saw a person who impressed me more with 
 the power of genius than she. I suppose the homage she 
 receives is gratifying to her, but it does not make her 
 happy. 
 
 I look with sadness on these beloved hills, where I have 
 passed many happy hours, for I feel the uncertainty of the 
 future, as I am about passing into new and untried scenes. 
 In a few weeks I shall bid adieu to New England — to the 
 friends of my youth — to old and hallowed associations, 
 and begin a new life at the West. My husband has 
 already been several months in our new home, and gives 
 me glowing accounts of it and of the people. Mary 
 Truman is to go with me. She, of course, is quite curi- 
 ous to see the New World. Not that she expects to like 
 it. She is, by far, too strongly wedded to New England, 
 and to that particular part of it where she was born and 
 
THE EVEBY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 63 
 
 brought up, to prefer any other place; for a Boston 
 woman is the quintessence of New England bottled up 
 and hermetically sealed. I think it will do Mary good to 
 extend the horizon of her sympathies. Wealth appa- 
 rently is anything but a blessing to her, and indeed to 
 any of her family. It is sad to see one in the very matu- 
 rity of womanhood, who, to outward appearance, has 
 everything to make life rich in blessings, so weary of it, 
 seeking in constant excitement what is to be found only 
 within. She does not value money for its own sake, but 
 she seems to want some definite purpose, to which her 
 abundant means and advantages can be applied. She 
 has surrounded herself with elegance and luxury. Her 
 own room is a perfect gallery of art, and she has all her 
 time at her own disposal. She has decidedly a literary 
 taste, and has written some poetry that well deserves the 
 name, but there is no youth, no hope in her lay. The 
 great want in her writings, as in her conversation, and 
 even in her habits of thought, is simplicity and natu- 
 ralness. She is stilted and artificial. Her religion par- 
 takes of the same character. It is a sort of mystified 
 sentimentality. It is her desire to be thought intellec- 
 tual, and the sublimated atmosphere with which she sur- 
 rounds herself, is not suited to the emergencies of daily 
 life. I believe she has more heart than she gives herself 
 credit for. I wish she would not stifle its natural work- 
 ings. She has too little of the woman in her, to inspire 
 affection, I fear, and yet sometimes she completely fas- 
 cinates me by her tenderness of manner. I have had 
 many minds about her, and now I dare not trust myself 
 to give an opinion. She certainly must possess sterling 
 goodness, or her friends would not love her so much. 
 She is very handsome and attractive, but she expects so 
 much that, I venture to predict, she will never find her 
 
CI THE OLD COKNEE CUPBOARD ; OB, 
 
 "psychological complement," to use her own expression. 
 Her frankness pleases me sometimes, but even that, has 
 ceased to be spontaneous and natural, and it is so evident 
 that she prides herself upon uttering her bold thoughts, 
 in defiance of the opinions and feelings of others, that her 
 truth has lost the charm it once had, and, in my judg- 
 ment, is less the truth than when spoken, as it used to be, 
 in apparent unconsciousness. She is what would be 
 called an admirable talker, and is perfectly conscious of 
 her power. She has great command of language, and 
 has cultivated her gift to the utmost; but the brilliancy 
 of her wit wearies one after a while, and one cannot help 
 wishing she would get down from her stilts, and tread 
 the earth as if she belonged to it. I confess I was once 
 completely fascinated by her power of language, joined to 
 so much enthusiasm and earnestness in her utterance of 
 what she believed to be high truths ; but the light that 
 dazzles, is not the heat that warms. After I left her I 
 found myself no wiser. I had a confused idea that I had 
 been listening to very fine thoughts, but when I attempted 
 to review them, their forms were so vague and imperfect, 
 I could not recall them ; and as for the rich drapery in 
 which they were clothed, I could as soon have brought 
 down the shifting clouds with their varied hues and 
 shapes to earth, as to have seized upon those airy noth- 
 ings that, floating high up in her intellectual heaven, 
 seem substantial and beautiful, but vanish when the 
 mind attempts to grasp them. 
 
 This gift of tongues is very beguiling. It is an art 
 that may be learned by study and practice, if one have 
 the command of words ; but it is often very superficial 
 and deceptive, and nothing is so wearisome for every-day 
 life. 
 
 Mary thinks she is the very child of nature, while all 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 65 
 
 around her, are slaves to conventionality and custom. 
 She thinks because she has picked up from books, and 
 from the society of cultivated minds a certain freedom of 
 thought, with regard to the great questions of life, that 
 she is in fact a sort of priestess, in her way, of a new era. 
 She talks much of association, but is the last person in 
 the world to give up her personal ease and comfort, or, to 
 share the labor of life, where there must be an equal di- 
 vision of work and remuneration. She will not even lift 
 her little finger in the daily arrangement of her own 
 room, nor put a needle to her own clothes. She talks 
 eloquently of the inequalities in society, but she would 
 talk more feelingly, if she were to wake some morning to 
 find her servants and waiting-women too much engrossed 
 with the culture of their intellect, to perform their morn- 
 ing duties. It is almost, nay, it is quite ludicrous to 
 hear her rail against the artificial wants of society, and 
 then follow her one day. Not that she has not truth on 
 her side, but the truth that shines forth in life, is that 
 which has power to arrest the busy world. If she knows 
 so much better than the rest of us, we look to see her do 
 better. Alas ! we all know better than we do, and this 
 should make us modest and humble. We look for results 
 from these eloquent expounders of higher truth in a self- 
 sacrificing life. Sometimes we find it, and it is a reproach 
 to us, but when there is only a symmetric form of beauty 
 without the soul, we become weary of having it continu- 
 ally held up to us. You recollect the story we read to- 
 gether not long since, entitled the " Fool of the nineteenth 
 century," translated from the German of Zschokke. There 
 was a man who had the strength and courage to live what 
 he believed to be the truth, and all the world pronounced 
 him a madman. What of all this, do you ask, and what 
 has all this tirade to do with Mary ? Mary stands in my 
 
 
QQ THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 mind now, as the type of a class of people, who talk a 
 great deal about a high ideal, an elevated state of society, 
 and the advantages of culture, etc., etc., but lead perfectly 
 selfish lives. Her cousin Ellen, is a girl of a totally dif- 
 ferent stamp. A simple, retiring, womanly woman ; plain 
 in externals, unpretending in every way, thoroughly edu- 
 cated, but without pedantry, who, convinced that there is 
 much that is false and unsound in society, quietly adopts 
 a life in accordance with her principles, has independence 
 enough to live and dress simply, in a circle of fashionable 
 friends ; and although her income is liberal, voluntarily 
 relinquishes much that would gratify her taste and intel- 
 lect, that she may have the means of helping those whose 
 condition needs help, and to whom high-flown sentiment 
 is a bitter mockery. I do not take these two characters 
 by way of strong mental contrast, for both are equally 
 suited to adorn society by their talent and culture ; but 
 the one leads a true life and the other only talks of what 
 constitutes one. Which does the most good ? 
 
 #.#'#•* -- * 
 
 You seem rather inclined to reprove me for what I say 
 about Mary Truman, but you do me injustice. I write, it 
 is true, exactly what I think ; at the same time, I believe 
 she may, and possibly will, develop a higher character and 
 a deeper conviction of the great purposes of life. If she 
 were to marry, provided she married for love, and if she 
 were to have a family of children, it would make her 
 what she is capable of being — a noble woman. So too, 
 if in the changes of life, she were to meet with reverses 
 which called out her energies, she would show that she 
 had an interior conviction that " life is real, life is earn- 
 est," and most of all, if this intellectual variety, and 
 this religion of sentiment should give place to the child- 
 like faith and eonfidino- love of the heart for its Creator 
 
THE EVEKT-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 67 
 
 and Father, if sorrow or affliction, or the thirst of the soul 
 for a higher good than is to be found in an external faith, 
 should send her to the fountain of living water ; if, in 
 short, she were to receive the kingdom of God as a little 
 child into her heart, it would make her all that anybody- 
 could desire. We must all come down from what our 
 
 friend G calls " the pride of self-intelligence," before 
 
 we can receive the true light into our souls. 
 
 # # # # * 
 
 When I have been here longer, I will tell you what you 
 80 much wish to know — how I like my present home. 
 One's impressions of a new place, are vague and shadowy. 
 I feel an unnatural excitement, which bewilders my judg- 
 ment. I may say that I am disappointed in the place 
 itself. I thought to find it more beautiful. I thought it 
 was clean and fresh— half city— half country. But I find 
 myself wholly mistaken. So far too, from looking new, 
 as I had imagined— the houses are dingy, owing, I sup- 
 pose, to the use of the bituminous coal, which creates so 
 much smoke and soot. But the place is of little account 
 comparatively. After we have left the home of our child- 
 hood and youth, than which no other spot is so full of en- 
 chantment, we have an unsettled feeling everywhere, as 
 if we were indeed " pilgrims and sojourners on the earth." 
 We may be contented elsewhere, but the heart turns back 
 to its early love, with a longing that cannot be uttered. 
 Then comes sober reason, to tell us that the home of our 
 youth is not, and can never be again. It is, with our 
 youth, vanished like a dream. We can return again to 
 neither. Though our feet tread the familiar paths, 
 though our eyes behold again the beloved objects, 
 
 "Turn wheresoe'er we may. 
 By night or day, 
 The things which we have seen, we now can see no more." 
 
68 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD ; OR, 
 
 But I do not speak this wholly with sadness. Life is 
 richer to me now, than it was years ago. It was, to adopt 
 again the words of my favorite poet, it was a life full of 
 
 " Obstinate questionings 
 Of sense and outward things, 
 Fallings from us, vanishings, 
 Blank misgivings of a creature 
 Moving about in worlds not realized." 
 
 It was a yearning, an anticipation glorious with the light 
 of hope upon it, but that has passed. 
 
 As I do not quote poetry in my letters often, I think 
 you will pardon me when I am betrayed into doing it by 
 old reminiscences with which you are intimately asso- 
 ciated. One word about the people. I find them, in 
 every way, kind and hospitable; but I have a source 
 of internal anxiety, in the illness of my little boy, which 
 prevents my receiving and reciprocating, as I could wish 
 to do, the hospitalities of my new friends. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The brightest ray of my earthly life is quenched, and, 
 to my sick soul, all is darkness. I have lived to taste 
 the extremes of joy and sorrow ; to welcome a heaven- 
 sent messenger of love, "trailing clouds of glory as he 
 came," and to see him depart, and the darkness of the 
 grave close behind him, and shut him from my sight for- 
 ever. All the words of comfort that can be uttered by 
 sympathizing friends here and from home, I have listened 
 to, and thanked, from my heart, those who felt for my 
 grief; but the load is not lightened. "Will it ever be? I 
 do not shut myself out from society. It is harder to do it 
 in a new place, and among strangers, than it would be at 
 home. I drag myself from place to place, not as a relief 
 from sorrow, for I feel the greatest relief would be to be left 
 alone; but I go, because I am expected to go, because 
 
THE EVEEY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 69 
 
 I am a stranger, who has to make her home in the hearts 
 of the people. I know that those who have never lost a 
 child, particularly those who never have had one, cannot, 
 in the least, comprehend how such a bereavement should 
 so overwhelm me. I could not have understood it years 
 ago. I must not expect others to comprehend it. There- 
 fore, I go from house to house, as I am invited by new 
 acquaintances ; I greet smiling faces, cheerful hearts ; I 
 see joyous children ; I listen to music and mirth, and try 
 to keep down my tears ; to be happy in their happiness, and 
 to forget that my heart and my home are now so desolate. 
 Not desolate. I was wrong to say so. How selfish grief 
 makes me ! Not desolate — young eyes full of innocent 
 joy look up, with strange surprise, at my tears. The 
 silent reproach sinks into my soul, and yet I weep on. 
 I walk the streets so strange, so unfamiliar ; and my eye 
 follows every boy I meet, to try and find some life-like 
 resemblance to him whom, I know in my daily paths, I 
 shall meet no more. Grief goes before me, as 1 walk on, 
 and on; and when I return, grief meets me at the open 
 door, instead of the blue eyes that used to welcome my 
 return. But I must bear it. How, God knows! I 
 know I must live ; I know how much I have to live for. 
 By-and-by, perhaps, I shall feel it, and find strength. 
 1 am sorry to go among my new friends so like a dark 
 shadow. The very fact that I am among strangers makes 
 me the more sad — but I will not write. 
 
 When summer opens, we shall move to the country. I 
 long for its quiet and repose. Fortunately I shall not 
 have leisure to sit and think. " Time brings such won- 
 drous healing." I may yet write to you a cheerful letter, 
 but have patience with me. 
 
70 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 It is long since I have sent you any poems of my own, 
 for the reason that I seldom write any. I write nothing, 
 not even letters. When I work, my thoughts are diverted 
 into other channels ; when I sit down to write, they all 
 crowd back upon my heart. I send you these lines, be- 
 cause they will reveal to you as much as I could tell you 
 of myself. I lead a quiet life, and it is best suited to me 
 for the present. 
 
 Leave me, for I would be alone ; 
 
 Yet, least alone, -when all are fled, 
 For nearest then, the loved ones come, 
 
 Whom we are wont to call, the dead ! 
 But closer do our thoughts entwine, 
 When their freed spirits meet with mine. 
 
 Nor prize I living friends the less, 
 
 Who give to life its holiest light ; 
 Their cheerful tones, their cheering smiles, 
 
 Their eyes with fond affection bright. 
 Though eyes so bright, and forms so dear 
 Have vanished from my pathway here. 
 
 Whan aches the void within my soul, 
 
 And 'mid the gay and noisy crowd, 
 My heart grows sick with bitter thoughts 
 
 Of ghastly death and chilly shroud ; 
 And those I love, seem lost for aye — 
 Leave me alone with God, to pray. 
 
 It smooths the troubled waves of grief, 
 
 In quiet thought to sit awhile, 
 While one by one, the lost return, 
 
 And warm me with their heavenly smile. 
 It is no dream — how well I feel 
 Their sacred influence round me steal. 
 
 The autumn winds are sighing now ; 
 
 The yellow leaves are thickly strewn — 
 Decay and death in all I see, 
 
 Recall the hopes forever flown. 
 The autumn wind — the leafless bough, 
 Hath mournful meaning to me now. 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 71 
 
 But leave me, gentle friends, awhile, 
 
 That I may ease my grief by tears ; 
 For still before me shines a light 
 
 To guide and bless my coming years ; 
 A calmer, steadier, holier ray, 
 Than dawned upon my life's young day. 
 
 And by its light, so pure and clear, 
 
 My spirit feebly strives to see 
 Beyond the mists of selfish tears ; 
 
 Beyond death's gloomy mystery ; 
 And as alone, I strive and pray, 
 I see the earth-clouds pass away. 
 
 Then drinks my soul, so parched and dry, 
 
 Of living streams that cannot fail, 
 And faith awakes to newer life, 
 
 And looks beyond the fleshly vail ; 
 And even the murkiest clouds of care, 
 The hues of heavenly patience wear. 
 
 I am grieved at what you write to me, of Lizzie. It 
 would be absurd in me to say to any one else, I predicted 
 it, but you know I did so before they were married. 
 Nevertheless, I am just as sorry as if the failure of their 
 schemes had taken me by surprise. There seemed so un- 
 substantial a foundation for their domestic happiness! 
 What will they do ? Lizzie's health failing— a little baby- 
 that of itself, must occupy her time, and be an unceasing 
 drag upon her feeble health — what will they do ? I have 
 looked over the volume of Edward's poems that you sent 
 me. Don't ask me what I think of them. They want, what 
 he seems to me to want — human nature and human sym- 
 pathy. If mountains and rivers, sunshine and flowers are 
 so much more to him than the holy ties that bind the race 
 in gentleness together, it is a great pity he did not content 
 himself with them, and not adopt the semblance of higher 
 things for selfish ends. I could not criticise his poems, 
 I leave that for reviewers. To me. they are but words 
 
72 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 strung together, harmoniously enough, but without soul. 
 I confess, however, that I am old-fashioned in my taste, 
 and cling to the simplicity with which, it seems to me, 
 true inspiration always expresses itself. But if we live 
 long enough, we shall yet see this artificial dress of thought 
 pass away, and the poet will sing because he must, and his 
 soul will speak through his words to the great soul of hu- 
 manity. Edward's style of writing seems an imitation, an 
 effort, a straining after startling effects, yet I may be too 
 much behind the age to venture an opinion. And is it to 
 this end, that he proposes to devote his life and the lives of 
 his wife and children ? Does it belong to the poet soul — 
 warmed by the god-spark to intenser love and sublimer 
 thought — to pass his days in indolent musing, while his 
 wife is obliged to bear the burthen and heat of the day, 
 working beyond her strength, and with a heart weighed 
 down with anxieties ? Let him exercise his poetic art, in 
 painting to the life the lot of such a woman, if he has 
 heart enough to appreciate it, and then let him contem- 
 plate the picture, till it inspire him with better aims. 
 Let him beautifully inweave his poet-fancies among the 
 stern realities of daily life. I have little patience with 
 him and I will not desecrate the name of poet by coupling 
 it with his. Let him make his daily life poetry. What 
 better material can he have, than those sweet affections 
 which hallow his home. A young, trusting wife — a help- 
 less child — self-sacrificing devotion. Let him take up 
 these themes, and see how much he knows about them, 
 and let him carry the sphere of human love with him to 
 the mountains and valleys whose beauties he can depict 
 with so many fine words and phrases, and I shall like his 
 verses much better. I anticipate a question, you are 
 dying to ask me, at this moment. You may forget it 
 before you write again. Do /find so much poetry in the 
 
THE EVEEY-DAY LIFE OF EVEKY-DAY PEOPLE. 73 
 
 actual ? In narrow means — in the necessity of physical 
 exertion — in daily anxieties — in the common-places of 
 daily life — irritability — bodily infirmity, etc., etc.? 
 
 It is a just question, but one not easy to answer. It is 
 too much my habit to create an ideal world, in compari- 
 son with which, the actual is poor and unsatisfactory ; and 
 before I had gained wisdom by experience, it was my 
 wont to withdraw from the annoyances of the actual, and 
 take refuge in this little world of my own creation, for 
 solace and relief. I think I have discerned a " more 
 excellent way" than this — one hard to walk in at all 
 times — one often made difficult by the obstructions of 
 selfishness, and often clouded by a want of faith. The 
 path in which we walk, is God-appointed, although, to 
 appearance, we seem to be often the sport of circum- 
 stances. But I believe we may walk in cheerfulness and 
 hope, through the devious windings of earthly life, when 
 we admit this conviction to our souls — that we are in the 
 sphere best suited to us, if we choose so to consider it. 
 What right have I to withdraw into the regions of higher 
 and purer thought alone, when the lives of others are so 
 closely interwoven with my own, that all our joys should 
 be in common? Let me rather bring from that purer 
 realm of thought, something to beautify and enrich the 
 path we are treading together. Let me strive to be more 
 and more human. Let every pulse of happiness enlarge 
 the sphere of my sympathies. I once felt — I think I told 
 you at the time, and the memory of the feeling deepens 
 constantly — I once felt, when a new source of happiness 
 was opened in my soul, and the throbbings of maternal 
 love, for the first time, revealed to me my relations to the 
 God and Father of all, that my heart had grown so large 
 as to embrace all in its love, to whom the good Father 
 7 
 
74 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD ; OR, 
 
 had given this capacity for happiness. I felt that I stood 
 in new and high relations to every mother in the world, 
 and to the very angels in heaven. It was a deep, solemn 
 joy. Then again — and I think I tried to tell you, at the 
 time, what the feeling was — the current of my life was 
 again stirred, but not as before, with happiness. My 
 heart beat to other music — each throb was as a knell to 
 my buried hopes. But then, as before, my heart went 
 abroad among my kind, searching for the stricken ones 
 who could understand my sorrow. I found them every- 
 where. Among the high and low — the rich — the poor — 
 everywhere, I found hearts that had ached with anguish 
 like mine, and the bond of sympathy which united me to 
 my kind, was strengthened by mutual suffering. I felt 
 the truth of these words, " He fashioneth our hearts 
 alike." The differences which divide us are external. 
 The life which flows into us, from the Source of life, is 
 the same. A mother's love is the same in the high-born 
 and the lowly — and grief is a universal leveler. 
 
 This widening and deepening of our sympathies, is the 
 secret of true, heart-felt happiness. And if those natures 
 who are gifted above their fellows, with high thoughts 
 and aspirations — felt more deeply this common bond — 
 and believed that that life alone is truly rich which seeks 
 to enrich others, we should have fewer examples like our 
 friend, of those who are of no use to themselves, or any 
 one else. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Mary Truman is in town now ; I see her occasionally. 
 Her transcendentalism creates a sphere about her, which 
 frightens away many of our unpretending people. I am 
 sorry, because I fear they do not give her credit for what 
 she deserves. She is invited to all the social gatherings, 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 75 
 
 but is looked upon as a very literary person — quite a lion 
 in her way. The ladies seem a little timorous of ap- 
 proaching her nearly; but she has, manifestly, a prefer- 
 ence to gentlemen's society. It often amuses me to hear 
 her talk. It is her delight to combat always, the com- 
 monly received opinions and practices of society. She 
 does it as a sort of habit; and to show her own talent at 
 argument. She starts with the axiom, that everything 
 that is — is wrong. Society is all wrong — the church is all 
 wrong — religion as it is, is a sham — marriage is a popu- 
 lar fallacy — the Bible a tissue of inconsistencies and con- 
 tradictions — and people, in general, mere bundles of affec- 
 tation and absurdity. She is so handsome and so brilliant, 
 that she has numerous admirers ; and among them, I think, 
 is one who would be a lover, if she would permit him. 
 The most amusing feature in their acquaintance, is the 
 total contrast they seem to be to each other. It is a rich 
 treat to hear them argue, particularly, as they can get very 
 warm without losing temper. Mr. Herbert is simple, earn- 
 est, unaffected and plain-spoken ; clear-headed and practi- 
 cal. Mary, you know, is high-flown — mystical — wholly 
 ideal and speculative — and often exceedingly obscure. 
 
 It would amuse you to hear Mr. H bring her down 
 
 from her empyrean flights, in order, as he says, that she may 
 adapt herself to his matter-of-fact comprehension. What- 
 ever topic they begin upon, they always end in a religious 
 discussion. After an animated dispute of some length, 
 at our house the other evening, they appealed to me, to 
 decide whose belief was the most rational. I, you know, 
 could never argue, and avoid an encounter of the kind, 
 as I would the attack of a wild beast of the desert. The 
 source of all my religious faith can be traced to the want 
 of my heart of a God. My head grows dizzy in specu- 
 lation. When I would reason about the existence and 
 
76 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 the nature of God, he vanishes, or, at best, becomes an 
 abstraction. My heart is not satisfied with the God of 
 the philosophers. It asks for infinite love and infinite 
 wisdom in a Being whom I can call My Father, and to- 
 wards whom throughout eternity, my soul must be drawn 
 in nearer communion. In those moments of joy, which 
 find no language, those aspirations that cannot be uttered, 
 I should feel painfully how imperfect life was, unless I was 
 conscious of a Being who, having created me, knows 
 my inmost thoughts and emotions, and not only that, but 
 being infinite in love as well as in knowledge, cares for 
 my happiness and for the happiness of all the crea- 
 tures whom his love created. So, too, in those hours 
 of sorrow and anguish, when the trials of life press 
 heavily upon the heart, and the hopes that have shed 
 sunshine over our path, suddenly vanish in dark and 
 cold eclipse ; in hours of temptation and inward conflict, 
 when waves of remorse sweep over the soul, and there 
 is. no human ear to whom we dare utter, even if we 
 had the power to do so, what is passing within us, what 
 but the thought of a living, pitying God can impart 
 health and peace ? Tell me that I limit God by bringing 
 him down to the level of my own conceptions — by ascribing 
 to him human attributes. It may be so, but as long as he 
 has created me a finite being, I must accept the limita- 
 tions of mortality, and do the best I can with the material 
 given me. I do not see as I should gain anything by 
 adopting Mary's vague abstractions, or by trying to com- 
 prehend the incomprehensible. The God I worship is to 
 me the true God, because he satisfies all my nature. As 
 my nature is purified and elevated, my conceptions of 
 God will acquire a corresponding elevation. 
 
 How sweet is the creed of the little child ! How inno- 
 cent and beautiful its confiding love; its simple prayer! 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVEKY-DAY PEOPLE. 77 
 
 Pity it is that this faith should be lost amidst the wrecks 
 of our early hopes and joys. The intellect may take a 
 bolder flight, and be lost in the vast realms of specula- 
 tion, calling it freedom ; but there comes a time sooner 
 or later, when weary with its wanderings, unsatisfied with 
 life and with itself, after repeated disappointment has 
 stifled even the longing for any earthly good, the soul re- 
 turns like the wearied dove to the ark, and feels the truth 
 of the blessed words of Him who knew the wants of our 
 natures: " Except ye receive the kingdom of Heaven as 
 a little child, ye cannot enter therein." But we must not 
 expect this knowledge will come alike to all. "We do not 
 know what preparation each one needs. It may be joy, 
 it may be sorrow — God knows best. 
 
 # * * # * 
 
 Mr. Herbert and Mary are on the porch in earnest talk 
 as usual. What will this growing intimacy lead to? It 
 is very evident that he feels a peculiar interest in her, 
 but her feelings are not so perceptible. I told her the 
 other day, if she were to wake up some morning and find 
 herself poor, it would be the best thing that could happen 
 to her. She would thus be compelled to exert herself, 
 and I fear she will never do it unless compelled. She 
 bears much plain speaking from me and loves me in 
 spite of it. I am becoming more and more attached 
 to her. Mr. Herbert asked her the other day, "For 
 what end she studied? Why she forever buried herself 
 in books? Why she pored over German and French 
 literature?" He declared her artistic education had made 
 her so hypercritical, that she only looked at every object 
 to find out its blemishes and defects, and that for his part 
 he wondered that her friends dared to submit themselves 
 to her scrutiny. Her life, he added, was quite incom- 
 prehensible to him. 
 
78 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 "She did not wonder that, with his ideas of what 
 woman ought to be, it was so," she replied ; " but she 
 begged to diner from him." 
 
 "Might he trouble her to define his ideas of what 
 woman ought to be ?" he asked. 
 
 " It is evident," she replied, " your taste is for the help- 
 less, clinging sort, with just intellect enough to keep the 
 house in order, and get their husband's slippers ready for 
 him ; gentle, docile creatures, willing to concede to their 
 husbands the exquisite delight of poking the fire, and 
 scrupulously avoiding to meddle with it, until he returns 
 home to stretch himself on two chairs, and doze over the 
 newspapers till bed-time. Women who have a conve- 
 nient smile to put on, whenever their lord and master 
 draws near. Who could not, for the world, drop a six- 
 pence in the poor-box, without first consulting my hus- 
 band! Meek, domestic stayers at home, that the house 
 may be always in perfect order; readers of cookery books, 
 and works on self-discipline. I think I see the sort of 
 woman you would choose for a wife." 
 
 "Where?" asked Mr. Herbert, good-naturedly. 
 
 "In my mind's eye, Horatio," replied Mary Truman. 
 
 "I wish you would call her from her uncomfortable 
 retreat, as quick as possible," said he, "for the woman 
 of my choice cannot flourish long in such quarters." 
 
 "What do you mean ?" asked Mary. 
 
 "I was speaking figuratively," replied Mr. Herbert, 
 "as you were, doubtless. That mind's eye of yours must 
 possess great power of expansion % " 
 
 "Not to contain the woman of your choice," replied 
 Mary, sarcastically. 
 
 "Yes, along with so much else. For if I am not mis- 
 taken, it takes a very wide sweep, and embraces a vast 
 multitude of people." 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 79 
 
 " That may be, and yet room enough remain for your 
 wife, as she presents herself to my comprehension. Such 
 women require but a very small sphere — a little nook — 
 in fact, the smallest space imaginable." 
 
 " Like the angels who could dance on the point of a 
 needle ? " added Mr. Herbert. 
 
 " Yes, it would take several to make one real woman," 
 replied Mary. 
 
 "Well, since you know her so well, it is cruel to with- 
 hold her image from me. If I were a younger man, I 
 might prate more of magnetic attraction, and hope to find 
 her without help; but the time is past, in which I could 
 vationally expect to fall in love at first sight." 
 
 "If I cannot show you the one, I can point you to 
 dozens of a similar character, if character can be predi- 
 cated of that particular genus. The wife of Mr. Smith, 
 or Mr. Brown, or any other man, who marries one of 
 your very proper women — your pattern wives — will 
 serve to illustrate my position. You can see them every 
 day!" 
 
 "But that is a poor satisfaction," said Herbert, "since 
 the wife of Mr. Smith and Mr. Brown, can be nothing, 
 in particular, to me." 
 
 "But there are plenty of other women run in the 
 same mould. I don't consider it of the least conse- 
 quence, which you take. You can shut your eyes and 
 pick, or draw lots — only she must not be past a certain 
 age — she must be pliable, docile — plastic beneath your 
 influence, just as Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Brown were." 
 
 " Suppose I were to confess I did not like very young 
 ladies. Will you use that very keen and comprehensive 
 organ of vision, in my behalf, to find a woman you really 
 thought suited to me?" 
 
 " I don't think I could make the effort," said Mary, 
 
80 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 languidly, "it would involve too much study and re- 
 search." 
 
 "But you like study and research," added Herbert. 
 
 "Of a certain kind; in books, for instance," replied Mary. 
 
 "Consider me a book then, I entreat you, and peruse 
 me attentively ? " 
 
 "I prefer the study of the languages." 
 
 " You had better go to the foundation of all language — 
 the demands of the soul for sympathy ?" 
 
 " I prefer works of art." 
 
 "Am I not a good model ? " 
 
 "I have a decided love of the antique." 
 
 "Then I am sure I am worthy your inspection, being 
 ancient enough ? " 
 
 " But I like best to study the works of the old masters." 
 
 " Am I not the work of the oldest of all masters ?" 
 
 " You are an egotist, and I can't encourage egotists," 
 said Mary. "People don't interest me ; I don't like 
 people. Give me nature ; nature with which I can com- 
 mune in silence ; nature that does not bore me with words, 
 words, words," and Mary walked away, with such an air, 
 down the Sycamore path ! I am half inclined to think 
 she expected Mr. Herbert would follow, but he didn't. 
 After waiting some minutes to see what turn matters 
 would take, whether Mary would return, or Herbert 
 turn down the path after her, I went out into the porch, and 
 found the gentleman sitting in the self-same spot where 
 Mary left him, and looking, for him, rather lack-a-daisical. 
 
 I never could play a part in my life, so 1 told him I had 
 heard his conversation with my friend, and according to 
 my poor judgment, they had not made much progress in 
 their friendship of late, notwithstanding the hour, and 
 the place, and the scene, seemed suited to awaken very 
 kindly and pleasing emotions. 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVEBY-DAY PEOPLE. 81 
 
 Mr. Herbert looked grave ; and I fancied I heard some- 
 thing very like a sigh. 
 
 "You find Mary a strange sort of being?" I added, 
 " but I really believe all her queer ways of talking, in 
 fact, many of her habits of thought are external. They 
 don't, as you say, ' reach the interiors.' I used to feel 
 that I never could love her; but she does, sometimes, 
 give indications of a true womanly heart." 
 
 " I wish I could discover any such indications," replied 
 Mr. Herbert, in a dry, and I thought, rather bitter manner. 
 " I thought with you, at first, that the kernel was sound, 
 if one could only get at it ; but I doubt whether it is 
 worth the toil and patience. These notions of hers seem 
 to have taken root deeper than I at first believed. She 
 could never be happy in domestic life." 
 
 " Don't judge too harshly, my good friend," said I. 
 " I have known Mary for years, and I have come to find 
 more in her to love, as I know her more." 
 
 " Do you really think she has a heart?" asked Mr. 
 Herbert. 
 
 " I really do," I replied. 
 
 " And that it is worth the seeking?" he added with 
 earnestness. 
 
 " I do," I replied, half frightened; for I felt that he 
 was very much in earnest — but I told the truth. 
 
 " I wish that I could believe it," said he, grasping my 
 hand. " She interests me more than any woman I ever 
 met ; and yet, I cannot approve of her. I have no sym- 
 pathy with her feelings or her opinions. They do not 
 accord with my views of woman. I have tried to think 
 with you, that they do not belong to her; that they are 
 the result of a false education ; that she has a loving, 
 tender, womanly nature. Her eye indicates it; her smile 
 too, so full of sweetness, the tones of her voice, so fern- 
 
82 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD ; OR, 
 
 inine and musical. Her beauty has taken my senses cap- 
 tive, but it shall not master my judgment. I could not 
 love a woman who, at heart, cherished the sentiments I 
 have heard her utter — on the highest and holiest themes. 
 A woman's nature must be religious to be truly womanly, 
 must recognize a fatherly God, must feel a childlike de- 
 pendence. All the sweet and feminine affections tend 
 to that ; the very longing of her heart for sympathy, un- 
 seals the fountain of religious joy to her. This is her 
 strength — that she dwells nearest the great Source of all 
 love; that from Him, flows into her soul that beatitude 
 of affection which man's sterner nature cannot know. 
 The wife, the mother, whose very sphere is love — do 
 you think she would feel the sacredness of those rela- 
 tions ?" 
 
 Unfortunately, my good memory brought to mind a 
 conversation with Mary, on the subject of marriage, in 
 which she had brought up some of George Sands' ideas, 
 and I could not answer immediately. 
 
 " I see you cannot confirm my hopes," said Mr. Her- 
 bert sadly. "What a pity! what a sad pity it is, that 
 one so lovely in person, so fitted to inspire love, should 
 not be the one to retain it ! Nature, nay, let me not say 
 nature — God gave her the capacity to become a perfect 
 woman. How has a false system of education perverted 
 or destroyed it!" 
 
 " You take the matter too seriously," said I. "When 
 have you ever rationally undertaken to talk with Mary ? 
 I am sure your conversation this evening was badinage 
 and joking merely. What would you have her do if you 
 adopt a light, frivolous manner, but carry on the game ? 
 For my part, I thought you were chatting as idly, and 
 I may say as foolishly,, as two great grown-up children. 
 I should never have dreamed of any serious intention at 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 83 
 
 the bottom of all that nonsense. Indeed, I think you 
 jump at conclusions too hastily. Besides, many young 
 women have foolish and false ideas before they are 
 in love, which vanish, and give place to something much 
 higher and purer when their hearts are really touched. 
 And many women too — (perhaps I ought not to confess 
 it, but it is true,) many women, who are full of tender, 
 womanly feeling, have a sort of false shame about it, and 
 assume sometimes a hard, cold, and sometimes perhaps, 
 a light and frivolous outside, to conceal from common 
 eyes, what they deem too sacred for common observers. 
 I have known many of that description ; some, who 
 from early disappointment, or blight fallen upon their young 
 affections, withdrew into^themselves, thinking by a cold 
 exterior, to hide their heart-sorrows from the world. 
 Others, from a peculiar self-consciousness, and dislike of the 
 scrutiny of people in general, adopt a careless and light 
 way of speech and action, to mislead those whom they 
 feel may misunderstand them." 
 
 M And to which class, think you, may your friend be- 
 long?" asked Mr. Herbert. 
 
 " To neither wholly, and to both in part, perhaps," 
 I replied. 
 
 " Has she ever had a heart-sorrow?" asked Mr. Her- 
 bert with earnestness. 
 
 " I can only tell what I have heard," I replied, "for Mary 
 never confided her past life to me. I was told by one who 
 knew her years ago, that she was once deeply interested 
 in a man of great intellect, but whose heart was smothered 
 by ambition. She was dazzled by his genius, and proud 
 of his friendship — gave herself up to the fascination of 
 his society, until she found herself enslaved by it. He 
 married another, and since then, she sneers at love, and 
 turns sentiment into a joke. But I do not think she ever 
 
84 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 really loved. You look at me as if you expected I should 
 say more, but I shall not. If a woman's heart is worth 
 having, it is worth taking some pains for. The field is 
 your own. I don't know as you have any rival." 
 
 " But you can advise me ? " 
 
 " No, I can do no such thing. I don't know what 
 would make you happy — you are the best judge of that. 
 I cannot look with your eyes, nor you with mine. These 
 matters everybody must manage for themselves." 
 
 " But you love Mary, you say ; and she returns 
 your affection," he added. 
 
 " Yes, I love her better now than formerly. I was 
 always interested in her; and I think she loves me, 
 although she is not very demonstrative. I don't feel 
 that I thoroughly understand her even now. Sometimes 
 she seems so genuine, so confiding, so fond ; then again 
 distant and reserved. I have had many minds about 
 her. But I will not say any more — I don't like match- 
 makers. You confess that she is beautiful ? " 
 
 "Yes, but that is not enough — I must go — give her my 
 good-night?" 
 
 " Perhaps you had better seek her, and say adieu for 
 yourself. You can take the Sycamore path to the road, 
 and you will meet her there." 
 
 Mr. Herbert seemed half-inclined — wavered a little on 
 the door-step — and then off he went, a short cut down the 
 hill. 
 
 He was no sooner out of sight, than Mary emerged 
 from her retreat, and came toward me. I thought she 
 was rather piqued, because he had not followed her, 
 although she pretended to be glad that the tiresome fel- 
 low had gone. "How you can tolerate his old-fashioned, 
 stereotype notions of woman and matrimony, I don't see ?" 
 said Mary. " I pity his wife, whoever she may be. And 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 85 
 
 then his everlasting doctrines — doctrines that he thrusts 
 at you at every turn. Swedenborg says this, and Sweden- 
 borg says that — as if I should believe it any the more, 
 because Swedenborg says it." 
 
 "Well, he is stupid enough," said I; "and if he can 
 take a hint, he won't show himself here again very soon." 
 
 " Why, you like him ! " said Mary, " and I can tolerate 
 him for your sake, and try to find the good side of him, 
 if he has one. But as to that, he is too good. I never 
 could like good men. They are generally stupid bores. 
 I wonder if he was vexed with my running off? It was 
 rather rude, to be sure ; but I can't hear him discuss 
 woman. He has such high-sounding notions; and he 
 looks at one so, as if he thought he could see into one's 
 soul. No man need think he can see into my soul, an 
 inch farther than I choose to let him." 
 
 "It's a way he has of fixing his eyes on the person 
 with whom he is talking," said I. " He ought to know 
 how disagreeable it is, for really, I believe he squints a 
 very little! But I doubt if he gives us an opportunity to 
 tell him anything very soon." 
 
 " Squints ! " exclaimed Maiy ; " why his eyes are su- 
 perb ! But you don't really think he is offended at my 
 leaving him ?" she asked, with earnestness. 
 
 " I think he had some reason to be," I replied, " and I 
 doubt if he puts himself in the way of a similar rudeness 
 again very soon." 
 
 "A straw for a man so touchy as that! No man, of 
 any real manliness, would take any notice of such a petty 
 affront from a woman. It just confirms my opinion. A 
 jealous, suspicious man ! Heaven have pity on his wife ! 
 A man who has feelings ! If there is anything really 
 wishy-washy, on this earth, it is a man with feelings. 
 There he goes down the road — good-by to him. People 
 
86 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 annoy ine ; I always hurt their feelings, without meaning 
 to do it. Nobody can bear to hear the truth. One must 
 flatter, and fawn, and play the hypocrite; but I can't do 
 it. I must speak as I feel." 
 
 " My dear, self-deceived friend," said I, " are you sure 
 that you speak as you feel ? Are you sure that you really 
 despise men who have feelings ? are you sure you think 
 Mr. Herbert really a wishy-washy man, and wish he 
 would not come here again ? Now, by the light of this 
 moon, can you swear you speak the truth ?" 
 
 " By the light of this moon, I swear nothing," replied 
 Mary. " I know that I worship truth in the abstract — 
 that I wish to be true — and that I am true to myself, even 
 in my vagaries. So good-night, dear; and believe, in spite 
 of my waywardness, that I love you, and have spent the 
 happiest moments of my life, in this sweet home of 
 yours." 
 
 " I wish you had one as sweet, or sweeter, Mary," said 
 I ; " you deserve it." 
 
 "No, Alice," said Mary, turning away her face, so 
 that the moonlight fell full upon it ; " no, I do not de- 
 serve one yet. I could not make one happy. Sometimes 
 I feel that I am all wrong — that my life has been ftll 
 wrong — all selfishness. But I can't make the lines clear 
 yet. Good-night, dear ; " and kissing me tenderly, more 
 tenderly than she ever had done before, she went to her 
 room. 
 
 ***** 
 
 You seem so interested in Mary, that I cannot refrain 
 from writing more of her. In what a new light she 
 appears to me, within the past few weeks ! I wish Mr. 
 Herbert could see her as she is now ! He has not been 
 out here since the evening she left him so abruptly. I 
 heard that he was absent from the city, with a sister 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVEEY-DAY PEOPLE. 87 
 
 whom he loves, who is dying of consumption. I told 
 Mary what I knew of this sister, and interested her very 
 much. She seems to like to hear me talk of Mr. Her- 
 bert, but says nothing herself. 
 
 The autumn days are coming ; and our forest leaves are 
 changing. With these low winds sighing round me — 
 these faded leaves scattered along the paths, or " heaped 
 in the hollows of the grove" — come memories of the past, 
 that throw a sadness, not unpleasing, over my spirit. So 
 has the autumn come and gone, for years, in the home of 
 my youth. So have the yellow leaves bestrewn the 
 familiar paths I trod with those I loved — the early friends 
 with whom my heart shared " its every thought and feel- 
 ing." And over the grave of my early-lost, these chang- 
 ing leaves are falling ; and these mournful winds seem to 
 breathe the requiem of my blighted hopes, laid low in the 
 dust, where lies my first-born. Can I be otherwise than 
 sad ? for oh ! how my heart loved him ! May I not be 
 sad, without sin now, when all nature is filled with the 
 tokens of decay, and every breeze sounds a dirge through 
 Nature's desolate temple. Now, how I long for you, 
 friend of my youth, who have known me from childhood, 
 that I might, without restraint, unburthen my soul once 
 more. But I cannot here, where none know me — and 
 none knew him — the bright bird who has left my Paradise, 
 for the garden of God. I must not be sad, for it will 
 distress my good husband. My sorrow is his sorrow — 
 but we feel it differently. It is the difference between 
 man and woman. I cannot tell you how ever-present 
 my loss is to me. Sometimes it creates a yearning that 
 cannot be uttered — to see him, and to clasp him in my 
 mortal arms once more. 
 
88 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 You ask why I say nothing about Mr. Herbert. I 
 have had nothing to say until now. You recollect I told 
 you of his departure from town, to visit his dying sister. 
 He returned a week ago, and brought the little orphan 
 girl of the departed one, home to his father's house. He 
 looked sad ; but spoke of Emily so affectionately, and so 
 cheerfully, that we all felt it was wrong to mourn for her. 
 Mary never appeared so well. Of course it is no time 
 for jokes and badinage, and her manner has a serious 
 thoughtfulness, that renders her very interesting. She is 
 softened; and her voice is full of feeling. Can it be 
 possible, that she is really interested in Mr. Herbert? or 
 is it only sympathy with his sorrow ? 
 
 The other evening, after he had gone, she said to me, 
 "There is something very beautiful in Mr. Herbert's 
 views of death ; and he seems to believe them with his 
 whole heart. I wish mine were as consoling. Death ! 
 the unsolved — the awful mystery ! The skeleton at every 
 love-feast of the heart ! Death ! the end of all certainty — 
 the fearful leap into the unknown ! Alice, are Herbert's 
 convictions really anything more than pleasing fancies ? " 
 
 " We can only judge by their effect upon his life," I 
 replied ; and I brought out a little book he had lent me, 
 which we read together, with great interest, till inter- 
 rupted by my little girl, who was clamorous for atten- 
 tion — when I left to give the children their supper — 
 and Mary strolled out to enjoy the glorious twilight, 
 through the old wood — her favorite resort. The sunset 
 was gorgeous ; and the harvest moon rose magnificently 
 in the east, while the west was yet glowing. We have a 
 late tea, for my "gude man" is always late from town ; 
 and I put my little girl to sleep, before his return. This 
 night he was later than usual. The moon was quite 
 high, before he arrived: and when the tea was ready, 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 89 
 
 Mary was beyond the reach of our voices, for we called 
 repeatedly, and she did not appear. I was quite alarmed, 
 for our house is isolated, and I knew it was not prudent 
 for her to venture very far alone, at that hour ; but my 
 husband re-assured me, by saying that he passed Herbert 
 walking out, and probably he had found Mary in the 
 path, or at the spring, and joined her. I was quite satis- 
 fied with this explanation ; and we sat down and took 
 our tea alone. Somewhere about ten o'clock, the run- 
 away appeared — whispered a few words to me, which I 
 did not hear, and went to her room. In great bewilder- 
 ment, I went on the porch, and there stood Mr. Herbert, 
 leaning against the pillar, looking awfully serious, and, 
 I fancied, very unhappy. 
 
 I tried to rally him, and begged him to come in and 
 take a cup of tea, but he declined, and said " he must be 
 on his way home." 
 
 I couldn't let him go, looking so disconsolate ; and 
 mustered courage to ask him what under the sun had 
 happened ? If he had been quarreling with Mary — and 
 what she had been saying, that neither of them could 
 take any supper. But not a word could I make him tell 
 me, except that he would see me to-morrow — and off he 
 went. It was such a glorious night ; and I was so ex- 
 cited that I could not go to bed ; and seated myself on 
 the porch, to use my Yankee privilege of guessing. A 
 light tap on my shoulder, startled me. It was Mary. 
 " Are we all alone % " said she. " Quite so," I replied. 
 "No husbands about?" "None," I answered, "so sit 
 down and tell me what is the cause of these strange do- 
 ings ? Why you did not come home to tea? and what 
 you said to poor Mr. Herbert, to make him look so woe- 
 begone ? " 
 
 " Did he reallv look sad ?" asked Mary. 
 8 
 
90 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 " Indeed, he looked," said I, " like a man whose feel- 
 ings have been hurt ; and I am provoked with you, for 
 saying bitter things to him, just because he is a good 
 man ; and you despise good men who have feelings." 
 
 There was a half smile on Mary's face, but a tear in 
 her eye, which I could see plain enough, glistening in the 
 moonlight, as she said, " Perhaps I have learned to like 
 good men — and to respect feelings — since I made that 
 silly speech." 
 
 " I hope you have, Mary," said I. 
 
 "Really — do you hope so, Alice ? " she asked, eagerly. 
 
 "Really" I answered. 
 
 " Then I confess to you — and I tell the truth — I have 
 learned to value goodness, and to respect feeling, in the 
 person of that best of men. And I will confess still 
 more, if you will listen. I have always known how to 
 value him better than I was willing to acknowledge. I 
 don't know how it happens. He is very unlike the ideal 
 I had formed, to myself, of a man. He is not a genius, 
 not a man to shine in society, not one to dazzle and fas- 
 cinate, but he is a man to love. He is the only man 
 that ever revealed to me my own heart. I held out a 
 great while, against my own convictions, but now " 
 
 " You have confessed " 
 
 "No, no, no, not yet. Something prevented me. I 
 could not quite say it to-night. I wasn't quite prepared 
 for his avowal." 
 
 "And so you let him depart in uncertainty ? " I asked. 
 
 "I don't think he is very much in doubt ; but I wanted 
 time to understand myself. I have tried to think I had 
 no heart, that love and romance were all childish non- 
 sense ; but I doubt it now — they seem vastly real ! " 
 
 " Seem! nay Mary, they are so," I said. " You say he 
 has no genius, and will never shine in society. True 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 91 . '_.- 
 
 enough — but he will shine in the sphere of home, and dif- 
 fuse genial warmth and light there, where most they are 
 needed ; and where your heart can best be nourished and 
 strengthened by them." A multitude of thoughts rushed 
 over me, and my foolish tears, always ready to flow, fell 
 profusely. It is a holy moment, when the heart acknowl- 
 edges the power of a deep and fervent love, and is ready 
 to yield all — everything to its might. Mary too, began to 
 weep ; and there we sat silent till my husband put his 
 head out the window, and asked us if the cock was 
 crowing to " usher in the dawn ?" At which signal, we 
 parted. 
 
 The next day Mary said little, but I knew she was 
 happy. Fortunately, I thought of an errand to town in 
 the afternoon, and drove in, just about the time Herbert 
 generally made his appearance, having told my husband 
 previously, to wait until I came for him. "We made a few 
 social calls to pass away the time, and rode home by 
 moonlight. I saw, by the looks of my friends, who came 
 out to meet us, that all was right between them. I took 
 both their hands in mine, but I had nothing to say. I 
 never have, when the occasion seems to demand it. Mr. 
 Herbert looked so happy, and Mary so serenely beautiful, 
 I blessed them in my heart of hearts. May God bless 
 them. I can write no more at present. 
 
 # # # • # * 
 
 You have heard me say many times, that I had great 
 faith in first impressions, in the sort of instinct which 
 draws us to some people, and repels us from others. I 
 have sometimes found myself mistaken, but very rarely ; 
 and often after temporary vacillation, I return again to 
 my first instinct. You remind me of all I have said, in 
 past years, about Mary ; and ask whether I suppose she 
 is really metamorphosed by love, or whether I have, for 
 
92 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 so long, been mistaken in her? or if all the good I 
 now find in her, waited only the magic touch of affection, 
 to unfold it. If you will recall the first time I ever spoke 
 of her, before I had even been introduced to her by name, 
 you may recollect I said I had seen some one at a party, 
 
 at place, whose face interested me more than that of 
 
 any person I had ever met. I felt the strongest desire to 
 know more of her, and was irresistibly drawn toward her. 
 We did not meet again for some months. In the mean- 
 time, I heard rumors of her being the object of admira- 
 tion, to several gentlemen, and among others, to Mr. 
 
 II , the pet of society — admired for his intellect 
 
 and cultivation, by a certain set, in which Mary reigned 
 a " bright, particular star." When I met her again, Mr. 
 
 II was married ; and Mary, who had inherited a 
 
 large fortune, by the death of her father, was living in 
 independence, and very much courted in society. I was 
 then, for the first time, introduced to her ; and although her 
 beauty and talent fascinated me, the peculiar charm, 
 which at first captivated me, was gone. There was an 
 effort to shine — to say brilliant and startling things — and 
 a sort of defiance of the opinions of the world, that passed, 
 with some, for truth and independence — but seemed, to 
 me, vastly like egotism and affectation. I saw that she 
 deceived herself even more than others. The real beauty 
 of her character was lost. The true womanliness had 
 vanished. It was with these impressions I wrote to you 
 of her. They were totally at variance with my first in- 
 tuitions, and yet, from time to time during our inter- 
 course, glimpses of her real self shone through her 
 assumed character, and she was always a fascinating 
 study to me. It is true, she is changed, but the change is 
 a return to herself; and again I feel for her that real 
 heart-interest with which she at first inspired me. I con- 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY TEOFLE. 93 
 
 sider it a most fortunate circumstance, that she met with 
 a man like Mr. Herbert, before those false habits of 
 thought and expression had become a second nature, 
 and before she had passed the freshness and beauty of 
 youth, and her heart, without objects to call forth its 
 affections, had become soured and embittered by the 
 loneliness of a single life. To be sure, Mr. Herbert is 
 the last man I should have supposed Mary would fall in 
 love with. He is eminently a good man — by no means a 
 brilliant one. But he is sound, sensible, affectionate, 
 and perfectly true. His heart is good and noble. Added 
 to these sterling qualities, he has very good looks — is 
 manly and dignified in his bearing — well educated — po- 
 etical enough — and keenly alive to the beautiful in nature 
 and art. With more culture, he would be more attrac- 
 tive ; but he has a reserved power — capabilities yet to be 
 unfolded ; and it will be Mary's privilege to develop this, 
 the aesthetic part of his nature. Few of our young men 
 have opportunity for the cultivation of their taste in the 
 higher departments of art. Mr. Herbert is a business 
 man. He has been compelled, from early manhood, to 
 carve out his own fortunes. By dint of persevering in- 
 dustry, he has amassed a very pretty property. Abund- 
 ance of means, and abundance of opportunity, will now 
 be opened to them ; but whether they will be the happier 
 for it, time alone will determine. I smile inwardly, to 
 think of the sensation this engagement will excite. Mary 
 has been much admired by gentlemen, but few have ven- 
 tured to make love to her; and of those few, that the 
 plain, unassuming Mr. Herbert should have been the 
 favored one, is, indeed, extraordinary — only that matches 
 always surprise us. 
 
 The two love affairs that have interested me most, next 
 to my own, are entirely dissimilar. One, you recol- 
 
94: THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 lect, was the youthful attachment of ray early friend Bes- 
 sie, full of poetry and romance. This was the poet's 
 elysinm of love! A halo of beauty surrounded it, and 
 the story of their lives seemed more like a fairy tale, 
 than reality. This that interests me at present, is the 
 mature choice of two strong hearts, with whom the first 
 flush of romance has faded, but within whose quiet depths 
 has grown up slowly, the conviction that their happiness 
 could only be complete in each other. Which do I prefer, 
 do you ask ? Oh ! by so much more, the latter — the 
 real — the known — the comprehended. The first is for 
 poetry — for day-dreaming — when we close our eyes in 
 reverie. The other is for the battle, and conflict, and 
 reality of life. I doubt very much if half of these 
 matches made in early youth, prove truly a union of 
 souls. The one I allude to, has been fortunate and 
 happy — but for so many others — look around you, and 
 say if the fullness of joy, springing from a union of 
 hearts, is to be found in their homes. These aimless 
 women — faded prematurely — broken in health — without 
 purpose — without energy ; these frivolous vanity-fair 
 dolls, whose sole object in life, is to hang gew-gaws about, 
 their persons, and simper and smile, in so-called society ; 
 and these haggard, care-worn faces, with their abstracted 
 look, as if they had no hopes — these tell the story of 
 many a young and passionate, but misplaced attach- 
 ment. Nor is it among the wives alone, you can see the 
 sad tokens of disappointment : but man can run away 
 from his misery. In business, in pleasure — and if no 
 principle restrain him, in other alliances. But the wife 
 sits among the wrecks of her young dreams, happy, if in 
 her fidelity to duty, or her maternal love, she can create a 
 new altar for her crushed affections. I simply mention 
 facts, but. don't pretend to account for them. I do not 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 95 
 
 agree with a writer, who says marriage must be either 
 intensely happy, or intensely wretched. There is a mid- 
 dle ground of cheerfulness and serenity, to which a 
 Christian may attain, in whom love of truth and duty, 
 are the highest motives of action. Unselfish devotion, 
 without hope of return, is its own reward; and God's 
 love is rich enough to fill all the waste places of the heart. 
 # # # # # 
 
 It would do your heart good to see our happy lovers ! 
 How full their lives seem to be ! I am glad that I have 
 this delightful home in the country, for their sakes, as 
 well as my own, for they enjoy so much its pleasant 
 seclusion. They know they are always welcome here. 
 The other day, Herbert brought his little niece to see us. 
 He is looking forward to the time when he can give her 
 a home. When I saw Mary caressing her, and looking 
 upon her with eyes of such deep tenderness, I could 
 hardly believe it was the strange, wayward, restless girl 
 of last summer. Her very countenance is changed ; the 
 light in her eye is softened ; and she has almost a Madon- 
 na-like beauty. That satirical expression — that scornful 
 curl of the upper lip — is all gone. She has not lost her 
 sprightliness, and often entertains us with playful sallies ; 
 but her ordinary manner is subdued, and rather serious. 
 Her whole heart, and a great heart it is, is Mr. Herbert's. 
 As for him, he seems to tread on air. Little recks he of 
 the distance between our house and town. He comes over 
 every afternoon. It is a sweet, sad time for lovers. The 
 haze of the Indian summer hangs like a curtain over the 
 leafless woods, and through its filmy tissue the outline 
 of the distant hills melts away into cloud-land ! Oh ! 
 best of friends ! why cannot the heart go out of itself at 
 all times, and rejoice with another's joy ? Why do we 
 turn our lingering, longing souls back over the paths wo 
 
9Q THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD ; OR, 
 
 cannot tread again, as if we had lost, by the lapse of 
 years ? What has gone from us ? Youth — joyous, hope- 
 ful youth — yes, that lies behind us. Youth, and hope, and 
 friends — scattered — perished. But what remains ? Ex- 
 perience. Is it not nobler to have lived, suffered, enjoyed, 
 and to feel within, the capacity for deeper life than youth 
 can know ? Why should we linger over the past ? Why 
 should we be sad ? 
 
 While I write, at this moment, I catch the faint notes 
 of music. Some procession, or military company, return- 
 ing to town. The orchestral tones come to me, softened 
 by distance. My heart is too full to write. I wish not 
 even to speak ; but above all things, I wish not to dream. 
 Come realities — come living beings for me to bless — come 
 those who need my sympathy and my cares — come any- 
 thing but this aimless, enervating reverie. Yet if it were 
 only possible, in this world, for one heart to read another, 
 without the need of words ! The poet pours forth his 
 soul in song. He writes because he must. The pent-up 
 fire would consume him, if he could not give it vent. He 
 writes ! The fever of his soul is quenched ! He sends 
 his fervent life abroad into the world! It passes into 
 other hearts ! it sinks into their depths ! This is sympa- 
 thy. In another life, will such sympathies unite us ? I 
 suppose Mr. Herbert and Mary are of the opinion that 
 one need not wait to get into the other life, to find real 
 sympathy. They think they have found it in each other. 
 Is it a dream ? You and I have felt it. Was that a 
 dream ? Alas ! we are creatures of moods, ever- varying. 
 The trouble is, two people are seldom in the same mood, 
 at the same moment ; and we are so under the influence 
 of things beyond our control, that we could not sympa- 
 thize with ourselves for any length of time. 
 
THE EVEKY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 97 
 
 THE PAST. 
 
 Weep not for what is past, 
 
 With vain and fruitless tears, 
 But husband well thy strength, 
 To serve the coming years, 
 In noble deeds, not idle grief, 
 Let the true soul find sweet relief. 
 
 Mourn not for what is past, 
 
 Though every passing day, 
 Some pathway may disclose, 
 Where thou hast gone astray. 
 Tears will but cloud thy feeble sight — 
 Not guide thee to the way of right. 
 
 Weep not for what is past ; 
 
 Not tears of blood will bring 
 One wasted moment back, 
 Or stay Time's rapid wing. 
 Pour not thy soul's best life away — 
 Begin anew to live — to-day. 
 
 Oh ! weep not for the past, 
 
 Though in its dark domain, 
 The forms thou lov'st are bound 
 By adamantine chain. 
 The deathless spirit should not be, 
 Bo fettered to mortality. 
 
 What doth the grave enfold, 
 
 That there thy thoughts should turn ? 
 Colder the clay beneath, 
 Than monumental urn. 
 The lost to thee — to life are born — 
 Rejoice then in their natal morn ! 
 
 The past ! that narrow span 
 
 Is nothing now to thee, 
 Poor prisoner of time, 
 Yet in thine infancy ! 
 The soul should earthly thrall despise — 
 The future hath no boundaries. 
 
98 THE OLD CORNER CDPBOARD; OR, 
 
 Mrs. D'Harcourt came out the other day, to talk with 
 me about the " new e-ngagement" She would not be- 
 lieve it, till I verified it ; and then I could not make her 
 believe that Mary was really in love. " However, that is 
 of but little consequence," said she, "if they mutually 
 respect each other." 
 
 I shook my head. Such doctrines do not suit my ideas. 
 
 " You may look as grave as you please," said Mrs. 
 D'Harcourt; " it matters very little whether people are in 
 love before they marry or not, provided they have a well- 
 grounded esteem for each other. I know you are a great 
 advocate for love. I have heard of your saying you used 
 to watch to see your lover pass a certain corner of the 
 street, and to catch even that short glimpse of him, was 
 joy enough for one day. But I don't believe you are any 
 happier now, than I am, who never pretended to be in 
 love before marriage, but feel a stronger affection for my 
 husband every year ! " 
 
 " That may be," I said ; " but I have what you have 
 not — the pleasant memory of that happy time when the 
 mere presence of the beloved object was enough to fill me 
 with joy. I have something that you have not, and never 
 can have." 
 
 " And therefore I ought to be dissatisfied, I suppose ? " 
 said Mrs. D'Harcourt. 
 
 I wondered to whom I had made that silly disclosure; 
 and for the thousandth time in my silly life. I blamed 
 my foolish tongue, that could not keep my-own secrets. 
 However, I still maintain th'at I am richer than Mrs. 
 D'H., for my past holds a joy that hers can never 
 yield." 
 
 # # # # # 
 
 So many weeks have passed since my last letter — weeks 
 full of interest — yet I have not found the propitious 
 
THE KVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERT- DAT PEOPLE. 99 
 
 moment to write, till now. I know you are as anxious to 
 hear about our friends, as I am to talk about them; so, 
 without farther preface, I will begin. How many sheets 
 I shall fill, before I have done, I dare not think ; but you 
 are, by this time, accustomed to my missives. The other 
 afternoon, Mary and I were, as usual, sitting on our 
 porch. The day had been soft and balmy, although the 
 autumn is now far advanced. We had been talking, with 
 open hearts, of the past and future — of Tier past and fu- 
 ture — not mine, for I live more in hers than my own 
 just now, except as I find reminders of my own, in the 
 pages she turns over. She alluded to her early attach- 
 ment, of which I have before spoken to you. " I have 
 told Frank," (meaning Mr. Herbert) "all about this, 
 my only approach to being in love," said she ; " and I 
 can say with truth, looking back upon it from this dis- 
 tance of time, that it was nothing but a fascination — a 
 sort of infatuation." 
 
 " That may be said of love, in general, may it not? " I 
 asked, quizzically. 
 
 " As people think," she replied, "but you and I know 
 better. Mr. Dudley, my former flame, is a man of intel- 
 lect, and great attainments, with a seasoning of vanity, 
 and a towering ambition. With the reverence I felt, at 
 the period of our acquaintance, for intellectual superi- 
 ority, you will not wonder that I was fascinated by him, 
 particularly as he manifested a decided preference for my 
 society. To be the companion of a man of acknowledged 
 genius and learning, seemed to me an enviable distinc- 
 tion. To be at the head of a circle devoted to aesthetic 
 culture, was my ambition. I was bewildered with the 
 false glitter of the little set to which I belonged. To 
 shine in literary circles — to talk well — to control, by 
 my intellect and wit, was, in my stilted and conceited 
 
100 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 judgment, the only thing worth living for. Common- 
 place people were my detestation. I will give you my 
 definition of common-place people some other time. 
 
 " "Well, Mr. Dudley seemed very much to admire me. 
 I was rich — well-looking — and had the reputation of be- 
 ing a genius. We were corstantly together. His society 
 became a necessary excitement to me. But, all at once 
 he amazed our little coterie, and myself particularly, by 
 getting married! He disappeared from us for a few days, 
 and returned, bringing back a wife ; a simple, unso- 
 phisticated little girl from the country. I often tried to 
 unravel, what seemed to us all, the mystery of this singu- 
 lar choice. I have thought, lately, it may be traced to 
 something higher in his nature, than his ambition of 
 intellectual distinction. I am inclined to believe he 
 had a lurking suspicion, that the constant encounter of 
 two shrewd wits, would make a home rather too piquant 
 for common life ; and that the quiet devotion of a simple, 
 loving heart, would be a relief from the insatiate de- 
 mands of society, such as ours. We predicted domestic 
 discontent ; and were quite sure that his home would be 
 insipid to him, after a time. But justice demands of me 
 to say, that he appeared really happy there; and, al- 
 though justly distinguished in the literary world, he has 
 ever seemed satisfied and happy in domestic life. The 
 simple heart that loved him, filled the void that the 
 homage of the world could not satisfy. There was in 
 her no restless striving to stand upon an intellectual 
 equality with her husband. She had a just appreciation 
 of him, but never sought to come into competition with 
 him. I might have called her common-place once: I 
 should not do so now. I should say she filled her sphere, 
 in a beautiful and graceful manner ; better than I should 
 have done, had I been his wife at that time. She makes 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LITE OF EVEEY-DAY PEOPLE. 101 
 
 him happy, and is far happier herself, than I could have 
 been. 
 
 " After they were married, I felt listless and unsatis- 
 fied — not positively unhappy — but I felt the need of excite- 
 ment, and being my own mistress, I resolved to travel in 
 Europe, and joined a party of my friends, who were going 
 to reside in Florence. I enjoyed myself much in the 
 society of gifted people, and in study ; but I was restless 
 for want of an object. Mental culture, as an end, is not 
 enough to satisfy one's nature. I often asked myself, as 
 Frank asked me not long ago, to what purpose am I thus 
 using my time and my energies, in constantly cram- 
 ming — adding more and more to my acquisitions 2 
 Who am I enriching by it? Had I been compelled to 
 turn my accomplishments to account, it would have given 
 a zest to my life. As a means to something useful — some- 
 thing that could benefit others — my culture would have 
 been a source of happiness to me. As it was, I felt 
 burthened with an ever-present consciousness of being 
 alone — of being nothing to any one. I wonder I confess 
 it. A few months ago, I should have been too proud to 
 acknowledge it, even to myself. 
 
 " When I returned from Europe, I became interested in 
 one of the prominent reformers of the day. To satisfy 
 this vague longing for an object in life, I plunged head- 
 long into the new ideas that were gaining ground in our 
 choice circles. I became a very expert talker about 
 equal rights, and myself lived the most luxurious and 
 indolent of lives. Early habits of indulgence were strong 
 as bands of iron about me ; but my opinions were on the 
 side of the dignity of labor, and an equal division of 
 property. However, do me the justice to believe, that 
 my heart condemned my own aimless and purposeless 
 life, all the while, and I used to wish that something 
 
102 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 would deprive me of my abundant means, and the ne- 
 cessity of earning my living, compel me to exertion. It 
 did not then occur to me, that I should ever marry. I 
 knew that gentlemen admired me, but I thought I 
 never could be an object of love." 
 
 " And now tell me," said I, "if it is not an impertinence 
 in me to ask, tell me if the prospect of a single life 
 made you ever unhappy ? " 
 
 " I will tell you as far as I can understand them," said 
 Mary, with that earnest smile, which means so much, 
 " precisely what my feelings were; I would not have told 
 you then. I am not without intellectual vanity, as you 
 must have discovered. That, and a sort of outside stoi- 
 cism, helped me to deceive myself and others. But there 
 were moments when nobody saw me, when, in contem- 
 plating the rational happiness of domestic life, and the 
 joy of maternal love, which I have seen in you, my heart 
 has cried out, with a feeling of isolation. Yet, had I 
 never loved — had I been condemned to a single life — the 
 world — my best friends would never have seen by any out- 
 ward manifestation, that my lot was not of my own choos- 
 ing. I think I should have been bitter and sarcastic. 
 But one thing would have saved me from it — that is — a 
 true heart-religion. Yet, how could I have learned that ? 
 In what guise could those angel-messengers have come, 
 which seem peculiarly to belong to the holy ties of do- 
 mestic life ? Oh ! how glad I am, Alice ! how glad I am, 
 that the good Father has taught me by such persuasive 
 ministration, what alone can make this life sacred ! 
 Others learn it by disappointment and privation. I am 
 afraid I never should have learned it so. I have been 
 taught it by happiness. It is only in living for 
 others, that we can taste the blessedness of life." Just at 
 that moment, the postman arrived with letters, and inter- 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 103 
 
 rupted our conversation. Imagine us at this point, read- 
 ing our respective documents. 
 
 After an hour, Mary and I met again on the porch — 
 she with an open letter in her hand, and marks of strong 
 emotion in her countenance. " Can you imagine what 
 I have to tell you, Alice?" said she. 
 
 " No bad news I trust?" said I. 
 
 " That depends upon the way you look at it. This 
 morning I believed myself rich in this world's goods ; but 
 now, I find myself, not quite a beggar, but quite as poor 
 as once I wished to be. The Bank has failed where most 
 of my property was deposited, and nothing remains but 
 some interest in wild lands, lying off, Heaven knows 
 where, in some unexplored region this side the Rocky 
 mountains." 
 
 " You shock me," said I. " What does it mean ?" 
 
 " Nothing, but that I have lost nearly all of my goodly 
 fortune. You must know, ever since I came out west, I 
 have been anxious to invest a part of my property in the 
 purchase of lands here or elsewhere, having caught the 
 fever of speculation that runs so high just now. But 
 my very safe guardians disapproved of my running any 
 risk, and insisted that I ought to keep on the safe side — 
 which was to shut up my money in a Bank, from which, 
 to be sure, I could draw all, and more than I needed, but 
 which, as it now appears, will never yield me any more 
 having broke, and gone to pieces. I very much doubt, 
 whether I have enough on hand for a wedding outfit, and 
 now, I must go to work in earnest." 
 
 "Mr. Herbert!" I exclaimed, "will he not be sur- 
 prised ?" 
 
 " He will find me, I fear, anything but a helpmate, un- 
 less I begin betimes to put my shoulder to the wheel." 
 
 " Two years ago," added Mary, after a pause, " I 
 
104 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 should have felt this sudden reverse of fortune a relief. 
 Now, it comes as rather a startling reality. Now, I re- 
 gret it, but more for the sake of others, than my own. I 
 had formed many beautiful plans for our future. Revisit- 
 ing Europe, with Mr. Herbert to share my enthusiasm. 
 Pleasant pictures have floated through my imagination, 
 and all those scenes of beauty and interest were bathed 
 in a new light. But these dreams must be given up now. 
 We must be economical, homespun people. I must learn 
 housekeeping, and other practical duties. Well, well, it 
 is all right. I am richer than I was a year ago, notwith- 
 standing the failure of the Bank ; " for," she said smiling 
 and putting her arm round my waist affectionately, " the 
 best part of my fortune is safely invested in a Bank that 
 cannot fail, and never stops payment." 
 
 " There, you speak truth," said I. " You run no risk 
 there. But what will he say ?" 
 
 " He will be sorry for me," said Mary. " He thinks I 
 have been so long accustomed to luxuries, that they are 
 necessary to my happiness. And he is partly in the 
 right. It will no doubt be difficult for me to remember 
 that I ought not to indulge my tastes and whims — to go 
 and come, and do what I like. It will cost some effort to 
 give up my selfish gratifications, and to acquire a system- 
 atic habit of using my time and energy. I am, as*you 
 have had ample opportunity to know, a lazy, self-indul- 
 gent person. Since I knew Frank, and have heard him 
 talk so much about uses, I have felt the strivings of a 
 better nature within me, and resolved to do something for 
 the sake of good to others. The good God foresaw that 
 I should never have had strength and perseverance to 
 overcome old habits and form new ones, with the choice 
 still remaining in my own hands, of self-gratification or 
 self-denial, so you see, by removing the temptation to 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 105 
 
 indolence and inefficiency, He has made it easier for me 
 do my duty. I ought to be thankful." 
 
 " But you talk of economy and exertion, as if Herbert 
 were a poor man," I said. 
 
 " In comparison with what our united fortunes would 
 have been, our present means will be limited; but there 
 he comes." 
 
 "Who? Oh, I forget; there is but one man in the 
 world." * 
 
 " Except your husband," added Mary. 
 
 " We will shake hands on that," said I, " and pledge 
 ourselves to affirm in the face of all the world, that hu- 
 manity has not vanished from the earth, while they are 
 on it. Now, I will to my own meditations, and leave 
 you to unfold this new phase of your history to Herbert." 
 
 After tea, while I was busy about my little household 
 
 matters, Mr. H , who was standing with Mary in the 
 
 hall, beckoned me to join them. 
 
 " I want you on my side," said he. 
 
 "I am there already," I replied, taking my stand at 
 his right. 
 
 " I wish you to use your best friendly influence with 
 Mary, on a matter of grave importance. She will tell 
 you what it is when I am gone." Mary just then slipping 
 into the parlor, (I suppose I had a very inquisitive look,) 
 Frank drew my arm within his own and said, " I will 
 tell you myself, if you have leisure to bestow upon me." 
 
 " We will take a stroll down the Sycamore path," said 
 I, and nodding to Mary we passed out together. 
 
 " You have heard the intelligence contained in Mary's 
 letter?" said he. " It will make a great change in her 
 way of life," he continued, " and if I hadn't full faith that 
 what we call the accidents of life, are the good intentions 
 of God towards us, I should say it was, for her, a sad loss 
 
106 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 But she does not regret it on her own account. Ah ! she 
 knows not what the change will be. All that I can offer 
 Mary is a competency — a comfortable home — a heart and 
 life devoted to her happiness." 
 
 " And is not this enough for any reasonable woman? " 
 I asked. 
 
 " You do not realize," said Frank, how much she will 
 be compelled to relinquish." 
 
 "But, what she gains is of more value," said I; "this 
 she feels. I speak advisedly — she feels she has a greater 
 treasure, in your love, than the whole world could offer 
 her." 
 
 " God bless her," said he with emotion. " I would be 
 worthy of the trust she reposes in me. My whole heart 
 is hers. My study will be to deserve her. But I am 
 wandering from the subject. I am desirous to marry at 
 once — and this I cannot persuade her to listen to. She 
 has, she says, so many things to learn. But she can learn 
 them in our home as well as elsewhere. She speaks of 
 deferring our union till spring. I cannot think of it. 
 Use your influence with her." 
 
 " I will do so, and you shall be married here, at my 
 house," said I. " Leave it to me." 
 
 " A thousand thanks, dear, kind Mrs. Dearbon — best 
 of friends — I leave you full of hope." 
 
 "Not without bidding Mary good-night," I added. 
 "It would be too bad, to let this fine evening be wasted. I 
 must go to my little girl, and Mary shall meet you here. 
 If you fail, trust to my womanly tact." And I was off, 
 he following me slowly into the house, where he joined 
 Mary, and what time they parted I ken na — for, like a 
 staid sober matron as I am, I went to bed and to sleep, 
 and the last I remember, was a stifled sort of hum of 
 human voices, floating upon the quiet air, and my two 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 107 
 
 happy friends became mixed up in a fantastic manner 
 with my dreams. 
 
 # * * * # 
 
 Of course, after what I have written, you expect to hear 
 of a wedding likely to take place. You are right. Mary 
 is to be married at my house next week. Mr. Herbert's 
 mother, brother, and ourselves, complete the wedding 
 guests. 
 
 And I must lose my dear Mary — my beautiful, my win- 
 ning, my noble, good friend. She goes to bless another's 
 home, and she will bless it. I have no fears now. 
 Herbert is so happy — so deeply, quietly happy. He loves 
 her so devotedly — he is so manly, so true. The little 
 Emily will live with them. All I could say dies away in 
 a heart-felt prayer for God to bless them. 
 
 How rich is life ! what a holy thing is affection ! I do 
 not mean one tie merely — but all the sweet ties that 
 "bind our race in gentleness together" — love, friendship, 
 maternity. Is it not a blessed thing to live? My heart 
 overflows with gratitude to God for the beauty, the rich- 
 ness of life, the capacities he has given us for happiness. 
 His love flows into our souls — we are partakers of his 
 nature who is love itself. Through how many channels 
 his peace and joy pass into our lives, and through ours 
 into the lives of those about us, linking us together in one 
 holy communion — God's children ! In my youth I sighed 
 for happiness. I tasted joy — I was bewildered. I sought 
 for pleasure, and yielded myself to its fascination, but 
 happiness was still the dream of my soul, ever sought, 
 never found, till my heart was at rest in the consciousness 
 of God. 
 
 Mary and Herbert have gone on their bridal tour ! How 
 I miss them ! They have left Emily with me, and a sweet 
 little companion she is, not only to my children, but to 
 
108 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 me. She is three years older than my daughter Nelly, 
 and rather a subdued, womanly little creature, having 
 never had the companionship of children of her own age. 
 I am glad to see that she takes to country pleasures so 
 naturally. She is quite the opposite of Nelly, but I think 
 they will be of use to each other. I let them play out of 
 doors most of the day. I am not anxious to cram the 
 minds of young people with book learning. They study 
 an hour or more in the morning, and sew awhile in the 
 afternoon. They are very eager to help me in my house- 
 hold duties — a desire which I encourage to the utmost. 
 It is among their privileges to wipe the silver and china, 
 dust the parlor, and help to make cakes and pies. They 
 feel then that they are of importance, and that is a 
 happy consciousness for old and young. I think you would 
 be pleased with Nelly, albeit she is, as her mother was 
 before her, a troublesome child. She is active and very 
 restless, unless constantly employed, but she has a grand 
 faculty of amusing herself. Her eager mind is ever on 
 the alert. Her eyes discover wonders in everything. 
 When she returns from her rambles in the woods, she 
 brings her apron full of curiosities, odd-looking worms 
 and insects, petrifactions, snail-shells, pebbles and plants, 
 all of which, to her eyes, are marvels of beauty. Of these 
 she has formed a miniature cabinet, which it is her great 
 happiness to have admired, and there seems indeed no 
 end to the number or variety of her treasures. I can not 
 walk with her without having my attention directed to 
 this and that object of interest. One of her most fascinat- 
 ing duties is to bury dead caterpillars and insects, mark- 
 ing the spot where they repose amid the solitude of the 
 old forest, by many appropriate emblems. Of death she 
 knows little except what I have told her in answer to her 
 eager questionings. I have endeavored to give her the 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 109 
 
 most healthful and cheerful views of the life beyond this, 
 of the reality and nearness of the spiritual world, for I 
 would not have her young life clouded by the terrible ap- 
 prehensions which made the thought of death so fearful 
 to me. It is so easy for a child to believe in the reality 
 of another life — the fatherly love of God, and the happi- 
 ness of good spirits, particularly of little children, whom 
 the Lord loves to bless. Where I imbibed my first terror 
 of death and the unseen world, I cannot now remember. 
 Dim recollections of my youthful shrinking from the 
 tokens of its presence — from the coffin and the shroud, 
 come over me even now, and with them a creeping shud- 
 der. The first time I saw a corpse, the solemn faces, the 
 darkened room, the suppressed voices, the weeping friends, 
 and more than all, the cold touch of the marble clay, the 
 deep awe which crept over me as I stood transfixed, gazing 
 on the rigid features, startled at every rustle of the mourn- 
 ers' garments, shuddering lest the white lips should un- 
 close, the folded hands move — ah, it was awful ! Night 
 after night the specter haunted me. Years after, when I 
 went to my lonely little bed at night, the memory of that 
 coffined body, gaunt, ghastly, unearthly, rose up before 
 me ; and fear, such fear as made my very heart stand still, 
 took possession of me, combined with that oppressive feel- 
 ing of the mystery of the hereafter which awaited me, when 
 1 too bodily, should be laid stiff, cold and insensible in my 
 coffin, and my soul should have gone to be judged by its 
 Creator, the awful God who had set down my every fault in 
 his book, that book from which my sentence would be pro- 
 nounced, banishing me peihaps to everlasting torment — 
 shut out from heaven and the angels forever and ever. 
 Did I love that God? And then how many times in my 
 childhood I dreamed of that dreadful day of doom, when 
 the earth and all its inhabitants should be destroyed. 
 
110 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD ; OR, 
 
 How vividly I can recall one in particular of those fearful 
 dreams. I saw rising in the west a lurid fire, stretching 
 from one extremity to the other of the horizon — now 
 shooting up in gleams, like the coruscations of the Au- 
 rora Borealis, but red and flame-like, now sinking down 
 as in a furnace seven times heated. Men, women, and 
 children, in mortal terror, looking up to heaven, praying, 
 horror-struck, for pardon and mercy. Did I love that 
 Beino- ? can a child love a God thus fearfully depicted ? 
 
 From whence I derived these terrific views, as I said 
 before, I cannot now remember. It could not have been 
 from my gentle mother. I cannot recall the source from 
 whence I drew my earliest impressions, but they were 
 laid deep. They haunted many a lonely hour of my 
 childhood, in the dark nights, when I could not sleep, 
 and no mother's soft voice came to dispel my fears, and 
 teach me that the God so dreaded, was my Heavenly 
 Father, whose kind care was ever over me, whose love 
 was ever striving to lead to himself — who had made the 
 world of beauty for his children to rejoice in — who had 
 given his commandments, not as an arbitrary sovereign, 
 but as a wise Father who knew what was best for his 
 children — who was ready to forgive — ready to help — 
 always wishing to do us good. But the evil has passed. 
 It was a great one — it dimmed the light of my child- 
 hood — but it has passed. It hung like a cold shadow 
 between me and the hopes of future life, but it can never 
 come again. 
 
 There are places, around which, hang so many associa- 
 tions of this early terror, that I do not love to visit them, 
 albeit they are in the home of my childhood. Perhaps, 
 had I never suffered from these vague fears, I might not 
 have known how to choose the good, and avoid the evil 
 in the education of my own children, in this respect. 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. Ill 
 
 Certain it is, they have no dread of death ; no recoiling 
 from the grave. It was only yesterday, that I overheard 
 Nelly and Emily talking together. They were "playing 
 dead" and burying their doll. They had laid it in its 
 little cradle, amid the leaves and blossoms which the 
 frost had yet spared. 
 
 "How sweet she looks,' 1 said Nelly. " So shall we look 
 some day, when we are dead. We shall be dressed in 
 white, and flowers all about us — and then they will put 
 our body in the ground — and our friends will plant roses 
 and vines all over our grave — and we shall see them 
 growing, when we are up in heaven." 
 
 Yes, dear children, cherish the thought ! It is not 
 an illusion. The heart perceives its truth in childhood, 
 although the head, in after years, by seeking to reason 
 upon it, may lose it in vain speculations. The heart be- 
 lieves it still. We do not die. Life is perpetual ; ever- 
 flowing from the Fount of life. Oh ! receive it ever as a 
 little child, and thou wilt find the Kingdom of Heaven. 
 * * * * * 
 
 Mary writes she will be here at Christmas. What can 
 we do to make the day happy, and ever to be remem- 
 bered as a holy day ? I took a walk with the children 
 over the hill, in search of an evergreen tree for the occa- 
 sion, for Nelly is crazy to have a Christmas tree. In this 
 part of the country, where the soil is so rich, and the 
 forest growth so luxuriant, it is hard to find pine or hem- 
 lock. I think we will write to Mary to send one by the 
 boat. Yes, it is a bright idea — our tree shall come from 
 New England! It will seem to bring with it the old, 
 sweet, sad murmur of the pine woods. We will have it 
 dug up by the roots — we will plant it in our new home. 
 The associations of by -gone years shall cluster around it ; 
 it shall have tales to tell all of us — pleasant tales of our 
 
112 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 early years — of lovers' walks — of romance — of hope— of 
 the union of true hearts — yes, we will write to Mary at 
 once. We are transplanted from that rugged clime to a 
 new home ; and our household tree shall also be brought 
 from thence. I think it will live, if we cherish it ten- 
 derly. "We will try and not kill it with kindness. I must 
 close now, and write at once to Mary Herbert, for it will 
 take some time for the tree to reach us. This is one of 
 the happy thoughts that seem like an inspiration ! You 
 may not hear from me until after our festival. Not hav- 
 ing a full purse to draw upon, our gifts for the season, 
 must be planned and accomplished by our own ingenuity. 
 The children are all in a flutter — their mamma, outwardly, 
 is a little more subdued, but quite as much of a child 
 at heart. Could you but come and help us, and' enjoy 
 with us ! 
 
 The tree has arrived sooner than we expected. How it 
 breathes of those patches of wood-land, where you and I 
 have passed hours together, looking for the young leaves of 
 the wintergreen. It is a young cedar of beautiful propor- 
 tions, and just large enough. How sweet it smells ! Mary 
 will be at home to-morrow — at her own home — not mine. 
 Mr. Herbert's house is in town, very pleasantly situated ; 
 very cheerful and bright, on the sunny-side of the street. 
 His mother has had everything put in order for them. 
 We are going in, with the children, to await their arrival. 
 They will have just time to rest and recruit before Christ- 
 mas eve. In the meantime, we shall be very busy, and 
 you must not expect to hear from me, until the festival is 
 
 over. 
 
 # * # # # 
 
 The two great days having passed — and a new year 
 begun — I must write from a full heart, to do it worthily. 
 
THE EVEBY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 113 
 
 Our Christmas was charming. Everybody was happy 
 and disposed to enjoy to the utmost. Having no neigh- 
 bors we were somewhat at a loss at first whom to invite 
 as guests beside our own little circle. It seemed selfish 
 to confine our happiness to so small a sphere, and yet we 
 could not flatter ourselves that any of our city friends 
 would take the trouble to come so far, particularly as 
 all of them were doubtless interested in their own way 
 with their nearer friends. Mary and Frank Herbert 
 with their father's family, and Emily and our two little 
 ones were not enough. Our hearts and our house were 
 too large and full of happiness to permit us to be contented 
 with so limited a number. Thanks to Frank Herbert for 
 the timely suggestion of gathering in some of the little 
 children in the neighborhood, to whom the sight of a 
 Christmas tree would be a novelty. It seems in his 
 walks to and fro our house, when his heart, overflowing 
 with tenderness to one, had " grown prodigal to all," and 
 his newly awakened sympathies embraced everything 
 animate and inanimate worthy to be loved, he had made 
 acquaintance with some of the little children of the labor- 
 ing men on the farms and gardens, scattered at intervals 
 along the road, and also with some of the barefooted 
 little German and Irish children belonging to the men 
 who were quarrying the hill opposite, and lived in the 
 shanties near by. " Let us have them all at our merry- 
 making," said he ; which resolve was carried unanimously. 
 "We left him to give the invitations while we busied our- 
 selves in the necessary arrangements. Nelly had saved 
 up her pennies from last Christmas until she had accu- 
 mulated nearly two dollars. Emily also had quite a 
 large sum in her Bank — and we proposed that, if they 
 liked the idea, they should appropriate their funds 
 in presents for the little children who were to be 
 10 
 
114 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 their guests. The idea was received at once — it touched 
 the right chord in their generous hearts — to help those 
 who needed help. Nelly also had five dollars, a present 
 from her aunt in New England, with which she was to 
 buy something she liked for herself, something which she 
 could value, and by which she would always be reminded 
 of her dear relative. I saw by her manner when she 
 spoke of it, that there was a great question going on in 
 her mind, whether it would be doing justice to her aunt 
 to spend the money in any other way than that suggested. 
 I thought I would let her settle the matter her own way. 
 The result was, that she decided she would appropriate a 
 small part of the sum to the purchase of a memento of 
 her aunt, and with the remainder buy some nice things 
 for the poor children. I was the more glad to learn that 
 such was her decision, as I knew she had long ago fixed 
 her heart upon a large wax doll, with eyes that would 
 open and shut, which she thought would afford her 
 infinite satisfaction. 
 
 The day before Christmas we all spent in town, making 
 purchases. Mary and Frank also were equally busy, and 
 our wagon was quite a curiosity-shop when we returned. 
 Mary went in for the useful in the shape of woolen stock- 
 ings, mittens, comforters, hoods, etc., etc., with tin 
 horses, trumpets, whips and similar accessories thrown 
 in promiscuously. Mr. Herbert provided things even 
 more substantial, and quite too homely to hang upon 
 the tree even if it would have held them. I may as 
 well tell you of barrels of flour, bags of meal, hams, etc., 
 which doubtless will reach the hearts of the recipients, 
 though it may be through a very matter-of-fact way. 
 
 What a time we had disposing our wares to the best 
 advantage, and what a fine show they made! The 
 children had gathered baskets of moss, of which, with the 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 115 
 
 help of a substantial foundation, we raised a mountain, 
 behind which arose our tree lighted with innumerable 
 little candles, and hung about with golden apples, bright 
 oranges, gay boxes of sugar-plums, and gorgeous parti- 
 colored toys and gew-gaws. All over the bank were 
 scattered toys, and mysterious packages, bright scarfs 
 and knit comforts were festooned in the back-ground — in 
 short it was a fairy scene while it lasted, and never did 
 festive lamps shine upon more happy, wondering faces 
 than those which gazed upon that magic tree and its 
 surroundings. After the gifts were dispensed, we all 
 went into the dining-room to supper, and after supper, 
 Frank and my husband amused the children with various 
 pranks and tricks — themselves as joyous as boys — while 
 Mary and I and the old people looked on with becoming 
 pride and admiration. 
 
 " You remember our compact," said Mary, "on a 
 certain evening?" 
 
 But I was stupid, I did not remember. " Then give 
 me your hand as you gave it then," said she. "Perhaps 
 that will recall it." I gave the hand and she drew me to 
 the porch. It was a stinging night, but neither of us felt 
 the cold. The rich, warm glow in Mary's cheek told of 
 an inward, gushing warmth that no external winter could 
 chill. Still I was stupid, I could not remember. 
 
 " I would be provoked with you if I could," said 
 Mary, "but I see I must remind you of a certain evening, 
 when you and I standing here together joined hands 
 and pledged ourselves to affirm, in the face of all the 
 world " 
 
 "Oh! yes," said I, recollecting it all, then, "'that hu- 
 manity never could be extinct, while two such incompar- 
 able men lived, as your husband and mine ! ' It all comes 
 back to me now, and I believe it all, don't you ? There 
 
116 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 is only one such man as my husband — so good and excel- 
 lent, I mean — and that one is yours ! " 
 
 " My husband ! "Well, it does sound odd to say it. 
 Mary Truman no longer ! Married ! I should like to be 
 very serious. Something comes over me, and my heart 
 aches to express it. How joyous, how genial he is ! You 
 think he is happy, don't you, Alice ? " 
 
 " Indeed I do," I replied. 
 
 " And that he will continue to be happy, in spite of my 
 waywardness, and my imperfections ? But I can't say a 
 word more. My words choke me now. Yes, I must say 
 this. I am glad to look up to him, glad he is so much 
 stronger and better than I am. I never knew, before I 
 loved him, the power of goodness. One may strive and 
 strive, and still the great, good man ever growing more 
 and more in God's image, lifts up the woman-soul, as to 
 something above itself. I recognize his superiority ; I 
 love to recognize it. I am willing to be led by him ; he 
 leads me imperceptibly. You may have your own way 
 of explaining these things, which, doubtless, is a very 
 good way, if one can understand about your interiors, 
 and your exteriors, your wisdom of love, and love of 
 wisdom, which, I confess, is a mazy sort of puzzle to my 
 mind at present. But Frank is so clear-headed, he will 
 make it all straight to my intellect, I suppose ; while, at 
 the same time, a power above his or mine, or that of any 
 created being, will make it plain to my heart. Come, let 
 us go back into the room. I could talk all night, now I 
 have begun, but I might say foolish things, besides, as I 
 am in the vein, which I am not always, it is a pity that I 
 shouldn't say my tender things to him who can prize 
 them better than you ; and there is always a sort of spell 
 upon me in his presence, even now. I cannot say all I 
 feel ; but I will live it all. Now let us go back." 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 117 
 
 When we returned to the room, Herbert had stopped 
 romping, and was looking about for something. " The 
 husband of a few weeks cannot be easy out of her sight," 
 thought I. " Well that is natural, I suppose. I suppose 
 it cannot be called silly. He seems easier now, poor man, 
 since she has come in!" Something whispered in my 
 heart, " Why won't it always last ? " But it won't. See 
 my husband frolicking away. He didn't know I went 
 out, and does not observe my coming in. There he goes, 
 romping and rolicking, like a great boy. 
 
 He does not know I am looking at him ; he does not 
 know I am thinking of him. What is all this talk about 
 magnetic influence ? Does it mean anything ? Does it 
 belong only to courtship, and the first few weeks and 
 months of marriage ? I thought of the past years. Such 
 a season of romance and enchantment had been mine. It 
 seemed a great way back in the past. How much had 
 happened since that time — joyous and sad — how very 
 much had happened ! Did we love each other the less, 
 for all we had enjoyed and suffered together? Did we 
 think of each other less, in that we had other objects of 
 our united love ? I thought of a little grave, far off in the 
 winter-woods. The blue eyes of my child shone in upon 
 my heart, and seemed to chide me for the brief moment 
 of misgiving — of regret that youth and romance, and illu- 
 sion could not last forever.- Christmas was here, and 
 could I forget to be happy ? I, who had so much to be 
 happy for ! The shadow passed ! I felt how rich I was, in 
 the faithful and tried love of years, in the lives of my 
 children, in the memory of my child-angel, in friendship, 
 in the capacity of enjoyment, in the ability to make others 
 happy. 
 
 My husband was busy packing the toys, for the child- 
 ren to take home. I went to help him. " We shall 
 
118 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 never forget this happy evening," said he. " It was a 
 good thought, as all your thoughts are." How ray con- 
 science reproached me. It was not my thought ; how I 
 wished it had been. I told him it was Frank's idea, not 
 mine. "That's all the same," said he, "it would have 
 been yours, only he got the start of you. At any-rate, 
 you carried it out, which is a great deal better. You 
 have had all the trouble." " It has been nothing but a 
 pleasure," said I ; and he looked so kind, so loving, so 
 tenderly at me, and said such very affectionate words, 
 which I cannot think of repeating, that after a little need- 
 ful penance, by way of chastizing my selfishness of a few 
 moments past, I brightened up, and nientally resolved 
 that the sober, subdued happiness of staid old married 
 people was, after all, the most satisfactory. 
 
 The children dispersed early, and the remainder of our 
 guests staid all night. We had a cozy time, sitting around 
 the wood fire, after the juveniles had gone to bed. It 
 was midnight when we separated. Frank wishes we 
 would live in town this winter. I think we shall remain 
 here a year longer however. I do not care for society ; I 
 love the country even in winter. Nelly and Posey are so 
 healthy and happy here. Besides, you have promised to 
 pass several months with me, and I want you all to my- 
 self. We shall not change at present. 
 
 # * * # # 
 
 [The promised visit from Miss Singleside occasioned a 
 gap in the correspondence, which was resumed the follow- 
 ing winter. — Editor.] 
 
 * # # * # 
 Once more in town. Compelled to give up our pleas- 
 ant home in the country, because the owner wishes undis- 
 puted possession. Well, I shall see more of Mary Herbert, 
 and that is one satisfaction. But I dread a town life. 
 
THE EVERT-DAY LIFE OF EVERT-DAY PEOPLE. 119 
 
 The endless hurry and confusion — the unceasing din. 
 My ears are unaccustomed to it. I have lived so long in 
 comparative solitude, the sighing of the wind through the 
 trees, the chirping of birds, and the hum of insects, lull- 
 ing me to a state of repose and inward serenity, that I am 
 in danger of being too much roused, by this continuous 
 rattling of wheels over the pavements. What are you 
 expecting, in the way of gossip ? nothing of fashionable 
 society, for we are without its pale. Very little of amuse- 
 ments, for we cannot afford them. Of myself, my family, 
 and my particular friends, are you not weary ? If you 
 will send me that pretty niece of yours, I think my house 
 will be attractive to young gentlemen. All unmarried 
 gentlemen are young, you know. There is nothing an 
 old bachelor affects so little, as his female cotemporaries. 
 But, as successive generations of young belles make their 
 debut, these quaint pieces of antiquity are foremost in the 
 train of their admirers. And they have such an intense 
 way with them ! The young things never dream they are 
 making love under cover of this paternal interest. If you 
 pin me down to give my impression of society, and will 
 take it. with some limitations, I will speak from my post 
 of observation, as an outsider. One of the disagreeabili- 
 ties, and, in my judgment, the disadvantages, is the clan- 
 nish spirit that pervades the community. There are East, 
 "West, North, and South-enders, New Englanders, the Lit- 
 erary clique, the Unitarians, Episcopalians, Swedenborg- 
 ians, Methodists, etc., etc. Now, I do not like this squar- 
 ing of one's sympathies by rule and compass ; but it is of 
 very little importance, except to myself, whether I like it 
 or not, since I never expect or desire that social position 
 which will make my likes or dislikes a matter of general 
 interest. There seems to me little permanency or stability 
 to friendship here, because people have not time to form 
 
120 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 deep attachments. Friends become estranged, who have 
 summered and wintered year after year together; and 
 when the tie is severed, away goes the mutual confidence 
 of years, to the winds. The heart betrays its trust, when 
 it changes its love. Perhaps it is so all the world over, 
 but my experience has happily been otherwise; neverthe- 
 less, for genuine, open-hearted hospitality, freedom from 
 convention, and absence of ceremony, give me western 
 people, such as I meet in every-day life, in whose homes 
 I am at home. People of intelligence, simplicity, refine- 
 ment. There are no homes in New England that I love 
 better. And the people are alive here — awake to some- 
 thing, if it be not to the highest end of existence. But, if 
 you wish to know for what we are the most remarkable, I 
 will tell you — it is for entertaining lions. Each clique has 
 its own particular standard of testing the quality of its lion. 
 There are fashionable lions, literary lions, and wealthy 
 lions. Let a stranger who has a reputation for talent, in- 
 tellect or learning, come here, and the literary clique 
 pounces on him at once. He is mounted on a pinnacle 
 so that all can see him, and expected to roar for the grati- 
 fication of the company. If he stay but a short time, we 
 don't get tired of listening ; but if he settles in our midst, 
 the chances are against him. The victim of a sudden 
 popularity, finds himself unexpectedly fallen, quite flat, 
 probably as much below, as he was at first above, his 
 proper level. His " short summer, in a sea of glory," is 
 soon over, and a " winter of discontent " succeeds. There 
 are in fact, so few genuine lions, and these never will 
 roar when they are expected to. But you have read of a 
 certain animal, who doffed the lion's skin. The disguise 
 may succeed for a while, but the probability is, in some 
 unguarded moment, the natural bray will reveal his 
 quality. What a hard fate it must be, to be obliged to 
 
THE EVERY- DAY LIFE OF EVEEY-DAY PEOPLE. 121 
 
 roar to suit popular expectation ! Blessed be nothing ! it 
 makes one so independent. 
 
 I hear the young ladies complain that there are few 
 beaux. I don't know how this happens. I see very many 
 young men as I walk the street, well-looking, well-dressed, 
 beauish ; but I suppose they have their specified orbits, 
 which could not be disturbed without affecting the whole 
 social system. I do not, it is true, see any variety in my 
 own circle, and should not know where to look for any 
 others than those I meet there. One cannot pick one's fa- 
 vorites, and fill a drawing-room ; and the beaux are con- 
 scious of their importance. I heard of one having said, 
 not long ago, "It is not of the slightest consequence 
 whether I call on Mrs. 8 She must invite us to her 
 
 parties. She cannot have a party without us." And he 
 was right, unfortunately for him, as well as for his hostess. 
 It is a misfortune to a young man to feel himself of so 
 much importance, that he can violate the rules of polite- 
 ness with impunity. 
 
 The young girls here, go early into society. Most of 
 them are prematurely old in the ways of the world. They 
 want freshness, girlishness. If you wish to see how child- 
 ren, the children of some of the rich and fashionable are 
 manufactured into little gentlemen and ladies, come to 
 Mr. Pedrillo's dancing school. See the dress, the airs, 
 the graces, the incipient coquetry of these Lilliputian 
 beaux and belles ! Mr. Pedrillo knows his craft well. 
 Let the children be but young enough, he will form their 
 manners, dictate the style of their dress and behavior, 
 and by the time they are fifteen, they will have little to 
 learn of the world of fashion. "Why do not parents look 
 deeper than the outside show ? They love to see these 
 little painted butterflies flutter in the dazzling light, 
 enjoying the magic of motion. Music, dancing, joy, 
 
122 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 belong to childhood, but not the heated atmosphere, the 
 bewildering glare, the artificiality of a ball-room. I had 
 rather my child were awkward and ungainly, if 1 must 
 purchase grace and freedom of motion, at such a tre- 
 mendous sacrifice of nature. 
 
 * # # # # 
 
 I was walking out the other day, and met a pale, inter- 
 esting young woman, who stopped me and inquired if I 
 knew of anybody who wanted a seamstress. Being myself 
 in need of one, and being also extremely interested in her 
 appearance, I asked her to come and see me the next day, 
 and she promised to do so. Punctual to her engagement, 
 she made her appearance early the following morning, and 
 has been with me ever since. Knowing that nothing in- 
 terests you so much as incident, I am persuaded you will 
 be eager to learn something of Mabel, and I shall tell you 
 from time to time what I can learn of her. She is not 
 more than twenty, judging by her appearance, and her 
 face, in spite of a tinge of sadness that overshadows it, 
 has almost a girlish expression. She is an American. 
 Her father, she says, moved out west from New Hamp- 
 shire, I forget what town. She was the youngest of six 
 children, who died before they reached maturity. So 
 much of her past history she told in answer to my ques- 
 tions ; but I shall learn more of her. 1 feel sure she is 
 very unhappy, and perhaps I can help her. She sits and 
 sews all the day and evening. I urge her to go out and 
 walk, when it becomes too dark to see without a light, 
 but I cannot persuade her to do so. She says she is a 
 stranger, and has nowhere to go. How sad ! No friends 
 in this populous city! I cannot see her sitting at her 
 work day after day, with that sorrowful face, and not 
 strive to assure her that I wish to be a friend to her. She 
 evidently belongs to that respectable class of New England 
 
THE EVEKY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 123 
 
 farmers, of which you and I must ever retain pleasant 
 recollections. The summer we passed together among the 
 Mountains of Vermont, will ever be a green spot in our 
 remembrance. To-day I had been busy below, and had 
 left my little girl in the room with Mabel for some hours. 
 When I joined them, little Posey was asleep in Mabel's 
 lap, and as I took her to lay her on the bed, I saw the 
 poor girl had been weeping. I can endure it no longer, I 
 must learn the cause of her grief, and why she is here 
 friendless and alone. 
 
 # # # # * 
 
 You will wish to know what knowledge I have gained 
 of my poor sewing-girl. I will tell you. The night I 
 found her weeping over my child, you remember, I said I 
 was resolved to question her, if I could do so without giv- 
 ing her pain. "Mabel," said I, as I sat beside her — it 
 was nearly dark, and we were alone together — " I think 
 you are not well, and I am afraid you are unhappy. 
 Something troubles you. You say you are alone here. 
 Let me be a mother to you. I want to help you if I can. 
 You are too young to be friendless in so large a place, and 
 perhaps you do not know what temptations surround you 
 here. I wish to be of service to you. Tell me if there is 
 any way in which I can assist you, and if it will not dis- 
 tress you, tell me your trouble, and why you left a com- 
 fortable home and kind parents to come here ?" She looked 
 at me a moment, as if to read the feeling that prompted 
 my inquiries, and then turning away her head, sobbed 
 convulsively. I took her hand in mine, a small white 
 hand, that looked as if it had never done hard work, and 
 I waited until the violence of her feelings had subsided, 
 before I spoke again. Then I said, with all the tender- 
 ness I felt, "Mabel, you are very unhappy. You are 
 away from your real mother, let me be a mother to you." 
 
124 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 "I believe you are a true friend, Mrs. Dearbon," she 
 replied. " 1 believe I can trust you. But how can I tell 
 you all. I have indeed left kind parents. I love them 
 dearly, but love another more. I left them to find him — 
 my husband. I walked the streets day after day in hopes 
 of meeting him, until I spent all the money I had, in 
 paying for my nights' lodgings, and when I met you, I 
 had nothing left — I could not go back without him, so 
 I resolved to seek employment." 
 
 " Your husband ! " I exclaimed. " Mabel, you are young 
 to be married. Where is your husband, and why did 
 he not send word, where to meet him, that you might 
 have been spared this fruitless search? What is his 
 name? Perhaps Mr. Dearbon can help you to find him, 
 my poor child, and you shall stay with us, until we can 
 learn where he is. But had we not better write to your 
 parents ? They must be very anxious about you, if they 
 have not heard from you these many weeks. 
 
 Mabel shook her head. " My husband's name is Lynn," 
 she replied, "William Lynn. He is not to blame — he did 
 not know I was coming. My father forbade my seeing 
 him again. But I could not live without him. I would 
 give up father, mother, all for him. We were married at 
 farmer Jones' house. I promised William not to tell 
 them at the time. I fear my father never will forgive 
 me." 
 
 "What was his objection to William," I asked? 
 "Perhaps if he knew you were really married, he would 
 forgive you both, and take you home again." 
 
 Mabel shook her head. " I cannot break my promise to 
 William. I cannot go home without him, and my father 
 has forbidden him the house. I wish I could tell them, 
 for ," and she buried her blushing face in her hands. 
 
 " I understand you, Mabel," said I, " but take heart, 
 
THE EVEEY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 125 
 
 my home shall be yours, if you have none other. But 
 tell me child, why your parents objected to your marriage. 
 Is William a poor man? Has he done anything wrong? 
 Why did not your father like him. Tell me all, Mabel." 
 
 " Oh ! you are so kind," said Mabel, grasping my 
 hand. " I thought I could never tell my troubles to 
 anybody." 
 
 " You can tell them to me, Mabel, and perhaps I can 
 help you out of them," said I. "Now begin back to the 
 time you first met William. Tell me all about it." 
 
 "If I do not tire you," she said timidly, "I will tell 
 all my story. — I was the only child left, when my father 
 moved out west. We were well off for farmers. I never 
 was obliged to work. My mother had a girl to help her, 
 and I was sent to school. I was a good scholar, and my 
 father was very proud of me. But he is a stern man. 
 He always meant I should marry Thomas Conway, our 
 neighbor's son. I knew he meant it, but I did not love 
 Thomas. We had grown up together — he was good and 
 kind and well off, but I did not love him. We were 
 young, and father encouraged Thomas to come to our 
 house; and kept up the hope that, by-and-by, I should 
 marry him. Perhaps I might if I had never seen William. 
 Thomas loved me. He would have made a kind husband. 
 Perhaps I might have married him to please father; but 
 after I saw William, I felt it could never be." 
 
 "And who is William, Mabel," I asked, "and what 
 is he?"' 
 
 " William Lynn, was a young student from the Col- 
 lege, in the next town. A party of young men came 
 to our place, to spend their vacation in hunting and 
 fishing. They lived in the farmers' families around, and 
 Mr. Lynn boarded with us. It was three years or more 
 ago. I was very young, only seventeen. I had never 
 
126 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 been away from home, I had never known many young 
 men, and "William was so handsome, so different from 
 our country boys, he had such pleasant ways, he talked 
 so well about things, and about places that he had seen — > 
 he sang so well, and read to me from books I had never 
 heard of. My father had but few books, and William 
 gave me poems to read, and read them with me." 
 
 " It was a lonely place where we lived. My father's farm 
 was large, and there were no near neighbors. "William 
 gave up fishing and gunning. He did not seem to care 
 for his other friends ; he was always with me. I cannot 
 tell you all — I loved him. I was very happy, and I did 
 not think, at first, I was doing wrong. He asked me to 
 promise to be his wife. I felt that I ought to tell my parents 
 all he said, but I could not. Besides, he told me it was 
 not best. He said they saw our love, and did not disap- 
 prove, ' for see,' said he, ' how they allow us to be to- 
 gether all the time, and they must know that we could 
 not help loving each other. Besides,' he said, ' it must 
 be some time before we can be married. I have yet an- 
 other 3 r ear to go through in college, and then I must go to 
 Europe — and then I must get settled in life — and there 
 are a great many reasons why it is best to say nothing 
 about marrying, to your father or mine, at present. "We 
 can love each other just as well — and possibly they might 
 call it all childish nonsense — possibly they might think it 
 best to separate us — and your father might insist upon 
 your marrying Thomas Conway — and that would make 
 me wretched.' 
 
 " The thought of marrying another, made me shudder. 
 I believed all he told me. I tried to think I was not 
 wicked, but my heart reproached me with ingratitude to 
 my dear mother. But the great love I felt for "William, 
 swallowed up every other thought. He was all the world 
 
THE KVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 127 
 
 to me. I promised to be his wife, and he left us. ' Be a 
 good daughter, Mabel,' said he ; ' by-and-by, all will be 
 right. I know your parents will not object to me, when I 
 can tell them who I am, and how handsomely I can pro- 
 vide for you. I am much more troubled about my own 
 father. He is a rich, proud man. But he cannot separate 
 us. If he will not help me, we can help ourselves.' 
 
 " I was too happy to fear anything. I loved too well, to 
 doubt William. He left me, but still I was happy, for I 
 could think of him. Father and mother both spoke kindly 
 of him. He had not been gone many weeks, ^before 
 Thomas took to visiting our house very often, and my 
 parents made him very welcome. My mother used to praise 
 him to me, and say what an honest, good young man he 
 was, and that so good a son as he was to his old mother, 
 would make a kind husband. I knew what it all meant. 
 I knew Thomas loved me. His mother many a time told 
 me I must marry him, and come and live in the old place; 
 aud within a year or two he had fixed up the house and 
 garden, for he was well-off, and able to do what he liked ; 
 and his mother said it was all to make the cage the pret- 
 tier for his bird. It made me very sad. I wished that I 
 could make everybody happy — father, mother, Thomas, 
 and all — but it could not be. I knew I was very selfish. 
 I was ready to give up all for "William. At last, Thomas 
 asked me the plain question, would I marry him? He told 
 me how long he had loved me — how that his only hope in 
 the world was to make me his wife. My heart ached for 
 him, but I told him the truth. I said it as kindly as I 
 could. He did not blame me. He turned as pale as 
 death. 'Mabel,' said he, 'I feared it; and I know you 
 love another. You never loved me — and I have nothing 
 to reproach you with. I do not know "William Lynn. 
 You do not know him, Mabel. He came here a stranger, 
 
128 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 handsome and learned. He may be all your heart believes 
 him, and if you love him, God grant he may not deceive 
 you. But what is his short love, to mine.' The tears fell 
 down my face like rain. I felt so guilty — and yet I was 
 not to blame. 'Oh! Thomas,' said I, 'my kind, good 
 friend, you must not think me hard-hearted. Yon must 
 be happy — you must not look so wretched. I love you as 
 a brother ; but more than this, I cannot say. Do not 
 think hard of William. I know he is, as you say, almost 
 a stranger, but I believe he is true and good. Oh ! can 
 we not all be friends ! ' 
 
 " ' Sometime — when years have passed, and our hearts 
 are no longer young — when all hope is gone, perhaps, I 
 can say I — am not happy ; but, perhaps then, in your hap- 
 piness, Mabel, I can forget my own misery — but not now. 
 Don't make yourself sorrowful on my account. Try not 
 to think of me at all. I will not come to the house any 
 more. You will tell your father and mother how it is. 
 They must not blame you, for indeed, Mabel, I feel you 
 are not to blame. It is not your fault that you cannot 
 love me. If you could have given me love for love, it 
 would have made many hearts glad ; but nobody is to 
 blame' — and then he left me. I felt it was, and yet it 
 was not, my fault. I prayed for him, that he might be a 
 happy man. I could do no more. 
 
 " My father just then went on a visit to New Hampshire. 
 He had only been gone a few days, when William came, 
 unexpectedly to all of us. He had been very ill, and 
 needed country air, he said. He could only stay with us 
 a day, for he was on his way home. He had left college, 
 and was going to sail for Europe directly, and should be 
 gone a year. 
 
 " It was a sad parting. A year seemed to me a long 
 time. Besides that, it was full of trouble to me. My 
 
THE EVERT-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 129 
 
 father was angry that I refused Thomas ; and very severe 
 upon "William. I confessed all — for now that I had bound 
 myself to William forever, I could not keep it from my 
 parents. 
 
 " My father said it should never be — that I should not 
 marry above me — that I had thrown away my own hap- 
 piness — that I had made an honest and good man miser- 
 able — destroyed the hopes of both families — and given 
 myself to an adventurer whom nobody knew, and who 
 probably would never come back to fulfill his promises. I 
 felt he was wrong, and tried to be patient. I saw how 
 many were made wretched through me — but what could 
 I do? 
 
 "It seemed as if the year would never pass. Old Mrs. 
 Conway died. The farm was sold, and Thomas went 
 away. My mother had a shock of the palsy, and was 
 almost helpless. I felt as if I was the cause of all, and 
 I prayed to God to forgive me, and help me to do what 
 was right. 
 
 "I heard from William while he was gone, and this 
 helped to keep up my spirits. Sometimes I thought, as 
 my father said, what if he should forget his promise, for- 
 get me, and never see me again ? But in my heart I 
 never doubted him. 
 
 " He came back at last, the same faithful, noble heart. 
 He was a man, and so handsome — like the pictures of 
 knights in the old romances. Father treated him coldly. 
 He questioned him of his family and his prospects. Alas ! 
 William could only say that his own intentions were hon- 
 orable. His father was able to help him, and perhaps 
 might do so ; but whether he did or not, would make but 
 little difference. It would only defer our union — it never 
 could change his feelings. 
 
 "All this he said to my parents, but much more to me. 
 
130 THE OLD COKNEK CCPBOAKD ; OR, 
 
 I told him my father threatened to send me to New Hamp- 
 shire. We were but a short time together. He could not 
 stay where he felt his presence was not welcome ; but be- 
 fore he left — oh ! Mrs. Dearbon, this is the only thing for 
 which I reproach myself — before he left, we were privately 
 married. 
 
 " Our house was not far from the village, on the borders 
 of another state. Our farm was on the boundary line, 
 and one of our nearest neighbors belonged to the other 
 side. He was a friend of William's. At his house we 
 were married. There we used to meet, after my father 
 thought he had gone. It was wrong — I knew it then. 1 
 do not excuse myself; but oh ! I cannot undo it. 
 
 " William went away, and left me his wife, with the 
 promise soon to come and claim me. I heard once from 
 him. This letter was full of kindness and affection. 
 Months passed, and I did not hear again. My situation 
 now made it necessary that I should tell my mother of 
 our marriage. At the same time, I resolved to go and 
 find my husband. My mother felt for me, though she 
 blamed me much ; my father would have nothing to say 
 to me. I came here without knowing where to look 
 for William; but I could not rest easy at home. Oh! 
 could you but help me ! Don't suspect me of telling any- 
 thing but the truth ; and oh ! do not blame him. I know 
 he must have written, but he probably never received my 
 letters. If I could find him, all would be right. He 
 would protect me. I do not, I cannot doubt him. " 
 
 "God grant you may not be deceived in him, Mabel," 
 said I. "Now take heart, we will do all we can for you. 
 I will take care of you, for you need a mother's care. 
 But I shall write to your parents, who I know are full of 
 anxiety about you, that you are in safe hands. Perhaps 
 your father may not relent at once. People, particularly 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-UAY PEOPLE. 131 
 
 men, are often too proud to relent, even if their heart 
 prompts them to do so. I shall not blame you for what 
 you have done, although I think you behaved like foolish 
 children, to marry. You might have waited till William 
 was in a situation to offer you a home. If your hearts 
 were true to each other they would have stood the test of 
 a longer separation. But what is done, can't be undone, 
 we must now think what is best for you under the circum- 
 stances. I shall write to your parents to-night. My heart 
 aches for your poor mother. In the meantime, my hus- 
 band and myself will do all we can, to find Mr. Lynn. 
 If that is his real name, and he is in the city, we can find 
 him ; nevertheless, keep up a good heart. I have plenty 
 of sewing to occupy you, as long as you are able to sew. 
 You must not feel that you are a burden. I need your 
 services, and if I did not, you need mine, and I cannot 
 prove my gratitude to our Father for all I enjoy, in any 
 better way than by befriending those who need help. 
 And I am drawn toward you, my poor child, by the 
 strongest of human sympathies. I have little children of 
 my own. I know the feelings that swell your heart at this 
 moment ; they are sacred with me — neither you nor your 
 child shall ever be thrown upon the world. But you have 
 promised to do as I say, so fold up your sewing, and go 
 with my little girl on the piazza, at the back of the house. 
 I shall not permit you to bend so steadily over your work. 
 You must care for your health, for the sake of the husband 
 you hope soon to meet, and for the sake of your good 
 father and mother, within whose forgiving arms, I trust, 
 you will find joy and peace, before a long time." 
 
 It would have done you good to have seen her innocent 
 happiness, as I finished talking to her. She is a sweet 
 young creature, but I tremble to think of the disappoint- 
 
132 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 ment that may be in store for her. From all she says of 
 William, I think he must be true to her ; but what is the 
 occasion of his long silence ? and how are we to get track 
 of him ? "Why need we tax our invention to weave ro- 
 mances and poems, when all around us are realities 
 stranger than fiction ? I will write to you from time to 
 time of my protegee ; and if you can suggest any way to 
 help us, in our search for Mr. Lynn, do so. 
 
 # # # * * 
 
 Mary Herbert and her husband came, last evening, to 
 pass an hour with us. Of course, our conversation was 
 chiefly about Mabel. Mary thinks the probability is, the 
 name of Lynn is assumed. I dont see what motive he 
 could have had for assuming any name. Mr. Herbert, who 
 knows almost every name in town, cannot recollect ever 
 having heard of Mr. Lynn; thinks it may be Lynnwood, 
 or Lynnfield, or Lynn something else. To-morrow he 
 will look in the Directory. Suppose we find him to be a 
 worthless, good-for-nothing man? What is to be done? 
 He is her lawful husband, and bound to provide for her. 
 But if he does not love her any longer! I don't know 
 what to think. I shall cherish her as a daughter. It is 
 impossible not to love her. The most striking thing 
 about her is the innocent, childlike way she has. No 
 guile has ever entered her heart. Her feelings and 
 affections she expressed with so much simplicity — yet 
 there is a depth of womanly love in her eye. This 
 morning, I handed her a little parcel and told her she 
 must sew for herself, and I would help her. I did not 
 stay to see her open the package. When I came back, 
 I found her in tears. She put her arms around my neck, 
 and buried her blushing face in my bosom. " Can I ever, 
 ever repay you," said she. 
 
THE EVEEY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 133 
 
 "We will see about that some other time," I said, and 
 felt myself more than repaid, in the consciousness that I 
 had helped to lighten the load on her heart. 
 
 # * # # # 
 
 Weeks have passed, and no clue as yet to the discovery 
 of Mabel's husband. I am almost in despair, as Mr. 
 Herbert, who knows everybody, cannot recall any one of 
 that name, and there is no such name in the Directory. 
 Mr. Rochester says, he has a dim recollection of a Mr. 
 Lynn who lived here some years ago, and went abroad. 
 We shall continue our efforts to discover him. 
 
 It would do you good, to see how delightfully our 
 friends, the Herberts, live. They have a pretty home, in 
 a pleasant part of the city, small, but tastefully furnished. 
 Mary had many choice and beautiful things at home — 
 valuable pictures, and statuary, and some rare casts, 
 which she got abroad; she says that now, for the first 
 time, they give her pleasure, because others are made 
 happy by them. They do not shut themselves up, to be 
 mutually agreeable to each other, " the world forgetting, 
 and as a necessary consequence, "by the world forgot;" 
 but their genuine hospitality makes their house attractive 
 to their friends, who always find there a cordial welcome. 
 The happier one is, the larger the heart should become; 
 and those have but narrow views of domestic happiness, 
 who think to live for each other only. Those whom 
 Heaven has so blessed, ought to prove their gratitude, 
 by dispensing blessings to others. And what influence 
 so holy as that which goes out from a happy home? 
 Mary's gift of conversation is admirably adapted to 
 make her an agreeable companion to old and young, and 
 her large sympathies enfold all who come within her 
 6phere. They do not make the least attempt at show, or 
 what is called style. They live well enough, but simply, 
 
134 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD ; OR, 
 
 and they welcome their friends to such cheer as they 
 allow themselves. It does not require large means to be 
 hospitable, if one will do it in a rational manner, but it 
 does require a generous, social, and genial nature. These 
 both Mr. Herbert and Mary possess. 
 
 We know their "come any time" means just what 
 the words imply — and every one that comes, is made to 
 feel at home. There is no company room, no company 
 china or silver, no extra dainties, no bustling about to 
 make an extraordinary appearance, but all is simple, 
 natural, and easy. 
 
 I say so much of Mary, perhaps I give you the im- 
 pression, that she is the moving spring of the domestic 
 system. But it is not so. They are well mated. Mr. 
 Herbert is the best, the most genial, the truest of men, 
 and aside from my selfish prepossessions, I am bound 
 to say, he is a living exemplification of the power of 
 genuine religion upon the daily life. I wish he could 
 infuse a little of that happiness, which sheds so agreeable 
 a sphere around him, into our friend Mr. Rochester. Mr. 
 Rochester is, according to the standard of some ascetic 
 people, whom you and I know — a good man; that is, he 
 is strictly just, as the world defines justice, and strictly 
 moral also. He is a prominent leader in reform, and his 
 doctrine is sound enough perhaps, but there is a want 
 of Christian charity in his attacks upon the evils of 
 society. The severity with which he condemns those 
 who differ from him, showing them no quarter whatever, 
 is a libel upon the forbearing temper of the Master in 
 whose service he works. He thinks it a sin to enjoy the 
 comforts which honestly acquired wealth can procure, 
 because so many poor, so many degraded and enslaved 
 are deprived of them. He scorns amusements of all 
 kinds, scorns modern improvements, scorns all recreation, 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 135 
 
 and employs the time that is not required for the neces- 
 sary demands of business, in pursuing his one idea, 
 through every ramification it admits of, in reform papers 
 and speeches, and conventions, until he seems to see 
 no joy in God's world, anywhere. 
 
 "Who can live a healthy life, that never looks above the 
 evils that envelop humanity, with childlike trust in Him 
 who sitteth above the clouds, and is ever working, silently 
 but surely for the salvation of his suffering children ? 
 And who that thus looks above, will not take hope, and 
 sweeten toil with that measure of happiness that life 
 affords ? and more than all, with that christian spirit of 
 pity and forgiveness, which embraces even the erring in 
 its love ? " 
 
 " I cannot scorn the world," said Mary to him, the 
 other day ; " full of evil, and sorrow, and wrong though 
 it is. God does not scorn it ; no blossom of goodness is 
 too insignificant for his eye to mark, his love to cherish, 
 even in hearts overrun with the rank growth of sin and 
 ignorance. How much better to strive amidst this field of 
 tares, to find the grain, and nourish that ; than like a de- 
 stroyer to stride iron-shod over the ground, rooting up 
 both relentlessly, and consigning them to the flame of a 
 wholesale condemnation ! We ought to try and enjoy the 
 good in life. We ought to try and cultivate happiness — 
 happiness, for which the human heart thirsts every- 
 where — happiness, which springs from love to God and 
 man. Let us try and find the beauty, the worth, the 
 truth in the world ; and if we find what is truth and beauty 
 to us, let us impart it to those who are so unfortunate, by 
 nature or education, as to dwell most upon the dark side 
 of things. 
 
 " I have had my day of seeing nothing but the evil," con- 
 tinued Mary, " when the mystery of sin and sorrow so 
 
136 THE OLD COKNER CUPBOARD ; OR, 
 
 clouded my spirit, as almost to shut out the light of God's 
 Providence; when the burden of my own and others' 
 short-comings took away all hope and courage ; but I have 
 learned what is good for me, I will not say it is good for 
 all, but I think so ; that we do not grow stronger, more 
 earnest, more spiritually-minded, by dwelling upon, or 
 trying to solve the problem of the evil within and around 
 us, by living in the past of our own consciousness, or by 
 thinking too much of our own states of mind: on the 
 contrary, we become morbidly conscientious. "What we 
 need is ' to forget the things that are behind,' and the 
 memory of which drags us back, and chains us down, 
 and pressing on, look up with faith, look around with grati- 
 tude, that so much of our Eden is yet unspoiled, and look 
 within with courage and hope ; for inasmuch as " God 
 reigneth let, the earth rejoice." 
 
 " One can do so much more good, when they are 
 happy," I added, "not only actively, but unconsciously. 
 The innocence of a little child is felt as a holy presence 
 by all who come within its influence; so the sphere 
 which flows from inward harmony, the highest of all hap- 
 piness — from a hopeful spirit, the sweetest of all joys — 
 comes to those within its reach, like an inspiration." 
 
 Mr. Rochester then said, " It is the fault of your doc- 
 trine, that it does not encourage reform or reformers." 
 " You are mistaken," said Mr. Herbert, " we believe that 
 is not reform, which is external merely, the result of 
 arbitration or compulsion. True reform must come from 
 within. We must convince one of sin before he can 
 repent of it, and after repentance comes the effort at refor- 
 mation. We may take away the power and freedom to 
 do evil, and yet, at heart, the man remains the same ; 
 the evil is there within. With nations as with indi- 
 viduals, we may legislate against, but that does not 
 
THE EYERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 137 
 
 destroy the root of the evil. We destroy the freedom of 
 action, not of will. Convince the understanding first, 
 then aid the will, which self-indulgence has enfeebled 
 beyond the power of resistance. I do not say that these 
 external restraints are not necessary for the peace and 
 good order of society, but they do not reform men, or 
 bodies of men, and may they not, if carried beyond certain 
 limits, exasperate so as to retard progress, instead of 
 advancing it ? " " Let every one," said Mary, " who feels 
 he or she has a mission, go forth and preach, and work, 
 and pray for its success. But I think there are too few 
 reformers, who, clothed with meekness and humility, 
 and the comprehensive love of Jesus Christ, address the 
 truth to the hearts of men. Christ said to his disciples : 
 'If they will not receive you in one city, go to another.' 
 He did not tell them to stay, and compel people to hear, 
 thundering invective and denunciation and threats upon 
 them — dashing their idols to pieces, invading their per- 
 sonal and private freedom, and hurling anathemas against 
 their unbelief. That was not the spirit he manifested, as 
 he turned his weeping gaze upon Jerusalem, who would 
 not hear, even through him, 'who spake as never man 
 spake, the things that belonged unto its peace.' Let us 
 seek to know the truth, and when we have found that 
 which is truth to us, let us impart it, in love, in sympa- 
 thy, to those who have it not; happy if we can bring back 
 one erring child, voluntarily, and in childlike trust to his 
 Father's house. 
 
 " These wayside apostles," said Mr. Herbert, " of whom 
 the world hears nothing, are the true reformers after all . 
 The intellect may be awed by eloquence, the feelings melt- 
 ed by pathos, but the understanding must be convinced 
 by reason, the heart won by love, before the kingdom of 
 heaven can come." 
 
 * 12 * * # # 
 
138 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 You certainly did not show your accustomed good sense 
 when you asked me, with an earnestness that seemed to 
 be genuine, why I did not collect my random poems and 
 sketches, and publish them in a volume. Turn author ! 
 why, best and most partial of friends, I have not the 
 slightest ambition to come before the world in that char- 
 acter. And yet I used to dream of a time when I should, 
 through this medium, establish a bond of sympathy 
 between myself and other minds. I had a consciousness 
 of possessing a gift that way. The fire burned within me, 
 that I thought would in due time work its way out, and 
 become a messenger of truth and beauty to other lives. 
 But the dream is over. Well for me perhaps that it is. 
 The discipline of life has been of such a nature as to con- 
 vince me, after many painful struggles, that such was not 
 my destined mission. The intense impulses of my spirit 
 needed to be tamed ; therefore was sent to me the neces- 
 sity of more humble and practical duties. Looking back 
 upon the years that are past, in one view my life seems to 
 have been a disappointment. The inward fire is not put 
 out, but it lies buried under an accumulation of matter-of- 
 fact realities and duties, humble and common-place enough 
 if looked upon through the light of imagination, ennobling 
 if viewed as divine appointments. 
 
 I am not what I once aspired to be — not that of which 
 my youth gave promise. Nor have these hopes been laid 
 low without many pangs of sorrow. It was not I that 
 did it. He who knew the temptations I should not have 
 had strength to withstand, He led me through the straight 
 and narrow, and ofttimes thorny path of vexation and 
 trial, to find at last a more peaceful, though a humbler 
 destiny than that my youthful enthusiasm would have 
 chosen. By-and-by, when I shall have gained strength 
 and wisdom for higher uses and ends. His love may revive 
 
THE EVERT-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 139 
 
 the smouldering embers, and kindle my soul to nobler 
 themes. But it may not be here. I think it will not be 
 here. Still — I say it with a pang — still I am unreconciled 
 to the stern decree — 
 
 " That I must live and die unheard, 
 With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword." 
 
 And perhaps, after all, I deceive myself. Perhaps I 
 mistake the name of self-love for the glow of genius. 
 Perhaps it is only a thing of temperament. I know that 
 other people are deceived in themselves, why not I ? It 
 is a humiliating conclusion to arrive at, and in fact I have 
 not reached it yet. We cannot always judge truly of those 
 whom we see in every-day life, and pronounce hum-drum 
 and common-place people. 
 
 No, no, do not expect that in my lifetime, I shall 
 come before the public as an author. When I have 
 anything to say, and ache to say it, I shall doubtless con- 
 tinue, as I have always done, to scribble on paper for pre- 
 sent relief, and perhaps, if I live to be better and wiser, 
 I may be seized with the heaven -born impulse of writing 
 to do good ; but more than this my partial friends must not 
 expect of me. I lack that kind of ambition which stimu- 
 lates many of the so-called literary women of the day. I 
 am not desirous of that species of distinction, nor covetous 
 even of their success. The two motives which would impel 
 me to publish are entirely opposed to each other. One 
 would be, to satisfy the thirst of my soul for communion 
 with other minds. The other would be — but I won't tell 
 you that — you may guess. 
 
 The first is relieved by the mere act of expressing my- 
 self on paper; because then imagination peoples an ideal 
 world with beings of its own, with whom for a time I am 
 in happy communion, or perhaps, (and this thought brings 
 a vast deal of satisfaction along with it.) perhaps what I 
 
140 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 call, and others look upon as imaginary beings, may be 
 real existences, with whom I am in communion, and from 
 whom I receive real sympathy — spirits of the unseen land 
 linked to my spirit by the strongest affinities — else why 
 the deep joy, the inexpressible satisfaction I feel in their 
 society? When have I written such an egotistical letter 
 before? You must blame yourself for asking a question 
 that touched a certain string not often touched by other 
 hands, but which, when once pulled in earnest, continues 
 to vibrate a long time. Beware then how you strike it 
 again. 
 
 Weeks are passing, and we do not hear anything of 
 Mabel's husband. Many of our friends tell us that they 
 have heard of a Mr. Lynn, who once lived here, but went 
 abroad with his wife some years ago, she being in delicate 
 health. He must be living at some distance in the coun- 
 try, and there is no doubt of our being able some time to 
 discover his place of abode. We try to keep up Mabel's 
 spirits, but she is very sad. She thinks that she is a bur- 
 den upon us, and she will work beyond her strength. 
 The children are very fond of her. I know she lies 
 awake and weeps night after night. I cannot tell her to 
 be strong and hopeful, for I know how useless is such 
 counsel, while she is in this agonizing suspense. It seems 
 very cruel of her father to withhold his forgiveness. He 
 wrote me a short letter the other day, inclosing some 
 money to be applied for her comfort, and, as he said, to 
 remunerate me for my trouble. I have laid the money by 
 for her future use, and could not forbear writing again to 
 the relentless old man. I do not think he is unfeeling, 
 but his pride cannot suffer him to yield. He don't know 
 how to come round with dignity. His heart will teach 
 him how to forgive by-and-by. 
 
 # # # * * 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 141 
 
 I have but a few moments to announce to you the ad- 
 vent of a little stranger, in our household ; Mabel has a 
 son, now but a few days old. She is not as well as we 
 could wish, and we feel anxious about her. I received a 
 letter from her father in answer to mine, sent some weeks 
 ago. It seems the poor girl wrote a letter to her mother, 
 before leaving home, begging them to trust her a little 
 while, and not to go in search of her. The old man up- 
 braids her with ingratitude. "Well he may — such a sud- 
 den blasting of his hopes for his child, and she the only 
 one, is a sad stroke for him. I trust all will be well. He 
 did not ask her to return, and thanked me for affording 
 shelter to his misguided child. He said her desertion of 
 their roof had broken the heart of her poor mother. "We 
 must try and keep up Mabel's spirits and her hopes. Alas ! 
 is it not true that "hope deferred maketh the heart sick?" 
 She is happy in her little one, and yet so sad. I know it 
 is not for her husband alone, but for the dear parents, be- 
 reft of her presence also that she weeps. "Would to God we 
 could find Mr. Lynn. If we do not, and her parents do 
 not receive her, I shall help Mabel to maintain herself and 
 her infant respectably, by her own exertions. I could con- 
 tinue to give her a home, but she would not accept it. I 
 shall watch over her with maternal care. Poor young 
 thing ! she has erred through too much love and too little 
 knowledge of the world ; but she is innocent of premedi- 
 tated sin. 
 
 # # # # # 
 
 Mabel is up, and walks about the house; she insists 
 upon sewing for me when her child is asleep. I do not 
 wish it, and only consent, to satisfy her. She is but poorly, 
 very, very weak. The Dr. shakes his head, and looks 
 grave, as if he was anxious about her. I think, when the 
 spring opens, and she can exercise in the air, she will 
 
142 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 revive. No trace yet of her husband. I tremble to think 
 he may be false, yet I have an intuitive conviction to the 
 contrary. The boy is beautiful. He does not look like 
 Mabel. He has very black eyes, full and shaded by long 
 lashes, soft dark hair, slightly curling, and exquisite pro- 
 portions. It must be his father's face and form. Cruel 
 father, to desert his young wife, and helpless boy ! But 
 alas ! he knows not that he is a father. 
 
 # # # # # 
 
 Joy! joy! we have discovered Mabel's husband! Mary 
 Herbert has seen him, has spoken with him. I can hardly 
 write, my hand is in such a tremble, but, as I know your 
 anxiety, I will calm myself, and go back to my story. A 
 few days ago, Mary was at a small gathering at Mrs. 
 Eoscoe's. Several strangers were present, among them 
 an elderly gentleman, of a proud, and somewhat impos- 
 ing presence, by whose side sat a beautiful girl, about 
 eighteen apparently, his daughter. Something in the 
 appearance of the two attracted Mary, and she asked Mrs. 
 Eoscoe who they were. "That is Mr. Lynn," said Mrs. E. 
 Mary started as if she had received a shock. "Why, do 
 you know him ?" asked Mrs. Eoscoe. 
 
 "No, but the name is familiar," said Mary, "I have 
 heard it before." 
 
 "They have lived several miles in the country," said Mrs. 
 Eoscoe. "Mr. Lynn formerly resided here, is immensely 
 wealthy, and as proud as Lucifer. So I have heard. I 
 used to know his wife. She was a. lovely, gentle, womanly 
 woman. He is a widower now, and has but two children. 
 This daughter has just returned from Europe, whither she 
 went after her mother's death, to reside with Mrs. Lynn's 
 married sister in Paris. The son, a young man, I should 
 think about twenty-two, will be here this evening. They 
 have lately bought a fine .house in our neighborhood, of 
 
THE EVEEY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 143 
 
 which Rosalie is now the mistress. Come, let me introduce 
 you to her. The young people are very unlike their 
 father. They seem, both of them, to be simple and unpre- 
 tending, although evidently highly educated, and accus- 
 tomed to society. The son is one of the handsomest 
 young men I ever met, but very reserved. The old gen- 
 tleman is purse-proud, and tyrannical. But come — you 
 shall judge for yourself." So saying, she led Mary across 
 the room to be introduced to Miss Rosalie Lynn. She 
 was pleased with the young lady, but disgusted with the 
 pomposity of the old gentleman. Fretty soon, to her 
 relief, he took himself away. "While they were chatting 
 together, a tall, dark- eyed, splendid-looking young man 
 entered, and Miss Lynn said, " There comes William. It 
 was to please me that he came here to-night. He de- 
 spises fashionable society, and indeed has taken a decided 
 disgust to city life — declares that he shall go on a farm, 
 and live rationally. My father is very ambitious for him, 
 being the only son, but they seem antagonistic to each 
 other in every way. I wish indeed Papa would let him 
 do more as he pleases. I think it really preys upon his 
 spirits to be condemned to stay here, and to listen to all 
 Papa's schemes. But here he comes. Let me introduce 
 him to you, and, if you will excuse me, I will go and chat 
 with Fanny Roscoe awhile. Of course Mary was very 
 glad to be left alone with Mr. Lynn; for you know, when 
 we have any special designs upon a person, we like to 
 have the field to ourselves. Mary was determined to find 
 out all she could of the young gentleman in question, and 
 laid herself out to make conversation. First they talked 
 of the weather, and from that, being quite spring-like just 
 now, jumped to the country, and from that, to his hobby 
 of simple country life, and his detestation of fashionable 
 society and fashionable ladies, in particular. This was all 
 
144 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 favorable to our hopes, but did not lead to the point. 
 How to bring him nearer, was a puzzle. So Mary at- 
 tacked him on the sentimental score, and accused him of 
 a romantic attachment to some simple country maiden, 
 at which she thought he looked confused ; as he replied, 
 " that if indeed he could have been so happy as to win 
 an innocent and loving heart, he should think his lot 
 most enviable." This led to an interesting discourse on 
 the subject of love. Mary, you know, can not only talk 
 fast herself, but has a faculty of drawing people out, and 
 besides, there seemed to be some affinity between them, 
 which made them mutually pleased with each other's 
 society. Mr. Herbert then joined them. Mary introduced 
 him. He saw at a glance, the momentous discovery she 
 had made, and played, as he always does, into her hand 
 nicely. 
 
 When they separated, they both asked Mr. Lynn to call 
 and see them, and he accepted their invitation with real 
 cordiality, at the same time expressing a wish that they 
 should make the acquaintance of Rosalie. Shall I stop 
 here and reserve the rest of my budget for another letter, 
 or shall I go on writing? In consideration of your curi- 
 osity, I will go on, although there is "fear lest dinner 
 cool." My maledictions on the first of womankind, who 
 fell a victim to curiosity, and thus brought the necessity 
 of cooked dinners "with all our woes," upon our poor 
 sisterhood. 
 
 Well, the very next day, William Lynn called on 
 Mary. He said he felt irresistibly compelled thither, by 
 the power of a secret attraction, and there must be some- 
 thing in it, as he had not visited any house in the city, 
 familiarly, since his return from Europe, or in fact, since 
 his father came to reside west. When he was a collegian, 
 he was too bashful to make the acquaintance of city 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 145 
 
 ladies, and after he left college, he was sent away again 
 immediately, and this was his first debut into society. 
 He staid some time ; Mary was delighted with him, and 
 asked him to come again. He said he would like to 
 come every day — that he felt the need of friendship and 
 counsel, and he believed she was just the person to advise 
 him. After he was gone she came to us, and we con- 
 sulted together, whether it was best to reveal our secret 
 to him at once, or wait till Mabel was a little stronger — 
 who should do it, and how it should be done. My hus- 
 band said, "do it at once, for Mabel will never get 
 stronger, with this uneasiness and uncertainty preying 
 upon her." So we decided that the next time he came, 
 Mary should begin by delicate questionings, and, feeling 
 her way gradually, at length tell the whole story. 
 
 I cannot repeat to you all their conversation. Imagine 
 what you would have said under the circumstances. She 
 did it tenderly, feelingly, and just as it ought to be done. 
 
 He was completely overcome. He said he had written 
 Mabel repeatedly within the last few months, and won- 
 dered why he had received no answer. He declared his 
 intentions from the first were honorable — that he loved 
 her — that she was the only being he ever had loved or 
 could love — that he had endured much in combating his 
 father's pride and prejudice, and that he had no other 
 wish or plan in life than to claim Mabel as his wife, as 
 soon as he could place himself in a situation to offer her 
 his protection. The only error for which he upbraided 
 himself was their private marriage, to which she yielded, 
 at his persuasion. He sees now how much better it 
 would have been, to have left her free in her father's 
 house, until he could show his credentials, and win their 
 approval . But he was led to take the step, in the impet- 
 uosity of youthful attachment, and from the fear that if he 
 13 
 
146 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 should leave her, her sense of duty, and childlike sub- 
 mission to her parents' authority, would compel her to 
 marry one whom they had chosen as a husband suited 
 to her. Now he had but the one wish, which was to fly 
 to her and make what reparation he could for the past. 
 The consequence of his acknowledging his marriage just 
 now, would be fatal to his hopes of pecuniary assistance 
 from his father, but he felt able to work, and for his own 
 part, contented with little. Only for her sake had he 
 ever desired wealth, but the dear names of wife and child, 
 were stimulus enough to exertion, and to employ his 
 powers for them, would be the end and aim of his life. 
 He wished to -go at once to Mabel, but this Mary forbade, 
 telling him we must break the matter carefully to her, as 
 she was very feeble, and any sudden agitation might 
 prove a serious injury. "We promised he should see her 
 to-morrow, and we have told Mabel to-day. I thought 
 joy would have killed her. I have had my heart touched 
 by the outpourings of sorrow, but I never felt as I did, 
 in the presence of such an excess of happiness. Oh! how 
 she loves him, and thanks to God ! he is not unworthy ! 
 
 But to our sober eyes the path before them is beset 
 with difficulties. They are poor — aliens from their paternal 
 roofs — young — inexperienced — all their wealth, all their 
 joy, and all their hope, springs from love. Experience 
 shows us how severe a test worldly misfortunes, heart- 
 wearing anxieties and 'perplexities are to youthful attach 
 ment. I must stop now, for the dinner-bell has twice rung, 
 besides I have no more facts to communicate. Whatever 
 else I might write, would only be thinking aloud, moraliz- 
 ing, sentimentalizing. To-morrow, and you shall hear again . 
 # # # # ■■ # 
 
 My heart is so full, that it is doubtful whether my pen 
 will move at all. If you were but here, you would feel 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 147 
 
 what I feel, a holy, blessed atmosphere, pervading the 
 whole house. "William is here, has been here the whole 
 day. Mabel promised me she would be calm. How fool- 
 ish of me to exact such a promise ! 
 
 I did not see their meeting. The presence of a third 
 person would have been a profanation, but I heard, I could 
 not help it, the sobs of the young wife and mother — sobs 
 of joy. And I heard his voice, that was enough. I can 
 not write to you. I have nothing to tell. Your heart can 
 feel with ours — with theirs. By-and-by, I shall have facts 
 to communicate — feelings cannot be put on paper. 
 
 "We are somewhat sobered down now. Mr. Lynn has 
 told his father the circumstances of the past few days, 
 and the consequence is, as we all supposed it would be, 
 he has disinherited and disowned him. Mr. Herbert has 
 found a situation for him as engineer, with a small, a very 
 small salary. I have written again to Mabel's father. 
 There is but one drawback, (for really their poverty is not 
 a drawback to their present happiness,) but Mabel's 
 health is so very frail, I tremble when I look at her. 
 
 William wishes to find cheap lodgings somewhere that 
 they may live retired. He is full of hope, and so proud of 
 his sweet wife and child. I think her pale face troubles 
 him. I advise him to make no change until we hear 
 from Mabel's father. Perhaps they will send for her to 
 go home ; and if so, she must go ; and perhaps she 
 will find her lost roses in the country. She says she longs 
 to be at home — to be forgiven — to go back with William 
 and the baby. She thinks they could not be angry when 
 they looked upon the child — could not upbraid William, 
 her own true, loving husband. 
 
 ##■### 
 
 Last night Mabel had a strange attack of palpitation, 
 
148 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 and deathlike faintness. We were very much alarmed 
 about her. The Doctor told me this morning, her symp- 
 toms were very unfavorable. Oh ! I cannot bear to think 
 that this dream of joy must so soon be over. I will not 
 think so. But her pale cheek and unnaturally bright eye 
 alarm me. William is with her every moment he can 
 spare from his business. I see he is anxious about her, 
 although he tries to conceal it even from himself. The 
 baby is good, and makes his mother but little trouble — 
 that little she is hardly able to bear. 
 
 * # * * * 
 
 As I anticipated, Mabel's father has sent for his son 
 and daughter, and the poor thing is not able to go yet. 
 Her mother is too feeble to come to her. Oh ! my dark 
 forebodings ! Must she die and leave her new-found hap- 
 piness ? die, and leave those who love her and need her 
 care ? Must it be ? Now my heart almost rebels. She 
 is growing weaker every day. We cannot disguise the 
 truth. We cannot shut our eyes to it. The doctor gives 
 us scarce a ray of hope. He says we ought to prepare 
 her husband for the worst. She talks of the time when 
 she shall be well and strong — says she longs to breathe the 
 fresh air of home. Poor girl ! poor girl ! It is not far 
 distant — that blessed time. In heaven they are well and 
 strong, and the air of Paradise is fresh and sweet, Mabel ; 
 it will bring health and peace on its wings. Yet we can 
 not spare thee here, dear one. Thy husband, thy child, 
 thy old parents cannot spare thee yet. Fold thy wings 
 yet a little while, and stay in our earthly Paradise. It 
 will be time enough to go, when the blossoms fade and 
 fall here. 
 
 ***** 
 
 It is all over— the hopes, the fears, this beautiful dream 
 is all over, and Mabel has gone home — gone and left her 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 149 
 
 loved ones behind. The little Willie no more can sleep 
 upon her breast or be folded in her arms. God grant he 
 may find a soft pillow for his dear young head ! The old 
 father, whom my letter summoned, came in hopes of taking 
 his daughter back with him. The mother was too old and 
 infirm to undergo the fatigues of the journey. He came in 
 time, thank God ! to see his child alive, to give her his 
 forgiveness and his blessing. She placed her husband's 
 hand in that of the old man, and laying her own thin 
 fingers upon them, looked up to heaven with such a mute 
 appeal! The scene was too much for me; I thought 
 I could not remain there. She followed me with her eyes, 
 as I went to the door, as if she would speak to me. 
 I came back and bent over her. I could scarcely dis- 
 tinguish her words — "I thank you, dearest, kindest of 
 friends. My boy — " " Yes, Mabel, we will take care of 
 him ; he will be a sunbeam in your early home, and make 
 your mother's heart glad." I thought her expression 
 became troubled. "And your husband," I said, "we 
 will all love him." A sweet smile overspread her fea- 
 tures. "I am happy, happy," she murmured. I stooped 
 down and kissed her. I took her hand — she pressed 
 mine gently. I laid it in that of her husband, who was 
 kneeling beside the bed, stunned by this sudden agony. 
 She made an effort to rise, and looked around as if to 
 find something — whispered, almost inaudibly, "Willie." 
 The girl brought in the dear child. She smiled ; her hus- 
 band raised her head, and she leaned upon his breast. 
 We brought the baby near ; she extended her arms to 
 clasp it. Its silky curls laid against her cheek — her lips 
 moved, one arm enfolded the little creature, the other en- 
 circled her husband's neck, and thus she died — without a 
 pang — without a struggle. 
 
 Her poor husband is almost heart-broken. But her 
 
150 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 father! — oh ! my friend it would make your heart ache to 
 see his agony. "It was my unkindness that killed her," 
 he repeats over and over again — "that drove her from us. 
 How can I go back alone to her poor mother? "Would 
 to God I could have died for her. Mabel, Mabel! my 
 only child." 
 
 "Father," said "William, taking the old man's hand in 
 both his own. "You do not go home alone; where she 
 lived, my heart's home will ever be. Let me be a son 
 to you." 
 
 Farewell, my friend. A cloud rests on our house. I 
 feel that I have lost a child. Mary, Mr. Herbert— all feel 
 with me. Mr. Herbert's cheering views have done more 
 than anything else to brighten the clouds which envelop 
 the mourners. The poor old man listens to him, half- 
 bewildered, yet eager to be comforted. 
 
 They leave us to-morrow, the father and son, with the 
 mortal remains of sweet Mabel. I am going with them, 
 to take the little Willie to his grand-parents. If I had my 
 selfish way, I would keep the boy. But no — his father 
 might some time claim him, and how could I let him go ? 
 No, it is best as it is. 
 
 Mr. Lynn is so tender, so considerate, so kind to the 
 old man. Hie own grief is too deep for words or tears. 
 But he is young. Time brings a balm for the deepest 
 sorrow. I feel for them all, but most for the aged pair. 
 The last of their household flowers is now gathered, and 
 how desolate must be the lone winter of their days ! I 
 hope they can lift their dim eyes heavenward. Their 
 journey is almost ended. 
 
 ***** 
 
 I write you from Mabel's home. I wish you could see 
 it. Nature has done all she could to make the spot lovely. 
 I walked out last evening at twilight alone. My heart 
 
THE EVEBY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 151 
 
 was agitated by those questionings that sometimes arise 
 within us, as we strive to penetrate the mysteries of God's 
 providence. Those lines of Wordsworth's came to me^ 
 as I walked in the stillness of the evening through the 
 wood. 
 
 " My friend ! enough to sorrow you have given, 
 The purposes of wisdom, ask no more ; 
 Be wise and cheerful ; and no longer read 
 The forms of things with an unworthy eye. 
 She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is there." 
 
 But these words, which convey "so still an image of 
 tranquillity," were not what my soul needed. To " sleep 
 in the calm earth." That is not the thought that lifts the 
 spirit above its sorrow for the lost. To sleep ! That life, 
 so rich in all that makes life beautiful; to sleep. No, 
 there is no death, no sleep to the soul. I do not know 
 how far I might have wandered from the cottage, had I 
 not in descending a little knoll around which a footpath 
 had been worn, discovered William, who had come there 
 to hold solemn communion with grief. I would have re- 
 treated, loth to disturb him by my presence, for there are 
 moments when the heart would be alone with its Creator, 
 when the presence of the dearest earthly friend, is felt as 
 an intrusion ; but he saw and beckoned me. I sat down 
 on the ground beside him. 
 
 "I wish to say many things to you, my best friend," 
 said he, " but I cannot. Sometime I may hope to thank 
 you for all you have done — for your kindness to her — 
 which she felt so much — and to me who had no claim 
 upon you. I feel it all, even in the midst of my wretched- 
 ness. I cannot be reconciled to this loss ; my dear Mrs. 
 Dearbon. I cannot be resigned — I shall never be — I 
 have no wish but to die. What have I to live for — what 
 motive to exertion — who is there to whom my life can 
 
152 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 prove a blessing ? I look upon the world in which I must 
 take my part, with a sickness of the soul. I cannot enter 
 it— cannot go home; for me there is no home. Nor can 
 I stay here, where everything reminds me of the past, and 
 of her. It would madden me. Here I first met her, here, 
 in this very spot I first told my love; and here before 
 God, vowed to live for her. But what did I require of 
 her? Selfish boy that I was! Had it not been for me, 
 she might yet have lived in her happy home. God knows 
 I did not mean to wrong her. It was not a boyish pastime. 
 She was my life. Had she ever received my letters, all 
 would have been well ; she would have been assured of 
 my constancy, she would have waited in hope. Good 
 God ! to what dangers was she exposed — wandering alone, 
 and unprotected, through the city — late at night — watching 
 for me!" 
 
 " The innocent are protected by God, William," said I, 
 '' and you must not dwell on these things. Dwell rather 
 upon her joy in meeting you." 
 
 "Ah! you do not know how you torture me," said he. 
 "It was that very joy, that reaction, after months of 
 anxious uncertainty, that killed her." 
 
 "William, my dear young friend," said I, "my heart 
 longs to speak words of consolation to you, but it is in 
 vain. I have known sorrow, yes, bitter anguish. I have 
 drunk deep of the cup of affliction, and I know that words 
 are powerless to comfort a stricken heart. But this I can 
 say to you. Grief leaves us. We must be patient. We 
 must bear our load ; we must be willing to bear it, and 
 this very submission to God's will, makes it lighter. I 
 will not say now to you, for you could not believe me, 
 that you will awake to higher and nobler purposes of life, 
 even to happiness ! and you will find that it is good to 
 have lived and to have suffered. But trust my experience. 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 153 
 
 Hope will spring up like green herbage within your seared 
 heart, for God's love never fails, and what we cannot 
 accomplish for ourselves, he will do for us — in his own 
 good time." 
 
 We sat there and talked some time, and I think he was 
 less wretched when we parted. To-morrow, we go toge- 
 ther to the city. 
 
 # * # # * 
 
 You ask me if William has gone home? Yes, dear, he 
 has gone to his father's house, if you can call that home. 
 One of his greatest trials was to return there. Of course 
 the old gentleman, although he cannot but be touched by 
 the sight of his son's sorrow, if he has a human heart in 
 him, is glad that a union so opposed to his ambitious 
 wishes is dissolved. He offers to further any scheme his 
 son may suggest for his future life ; but at present every- 
 thing is undecided. Rosalie is kind and affectionate, and 
 I think will be a great comfort to her brother. He told 
 Mr. Herbert that he was determined to be a working man, 
 and by-and-by, when his mind was in a more settled state, 
 he should consult with him on a plan of life. I think he 
 will go again to Europe. I am glad he likes Mr. Herbert 
 and Mary so much. They will help him to know himself: 
 I am afraid his father will never bend him to his wishes. 
 They have both of them strong and determined wills; but 
 William's seems bent in the right direction. The old gen- 
 tleman has no higher aspirations than worldly position. 
 The two can never sympathize. 
 
 Moving into a larger house is a great event in the lives 
 of people who have had their own way to make in the 
 world, step by step, through the different degrees of 
 poverty, till they have arrived at that point from which 
 the important questions, " What shall we eat and what 
 
154 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 shall we drink, and wherewithal shall we be clothed," 
 excite no special anxieties. I can truly, and from the 
 bottom of my heart declare, that poverty has been of 
 itself, and so far as I was concerned individually, the 
 least of all my trials. Now that 1 can look with un- 
 clouded eyes before and after, I feel very much inclined 
 to make some reflections, for the sake of those who have 
 the same road yet to travel. You are accustomed to my 
 rambling meditations, and will take them for what they 
 are worth. You have heard me exclaim many times. 
 "Blessed be nothing ! " but I must repeat it again now, with 
 a little variation. It is a blessed thing to have had 
 nothing, if for no other reason, than that it sharpens the 
 enjoyment of something — ay, of little things. But an 
 abler pen than mine has described the pleasure of new 
 and slight acquisitions to one's worldly comfort and 
 enjoyment, a pleasure which vanishes, when the means 
 of gratification are increased ad libitum. When there 
 has been no want long felt, no hope long cherished, no plan 
 long pondered over, with the excitement of turning over 
 and over the "dear idea" in one's mind, enjoying it in 
 prospective, calculating upon the probable chances — remov- 
 ing one by one the obstacles in the way of its attainment, the 
 satisfaction of indulging ones-self in occasional luxuries, is 
 a very common-place matter. And what a happy faculty 
 it is to be able to remember just at the fitting time, all 
 one's past self-denial ! We have done without this and 
 that seemingly needful indulgence, were willing to do 
 without much that appears desirable, much that our 
 neighbors enjoy who are no whit better off than our- 
 selves, and now, who shall say we are extravagant? 
 
 All compromises with our conscience being settled, with 
 what gusto we proceed to the accomplishment of our 
 darling project. 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 155 
 
 Suppose it is a piece of new furniture, a tasteful 
 ornament, a favorite dress, or it may be, the sweetest of 
 all luxuries, the making some appropriate gift to a dear 
 friend, or the gratification of some benevolent impulse, to- 
 wards one who is in need of help ! It matters but little what 
 it is, only the less selfish, the more delicious and the more 
 abiding the enjoyment. These are the incidents that 
 mark golden periods in the life of those whose worldly 
 means are limited: and to these, the rich are compara- 
 tively strangers. 
 
 Here as I sit in my comfortable, but in no way luxurious 
 home, I look around upon one and another article of taste 
 and comfort, the accumulation of years, each one telling 
 its own quiet tale of happiness, perhaps some sweet 
 remembrancer of friends whose love sanctified the gift, or 
 some little God-sends of unlooked-for prosperity which 
 made the indulgence of taste, not a sin under the cir- 
 cumstances, and it is a relief to my heart that God, who 
 sees the workings of its deepest emotions, knows that I am 
 grateful. 
 
 I have a joy in this new carpet to-day, that those never 
 have, who can buy a carpet whenever they wish. The 
 very hesitation, consultation, and calculation it involved, 
 had a share in producing the pleasing excitement of the 
 purchase, and the healthy reaction that succeeded, when 
 it was done past recall ; and now that it is down, why 
 should I not enjoy it ? And if a friend drops in, and 
 says, how pretty it is, there is another sparkling drop in 
 the cup, another source of satisfaction, that one's sur- 
 roundings present an appearance of taste, and yet cost 
 so little. 
 
 But there is a drawback, and one not always understood 
 by people accustomed to elegance and luxury, but known 
 to those who have experienced the want, and enjoyed the 
 
156 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 means of supplying it. It is this, that these, the refiners 
 and beautifiers of life, cannot be shared by all of God's 
 children. I do not feel with our friend Mr. Rochester, 
 that because all cannot possess them I ought to deprive 
 myself of them. As well might we put out our eyes, and 
 not look upon the beauty of the earth, and the glory of 
 the sky, because some are born blind, or have lost the 
 use of sight, and cannot share with us this gift of our 
 common Father. But when I look upon the squalor and 
 filth, the disgusting surroundings of poor, unfortunate, 
 and degraded humanity, it tempers my selfish happiness 
 with human sympathy. 
 
 It is not by depriving myself of all that gratifies my 
 aesthetic tastes, that I help others; but by imparting to 
 them the love of the beautiful and true, in encouraging 
 and aiding them in the development of their natures, 
 that desire may stimulate to exertion, and exertion lead 
 to the fulfillment of what is as needful to the harmonious 
 development of their natures as mine. 
 
 Oh ! that I could raise them! That I knew how to do 
 it ! That I could take these little children from the gut- 
 ters, from the debasing examples of vice and debauchery, 
 from physical suffering, and disease, and neglect, and 
 train them to higher uses and enjoyments ! But what I 
 cannot do, others have done, and are doing. I know of 
 one, weak in body, a feeble, delicate woman, accustomed 
 from her infancy to the comforts and refinements of a 
 home, to the higher walks of literature and art, to inter- 
 course with the best minds of our day, who in the absence 
 of those ties which bind a woman to a home of her own, 
 and to quench the thirst of her soul for a higher life and 
 holier inspiration, has given up her time and strength to 
 this noble enterprise — gathering together the poor, de- 
 graded children of the city where she lives, and devoting 
 
THE EVEEY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 157 
 
 so many hours of every day to teaching them what will 
 fit them to become, perhaps what she is — missionaries of 
 good — angels of comfort and help to others. With how 
 much higher appreciation and devoted thankfulness must 
 she return, after her labor of love to these poor children, 
 to the enjoyment of the blessings and comforts of her own 
 home ! The highest joy of the angels is to impart their 
 own happiness to others. "Who that has ever made one 
 human being happy in a small degree, cannot believe 
 this ? It is not in possession, but in sympathy, in bestow- 
 ing, that spiritual joy lies ; and the higher the capacity of 
 the soul for happiness, the stronger must be the desire to 
 impart it. You accuse me of wandering away from my 
 subject, of the pleasures of poverty, my new house, etc. 
 I told you to be prepared for rambling thoughts. Of 
 course I must be discursive, and when I find myself lim- 
 ited by the four pages of a letter, it is too late to return to 
 the subject from which I set out. I know I began with 
 our new house, and I will go back there with pleasure, 
 and lead you through it, and you shall see, if 1 have in- 
 dulged in any flights of fancy. The owners of some of 
 our princely mansions might laugh at what I call luxu- 
 ries and elegancies, but that doss not make them less so 
 to me. May I never see the time that I shall look back 
 to despise "the day of small things." 
 
 # * # # # 
 
 Did you ever see people in the world, of whom you 
 thought, if you did not say so, they are too happy. Peo- 
 ple who seem to have no cares or anxieties, but whose 
 cup is filled to overflowing with earthly good, who in the 
 midst of prosperity and the fruition of their hopes appear 
 to be utterly unconscious that a change may come ? who 
 are so filled with happiness, that they forget apparently, 
 that life has many sorrows ? 
 
158 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 If you have seen this, you know the feeling it awakens, 
 the sort of foreboding it causes in your mind, lest a storm 
 be gathering, that will burst upon them suddenly, and 
 scatter desolation over their earthly Paradise. 
 
 I felt this the other day, when I was at the house of a 
 dear friend, to whom the birth of a beautiful child has 
 brought such a fullness of happiness, as made me tremble 
 for them. 
 
 I asked myself many times, Can a person be too happy ? 
 and a voice from the depths of my being replied ; "The 
 grass withereth, the flower fadeth, but the word of our 
 God shall stand forever." Do these words convey to you 
 the meaning they do to me ? Let us look back over our 
 lives — back to the days of youth, when the grass was 
 green and fresh with the verdure of spring, and one by 
 one in the maturity of summer, came forth the blossoms 
 of hope and love. The June of onr existence ! the perfec- 
 tion of its beauty ! How slowly yet surely the autumn 
 drew near ! In the still night, when we were lulled by 
 happy dreams, it "scattered its hoar frost like dew;" and 
 as we awoke, day after day, we saw and felt that some- 
 thing had gone. The freshness and glory was not as of 
 yore. " The grass had withered, the flower had faded," 
 what then ? Must we sink down heart-broken and disap 
 pointed amidst these fading garlands of youth ? Is this 
 all? Is this the end of all our hopes ? Is this life? Oh 
 no! there is something more — something deeper — stronger 
 — holier than this — " The word of our Lord shall stand 
 forever." Truth — this is God's word, not the outward 
 passing show of things, but the inward, living spirit — 
 the immortal, the unchangeable, the essence of all life, 
 of all happiness — this shall stand forever. 
 
 I asked myself, as I looked upon my friend, for whom 
 the grass was now green, and the flowers blooming ? — who 
 
THE EVERY- DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 159 
 
 showing me with delight, her new born treasure, thought 
 me almost cold that I did not fully enter into, or appear 
 to understand her rapture, I asked myself. Was it so 
 with thee, years, years ago, when thy heart first awoke 
 to the deep joy of maternity ? "Was all bright, all cloud- 
 less? wert thou light, and joyous and full of hope as she? 
 or hadst thou learned before, through bewildering disap- 
 pointment, that " the grass withereth, the flower fadeth ? " 
 Oh! this I had learned, but not the other. Like the 
 refrain that runs through the ancient ballads — so sad, so 
 like a wail — mingled the note of change with my heart- 
 song of joy ; but not till the cup of anguish was given iue 
 to drain — not till I looked around upon the waste that 
 had laid my hopes in the dust — not till my heart seemed 
 really desolate, did the words of hope and strength come 
 to me with their full meaning : " The word of our God 
 shall stand forever." When the soul feels this to be 
 truth, a new life is begun. I tremble when I look upon 
 the joy of those who have not felt the full force of these 
 words. I tremble for myself that I cannot always feel 
 them. 
 
 This you will think is a sermon. Why do I write thus 
 to you ? Because I write to you everything. We have 
 been young together; we are growing old together. To- 
 gether we have seen the grass wither and the flower fade; 
 we must needs understand each other. 
 
 [Note by the Editor.] Here follows quite an interval, 
 in which the letters of our friend Alice became infrequent 
 on account of ill-health ; and the few there were, related 
 to domestic details, which would be uninteresting to the 
 general reader. They evinced also a morbid and depressed 
 state of mind that might convey an erroneous impression 
 of the real character of the writer. The next that follows 
 
160 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 bears a date some years later than the last, and written 
 evidently in feeble health, breathes a cheerful spirit. 
 
 Tff- fF 3£ 4r fff 
 
 "We were all glad to see William Lynn again, after 
 his travels. He looks very well, and the remembrance 
 of his loss is robbed of some of its bitterness. His father 
 is quite an invalid, and it is thought he cannot live much 
 longer. He has had already two paralytic strokes, which 
 have left him a mere wreck. Rosalie is a kind nurse and 
 devoted daughter. She is not brilliant, but very good, 
 sensible, and amiable, and exceedingly pretty. She re- 
 joices in her brother's return, for she is very lonely. Her 
 father is so afraid that somebody will address her who 
 wants her money, that he excludes all gentlemen from 
 the house, and really she has not the society and recrea- 
 tion necessary to her health of body and mind. She runs 
 over to see us occasionally, but her most frequent visits 
 are to Mary Herbert, whose sweet little girls are a great 
 delight to Rose. The "little Emily'''' is now quite a 
 woman, and the most charming, gentle and winning crea- 
 ture you ever saw. 
 
 They love her as if she were their own. Mary is the 
 best of mothers and the best of wives, not narrowed down 
 by home ties and interests. It is not my husband and 
 my children, as if there were no other in the world. 
 Every added happiness and comfort, every new source of 
 enjoyment, seems only to make her heart more expansive, 
 more sympathetic. You should see her with her babies. 
 You would feel how truly happy she is, for happiness sur- 
 rounds her like an atmosphere ; but it is that heaven-born 
 happiness that embraces all — that seeks to impart of itself to 
 all. There is something almost solemn and very beautiful 
 in the expression of her face. She says little about 
 herself. " I am very glad ," said I to her the other day, "to 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 161 
 
 see you so happy, for there was a time when I doubted, 
 as you yourself did, the possibility of your finding in life 
 what you desired to satisfy the cravings of your nature." 
 
 " Yes, I did doubt," said she, " and I had reason to do 
 so, for I was selfish and exacting. Thanks to Mr. Herbert's 
 example, for he never preaches, I have learned that the 
 heart only grows rich by giving. The happiness of my 
 married life only makes me the more desirous that others 
 may be as content, and with as good reason, and my joy 
 in these little children, which might otherwise run into a 
 selfish and unworthy excess, is tempered by the recollection 
 how many mothers there are around me, with a capacity 
 for the same happiness, who are doomed to drink the bitter 
 waters of sorrow, and never know of what their life is de- 
 prived. My heart goes out with such a feeling of tender- 
 ness towards the poor children too, whom I meet in my 
 daily paths, neglected and uncared for, save by Him who 
 noteth the sparrow's fall, that I cannot be swallowed up in 
 my own enjoyments, while they are left to suffer and 
 perish, and be contaminated by the sin and ignorance, 
 which haunt their dismal, comfortless homes." 
 
 But to return to "William. Forgive my desultory way 
 of writing. My mind partakes, you perceive, of the 
 feebleness of my body. He is still determined to make 
 his own living, as if he had no expectations from his 
 father. He says he shall be a Doctor, and I have no 
 doubt he is in earnest now. He will certainly be a good 
 one, if my opinion is correct, that a physician pro- 
 duces more effect by his character and presence, than by 
 his pills and potions. A sympathizing manner, a readi- 
 ness to listen, to appear interested, even if not so, and if 
 possible to be interested, a confidence in himself, a cheer- 
 ful, hopeful spirit, and a gentleman-like deportment at 
 14 
 
162 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 all times ; these work more cures than Homeopathic or 
 Allopathic doses. 
 
 But what our young friend needs most, it seems to me, 
 is steadiness of purpose. Mary gives him much good 
 advice, and he bears plain speaking from her. I wish he 
 would rouse himself to do something — for his own happi- 
 ness as well as for the good he may accomplish in the 
 world. But he is young, and we must have patience with 
 him. When his father dies he will be very wealthy — as 
 it is, he has too much money to know the value of it, or to 
 think of the good uses to which it might be devoted. But 
 I have faith in him — and we all love him as a son. 
 # # # # # 
 
 I was sitting alone in my room the other evening, when 
 I heard a ring at the door-bell. What should have brought 
 an old friend to my mind at that moment? What mes- 
 meric influence should have so affected me, that I seemed 
 to know at once who it was ? True, I had been thinking 
 of Lizzie Cameron more or less all day. And that is 
 another mystery. Why should I have been thinking of 
 her that day more than any other ? I will not involve 
 you in metaphysical subtleties. It was Lizzie herself. 
 She had come in the stage, that afternoon, and learn- 
 ing that our house was very near the hotel where they 
 stopped, she came at once to see me. It was Lizzie 
 Cameron, but oh! how changed, from the bright, beautiful 
 girl of years ago ! Her face is absolutely haggard. The 
 brilliant red and white of her complexion is gone. Her 
 cheek is sunken and sallow — her brow contracted and care- 
 worn — and there is an anxious, restless look in her eye, 
 that tells of an unquiet heart. She was quite overcome at 
 meeting me. I did not speak of her changed appearance, 
 and tried to conceal from her the shock it gave me, but she 
 
THE EYERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 163 
 
 must have discovered, or was herself conscious that I 
 observed it, and spoke of the fatigue of her long journey, 
 and the anxiety she had suffered on account of the pro- 
 tracted illness of her little girl, her youngest child, as 
 having worn upon her. I urged her to stay with us, but 
 she declined. It was getting late she said, and Edward 
 was at the hotel with the children. " You need not fear 
 that you will not see me often enough," she continued, 
 " for we have come here to live, and you are the only 
 person I know at the West." I promised to go early the 
 next morning to see her at the Graham House, where they 
 will remain until they can find a home to suit them. I 
 felt oppressed after she had gone. Her manner was con- 
 strained, although affectionate. There was a look of pent- 
 up misery in her face. I am sure it was not my imagin- 
 ation. It was not a foregone conclusion of mine that she 
 was unhappy. Oh, my prophetic soul ! But one may 
 learn to bear patiently the absence of happi?iess, because 
 this life is not all. Besides, she has children — and a 
 woman who has children need not permit her affections 
 to run to waste or to feed upon her own heart. I could not 
 sleep from thinking of her, and was impatient for the hours 
 to pass, that I might see for myself what their situation 
 was. As soon as I had breakfasted I walked to the hotel. 
 I found Edward, the three children and Lizzie in a small 
 room in the third story — uncomfortable enough. The 
 change in Edward was more marked than in Lizzie. He 
 looks as if the fire of his life had burnt out — consumed 
 him soul and body. His eyes were heavy and lustreless, 
 his complexion livid, and his rich brown hair, so luxuriant 
 when I saw him last, was thinned and dry, and hung in 
 disorder over his pale forehead. He did not look me full 
 in the face, and there was such a self-consciousness in his 
 air when I addressed him. It spoke volumes. As he was 
 
164 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 looking about to give me a chair, he stumbled over a 
 carpet-bag that lay on the floor, and uttering an oath, 
 called angrily to one of the children to clear up the room. 
 The oldest girl, a delicate, retiring creature, stole away from 
 her mother and began to pick up the various articles that 
 were scattered about; and little Neddy, who had been 
 playing with a wooden horse in one corner of the room, 
 crept up to his mother's side, as if he expected a rebuke 
 for being in the way. I felt ashamed to have observed 
 Edward's irritability, and tried to turn it off, by saying 
 something about the inconvenience of small rooms, when 
 people were obliged to live in their trunks. But this only 
 made the matter worse, and elicited a half grumbling 
 remark about its always being so, and Lizzie having no 
 perception of disorder — at which she tried to laugh; but it 
 was forced work all round, and I was glad when he went 
 down stairs. 
 
 " Now my dear child," said I, as soon as he left, "you 
 must not stay in this uncomfortable little place any longer. 
 I have plenty of room, and my children would be delighted 
 to have your little folks to make their vacation merrier. 
 Come at once to our house and I can help you in your 
 search for a home, and you will feel that the children are 
 perfectly safe while you are out." She thanked me but 
 said it was not best. They could get along for a few days 
 and Jeannie was a safe nurse for the younger ones. 
 "You will wonder," continued she, "what has sent us 
 out West to live. A great many reasons helped us to 
 come to the decision. Edward's health in the first place. 
 He has a shocking cough, and is half dead a great part 
 of the time with dyspepsia. I thought a total change 
 of climate would help him. Besides, it is hard to get 
 along, in a worldly point of view, in New England, 
 particularly where one has been born and brought up. 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 165 
 
 Edward is not a business man, that you know as well as 
 I, and he never will be. He had an offer of a clerkship 
 here, which will give him a moderate salary and not 
 require very laborious service, and I thought that where 
 everybody was busy, I too might find something to do to 
 help him. The truth is, my dear friend, I am tired of 
 mere saving and drudgery. I feel that I have energy 
 which I might turn to account in some way, I don't know 
 exactly what, but I am sure I can do something here, 
 where there is so much to be done. You know it is not 
 easy to strike out a new path in the midst of old scenes 
 and associations, and then one has a sort of pride among 
 one's family and friends, of keeping up appearances. You 
 understand me?" 
 
 " Yes, dear, perfectly — and I agree with you," said I. 
 " There is a feeling of dissatisfaction in the consciousness of 
 energy unexpended or misapplied. We feel that we are 
 capable of doing something, and should be happier to be 
 at work usefully and honorably." 
 
 "And that we can do something more satisfactory than 
 washing dishes and patching old clothes," added Lizzie, 
 " I would like some occupation that interests me — fills my 
 mind and my heart. I find I am getting morbid and anx- 
 ious, and I am not always a pleasant companion to my 
 husband and children. My hands are busy enough, but 
 I wish my mind to be busy too, and in the right way. 1 
 have thought of many things — teaching music perhaps, or 
 drawing, or perhaps I could open a school myself in our own 
 house. I have no definite plans, but I must do something." 
 
 "And how does Edward look upon your schemes," I 
 asked ? 
 
 "Differently at different times," she replied. "He is 
 a man of moods. I tell you only what you knew before. 
 He does not offer any serious opposition. If he haa 
 
166 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 objections, I think I can overrule them. I must act 
 according to my convictions of duty — I must provide 
 against the future — I must test my capabilities while I 
 have the power. But the first thing is to get a house — 
 to make Edward comfortable, and the rest will follow in 
 due time, for I am in earnest," and after talking over 
 matters and things, the past and future, we parted. 
 # * # # # 
 
 When I sit down to write to you my dear friend, there 
 are sometimes so many things I wish to say, so many 
 thoughts struggling for utterance, that it requires no 
 little judgment and discretion to know which to select. 
 I am sorry to be obliged to confess such a degree of 
 nervous weakness, as to render it necessary for me to 
 keep down the emotional part of my nature, and deal 
 with facts, bare, naked facts as they are, not as they 
 affect me. Those were happy days, where we could be 
 as sentimental as we chose! What a relief it was, to tell 
 all we thought, felt, suffered and enjoyed. And now that 
 every thought and feeling is intensified, now that we have 
 attained to the consciousness of the immortality of thought, 
 now that the demands of our nature for sympathy, for ex- 
 pression are deeper — we, at least I, am compelled to say to 
 the overwhelming flood of life that I would pour forth to 
 you. "Thus far and no farther shalt thou go." And worse 
 than this ; when I am moved to unlock the very depths 
 within me, a prophetic consciousness of the reaction upon 
 my grosser nature which is sure to succeed any undue 
 excitement, shakes its stern finger before me and I dare 
 not rebel. The consequence is, I send you only the 
 bubbles and froth upon the surface of my life. But it 
 will not be so always. I believe that when I am gone, 
 the intensity of my spiritual yearning for communion 
 with the loved ones I have left behind, will make me 
 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 167 
 
 present to them, perhaps even to their consciousness. 
 The trouble is however, that they will not receive my 
 tokens as realities of my presence. People are so afraid 
 of believing in the supernatural, as they call it, that if an 
 angel from Heaven were visibly present, it would all be 
 set down as an optical illusion, as the spiritual intima- 
 tions we sometimes have of their companionship, are 
 attributed to an excitable imagination, or a disordered 
 physique. I warn you not to be so misled. "Be not faith- 
 less but believing." 
 
 To return to sublunary things. I have said very little 
 to you lately of Mr. Lynn, and yet he, in connection with 
 the family of our friends the Herberts, has occupied my 
 thoughts to the exclusion of many other necessary matters. 
 It is several months since- he retured from Europe, and 
 although he calls the old place home where his sister is 
 mistress since the death of the old gentleman, he in fact 
 lives at Mr. Herbert's. If I tell you that his constant 
 presence there is felt with intense interest by one member 
 of the family, and that one, the young creature who to you 
 and me seems but a mere child, you will not be more aston- 
 ished than I was the first time it came home to my mind 
 as a reality. Little Emily! and yet she is now seventeen. 
 I remember when I scorned the idea of being called young 
 at seventeen. I wish I could give you a picture of her just 
 as she is, the inner with the outer. She is as transparent 
 as crystal, too much so I fear to suit the conventional 
 standard of society. She is the most innocent, the most 
 childlike being, in some respects, I ever knew, and yet 
 she has strong womanly character. She is full of delicate 
 and refined sentiment, yet eminently practical. You would 
 be delighted with the way she performs her various domes- 
 tic duties, imparting to the humblest and least attractive of 
 them so much grace and beauty, and even poetry. The 
 
168 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 children love her next to their mother; indeed, the young- 
 est little pet manifests so decided a preference for her society, 
 that if the mamma were not a sensible woman, it might 
 wound her maternal pride. Added to these nameless, 
 indescribable charms, which are the sphere of her life, she 
 is beautiful to the eyes, tender, dreamlike. Let your im- 
 agination fill out the picture. 
 
 You can easily believe that the familiar presence of 
 such a being might be dangerous to the heart of a suscep- 
 tible young man, for William, though a widower and a 
 father, is a young man still, and through the vista of years 
 must look upon his brief married life as a sweet, sad dream. 
 So indeed he does view it, if we may believe his own 
 words. He seldom speaks of it, but we can see, in the 
 mention of his little boy, that the links are still bright 
 which bind him to the memory of his child's mother. 
 With what feelings he looks upon Emily, we none of us 
 know. If his heart cherishes any tenderer emotion than 
 friendship, I doubt if we should be able to perceive it, for, 
 although he is truth itself, he is on some points very 
 reserved : besides I know he would feel that, in his present 
 unsettled way of life, he ought not to think of marriage. 
 His sister told Mary, it was one of her severest little 
 trials, that she could not get at William's inmost soul. 
 He was kind, affectionate, considerate, brotherly, but he 
 did not reveal all of himself, nor that part of himself to 
 which she longed most to be admitted. This is true. If 
 anybody has 'ever penetrated into the inner temple it is 
 Mary Herbert. Will Emily ever be received there ? I 
 wish I knew. 
 
 We were all assembled at Mr. Herbert's the other eve- 
 ning — ray husband and myself, with Lizzie and Edward, 
 Kosalie and William. I sat apart in a recess, my usual 
 post of observation since I have been cut off from 
 
THE EVEKY-DAY LIFE OF EVEEY-DAY PEOPLE. 169 
 
 mingling in the enjoyment of conversation by this difficulty 
 in my throat. The party were all in animated discussion 
 on some question of reform. By the way, William is 
 quite a radical, and his zeal sometimes gets the better of 
 his discretion. Mr. Herbert was calm and collected as 
 usual, Mary sensible and practical ; Lizzie looked more 
 than she spoke, but when she did say anything, it came 
 from a full experience ; Rosalie was a listener, because 
 she is too distrustful of herself to venture an opinion on 
 any grave subject, and Emily was a sort of brooding pre- 
 sence of love, felt but not heard. I watched her, I could 
 not help it, as she stood leaning over Mr. Herbert's chair— 
 her fair face and lithe figure in striking contrast with his 
 rather sturdy proportions, and strong, manly features. I 
 could see the workings of her thought as one after another 
 gave their opinions, but when "William spoke, in a man- 
 ner all earnestness, all fire, and with a voice whose tones 
 were like rich music, her breath grew quick and hurriedj 
 her eye suffused. I was only troubled lest he might ob- 
 serve it. But should this have troubled me ? I wish you 
 would answer the question satisfactorily ; I cannot. 
 
 I confess I felt a woman's pride that he should not read 
 her heart, until he had unvailed his own, and never, un- 
 less he could reciprocate her affection. Then I fell to 
 speculating upon the whys and wherefores of things as 
 they exist in society. Why do we condemn in actual life, 
 what we accept so naturally in works of fiction ? 
 
 Shakspeare's heroines, for example, who stand, many of 
 them at least, as models of womanly nature — his Juliet, 
 his Rosalind, his Fortia and Miranda, in short, nearly 
 all of his most lovable and lovely, were also loving wo- 
 men, and did not wait to be wooed before revealing the true 
 6tate of their affections, and in some instances manifested 
 such a tenacity and perseverance as could not fail of 
 15 
 
170 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD ; OR, 
 
 accomplishing its purpose, in the end. Were they less 
 prized for maiden modesty and truth, than the women of our 
 time, whom custom, if nothing else, forbids such decided 
 manifestations of preference ? Is there a reason in nature 
 for the course prescribed by the world, or is it the out- 
 growth of a false system of things ? And what is to be 
 done in the case of a simple child like Emily, to prevent 
 her from wearing her heart outside for the censorious 
 world to carp at, or vain man to natter himself by? Who 
 can advise her ? Not I, surely. Her greatest beauty, in 
 my eye, is her unconscious innocence. Is it not also her 
 greatest security ? And is William one who could in 
 any way take advantage of it ? He has his weaknesses 
 like other men. He is much courted in society, and 
 made to feel his own importance. There is not a mar- 
 riageable young lady, or a maneuvering mother, who 
 would not consider him a good match, and he must know 
 it. I wish this was a more Eden-like world. I have 
 heard it said by a fascinating woman, who was a good 
 illustration of her position, too, that a woman of tact 
 could make any man she chose in love with her. But 
 some women are too transparent to use any arts. Must 
 they learn them ? Juliet, it seems, had an inkling that 
 coquetry was not to be despised, but her knowledge came 
 too late for use. She says, " if thou thinkest I am too 
 quickly won, I'll frown and be perverse and say thee nay." 
 Alas ! she had committed herself beforehand, and so I fear 
 it is with Emily. Besides, these coquettish arts would not 
 set well on her; she could not learn them. They may do 
 for women of the world. And it is men of the world that 
 can best appreciate them. Real love makes a man, and 
 a woman too, humble, distrustful of themselves, distrust- 
 ful of their power of pleasing, modest in their estimate 
 of their own attractions and accomplishments, sensitive 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 171 
 
 to the slightest defects in their own characters. There- 
 fore "William, if he really loved our child, might well feel 
 in her pure presence, that he must aspire to deserve the 
 first love of her innocent and untried soul. I don't know 
 what Mary and her husband think about it, or if they ob- 
 serve it. I hope all will be well with those towards whom 
 my heart warms with tenderest affection. If ever the 
 guardian angels of our lives are near to us, it must be in 
 the dawning of that affection which is the type of all bless- 
 edness if fortunate, and the source of such untold misery 
 if otherwise. 
 
 Our friends the Camerons, are comfortably settled in 
 their snug little home. I wish I knew they would be as 
 happy as they are outwardly comfortable. They are so 
 near me that I can run in and see them very often. Liz 
 zie showed me the arrangements of her house with a look 
 of satisfaction 1 have not seen upon her face for some time. 
 " Now there is but one thing wanting," said she, " to 
 make me contented — that is employment. I wish to be 
 doing something, now white I have strength, and energy, 
 and hope. What can I do 3 I have made a little money 
 by writing for Magazines," she continued, with some em- 
 barrassment of manner; "not that I am a genius, but some 
 friends of mine tried to make me believe that I had a 
 gift at story telling. But my scribbling days are over." 
 
 "Why so?" I asked. 
 
 " I can hardly explain to you why 1 think so except 
 in general terms. Don't you think there comes a time, 
 in the life of every one, when circumstances, or perhaps 
 individual temperament forces the mind inward and 
 creates a tendency to morbidness 1 It is a transition 
 period in the soul's history. Perhaps it is a new birth — 
 I call it the struggle of an inward death. To some I fear 
 
172 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 there comes no resurrection in this life ; it is all struggle 
 and suffering." 
 
 I remembered the words of the Lord " whosoever loseth 
 his life for my sake shall find it," and repeated them to 
 her with an explanation I had heard somewhere, which 
 threw a new light upon the dark questionings in her mind. 
 
 " Yes," said she, " I see the end of my doubts this mo- 
 ment. How long the truth will be clear to me is uncer- 
 tain, but I thank you for giving more meaning to those 
 words than I had found in them before. ' We must lose 
 our own life,' the hopes, the joys, the satisfactions that 
 centered in self, and accept the discipline, however severe, 
 that is to teach us how to find a higher. But to go back 
 to the point from which I set out. In that state of our 
 being when this painful self-consciousness is going on, we 
 ought not to write. We look at all things subjectively ; 
 we give to everything the coloring of our own thought — 
 we impress ourselves upon every character — our morbid 
 sickly selves. When we rise again to this other life — if 
 we ever do — we may hope to do something which will 
 elevate others. If we have triumphed, we can help others 
 — but if our own guiding-star has set in darkness, we 
 ought not to drag others down with us." 
 
 " Why, Lizzie," said I, " although what you say is in 
 some sort true, I don't like to hear you suppose an if in the 
 case. The star which the wise men saw in the East, went 
 before them till it brought them to the place where the 
 Lord lay. That guiding-star can never set in darkness — 
 or if it does, it is the darkness which precedes the dawn of 
 the Sun of righteousness." 
 
 Just as I had finished the last word, Edward came in. 
 I heard his voice in the dining-room — scolding the girl for 
 not having dinner ready in time. Lizzie glanced at the 
 clock. It wanted a few moments of the hour. A cloud 
 
THE EVERY-DAT LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 173 
 
 passed over her face. " You must excuse me a moment," 
 said she. " I have been beguiled into talking with you, 
 when I ought to have been hurrying my tardy Dutch girl 
 with her dinner. You know gentlemen are always impa- 
 tient at irregularity at meal times." I bade her good-by, 
 and as I passed through the hall to go out, I heard Ed- 
 ward's voice again. " He would go back without his 
 dinner. There was no comfort — nothing but d — d lazi- 
 ness." Lizzie mentioned my name — and I heard myself 
 with another oath, consigned to a very uncomfortable 
 place — one of which I feared this house was in part the 
 type. Poor Lizzie ! I see it all now. I see why she has 
 come here to live — why she is so earnest about doing 
 something — and oh ! my sad heart, I see why it is she has 
 thrown aside the pen that can record only the disappointed 
 hopes and inward conflict of her own experience. I see 
 it all now. 
 
 #*■##* 
 I told my husband my fears with regard to Edward, 
 which he confirmed, having met him but a few days ago, 
 with flushed face and excited manner, disputing with a 
 gentleman in the street on some trivial point. Yes, this 
 is now added to his other sins of selfishness. He is in- 
 temperate. He had not the courage to look upon the 
 necessity of labor for the support of his family. He — the 
 self indulgent, the petted child, the willful boy, the ex- 
 acting man — was too weak to look his fate in the face, 
 and meet it heroically, and so sought to drown his con- 
 sciousness in this Lethe. Is it his fault or fate ? Oh, the 
 questionings which will arise within us, as we look upon 
 the self-inflicted misery in the world. Let us not forget 
 to be merciful. We see only the results. Infinite wisdom 
 penetrates the causes — causes that lie hidden far back in 
 the past — in the poisoned blood transmitted from genera- 
 
174 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD ; OR, 
 
 tion to generation — in the constitution broken and shat- 
 tered, which has come down a pitiable inheritance from 
 a perverted ancestry — in the sin and the weakness that 
 left its blight upon the homes that have been blotted out 
 from the earth. Ought we not to be merciful ? 
 
 But the consequences, when they come home to us with 
 such vivid reality, when they strike down those we love — 
 when we look upon the homes of our friends where are 
 materials for happiness so various, so manifold — and then 
 mark the desolation, the anguish, the untold agonies — 
 hearts broken — young life blighted — can we say all is 
 well! Doubtless in the ages, all will be well — even to 
 those who are in darkness here ; but it requires a higher 
 faith than we can attain, to feel it at all times. But it 
 is better to suffer wrong than do wrong — for out of gentle 
 patience and unswerving trust, there grows up the tender 
 bud of piety which hereafter shall bear the fruit of 
 Heavenly joy. I cannot write any more about Lizzie and 
 her family. It makes me too sad. I cannot hope — but 
 I can pray for them. 
 
 * # # # # 
 
 Last evening, Rosalie brought a friend with her to pass 
 an hour or two at the Herberts— Lucille Granger, a young 
 lady with whom she was intimate at Paris. Her father 
 is an American, and her mother French. She is one of 
 the most magnificent-looking girls I ever saw, and as 
 brilliant intellectually, as she is handsome in person. (I 
 am giving my first impressions merely.) Her conversation 
 is rich and varied, for she has been everywhere, and seen 
 everything. She is an only daughter and _ her father's idol. 
 She has been his constant companion in his travels. She 
 is perfectly self-possessed, and at ease — has a fund of 
 anecdote and the greatest store of interesting experience. 
 She is to pass three months with Rosalie. We were all 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OP EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 175 
 
 delighted with her. I tried to find fault, and to spy out 
 some flaw or blemish, because a secret reason lay coiled 
 up in my heart, for wishing her not to appear too perfect. 
 In short I did not wish the dazzling sunshine of her beauty 
 and talent, to obscure the soft beams of our bright even- 
 ing star. You understand me. I am getting quite too 
 much engrossed with sublunary things, for one who will 
 probably in a short time be summoned to another sphere 
 of existence. But it is not as present good or evil that I 
 look at events now; the consequences reach forward to 
 that eternity where we shall all meet by-and-by. Yes, and 
 
 as our pious friend Mr. used to say — all will be right 
 
 in the ages. 
 
 Will Lucille, with her fascinations, captivate Mr. Lynn ? 
 Here is a question that involves a great deal. He is de- 
 voted to her of course. He could not be otherwise to his 
 sister's guest. That is all right. We do not see him so 
 much these last few days. Well, I shall be " takin' 
 notes," and if I don't "prent 'em," I will at least write 
 them. 
 
 My Nelly, who is quite an observing girl, said to me 
 the other day, that she knew William was in love with 
 Emily. I did not question her, because, as I desire to keep 
 her young while she is at school, I do not encourage her 
 to talk about such matters. I merely told her, she was not 
 old enough to judge of such things. She went out laugh- 
 ing, and had the last word too — for "mother I know it," 
 she said as she closed the door. I hope the child is right. 
 At least the advent of this stranger must hasten matters 
 to a termination, and perhaps I may yet live to see my 
 spring bud expanding in the kindly atmosphere of his 
 manly heart. 
 
 * # # # * 
 
 Mary Herbert came to see me yesterday, 1 saw there 
 
176 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 was something on her mind, and divined what she had 
 come to talk to me about. But I was astounded when she 
 said, " I am going to New England next week, and shall 
 take Emily and the children with me. I wish you would 
 let Mr. Herbert take his meals with you." " Certainly," 
 said I, "but why this sudden start? A New England 
 winter of all things ! It makes me shiver to think of it ! 
 Why not wait till spring at least?" 
 
 " I may as well come to the point," she continued, 
 " although I feel I am telling you only what you have 
 guessed before. I have seen for some time that Emily is 
 interested in William Lynn. I have tried not to observe 
 it for many reasons — I confess to having felt an inward 
 satisfaction in an attachment that I hoped was, or would 
 be mutual. I think they are suited to each other. I love 
 them both, and desire their happiness as sincerely as if 
 they were my own children. I have thought I would let 
 things take their course, but I am now of a different 
 mind. I have decided that for the future good of both, 
 they had better be separated." 
 
 " Do you imagine," said I, " that William is in love 
 with Lucille Granger ? " 
 
 " I do not know. I think it not improbable, not un- 
 natural. She is very fascinating — very brilliant, and 
 evidently admires him. I think Eosalie desires it. He 
 is of course very much occupied with his sister's guest. 
 We need not enter into particulars. It is best that he 
 should know his own mind perfectly. If he really loves 
 Emily, his affection will stand the test of this separation, 
 even under the full influence of Lucille's attractions. If 
 he does not, I had rather she should suffer temporary 
 disappointment, than the bitterness of protracted hope, 
 or unsatisfied affection. I do not wish him to think 
 Emily loves him, or to be bound to her by any other 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 177 
 
 than the spontaneous devotion of a whole heart. I wish 
 to save her pride as well as her affections, therefore I am 
 determined to go." "Perhaps you are right," I said — at 
 the same time I was dubious. I think it is best generally 
 to leave these things to Providence. " Poor Emily! " Yes, 
 poor Emily. I know it will be a deep sorrow to her, 
 when she comes to understand her own heart, which she 
 does not now. But she will thank me for the course I 
 have taken, if he marries Miss Granger. I have not told 
 William my determination, nor shall I at present. I do 
 not wish to give him an opportunity to speak to Emily 
 alone. Under the impulse of the moment he might be 
 betrayed into saying more than he really felt. I think 
 he has a deeper interest in her, than he has been willing 
 to acknowledge, but I wish to see it put to a test. Be- 
 sides, Emily is so young and has been so little in society 
 that she has had no advantage of choice. I wish her to 
 see other men. She is lovely and will be admired. First 
 love is a very sweet thing as the poets paint it, but it is 
 a dream from which there follows a bitter awaking some- 
 times — I must go home now and prepare for my journey. 
 Good-by. 
 
 So she left me thinking, and the result of my medita- 
 tions was a feeling of disappointment, and half disap- 
 proval. Why not give William an opportunity to declare 
 himself if he wishes it ? 
 
 Mary and the children, with Emily, are gone, and the 
 dear ht>me shut up. It is refreshing to see Mr. Herbert 
 three times a day, and to have an evening chat with him, 
 but I miss Mary. She is my best friend here ; she is the 
 only one that fills the void of your living presence. Wil- 
 liam Lynn did not know of their intention to leave till 
 the day before they started. I was there when it was 
 
178 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD ; OR, 
 
 announced to him. He seemed astonished, puzzled — 
 sorry — and I thought secretly unhappy about it. I think 
 his interest in Emily partakes of somewhat that is 
 tender, but I know nothing about it. What if he should 
 be fascinated with Lucille for a while? It would not be 
 strange. Men are so dazzled by beauty and vivacity — 
 Emily's is a quiet, home-like loveliness that grows upon 
 one. It would not take any heart by storm, but it would 
 hold it captive when once gained. I must do my best to 
 entertain the young people while Mary is away — but I 
 have lost so much of my capacity for interesting the 
 young, that I know they will miss their sympathizing 
 friend who seemed more like one of them. 
 
 I had not seen Lizzie for nearly a week, being myself 
 indisposed and unable to go out, when one afternoon, as 
 I was thinking about her, wondering why she had not 
 been to see me, and trying to summon resolution to brave 
 this cold, damp, penetrating atmosphere, my husband 
 came in, and asked me if I was not well enough to run in 
 and see her a little while, for he knew she was in trouble. 
 In reply to my questions, he told me that Edward had 
 been at home sick for several days, and in such a condi- 
 tion that he required a man to take care of him. Deli- 
 rium tremens! yes, it was nothing less. Poor Lizzie has 
 been brought to the worst now. How will she bear it? 
 I asked, and prepared immediately to go to her. My bon- 
 net and cloak on, and my feet upon the threshold I 
 hesitated. The thought suggested itself, perhaps she 
 would rather not see me — rather that I should not see 
 her shame and her disgrace. Her shame — yes, thus a 
 wife feels in her husband's degradation. He feels no 
 shame — but she — her innocent children — on them the 
 burden lies. She had not been to see me, perhaps because 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 179 
 
 she did not wish me to know her bitter trial. I did 
 not know for a time what it was best to do — but I 
 decided at length to go. My husband advised it. 
 
 As I walked along, I had a vision of the past — of 
 Edward and Lizzie as they were when I first saw them. 
 He, so haggard and care-worn now, passed before me a 
 curly-haired blue-eyed boy, beautiful as the morning. 
 He was small and delicately formed — lithe and graceful, 
 the very ideal of a poet-child. How his mother idolized 
 him! Alas! her weak indulgence was his ruin. He 
 became selfish and exacting — his temper was ungovern- 
 able; what he wanted, were it ever so unreasonable, 
 if it was in the bounds of possibility, he had. His 
 brothers and sisters always gave up to him — his mother 
 was ruled by his whims ; and he was not an affectionate 
 child. He felt no gratitude for the sacrifices that were 
 made for him. "What pampered child ever does ? He 
 received all as a matter of course — as his indisputable 
 right. At school he won golden opinions on account of 
 a certain kind of talent, a readiness of acquirement, and 
 a gift of language. His compositions were remarkable 
 for a boy of his age. As he grew to manhood, he man- 
 ifested a strong ambition of literary distinction. He was 
 a good scholar, a great reader, and had a faculty of 
 appropriating the thoughts and the knowledge of others 
 in a way calculated to deceive that class of minds which, 
 puffed up with a conceit of their intellectual discernment, 
 are ambitious to place their own rushlight in the sun- 
 shine of another's popularity, that they may shine with 
 reflected lustre in their own little orbit, and thereby 
 attain an importance in the literary world which, by 
 their own force of character, they could never secure. 
 Such cliques and clans may be found in every place. 
 
180 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 the hangers on of popular men and women ; and such a 
 circle revolved about Edward Cameron. 
 
 His brothers and sisters, compelled by very limited 
 means to self-exertion, for the support of the family, 
 were the slaves of his caprice and selfishness. They 
 loved him, they idealized him — invested him with the 
 mantle of genius — thought every line he wrote was true 
 poetry — wondered at his knowledge, and were only too 
 happy to let him have his own way — to work for him — ■ 
 to save for him. They felt nothing a sacrifice which was 
 done for him. 
 
 At the age of twenty one, with nothing to live on but 
 his reputation, he was engaged to Lizzie. You know all 
 about this ; more even than myself, as I was away at the 
 time of their marriage, and heard of it first through you. 
 But you did not know them personally as I did, for we 
 were brought up side by side. 
 
 Lizzie was a noble girl — full of enthusiasm, full of 
 ardent and self-denying affection — full of talent and too 
 generous herself to suspect any one of selfishness, much 
 less one who incarnated her ideal of a poet-soul. Hers 
 was a nature of strong contrasts — an intense, impassioned 
 nature. If she loved at all, it must be with her whole 
 soul, there could be no middle ground with her between 
 like and dislike — I will not say love and hate, for hate is 
 a strong word to apply to a woman's feelings. Few 
 women hate. When a being once ardently loved ceases 
 to inspire affection, the opposite feeling is not hatred, but 
 an inward shrinking from — a dread — a loathing, more 
 difficult to conceal and harder to endure than a sharp, 
 decided hatred. But how much must she endure! what 
 strivings with her old feelings of tenderness, what yearn- 
 ings for the sweet dreams that beguiled her, what self- 
 
 
I 
 
 THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 181 
 
 reproaches, what self-renunciation will she not undergo 
 before she stands face to face with the naked, appalling 
 fact that love is dead and buried in her heart! 
 
 Has Lizzie reached that point ? Oh no, I think not. I 
 have seen her look at him with so much tenderness. 
 " None are all evil," — selfish, debased as he is, he must 
 have his better moments, and then her heart returns — I 
 know it must, again and again to the hopes, the love of 
 the past — of her maidenhood. 
 
 Delirium tremens ! I said over and over to myself. 
 And has it come to this? Fallen so low! that fine 
 intellect, that capacity for the highest excellence! My 
 heart was sad enough when I reached their door, but I 
 was glad I went. I will write you again soon. 
 
 * # # # # 
 
 I know you will be anxious to hear again from the 
 Camerons, and I will take up the thread where I laid it 
 down, a few days ago. I told you I was glad I went — ■ 
 and Lizzie was glad to see me. She was so forlorn, had 
 suffered so much, and was so wrought up by the painful 
 excitement she had endured, that 1 know nothing would 
 relieve her so much, as to unburden her sorrow to a 
 friendly heart — to one who would not abuse her confidence. 
 Besides, she knew I must be aware of the facts — of her 
 husband's present condition, and of his previous habits. 
 "I shielded him, I hid my own sorrow from all eyes, 
 even from my mother's as long as I could," said she, 
 "but he has betrayed himself. I have no more hope for 
 him — for myself — for my poor children. While I thought 
 the world did not know it, it was easier to bear the load. 
 Much as I longed for sympathy, for advice, I could not — 
 would not ask it, for his sake. I thought, there is yet 
 hope for him, if he does not lose his self-respect, if he 
 does not feel that his reputation is gone. I persuaded 
 
182 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 him to come here, thinking that if our outward prospects 
 were more favorable, it would be an encouragement to 
 him — that he would be happier. 1 felt that, harassed by 
 so many pecuniary anxieties, mortified by want of success, 
 so many of us dependent upon him — his pride making 
 him unwilling that I should exert myself in aid of his 
 efforts for the support of the family — with a feeble phy- 
 sical organization and great nervous susceptibility, it 
 was no wonder that he should seek to drown his misery 
 in forgetfulness. I wanted to help him. I thought I 
 could do it here, where nobody knew us, without wound- 
 ing his pride. My plan seemed at first to succeed. I 
 had begun once more to be hopeful. But now — ," and 
 she wrung my hands as she spoke — "now it is all over. 
 There is no more hope for me. Everybody knows it 
 now. He has lost his situation. The whole world must 
 know now, our degradation, our misery." 
 
 What she said was true. "What could I say to her? 
 Everybody did know it — had known it longer than she 
 imagined. I told her she must not dwell upon that 
 thought — must not allow herself to be crushed — must 
 not give up hope — must not in short look beyond the 
 present. Bitter as it was, its bitterness was a thousand 
 fold augmented by vague apprehensions. I told her — a 
 trite saying to be sure, but if spoken at the right 
 moment, one nil of comfort and strength — that no trial 
 was so terrible in its reality as when looked upon from a 
 distance — and that the good God who permitted us to be 
 afflicted, would give us strength to bear our load if we 
 asked it in faith. Everything I said to her was common- 
 place — an old story often repeated, but suited to our 
 common wants — our common nature. 
 
 While we were talking together the door of his chamber 
 opened and I heard his ravings — u Let me go home! " he 
 
 I 
 
THE- EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 183 
 
 said, in such a voice as made me shudder — "Take me 
 home gentlemen, home!" 
 
 Lizzie turned as pale as death and would have rushed 
 to him had I not detained her. She sank back in my 
 arms — Oh, how she has loved him! As I looked at her 
 poor, distracted countenance so full of anguish, my heart 
 sank within me. What could I say to her, to lift up her 
 soul to the only Comforter ? The weight of her affliction 
 seemed as if it were crushing me also — and the future 
 seemed to me terrible in its blackness of darkness. How 
 cold my words sounded, you can perhaps understand, for 
 you may have been placed in a position calling for great 
 thoughts, and inspiring hopes, when you were unable to 
 see anything but the dark side of the picture. Yet I 
 longed to lift her up — to help her. As the surest help I 
 encouraged her to unbosom herself. I felt there was 
 such a relief in speaking out one's misery. So putting 
 my arm around her, I led her to a seat beside me: " Lizzie, 
 dear child, you know I am your friend — trust me — I may 
 not be able to help you, and yet I may, for I have reached 
 a point in time, when the trials of this life fade away in 
 comparison with the hopes of another. I know the 
 bitterness of your sorrow. Yours is not an isolated 
 experience. I had a dear friend years ago, whose 
 domestic life was clouded as yours is. Long and fearful 
 was the conflict, for her nature was proud and haughty. 
 She loved to idolatry. The contest was for some time 
 doubtful, but God is on the side of virtue. She learned 
 on whom to rely — she conquered — she rose above her 
 trials, she found peace." I saw the cloud lifted up that 
 had shrouded Lizzie's face when I began speaking. This 
 gleam of encouragement enabled me to go on. "Your 
 dear little children look to you for good, Lizzie. You 
 must be for them wisdom and love — father and mother. 
 
184 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 The Lord has placed y©u in a situation where your 
 present duty is plain. Do not look beyond it now. 
 Receive your daily bread, moistened though it is by tears, 
 and leave results to Him who appoints the lot of all his 
 children. Accept the present. 
 
 "And that so bitter!" exclaimed Lizzie, "How can I? 
 Is there then, do you think, no ground for hope?" 
 
 " There is this ground for hope always, my dear child. 
 If we live wisely — in the present — trusting our happiness 
 with God, we shall find peace at last." 
 
 "But I cannot give him up," she gasped wildly. "I 
 think of him as he was when I knew him first and loved 
 him so well. I look upon his children — I think of the 
 awful possibilities of their future, and I feel that I must 
 save him for their sakes as well as his own — that there 
 is a way, if I only knew it, to reach his heart — to arouse 
 his conscience — to rekindle his affections. Do you think 
 there is no hope?" 
 
 "What we cannot do ourselves for our loved ones, 
 God can do for us," said I. "Hope in Him." 
 
 " I am not a Christian," said Lizzie; "I am afraid I do 
 not know what trust in God really means. I know what 
 it is to be cut off from all human help — to feel alone — 
 alone in the wide world — alone in soul — the joy of youth 
 gone — health, energy, hope, all gone, but from these 
 depths my soul cannot rise to what you call trust in God. 
 I wish it could. I have suffered much," she continued 
 after a pause, "God only knows how much. But I do 
 not think I have been made better by it. I have tried 
 to harden myself — tried not to feel. When my heart has 
 been breaking, and my poor children clung trembling to 
 me, afraid of his violence, I have for their sakes assumed 
 indifference — coldness, that their young hearts need not 
 ache for my suffering. I have forced myself to be cheerful 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 185 
 
 until I seemed to myself a maniac, that they need not see 
 the torture I was enduring. I have reasoned with my- 
 self, repeating over and over again, 'It is not he, but the 
 demon that possesses him that is rooting up all our 
 household joys.' But I cannot steel myself against my 
 misery. Oh if you knew what maddening thoughts, 
 what wicked, wicked thoughts I have had sometimes! — 
 but I will not repeat them. They do not last. They 
 were wrung from me in an unguarded moment. At the 
 bottom of my heart, I feel how much more he is to be 
 pitied than I am, or even than his poor children. How 
 much deeper the injuries he inflicts upon himself, than 
 upon us. This is a terrible thought. When I think of 
 it, I forgive him all. But I will not talk any more about 
 myself. Perhaps I have done wrong, but I could not 
 help it. Do not distress yourself about us. It was a 
 relief to talk to you, and I thank you for listening." 
 
 " You need not thank me," said I, "and I wish I could 
 do you good. I will not preach patience to you now 
 while your heart is distracted with anxiety and grief — yet 
 she is a gentle friend, a very angel of peace to the soul, 
 Lizzie, and does not fly from those who seek her." 
 
 I will give you some advice — you will think it com- 
 mon-place enough, but it may help you, as it has helped 
 me in past trials. You do not believe that anything 
 happens by chance — whether of joy or sorrow. You 
 believe in a good God, a merciful Father. All we can 
 do is to accept our lot, and use its trials in the best way 
 we can. They were not sent to crush us — and we are 
 not left to struggle alone with misfortune. Try to see 
 the hand outstretched to save you. Be patient — be as 
 cheerful as you can. Do not aggravate present evils by 
 dreary apprehensions. Do not ask what you shall do 
 by-and-by, or how you will be able to bear the evils that 
 16 
 
186 THE OLD COKNEK CUPBOARD; OB, 
 
 may be stored up for you in the future. Strive only to 
 bear those of to-day in the best way you can — and thus 
 your strength, and patience, and trust in God will increase. 
 And above all things try, for your children's sake, to be 
 hopeful — not only to assume cheerfulness, but to be 
 cheerful. It will not always be striving. By-and-by it 
 will become a reality." 
 
 " Oh, if I thought so," said Lizzie sadly — "but I am 
 not good. The dreams of youth still linger with me. 
 How I have longed for happiness ! And must I give up 
 the vision , and strive only for resignation and patience ! 
 Is there no such thing in life as joy ? Did God give me 
 this thirst of the soul for naught ? Often when I have 
 been like one wandering in the desert, I have heard soft 
 murmurs in the distance as of clear waters, on whose 
 banks I hoped to find yet the happiness for which I pine. 
 Oh, the cool brooks among my native hills! I remember 
 the time I used to wander beside them and lie for hours 
 on their green banks, sending my thoughts on and on 
 toward a future, all bright and full of hope. But what is 
 that future now? Dry, desolate, barren of verdure, and 
 yet I still dream on — the thirst of my soul still unslaked." 
 
 " There is but one fountain that quenches the soul's 
 thirst, Lizzie," said I. 
 
 " I have heard that before," she replied, " often and 
 often — said it over and over to myself, and it is strange 
 that I should not have found it yet. But so it is — I see 
 others happy around me, married people who love each 
 other — old people whose children have grown up around 
 them gentle, good and affectionate — and my heart sinks 
 within me. Such a home can never be mine — never — 
 never." 
 
 I could not bear to hear her go on in that way — 1 
 felt how natural her grief was. I could not blame her. 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 187 
 
 I knew the calmer, better thoughts would succeed, and I 
 left her with that hope. 
 
 In the evening Mr. Herbert called and offered to watch 
 with Edward. The presence of a sympathizing friend 
 was a solace to her. She dares not even enter her hus- 
 band's room. The sight of her, or of the children excites 
 him so much. I do not think Edward will recover. 
 ***** 
 
 Last evening Rosalie, Lucille and William, passed 
 with me. They came sociably to tea. I was very glad 
 to see them, for my heart was so heavy with thinking of 
 my poor friends the Camerons, that I had not power to 
 see "the forms of things with an unclouded eye." The 
 presence of these young, hopeful and happy people drew 
 me involuntarily out of myself. Lucille was unusually 
 brilliant, and it was evident to me that she was not 
 indifferent to William's opinion of her. He is so non- 
 committal when he chooses to be, that one may as well 
 be blind, as try to penetrate through his cloak of re- 
 serve. I wondered if he was captivated, and I might 
 have continued to wonder, for all the light he chose to 
 give me. I do not like Lucille better on acquaintance. 
 She is too foreign, and I may add confidentially to 
 you, too affected. She is accomplished, but very super- 
 ficial. She is a thoroughly external person. You cannot 
 be in her society long without perceiving that her enthu- 
 siasm begins and ends, and is bounded entirely by mere 
 words. She knows how to talk about art, and nature — 
 uses the most appropriate phrases, manifests a deal of en- 
 thusiasm, too intensified and too garrulous to be real, and has 
 so well conned the part she is to play that a casual observer 
 might think it all genuine. I cannot think I am deceived 
 in her. She has not a spark of genius. She has very 
 little depth of character, and what she might have had is 
 
188 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD ; OR, 
 
 lost in this superficial and worldly education. (Impression 
 No. 2.) It is evident that Kosalie admires her exceed- 
 ingly — thinks she is all she seems to be — and has set her 
 heart on having her for a sister. Poor little Emily ! She 
 is worth a dozen Lucilles — she is so true, so genuine. 
 Has not William discernment enough to perceive this, or 
 will he be dazzled by this external glitter? And Lucille 
 does not like America, has no sympathy with republi- 
 canism — no hallowed association with the place of her 
 birth — thinks there is no place like Pans. This is not 
 surprising to be sure, as all her childhood she was sur- 
 rounded by a foreign atmosphere. It was a great mistake, 
 if her father intended to make America his home, to 
 educate his children abroad. But that is not my affair. 
 William is a true patriot. He must not marry Lucille. 
 Only once during the evening did he speak of Emily, 
 expressing surprise, and I thought chagrin at Mary's 
 leaving so abruptly. He particularly regretted, he said, 
 that they were to be absent so long, as he thought he 
 might join an expedition to the Rocky Mountains in the 
 spring, which several young men of his acquaintance 
 had joined, under the command of Captain Grey of the 
 army. 
 
 I told him, that to a young man of his abundant leisure 
 and resources, a journey to New England was no great 
 thing, and I thought the sight of good friends might repay 
 him for the trouble ; to which he replied, he was by no 
 means certain that a visit from him would be acceptable, 
 as they had not admitted him into a knowledge of their 
 plans, or intimated that it would be agreeable to them to 
 see him. Whereupon I reproved him for want of faith in 
 old and tried friends, and changed the subject. I don't 
 know as William would confide in me or in any one. I 
 think I had rather he would not ; but I hope he loves Emily. 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY TEOPLE. 189 
 
 You inquire about my health, and wonder why 1 never 
 speak of my bodily condition. The answer is simple. I 
 do not care to think of it. I know my disease is becom- 
 ing more and more deeply seated ; my cough troubles me 
 more ; my flesh is wasting, and I am losing strength — 
 but I suffer no pain. I do not mean to give up till I am 
 compelled to, and I trust my heavenly Father will sum- 
 mon me home as soon as I cease to be of use here. A 
 sudden death has something in it delightful to me. I 
 remember when it wore a very different aspect. I cannot 
 say that I hope to die suddenly, but it is a pleasant 
 thought, and I feel almost a presentiment that I shall pass 
 away suddenly at the last. It is only in fearing and 
 dreading death that we can be said to die. I have 
 passed through that agony, and really feel — it is not mere 
 W ords — but I really feel that there is no death to those 
 who believe in God. Yet, mortal life is sweet. The 
 world is dear to me — my friends are very precious — and 
 the earth is full of beauty. I love it — yes I love life — 
 I find in it so much that is good and great — so much poe- 
 try — so much inspiration. Life is full of meaning — human- 
 ity full of interest. I do not think that what we call death 
 can destroy this union of mind with mind — spirit with 
 spirit — this yearning of soul and sense with the beautiful 
 and true. 
 
 # * % # # 
 
 Last evening, Mr. Herbert came in with the intelli- 
 gence that Edward was much worse, and he thought he 
 could not survive the night. My husband suggested that 
 I had better not go, fearing the effect of strong excitement 
 upon me ; but I knew my own strength, and went. I am 
 glad that I did. Poor Edward is gone. He died about 
 midnight. We were all with him ; none but friends stood 
 around his bedside — the two eldest children, with their 
 
190 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 mother, Mr. Herbert, my husband and myself. I was 
 glad Lizzie was able to control herself. Poor child ! 
 How his faults faded away in the presence of death. She 
 had loved him from her childhood with a true, fervent de- 
 votion. He had planted thorns along the path they had 
 trodden together, but she forgave him all at that hour. 
 She saw him, not as he had been through these long, 
 weary years of suffering, but as he was when she first 
 promised to share life's vicissitudes with him — her first and 
 only love. And she has been faithful. I am sure, in the 
 records of that Book of Life from which her final judg- 
 ment is to come, she will not be found wanting. Yes, 
 she loved him to the last. It may be that when her heart 
 was bleeding through his unkindness, thoughts arose in 
 her mind which her better nature could not stifle in a 
 moment, but she cherished no resentment. And if now, 
 in her hour of grief, they return to haunt her, we must 
 teach her to be charitable to herself. I wish you had been 
 with us, and yet it was too sad. You might have sug- 
 gested thoughts of comfort that I could not. Poor Ed- 
 ward ! what was passing in his mind no eye but God can 
 know. A wasted life is the record he leaves with us. 
 Powers misapplied, affections turned inward upon himself, 
 health ruined, happiness wrecked, usefulness destroyed. 
 God have mercy on him and on us all ! "Who does not 
 feel the need of this prayer ? 
 
 Long after he was unable to articulate above a whisper, 
 his eye was fixed upon Lizzie and his children. She held 
 his hand to the last. She went, with him to that boundary 
 which the mortal could not pass, and still she clung to 
 him. Those eyes upturned were gazing upon her with 
 Buch a depth of meaning. There ,was no shadow of un- 
 consciousness upon them at the last moment. The chil- 
 dren stooped to kiss his brow ; great .tears gathered in his 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 191 
 
 eyes, and rolled down his cheeks. His lips moved : we 
 thought he asked for water, and as Lizzie bent over him, 
 he murmured, "faithful to death" It was of her he 
 spoke, of his faithful, long-suffering wife. They were his 
 last words, but the feeling that inspired them lingered still 
 in his glazing eye. Such silence followed — the silence of 
 death. Her hand still clasped in his, her head bowed 
 upon the pillow beside him, and the spirit had passed 
 away while we were standing there, yet we, shrouded in 
 mortality, had not heard the fluttering of its wings. 
 
 I drew Lizzie from the bedside. " It is all over now," 
 said I ; " think of your children." 
 
 " Oh, had I been more faithful," said she, bitterly. 
 " Every impatient word, every unkind thought comes 
 back to me now. Yet I tried to do my duty. I never 
 ceased to love him. But I dwelt so much upon my un- 
 happiness — my disappointed hopes — of the wrong he did 
 me and his children. Oh ! I can never forgive myself." 
 
 I knew she saw everything through the medium of her 
 own excited feelings, and that she would be calmer soon. 
 
 I wish to ask you a question I have often asked myself. 
 How much can one human being do toward saving ano- 
 ther from sin and its consequences ? Must we understand 
 literally the stern decree that every soul must "work put 
 its own salvation ?" Can we not help one another more 
 than we do, and how can we do it? When the conscious- 
 ness of the love of wife and children, the endearments of 
 home, the convictions of duty, the sight of misery which 
 he has brought upon those whom it was his duty to pro- 
 tect, stares him in the face, and yet the inebriate plunges 
 deeper and deeper in self-indulgence, what can mortal 
 help avail ? 
 
 I confess it is a form of misery and sin to me the most 
 hopeless that can fall upon our human race. If one could 
 
192 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 not look to the Lord in trust, from whence could strength 
 and patience be found ? 
 
 I look upon it as a blessing to all his family, and to 
 himself, that poor Edward is removed. I have felt and 
 spoken bitterly of him, for which I reproach myself, and 
 yet all I have said was true. Perhaps much more might 
 have been said in palliation of his errors equally true. God 
 knows. He is gone. That erring, tried and tempted soul 
 was not forgotten of God. All that Infinite love and wisdom 
 could do for him has been done and will be done for him. 
 # # # # # 
 
 What you tell me of Emily is really distressing. Lame 
 for life! a hopeless invalid ! I am grieved beyond expres- 
 sion. The Doctor thinks her spine is injured. But will 
 not perfect rest and freedom from anxiety restore her ? 
 And they may be obliged to remain there a year ! Well, 
 I must see them there, then. William tells me he has 
 written to Mary of his intention to go West. He looks 
 wretchedly. I asked him why he did not go to New En- 
 gland before he started on his expedition. He pleaded 
 want of time. I am quite sure he is not in love with 
 Lucille, although Rosalie hinted to me the other day that 
 she thought her friend might decide not to return to Eu- 
 rope. They had planned a summer ramble to the Lakes, 
 she said, accompanied by William. I mentioned it to 
 Mr. Lynn as something delightful in prospective, to which 
 he replied, that Rosalie always had great schemes for fu- 
 ture enjoyment, and that he let her run on in her own 
 fashion, without taking the trouble even to suggest any 
 possibilities, for he thought it was as innocent a recreation 
 as any other, and it seemed to make very little difference 
 with her whether her plans were fulfilled or not. 
 
 "But," said I, "what is to hinder you from accompa- 
 nying the girls if they wish it ?" 
 
THE EVERY- DAT LIFE OF EVERT-DAY PEOPLE. 193 
 
 "A thousand things," he replied, "and one in a thou- 
 sand might determine the matter, and that a very selfish 
 objection. I have no taste for roaming about the country 
 with two young ladies in search of amusement. I have 
 played carpet-knight long enough." 
 
 " So you are going to rough it among the Indians," said 
 I, " and perhaps you will settle down with some pretty 
 squaw in the wilderness." 
 
 " I don't think it unlikely," he replied; "I should in- 
 finitely prefer it to your excessive civilization. "What is 
 more utterly weak and foolish — I ask you seriously — what 
 is more unsatisfactory than one of your modern fashiona- 
 ble young ladies ? I am not speaking of Rosalie — she is 
 a good creature at heart, and too simple in her tastes to 
 aspire to be a leader of the ton — a modern belle. But 
 how is it with those flocks of girls who constitute society? 
 Splendid creatures, as I heard a young man say the other 
 day at Mrs. Bristol's ball. I confess I was so bored that 
 I could not stay out half the evening. The truth is, Mrs. 
 Dearbon," said he, seriously, " I have not yet found what 
 you told me once I should find, that it was a good thing to 
 have lived and suffered. I am destitute of ambition and 
 energy; I have no object in life; and as to my principles, 
 1 have no confidence in them to withstand temptation. 
 Only that conviviality, gambling, and the divers forms 
 of dissipation which assail young men of fortune so often, 
 have no particular charm for me, I might have been ruined 
 past hope by this time, and may be yet, in some other 
 way. The image of a spotless angel comes between me 
 and the gross forms of sensuality which tempt many 
 young men to ruin — and a strong natural yearning pulls 
 at my heart strings when I think of that little fellow 
 among the mountains who calls me father, and who will 
 some day look to me for help and guidance in this journey 
 17 
 
194 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD ; OR, 
 
 of life. These ties are very strongly rooted in my nature, 
 and if Mabel had lived, I feel that I should have been a 
 better man. The necessity of exertion would have made 
 me strong. The object would have been all-sufficient, 
 and we should have been happy. As it is, I have an 
 unsettled feeling, and I must work or walk it off. 
 
 "But why do you not seek to make a home for your 
 affections ? " said I. 
 
 "I may have had such dreams once, but they are 
 dissipated," he said sadly ; " I cannot be satisfied with 
 anything short of love." 
 
 " And who is more favorably situated than you are for 
 choice?" I asked. "I think you undervalue your own 
 advantages." 
 
 " You are mistaken. Without doubt, if I seriously set 
 about finding a wife, I might succeed. Money will buy 
 some women. 1 don't mention that as an objection. I 
 do not wonder that it should be a weighty consideration 
 in this age of ridiculous rivalries and affectations. A 
 woman ought to have some panacea for a marriage 
 without heart. But you know me so well, as to know 
 that such a marriage would not suit me. You know too 
 that the woman of my choice, such an one as I could love, 
 would do a very unwise thing, and one which sensible 
 parents and guardians would have a right to object to, 
 if she gave herself away to a man who had no steadiness 
 of purpose — no aim or object in life — no fixedness of 
 character — no guarantee in himself that he could make 
 her permanently happy. My eyes are quite open, I assure 
 you. Circumstances have held me up to my own inspec- 
 tion, and I see, a woman would run a great risk, who 
 married me expecting to be really happy. A man must 
 do something, and keep his faculties alive, in exercise, 
 or he will rust out, heart and mind. A mere idler, a 
 
THE EVEKY-DAY LIFE OF EVEKY-DAY PEOPLE. 195 
 
 dreamer — a man of leisure and taste — is not the sort to 
 make a rational woman happy, because he must needs be 
 a selfish man — or generous only by instinct. My case is 
 a hard one, and with all your good sense you cannot 
 advise me, because I know even now, a thousandfold 
 better than I do. My mind is made up on this expedi- 
 tion. If I live to come back, I shall be better or worse — 
 I shall at any-rate be something." 
 
 A tormenting little spirit whispered in my ear — Do 
 give some hint — say something, if it is only Lucille. Do 
 find out at least what he thinks of her. No matter about 
 Emily — that subject is too sacred — but do start some- 
 thing. " So you leave Rosalie, and her friend, without 
 a protector. Isn't that running away from the duty that 
 lies nearest you," I asked, bolting the question in a very 
 awkward way I confess. 
 
 " They are fully able to protect themselves. If there 
 is any lack, it is on Rosalie's part, and Miss Granger can 
 easily supply that deficiency." 
 
 Why would he not come to the point? Ask him at 
 once, whispered the little spirit, at my ear. It is not 
 impudence in an old friend, such as you are. So I 
 yielded. " William," said I, " I have beat about the bush 
 long enough, and now I am coming to the point. We 
 have thought — Mary and myself — in short all of us have 
 thought, you were a great admirer of Lucille, and I con- 
 fess I am rather surprised (I could not say disappointed) 
 that you can so easily make up your mind to leave her 
 for the Rocky Mountains, or for a moment set beside her 
 in your imagination, a squaw of the Sioux, or Chippewa 
 tribe of Indians." 
 
 " If you and Mrs. Herbert, and all, could so misunder- 
 stand me, there is so much the more need of my going," 
 said he. "I thought you knew me better. This only 
 
196 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 proves that what I said before is true. I must be strangely 
 wanting in character, if the six years or more acquaint- 
 ance you have all had with me, has left no more definite 
 impression of myself than that. It is a mortifying con- 
 clusion I assure you." 
 
 "Now you seem a little vexed, William," said I, 
 "which is very unreasonable. You may as well make 
 up your mind to bear a little catechizing sometimes from 
 an old friend, and pardon a little curiosity in a woman. 
 What could be more natural, than that you should be 
 captivated by a beautiful and gifted young girl, a friend 
 of your sister's, with whom you were daily thrown in the 
 most familiar relation ? There may be, it is true, some- 
 thing peculiar in your character or circumstances, of 
 which I am ignorant, which renders you proof against the 
 usual tendencies of such juxtaposition, but you cannot 
 expect me to be wise above what is written, or to know 
 more than you choose to tell me. Therefore I judge you 
 by the customary standard. Young, susceptible, affec- 
 tionate — a lover of domestic life — keenly alive to the 
 beautiful, and ready to surrender — " 
 
 " At discretion?" added William laughing, yet looking 
 withal a good deal annoyed. " In some respects you are 
 right, and in others quite wrong. Young but not suscep- 
 tible—affectionate, but not very demonstrative — a lover 
 of domestic life, and consequently fearful of risking my 
 all on a short acquaintance — keenly alive to beauty, and 
 for that reason very much afraid of being dazzled by it, 
 at the expense of my better reason." 
 
 " A very Daniel come to judgment," said I. "Why, 
 your caution amazes me." 
 
 He looked quite vexed, but nothing would do. He did 
 not tell me what I wished to know, so I thought I would 
 try another dodge. "If I live until next spring," said 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 197 
 
 I, "and am as well as I hope to be, I intend to make a 
 visit to New England. How pleasant it would be, if you 
 are determined not to go to the lakes, if you could 
 induce Rosalie and Lucille to pass a few weeks in com- 
 pany with Mary and her family, myself and mine at 
 the sea-shore. But I suppose the Rocky Mountains have 
 greater attractions for you. There is something firmer 
 even than long tried friendship ! " 
 
 " And what is that? " he asked. 
 
 "The everlasting hills," I replied, "towards which you 
 look with so much eagerness. Now, one would think we 
 had stronger claim upon you than the Chippewas, Sioux, 
 or any other tribes of Indians, but if you will go West, 
 why not determine to come back in the summer, and join 
 our party ? After a fair trial of both extremes, if you 
 decide that a life in the woods is better than civilization, 
 we will relinquish you without a murmur, because, joking 
 aside, dear William, we love you too well to wish to 
 change your purposes merely to gratify ourselves. I 
 will not insist upon your falling in love with Lucille, or 
 anybody else, but I do desire to have you of our party 
 next summer." 
 
 " Then I promise to join you some time in September, 
 provided a pretty squaw does not hold me prisoner, or a 
 blood-thirsty old chief takes a notion to have my scalp for 
 a trophy. If I live, I will join your party. But you 
 must promise to secure me a welcome from each indi- 
 vidual." 
 
 " I can do this unreservedly," said I. 
 
 " Without a single exception ? " 
 
 " Not one," I replied. 
 
 " Then you have my word, here is my hand, and fare- 
 well for the present ; " — and the provoking fellow left me 
 just where 1 was in the beginning of our interview, only 
 
198 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 a little more persuaded in my own mind that he was not 
 in love with Lucille. 
 
 Am I glad to believe this or ought I to be ? Suppose 
 Lucille loves him — ought I not to desire her happiness as 
 much as Emily's ? But she will not be unhappy. Her 
 pride may be wounded, her vanity mortified, but she will 
 not long be unhappy. That she is, or fancies she is, in 
 love with him, I do not doubt, and am not in the least 
 surprised at it. But she could never make him happy, 
 and he could never satisfy her worldly ambition. There- 
 fore, as a wise looker-on, I hope such an alliance will 
 never take place ; and since he will not go to New England 
 now, and Emily is not here, I am glad he is going to the 
 Rocky Mountains. 
 
 Rosalie was here yesterday, quite sad and out of spirits. 
 Poor girl ! "William leaves next week for New Orleans, 
 from whence the exploring party set out in the early 
 spring. A widowed sister of her father's, with two young 
 daughters, are to arrive in a few days. It was an arrange- 
 ment made before Mr. Lynn's death, that when the son 
 of this sister entered college, the mother and two girls 
 should make their home at his house. Rosalie has never 
 seen her aunt or any member of the family. She dreads 
 their coming, and the additional care it will involve. 
 But as William is not to be at home, and his father fore- 
 saw the possibility of Rosalie being left without a pro- 
 tector, it was I think, a wise arrangement, provided they 
 are good and agreeable people. Rose will of course be 
 the head of the family. It was William's departure that 
 vexed her most. " I never have any comfort in him," 
 said she, "though he is always kind and brotherly. He 
 will not do as I wish to have him. Anybody would have 
 thought it very natural that he should have fallen in love 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 199 
 
 with Lucille, and I hoped he would. It would have been 
 so pleasant to me to have had her for a sister — and she 
 would have made him a splendid wife, she is so hand- 
 some and stylish, and really so good-hearted; but he is so 
 set in his way, just for all the world like Mr. Rochester." 
 He has never liked Lucille since a little conversation we 
 had about the lower classes, in which she said some 
 foolish things about God's having made them inferior on 
 purpose to be servants and slaves to the rich ; and after 
 that he overheard her speaking very harshly to a sewing- 
 girl about a dress she had promised to finish at a certain 
 time, and failed to do so, because her mother had been 
 sick and she was obliged to nurse her. I confess, I was 
 sorry myself to hear her talk, and the poor girl shed tears. 
 But, it is Rosalie's way, or rather the way in which she 
 has been educated, and she would become more thoughtful 
 under William's teaching, and with his good ex~.^ rJ .e 
 always before her. 
 
 I was so unhappy, Mrs. Dearbon, to have such a thing 
 happen just n#w. William had admired Lucille before — 
 at least when she first came he seemed quite fascinated, 
 but this last misfortune has cut off all hope. He followed 
 the sewing-girl to the door, and has since been to see her 
 family. I know Lucille is ashamed of herself, and did 
 not mean to be hard-hearted ; but it is done now and can't 
 be helped — William is determined to go. 
 
 "But, my dear Rose, you would not wish your brother 
 to marry for the sake of giving you a sister yon desired, 
 particularly if he did not affect the lady? I am sorry for 
 your part of the disappointment, yet I don't see how we 
 can help it." 
 
 " But I really think Lucille loves William," she con- 
 tinued ; " and if he only knew it, she could be moulded to 
 anything by the man she loved." 
 
200 TIIE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD ; OR, 
 
 " But perhaps William would prefer some one whose 
 character was already moulded ? My dear, we cannot settle 
 these matters for our friends, and it is not worth while to 
 make ourselves uneasy about them." (Give me credit for 
 trying to apply this good advice to my own state of feel- 
 ing with regard to Emily. ) After all, what avails trying 
 to make matches for our friends ? Perhaps if mortals did 
 not busy themselves so much in these matters, we might 
 have more matches made in heaven. 
 
 -# * # # # 
 
 You are so anxious to hear more of Lizzie, that I wish 
 I could write longer letters. I see her nearly every day, 
 and if I could, should like to send 3-ou my spiritual diary, 
 for I have no strength to put my meditations on paper. 
 She interests me much, but I can do her very little good 
 except by my sympathy. She has a strong nature, and 
 intense feelings. I can understand how much she has suf- 
 fered in her married life, not only from the sad habit to 
 which her husband was addicted, but from his selfish and 
 exacting nature. "When the illusion of her blind idolatry 
 dropped off, and the romance of youth had vanished, the 
 stern conflict of life began. Even then, however, had he 
 been possessed of a warm, generous heart, she might 
 have been happy. Doubtless she thinks now, it was her 
 fault that she could not be so. I question whether it is 
 possible for a true woman to love what she cannot respect. 
 I do not speak of that divine pity which may exist in the 
 breast of a Christian. With regard to mere natural rela- 
 tions I ask myself, can a woman of refined taste and cul- 
 ture — of high aspirations and longings after a better life — 
 love what is low, groveling, unlovely? And does not 
 the nearness of the relation make only the more painfully 
 obvious the gulf which separates them spiritually ? Yet 
 she upbraids herself; and every impatient word she has 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVEEY-DAY PEOPLE. 201 
 
 uttered — every bitter thought she has indulged — comes 
 back now to haunt her. She blames herself for his ruin. 
 She thinks she might have done more to save him. By- 
 and-by she will come to a healthier state of mind and be 
 able to judge herself more truly. She has done all she 
 could with the light she had. Alas! we must make our- 
 selves more perfect, if we would elevate others, or rather, 
 we must say, "Not my will, but thine." We must look 
 above for the help we cannot give even to those we would 
 die to save. Lizzie's baby is pining, and I think will 
 soon pass away. The attention she is compelled to 
 bestow upon it withdraws her mind from herself. Her 
 brother has written to her to return, and he offers her a 
 home. He is a bachelor, and well able to support her; 
 but I think she prefers remaining independent. I approve 
 of her desire to earn her own living, for action is neces- 
 sary to the soul's health at all times, but particularly to 
 the sick soul. I feel sure Lizzie will come out bright and 
 strong, and she has yet before her the happiest part of life. 
 As soon as she is able, I intend to ask her to teach my 
 children, with her own. I have no doubt that this small 
 beginning will be an opening for something better, when 
 she comes to be known. 
 
 The winter is passing rapidly. How swift the wheel 
 revolves on the down hill of life! Another season of frost 
 and snow will not find me here. I speak with the spirit 
 of prophecy. A vision comes over me, of two graves in 
 a village church -yard far away. There where my mother 
 and my first-born are laid, shall this worn-out body rest 
 also. But before that time I shall revisit the spot with 
 my children. As soon as the spring opens, I shall set my 
 house in order, and when the summer days, with their 
 long, bright sunny hours are come, I shall go to my old 
 
202 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 home — to die among my old friends, and to be buried in the 
 graveyard of my native village. I shall be buried — no ! 
 no! — you know I do not mean this — I do not feel it for 
 an instant — I do not feel it for myself, any more than for 
 them. They are not there — they are risen. And from 
 the spot where their mortal remains are laid, my soul — 
 your soul — and the souls of my beloved ones who remain 
 behind me — forgetting all grief, which is of time, strive up- 
 ward to the eternal. 
 
 I have often wished to speak more particularly to you 
 of my dear children. I want you to know them — to love 
 them. I have thought I would tell you somewhat of their 
 characters and dispositions; but I am afraid that, once 
 upon a theme so full of interest to me, I might not know 
 when to stop. You shall see them and judge for yourself. 
 I know your heart inclines to love them, for the sake of 
 their mother. I think when you come to know them, 
 they will be dear to you for their own sake. 
 
 They are neither of them geniuses. They will never 
 be distinguished in the world. This is a source of com- 
 fort to me. The path of an ambitious woman of genius 
 is beset with so many temptations and dangers. They 
 are not strikingly handsome. I confess that, to their 
 mother's eye, they are more than well looking — particu- 
 larly the youngest — through whose blue eyes the soul of 
 my angel boy seems to shine. They are affectionate, 
 obedient, conscientious — not wanting in the gayety and 
 sprightliness of youth — and yet capable of serious reflec- 
 tion. They will, I think, be good and loving wives and 
 mothers, if they fulfill their destiny. 
 
 I have learned not to look upon them as mine, but as 
 God's children. According to the natural course of events 
 in life, they would in a few years, probably, leave mine, 
 for another's home. They would not even then belong to 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY- DAY PEOPLE. 203 
 
 me, and my selfish love would suffer in the separation, 
 were I here to feel it. I am not so necessary to them as 
 my maternal instincts might tempt me to believe — at any- 
 rate, I may safely leave them with God. This, in my 
 best moments, I am cheerfully resigned to do ; but these 
 best moments do not make up the sum of mortal life. My 
 fears, my anxieties, my hopes — these I will tell you when 
 we meet — I cannot write them. 
 
 William comes here daily. He inquires with much ten- 
 derness after Emily, and seems shocked and distressed at 
 her accident. Sometimes I think he is tempted to go 
 and bid them good -by, before he sets out on his expedition, 
 but I fear he will not. I know he hears from Mary often. 
 He has shown me some of her letters. They are kind, 
 affectionate, friendly and cheerful, but contain very little 
 about Emily. I think he is under the impression, that 
 although Mary is very much interested in his welfare, and 
 attached to him personally, she does not think him 
 worthy of Emily ; and that, perceiving his growing inter- 
 est in her, she removed her, that it might be suffered to 
 die away. These are my conjectures, and if they are true, 
 of course I can do nothing to make matters right, as he 
 does not confide in me, nor give me an opportunity to 
 offer him a word of encouragement. And perhaps this 
 is best. 
 
 Rosalie's relations have arrived. She likes them better 
 than she expected. Her aunt is a sensible, rational, 
 cheerful, kindly woman. The two girls pretty, and well 
 behaved. I think, now that she has some one to matro- 
 nize her, she will go more into society, and have more 
 company at her own house. Gay people, music and dan- 
 cing, with a seasoning of admiration, will soon reconcile 
 Lucille to her disappointment, if she had any hope of 
 securing the affections of William Lynn ; and, although 
 
204 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 Rosalie may not so soon forget it, she will easily be led 
 to rejoice in her brother's happiness, whenever she is 
 assured of it. But he looks so miserably dejected, it 
 worries her and all of us. He went last week to see 
 his little boy. The old grand -parents still live, but are 
 quite infirm. They have a nice, motherly woman to assist 
 them in the care of the child. I should love to have a 
 visit from Willie ; but William says, he has not the heart 
 to take him from the old people. It will be nine years in 
 May, since William first met Mabel, when he was a boy 
 of eighteen at college. Six years the same month, since 
 they were married, and five years since she died. Before 
 leaving home he tells me he shall make his will. I wish 
 he would not go. I have a terribly sad feeling about it — 
 not quite amounting to a presentiment — but a forebod- 
 ing of evil, and I wish he would not go, at any-rate not 
 before seeing Emily once more. Mary writes me she is 
 sweetly patient and cheerful. I am glad of it, and yet, 
 if she loved him as well as I hoped and believed, could she 
 be so under the circumstances ! Perhaps she knows the 
 state of his heart better than any of us. Slight things 
 may reveal so much in certain relations. He may have 
 given her a token, by word or look, or the pressure of the 
 hand. How could our grosser senses have perceived it! 
 Unless it be so, I cannot account for her being so cheer- 
 ful. She sits up and walks a little, with assistance. Well, 
 well ! all will be right. Bless the good old soul who taught 
 me this. " All will be right in the ages." 
 
 # # # # * 
 
 You have learned to expect long and frequent gaps in 
 our correspondence, my friend, and to believe that its spirit 
 cannot be interrupted. The winter is nearly gone, and 
 already my longing eyes anticipate the budding beauty of 
 the spring : although it will be the last spring which greets 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EYERY-DAY PEOPLE. 205 
 
 me here. I am not impatient of its delay, for I have 
 enjoyed much this winter, of a nature more allied to 
 heavenly blessedness than any feeling I have ever known. 
 I suffer so little, that, except for this weakness and wasting 
 of my frame, I should need to be reminded of the goal to 
 which I am hastening. My children have been an inex- 
 pressible comfort to me this winter, and in the absence of 
 other friends, I have enjoyed all the more, communion 
 with their fresh, young hearts. My husband is unusually 
 occupied with business, in consequence of the absence of 
 his partner. We both lament, inwardly, that we can be so 
 little together ; but eternity is long, and the years that will 
 separate us. short. I have not had a sad day — you may 
 think it strange — and perhaps it is accounted for by the 
 nature of my disease. I have heard that consumptives 
 were always cheerful and hopeful in their decline. The 
 good God provides for all his children, the compensation 
 we require. You ask, If I speak to my children of the 
 probable termination of my disease, and try to prepare 
 them for our separation? My dear, I say nothing about 
 it at present, for the reason, that I have always believed it 
 unwise and unnecessary to hold up before the mind the 
 end of mortal life, in order to be prepared to meet it as 
 Christians. If we learn how to live, and we only do this 
 by living well in the present hour, we are prepared to meet 
 death at any time. If we do not thus live, the spectre of 
 death, constantly held up to our view, will not prepare us. 
 For it is not death, but life to which we are destined. 
 Let us merge, if we can, our physical shrinking from the 
 dissolution of the body, in the certainty of immortal life. 
 So, too, with the trials and afflictions that may await us,— 
 we only prepare ourselves to meet them by accepting daily 
 and hourly, and using wisely, the discipline God appoints. 
 
206 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD ; OR, 
 
 This is being nourished by " our daily bread." This is 
 all we need. We cannot lay up stores for future use. 
 We must grow strong spiritually, in the same way as we 
 do physically, — by receiving and assimilating that portion 
 of nourishment daily and hourly, which God suits to our 
 needs. 
 
 My children may know that I must soon be taken from 
 them, because I have made for, and with them, many 
 necessary arrangements, or what seem so to me ; but I am 
 very careful never to speak with sadness, even if I feel it ; 
 which I should be more than human — perhaps more than 
 angelic — if I did not, sometimes. 
 
 I have seen very little of Rosalie of late. As I predicted, 
 they are having a gay time. Lucille is quite a belle, and 
 being beautiful and rich, of course has many admirers. 
 Rosalie, too, is considered more than ordinarily attractive. 
 She is still enthusiastic in praise of her friend, and not a 
 whit envious. Rosalie is a good girl, pliant, easily influ- 
 enced but conscientious. I hope she will marry a strong, 
 earnest and high-principled man. She is gentle and 
 affectionate, but needs a stronger arm to lean upon. I 
 shall always feel an interest in her. Mary's return will 
 be a happy circumstance to her, for she is very fond of 
 Mary, and willing to be directed by her. I think she 
 looks upon mine as rather ghostly counsel. Perhaps I 
 am too serious, but I do not wish to seem to reprove mirth 
 and innocent gayety. Dear child! Death to her is a 
 ghastly spectre who, with icy hand, plucks the roses of 
 life and scatters their sweetness to the winds. She cannot 
 see how he transplants them tenderly to the "Everlasting 
 Gardens," where they become immortal. 
 
 William wrote to me once from New Orleans. If he 
 had spoken, before he went, in the same strain in which 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY DAY PEOPLE. 207 
 
 he writes, I think I could have said something to raise 
 his spirits and inspire him with hope, perhaps to have 
 changed his determination ; but now it is impossible. He 
 was to leave in a few days on his wild and silly expedi- 
 tion, and I do not know how a letter would reach him. 
 But autumn is not very far distant, and then he has pro- 
 mised to return. 
 
 I rejoice that you have seen Mary and her children, and 
 dear Emily; and so glad that you love them all, particu- 
 larly our child — for she seems in a measure to be mine. 
 I certainly feel a mother's tenderness for her. So her 
 cheerfulness is a matter of wonder to both yourself and 
 Mary. It only proves to me that love and hope seldom 
 are divided in the young heart. Mary never questions 
 her of her feelings towards William, you say, but takes 
 for granted, that they are friendly and sisterly. That is 
 all right, but I could not be so wise and cautious. If I 
 did not ask any questions, I am quite sure I should say 
 something pointed enough to make an impression, and 
 read an answer in her speaking face. I suppose, if I were 
 to live twice my present number of years, I could never 
 get the better of a sort of impatience to see the end of 
 things — anticipating results in a very childish manner. 
 And then you know, I always prided myself on a certain 
 discriminating genius I had, a quick perception in these 
 matters — call it intuition — and I have seldom found my- 
 self very much at fault. 
 
 I will not close without a word of Lizzie. I wrote you 
 of the clear baby's death. It was not unexpected. It 
 passed away like a flower. The child of sorrow and sad- 
 ness — its mortal life was blighted, but all is sunshine in its 
 new home. Lizzie is sad and unreconciled. She looks upon 
 the past as a dreary waste. She does not see the fatherly 
 hand that has led her thus far — but she will see it by-and- 
 
208 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD ; OR, 
 
 by. The germs of a religious character are hidden under 
 the weight of earthly care and sorrow, which has long 
 pressed upon her, but it will struggle upwards to the 
 light — it will not die. She is teaching a small school. 
 Her brother insists upon paying her rent, and helps her 
 in various ways. She will be brighter and happier soon. 
 The heavenly plant must take strong root in good ground, 
 before it will spring up and bring forth fruit, and it grow- 
 eth we know not how. I thing we err in too great impa 
 tience with our friends and ourselves. This re-gvneration 
 is a slow process, but no more nrysterious than the growth 
 of everything in the natural world. The same good God 
 presides over all, and supplies to each its appropriate 
 nourishment. 
 
 This may be the last letter I shall send you from the 
 West. Before another month, I shall see you face to face. 
 Best of friends ! with what pure satisfaction I shall look 
 once more upon your living presence! Some natural 
 regret I shall have, to-be-sure, in leaving this pleasant 
 home forever, but through these years of my sojourn 
 here, I have always, in spirit, turned back to New Eng- 
 land, my birthplace, with yearnings that I could not sup- 
 press or express ; partly because it would not be proper 
 or expedient to utter them; partly because it seemed 
 ungrateful to the pleasant circle of acquaintances and the 
 few friends I have formed here. True friendship is the 
 rarest of all blessings. If you would prove the truth of 
 this, go to a new place after you have reached mature life, 
 after your habits of thought and feeling are in a measure 
 formed. Go among strangers. You will meet with kind- 
 ness and courtesy — help in times of trouble, for there are 
 kind hearts everywhere, and you will find friends accord- 
 ing to the general acceptation of the word — but if you 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 209 
 
 hope to begin anew, friendships like those which have 
 grown with your growth and strengthened with your 
 strength, you will be disappointed. I am glad that I can 
 return to the hills, to the sea shore, to the land of brooks 
 and rivers pure as glass — yes, even to the bleak moun- 
 tains and the rude rocks of New England, and to the 
 friends, " whose adoption tried," I can feel are mine for- 
 ever. The advantages of western life are many and 
 great; but to me there is something higher and purer 
 than temporal or social good. For me the past and 
 future will soon meet and blend in one eternal now. 
 
 Of Lizzie and her children, Rosalie and Lucille, you 
 will hear through Mary, when my scribbling pen is laid 
 aside. But I must indulge in a little piece of gossip which 
 may not be uninteresting to you, as you are acquainted with 
 one of the parties. Mr. Rochester — the old bachelor — 
 the reformer, is in a fair way of being reformed. He has 
 lately taken to visiting, and makes himself quite at home 
 in Rosalie's house. Yes, in the very midst of gayety, 
 and fun, and visiting, there sits our demure old friend, 
 with features relaxed and form no longer unbending, 
 watching with manifest pleasure the quick, housewifely, 
 energetic operations of the good-hearted widow, who has 
 slid into her place in the household with a facility of 
 adaptation truly admirable. I am seriously afraid for our 
 Benedick. A widow with two pretty girls, and a son at 
 college ! Rosalie says he wears a new black coat and a 
 black satin vest, and Lucille declares he asked her to 
 teach him the waltz. "What will be the end of it, who 
 can guess ? I have always thought his heart and his purse 
 were closed against such vanities as pertain to women — 
 young women in particular. What will become of philan- 
 thropy, if he finds out he has a heart and. wants of his own ? 
 
 "JF W Tf ^P W 
 
 18 
 
210 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD ; OR, 
 
 I think I told you in my last, that I should not write 
 again from the West, but it has become such a fixed habit 
 with me to devote a portion of my well days to you, that 
 I feel lost unless I do it. Besides, I am so unusually 
 bright and cheerful, it is a shame that I should not impart 
 something of it to you, upon whom I inflict so much of 
 my dullness. Nothing can exceed the beauty of the 
 spring in this meridian. These soft, bland days, this 
 budding verdure, this wealth of blossoming fruit trees, 
 these hills vailed in a dreamy haze, and the smell of the 
 teeming sod. Oh, how I love it! Though longer delayed 
 in your region, yet how gratefully we used to welcome it 
 when we were young together, when we used to steal 
 away, on some mild morning, and saunter in the woods 
 and along the sunny side of the hills for hours, gathering 
 our hands full of the blossoms of the Bloodroot and 
 Adder's-tongue, and a little later, the perfumed Ephi- 
 gea. Oh, how my heart swells when I think of it ! The 
 sweet, odorous Ephigea! rose-tinted, blooming amidst 
 snows, amidst decaying leaves, amidst the wrecks and the 
 ruin of the old year ! 
 
 Next spring, when you gather it fresh, think of me. 
 Press some of the fairest branches in your Bible, and as 
 you open the book daily, which I know you do, think that 
 my spirit drinks with yours from that "Well of living 
 water." You will say, " It is well with Alice now. She 
 has no more thirst. She dwells no more amidst shadows. 
 All is real, substantial. In the clearer light of the spiri- 
 tual world she reads the deep truths of life. She is 
 happy — as happy as she can be." 
 
 Yes, dear, you will say and feel this, when you open 
 the book I gave you when we parted. You will not be 
 sad. You will long for me, but not mourn for me ; and 
 when your heart is filled with pleasant memories and 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EYERY-DAY PEOPLE. 211 
 
 thoughts of me, I shall meet you, soul with soul, I shall 
 see you, a spirit among spirits, and you will know that 
 we have been together. 
 
 SPBING, A FORESHADOWING OF HEAVEN. 
 
 The Spring is here — the glad, the joyous Spring. 
 
 The blue sky glows above, 
 
 Like Heaven's enfolding love, 
 And Earth, beneath its smile awakening, 
 Hath deek'd herself with garlands of fresh flowers, 
 
 As for a festival — 
 
 And with a coronal 
 Of snowy blossoms, greets the smiling hours. 
 
 The dim blue hills melt in the misty air, 
 
 The quiet waters seem, 
 
 As they were in a dream ; 
 A filmy vail enwraps the branches bare ; 
 From the recesses of the lonely wood 
 
 Snatches of jocund song 
 
 Peal the gray boughs among, 
 And break the spell of its deep solitude. 
 
 Oh I if there cometh ever to the heart 
 Visions of the blest land, 
 Upon whose verge we stand, 
 
 Before whose radiance earthly clouds depart, 
 
 'Tis when the Eternal Sun, that shines above, 
 Awakes from mimic death 
 The cold, damp sod beneath, 
 
 And the great heart of Nature throbs with love. 
 
 I wrote my last with the intention of telling you about 
 my long walk and my visit to Rosalie, but was too tired 
 to do so at that time. I had not been out for weeks, 
 owing to the damp and unpleasant walking. The morn- 
 ing sun shone out warm and bright, the sky was blue, the 
 whole earth smiling and full of beauty, and as soon as I 
 had finished my breakfast I said: " This day I will pass 
 
212 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 in Spring street with Rosalie, her aunt, Lucille, and the 
 girls." I had received a letter from William the day 
 before, and knew that the same mail must have brought dis- 
 patches to them also, which was an additional reason for 
 going. The children accompanied me on their way to 
 school, and I spent the day and evening with my friends. 
 Nor am I the worse for it. On the contrary, I think I 
 am better. 
 
 In the course of the afternoon Mr. Rochester came: no 
 unusual occurrence I was told. Of course he was invited 
 to tea — of course he staid. Nothing of the outer man 
 appeared as in former days, except the pepper and salt- 
 pants, and they were brushed to a perfect nicety. The 
 black coat and satin vest was not a myth, neither was the 
 relaxed visage. 
 
 Mrs. Mountford has been the innocent, perhaps uncon- 
 scious cause of this happy change, thought I. She did 
 indeed appear to be unconscious of her influence. Had she 
 seen him a few months ago, she might have observed the 
 great change which had taken place. From the moment 
 the sunshine of her benevolent face shone on him ( so says 
 Rosalie, and I believe her ), it seemed to thaw him out. 
 He has not been the same man since. His philanthropy 
 has become more genial, more diffusive. I am not exag- 
 gerating when I say, that even his former wrinkles have 
 vanished. The knots and kinks into which he had forced 
 his features, the wiry, angular motions of his tall, thin 
 frame, all are gone. He glides in, sinks into the leather 
 arm-chair so comfortably, looks about so complacently, 
 feels evidently so much at home, that I cannot but think he 
 is in his natural element now. Not that he has given up his 
 reformatory ideas, but he has taken the sting out of his 
 censures, and is content to co-operate with Divine provi- 
 dence instead of trying to have everything his own way. 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY -DAY PEOPLE. 213 
 
 Yet nobody has said anything to change him. It has all 
 been accomplished naturally, and in an orderly manner, 
 as healthy plants unfold in the sunshine. His mistakes 
 were of the head, and we must pardon them. He is an 
 old bachelor. What kinks ought we not to forgive in an 
 old bachelor ! 
 
 We had a social tea. My husband and little girls joined 
 the party, and after tea we had dancing. After the 
 quadrilles and waltzing an old fashioned country-dance 
 was proposed, in which all but myself joined. I played 
 the piano. Mr. Rochester and Mrs. Mountford led off — 
 down outside — up again — join hands and down in the 
 middle — cast off and right and left. They danced with 
 such energy such hearty good-will and unwavering assi- 
 duity, such determination to keep step until they reached 
 the end, I cannot but think some amiable little spirit 
 must have helped them. 
 
 # # * # # 
 
 Now that we can meet occasionally face to face and talk 
 together, what is the need of writing? Yet the old habit 
 is strong upon me — a sort of uneasiness at my fingers' ends 
 to hold a pen and to think on paper. Perhaps it is well 
 for me that we are not always together. Surrounded by 
 my children, Mary and Herbert, Emily and so many of 
 my early friends, what excuse could I have for writing if 
 you were not away ? How could I steal the hour from 
 time immemorial, consecrated to my own thoughts and 
 meditations, and when strength would permit to writing 
 letters or journalizing, if there were not one link wanting 
 in the circle of loved ones about me ? Those few days 
 passed with you, how satisfying they were ! I know you 
 were pained at the change in me, but the sorrow has 
 vanished now that my faded and worn out frame is 
 removed from your sight. Now you can idealize mo 
 
214 THE OLD CORNER CUPBORD ; OR, 
 
 again. Do not let my mortal presence haunt you. Do 
 not let it call up sad forebodings. Let the last hours of 
 life be the best and brightest for my sake, for your sake, 
 and for the sake of these young beings, who ought not to 
 have the cold shadow of death thrown across their path, 
 calling up emotions of gloom and ghostly spectres. If my 
 complaints were not of a character to excite false hopes, I 
 should almost believe I was getting well in my native air. 
 The joy of my soul imparts a temporary vigor to my body. 
 That joy is an earnest of immortality. It springs from 
 love, the love which is my life. Yesterday I went with 
 my eldest daughter to the burying ground. Do you 
 remember the day when I went there with my first-born 
 to visit my mother's grave ? Some time after I wrote a 
 few lines,, which I will send you with this, and along with 
 them another poem, written after my spring flower had 
 faded from earth. You will read them and say, "Alice felt 
 much. She had the poetic temperament, but she was not 
 a poet." 
 
 That is what you will say, if you are true to your own 
 convictions, and you will speak the truth in part. The 
 poetic element lies deep within my being, but it was never 
 cultivated, harmonized, strengthened. 
 
 Thus I have often felt the pains, but seldom the joys of 
 the poet. Something was wanting. Perhaps it was the 
 true genius perhaps only the skill, the science. I have no 
 power to describe the want, I can only feel it. 1 have felt 
 it in past years too deeply. I look back upon many states 
 of my inner life, when my soul had an intense longing 
 for expression, and yet the skill to clothe my thought in 
 words was denied me. Study, industry, these are essen- 
 tial to the outward development of the poetic nature. 
 The god-spark lies deep in the interior life, but we must 
 learn how to use it and manifest it to our own and others' 
 
THE EYEKY-DAY LIFE OF EYERY-DAY PEOPLE. 215 
 
 consciousness. I never learned. Thus, through the whole 
 tissue of my earthly existence, may be seen a dark thread 
 of dissatisfaction, arising from a consciousness of destiny 
 unfulfilled, of aspirations unrealized. Yet am I sorry 
 that it is so ? If the grave were the end of life, yes ; but 
 with my belief in the eternity of progression, no. I may 
 yet learn the poet-language, inspired by themes which 
 have never entered human conception, and in the anthems 
 of worship, the outbreathings of love, and gratitude, and 
 joy, I may yet pour forth the life of my soul. 
 
 Do not believe that in this elevated state of hope I live 
 at present. No, it only comes to me in visions occasion- 
 ally. My heart will not cease its human longiugs until 
 its human pulses are quiet. I was not ambitious in my 
 youth, as people count ambition, yet I looked forward to a 
 time when I should create by my spoken thought a bond of 
 union with other hearts. I dreamed of those, whose souls 
 would go forth to meet mine, as mine had met and mingled 
 with those whose life, embodied in language, had been 
 brought present to me. "Why then has the hope and pro- 
 mise been unfulfilled? Can you answer satisfactorily? 
 Has it been through fault of mine, or was the hope a baseless 
 illusion ? Answer tUe everlasting ages this question — those 
 ages which will make all clear, which here lies in obscu- 
 rity. " The heart of a man deviseth his way, but the Lord 
 directeth his steps." I laid out my path among pleasing 
 illusions, but actual and homely realities claimed my 
 thought and care. At first there was conflict. Duty and 
 inclination clashed, but duty got the victory at last. Then 
 began, by degrees, the inspirer of my dreams to elevate 
 realities, and now, just as I feel a new ardor to impart a 
 higher life and nobler purpose, yearning less to receive 
 than to bestow, I hear the words echoing around and 
 within me — not here! But God knows what is best for 
 
216 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 us. These very stirrings of a holier life that animate me 
 now, may be the effect of my nearness to the purer beings 
 with whom I hope soon to be in communion. It may be 
 because I am so near the shore of eternity, that these 
 breathings from the celestial choir awaken those answer- 
 ing chords which, in the vigor of mortal life, slumber in 
 silence. I know what my friends will say when I am 
 gone : " Poor Alice, she was all her life longing for some- 
 thing that she had not yet attained, and this longing 
 hindered her from seeing the heaven that lay around her ; 
 and just as she had learned to look within, for that which 
 can never come to the soul from without — just as she had 
 learned the true significance of life, she is taken away 
 from it!" When you say this in sadness, while your 
 heart still mourns for my absence, remember the words I 
 write now. They come from my inmost convictions of 
 truth. Had I lived here a hundred years, it would still 
 have been the old story of something beyond, which 
 would have made my life unsatisfactory — and it is best as 
 it is. A taint of morbidness is my inheritance, and 
 would have infected the atmosphere of my whole being 
 in the flesh. God knew how much struggle I needed, 
 how much I could bear, and when would be the right 
 moment to release me. I have had much happiness. I 
 look back and see it now, like golden light over the past, 
 as the summer landscape is illumined by the dissolving 
 radiance of the setting sun, and I do not care to distin- 
 guish the shadows. 
 
 MY MOTHER. 
 
 My mother ! long, long years have passed, 
 Since half in wonder, half in dread, 
 
 I looked upon thy clay-cold face, 
 
 And heard the whisper — " She is dead I" 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EYERY-DAY PEOPLE. 217 
 
 The memory of thine earthly form, 
 
 Is dim as a remembered dream, 
 But year by year, more close to mine 
 
 Doth thy celestial spirit seem. 
 
 When by the mouldering stone I stood, 
 Which marks the spot where thou art laid, 
 
 And with the daisies on the sod, 
 My little child in gladness played, 
 
 Oh ! how my spirit longed to know 
 
 If from the heights of heavenly joy, 
 The love, that watched my infant years, 
 
 Looked down to bless my bright-eyed boy 1 
 
 And when by anguish crushed and worn, 
 
 I watched my bud of beauty fade, 
 And in the cold and ghastly tomb, 
 
 Beheld his lifeless body laid, 
 
 And stranger eyes beheld my grief, 
 
 Who in my joys had borne no part, 
 Oh ! how I thirsted then for thee 
 
 To lift the load from off my heart. 
 
 I know my faith is not a dream ; 
 
 My life from thine no power can wrest. 
 Death's icy hand can never chill 
 
 The love that warms a mother's breast. 
 
 And surely God through thee hath taught 
 
 My soul submission to his will, 
 With patient trust and child-like love, 
 
 That I can suffer and be still. 
 
 A LAME NT. 
 
 The dreary winter had gone by, the breath 
 
 Of the south-wind swept over hill and plain, 
 
 Awaking from the icy spell of death, 
 
 The bloom of earth again ; 
 
 The air, song-laden, trembled in its bliss, 
 
 The clouds bent low the mountain tops to kiss, 
 
 The unchained brooks, with shout and song, 
 
 Hurried their pebbly beds along ; 
 The earth was fair as on creation's morn, 
 And Hope to human hearts seemed newly-born, 
 
 So beautiful, in its first blossoming, 
 Was the overflowing gladness of the Spring. 
 
 19 
 
218 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 And with the hirds and flowers, and all things fair, 
 To our dear home there came a gift most rare — 
 
 An innocent little child — 
 
 Through him, God on us smiled. 
 It seemed to hring the inmost heaven of joy 
 Close to our souls, to look upon our hoy. 
 He was a poet from his earliest birth; 
 The garish splendor of the sunlit stream, 
 The dancing shadows, dappling the green earth, 
 Lived in his soul's clear depths— a pictured dream 
 Of beauty. Ere his untaught lips could frame 
 Language to clothe his thought, sweet voices came 
 From wood, and stream, and mountain to his ear, 
 Which grosser senses strove in vain to hear ; 
 For he was Nature's fair and favored child, 
 By her pure presence still kept undefiled. 
 
 Three years ! How short they were ! Three precious years, 
 
 His Heavenly Father left him in our care, 
 
 And then— despite our agony and tears, 
 
 Bore him to Paradise to blossom there. 
 
 Oh ! twice those years our sorrowing hearts have told, 
 
 Since our dear lamb was gathered to the fold. 
 
 Still his bright image haunts our waking hours, 
 
 Still is he newly-born with early flowers, 
 
 And still, when autumn-leaves bestrew the plain, 
 
 "We seem to bury his fair form again, 
 
 And wild November winds, with hollow moan, 
 
 Ask vainly for the loved one who has flown. 
 
 Where, where art thou, my song-bird, tell me where ? 
 That I may plume my spirit's drooping wing 
 And follow thee. Dost thou not need our care ? 
 Can our deep love no added rapture bring 
 To thy enfranchised spirit ? To thy home, 
 Say, dost thou never sigh for us to come, 
 That we may share with thee thy untold joy ? 
 Thou, who on earth wert never from our sight, 
 Seeking our sympathy with thy delight, 
 Hast thou no longer need of us, my boy ? 
 
 The little toys — the garments trim and neat — 
 The half-worn shoes that graced thy tiny feet — 
 The velvet cap, from whence thy golden hair 
 Floated like sunbeams o'er thy forehead fair — 
 We cannot part with them — our memory 
 Clings to them, as they were a part of thee ! 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 219 
 
 The pleasant thoughts, I taught thy heart to cherish 
 
 Of angels hovering o'er our earthly way. 
 
 I strive to make my own. O hitter day ! 
 
 That saw this credulous faith decline and perish. 
 
 Spring-time and summer o'er the earth will bloom, 
 
 Covering with verdant beauty e'en thy tomb, 
 
 But thou wilt come no more, with bloom and flowers, 
 
 To beautify and bless this world of ours. 
 
 The love that mourns thy loss, with ceaseless pain, 
 
 Has not one spell to bring thee back again. 
 
 Yet, if by thinking of thee as thou art — 
 
 Striving to blend with thine the purer part 
 
 Of our own being— brings us nearer thee. 
 
 That, through thine eyes, the Father we can see, 
 
 We may yet live to bless the dreary hour, 
 
 That hid thee from our sight— our life's first flower. 
 
 I still continue so well that I am resolved to keep up a 
 brisk correspondence. Your promise of coming to see 
 me, every fortnight, might seem to do away with the ne- 
 cessity of this medium of communication, but the truth 
 is, I can write with less effort than I can talk, on account of 
 my hoarseness and shortness of breath. As the case is 
 otherwise with you, I shall expect to be a listener while 
 you are with me, and be nourished by your words and 
 your presence. I passed nearly the whole day, yesterday, 
 alone with Emily. Mary and her children, with my own, 
 were off on a pic-nic excursion. Poor Emily's injury 
 prevented her joining them, though she is well otherwise, 
 and very cheerful. She wears an abstracted look at times, 
 but not a dejected one. It occurred to me to try and 
 penetrate this little mystery, which otherwise I may not 
 live to see unfolded ; so I began talking of William and 
 his expedition, which I pronounced a very foolish and 
 boyish thing. No answer. " I suppose one reason of his 
 going," I continued, "was to remove himself from the 
 fascinations of the beautiful Lucille, who evidently had 
 
220 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 deep designs upon his peace; but that was a cowardly 
 mode of proceeding, after all." 
 
 " Perhaps it was more out of consideration for her feel- 
 ings than any fear on his own account," said Emily, not 
 looking up from her work. " He might have thought it 
 best to save her future unhappiness." 
 
 "So much the worse," said I, indignantly, "as it 
 proves he has an inordinate vanity, and he ought to be 
 above it." 
 
 " But you say Lucille's feelings are evident, or, rather, 
 her designs. If they were evident to you who saw them 
 together but seldom, they must have been very plain to 
 him who was with her so constantly, when she must have 
 been under less restraint." 
 
 " Still I don't see the necessity of his going a thousand 
 miles off to escape the danger, and running into dangers 
 a thousandfold more terrific. He might have guarded his 
 heart from the attacks of a pretty woman more easily than 
 he can guard his head among wolves and wild Indians. 
 If he must run away why not come here with us ? We 
 would not have troubled him with questions, or flattered 
 his weaknesses. He might have been as non-committal 
 as he pleased. No, the truth is, he always runs headlong 
 after some impulse — some phantom of his own brain — and 
 does not care for consequences. He ought not to have 
 left his sister and his child for such a wild-goose chase, 
 and I don't intend to forgive him." 
 
 Smile and no answer. 
 
 " I wonder you can be so composed ?" I continued, "as 
 you cannot be ignorant of the dangers of such a journey." 
 I am glad she did not look up as I said this, for she would 
 have perceived the smile which strangely belied my 
 words, for I was comparing, in my own mind, other 
 dangers which might have resulted from a journey in an 
 
THE EVEKY-DAY LIFE OF EVEKY-DAY PEOPLE. 221 
 
 opposite direction. But then there was an object in striv- 
 ing to overcome those, more satisfactory than in combat- 
 ing bears and wolves. 
 
 "You know, 1 suppose, that he is coming here this au- 
 tumn to see ra<?," said I. "I made him promise. I love 
 William as if he were a son. I could not bear to think I 
 might never see him again ; so he promised to come, and 
 I know if he lives he will keep his word : for he is as 
 true as steel. Yes, I love William, and the dear little 
 boy. I wish he could come, too. In September I shall 
 visit the sea-shore. We have soft, mild days in Septem- 
 ber, you know, and I wish particularly to be there then, 
 if only for a few days, to revive some associations of my 
 youth that are very interesting to remember." 
 
 "What are they, dear Aunt Alice?" asked Emily, 
 looking up with eager eyes. "I always like to hear 
 people, who are no longer young, talk of their youth- 
 ful days. What happened on the sea-shore? Did 
 Uncle Dearbon offer himself to you there ? Come, tell 
 me, pray." 
 
 I thought she was quite as eager to change the conver- 
 sation as to hear my story, and decided to gratify her in 
 both particulars. So I told her of my having been sent 
 with a good aunt, to be out of harm's way — the danger 
 being in the shape of a wild, gay young man, who had 
 made love to me, contrary to my parents' pleasure, and in 
 whom I was very much interested, or, as the common 
 phrase is, in love. 
 
 " Were you ever in love before you met Uncle Dear- 
 bon ?" she asked with surprise. 
 
 "I thought I was — more than once," I answered. 
 
 "I cannot see how it is possible to be in love more 
 than once," said Emily, " or to be in doubt about one's 
 real feelings." 
 
222 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD ; OR, 
 
 "There is a very good reason for your opinion," I 
 said. 
 
 She looked up in amazement, as if to inquire what I 
 meant. 
 
 " My dear little girl, your eyes are blue and mine are 
 black. That is reason enough for you. Destiny, dear, 
 destiny. Blue eyes constant ; black eyes fickle. "We 
 cannot change destiny." 
 
 " What do you mean, aunty ?" she inquired. 
 
 " Nothing — absolutely nothing," I replied. " But, as I 
 was saying, whether true or not, I believed myself in love, 
 I won't say how many times, before I ever saw Mr. Dear- 
 bon ; and there is no sort of use in quarreling with des- 
 tiny. Perhaps if I had not had opportunities of com- 
 paring my feelings at different stages of my existence, I 
 might not have known the true love at all." 
 
 " I should never wish the opportunity," said Emily. 
 " But do go on. This wild young man — " 
 
 "Found me out even there, and, in spite of m} 7 
 body-guard, contrived to see me and speak with me. It 
 was one afternoon on the beach, he told me he was 
 going to sea before the mast. If he sowed his wild oats 
 in the ocean, that would be the end of them. He wished 
 me to engage myself to him before he left. I did not. I 
 was not a very dutilm vl;vghter ; but I had enough respect 
 to my father's feelings to prevent this rashness ; besides, 
 I was not prepared to say I would give up everything for 
 him. He had many noble traits, yet I could not trust him. 
 He left for foreign countries. The vessel came safe again 
 to port, but it did not bring him back. He plunged into 
 the gayety and dissipation of foreign capitals. He was 
 wrecked, good name, fortune, everything, and he died a 
 miserable gambler." 
 
 " I should think you would hate to visit a spot calling 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 223 
 
 up such associations," said Emily ; "yet you say they are 
 what you love to remember." 
 
 " You mistake my meaning, dear child," I said. " It 
 is not the illusion of fancy that I love to recall, but the 
 hand of Providence that led me in safety through that, 
 and has continued to guide me through so many unseen 
 dangers and temptations. It was an epoch in my life, 
 when passion yielded to judgment, and I had strength 
 given me to be firm. At that time and in that place, 
 when he had left me, and I felt that I had acted wisely, 
 the great conflict began — the conflict between duty and 
 impulse — in my wayward existence. Romance had 
 hitherto enveloped every aspect of life. I had been, till 
 then, a mere dreamer. I had looked upon everything 
 through the medium of imagination. There I first awoke 
 to the consciousness of the necessity for self-sacrifice, and 
 there were breathed my first feeble prayers for wisdom and 
 strength. You will never have such an experience, Emily." 
 
 " And why should I not ?" she asked. 
 
 " Because you do not need it, child. We all have the 
 discipline we need. Yours is a gentler nature than mine. 
 And, as to love, you speak truly in saying you will not 
 doubt, when you really love. It will be once and forever. 
 God grant you may love wisely." 
 
 * * # # # 
 
 " A New England village," said Mary, the other day, 
 is a problem for a philosopher." 
 
 " Is that the result of your meditation for the last half 
 hour?" I inquired. We had been sitting together in 
 silence so long as to have become quite unconscious of 
 each other's presence. 
 
 " I have been thinking," she continued, " of this, that, 
 and the other person I knew years ago. Alice, do you 
 know why it is that all the finest young men in our 
 
224 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 villages go away, and the best of our women remain 
 single ?" 
 
 " Why the young men go away, is a question very 
 easily answered," I replied, " and because they go away, 
 is one answer to the question why the women remain 
 single." 
 
 " That is one answer, truly," replied Mary. " The 
 young men go where they can have a wider sphere — a 
 larger field for activity — where there are better chances for 
 making money, and for becoming distinguished ; and it 
 follows, as a matter of course, that the young women are 
 left without suitable opportunities of changing their con- 
 dition. But what has become of romance ? Is there no 
 such thing as a youthful attachment ? no such thing as 
 constancy ? no poetry of love extant ? People are not 
 half as happy in this world as they ought to be — as they 
 might be. But the root of the evil lies too deep for me to 
 fathom. I may be deceived in judging by appearances, 
 but how few women look happy, positively happy. So- 
 ciety is all wrong, I am persuaded. You know I always 
 said so, and although I am better satisfied with my own 
 little niche than I once was, still I say people in the world, 
 particularly our women, are not as happy as God intended 
 them to be." 
 
 " And what are you going to do about it ?" I asked. 
 
 "How provoking you are, Alice," said she. " I will 
 send to Mr. Rochester to assist me in reforming the 
 world." 
 
 " He might dig a long time, in this hard soil, for the 
 roots of many social evils," I added. "But as he has 
 found a remedy in his own case, for one, at least, of his 
 sources of unhappiness, perhaps he may assist others, at 
 least by proving to them the truth of the old adage — 
 ' Better late than never.' " 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY FEOrLE. 225 
 
 "But Alice," said Mary, seriously, "it is not only a 
 deep-rooted evil, but a fast growing one. Look now, 
 there is scarcely a young person in our village. How 
 melancholy that long row of prim, white houses looks, with 
 blinds fast closed, everything without in such precise 
 order, and everything within so proper and respectable. 
 You inquire about that one and the other, who were 
 
 young once, and all, as our bright friend E says, are 
 
 in ' states of mind.' Seriously now, something ought to 
 be done about it at once, and who shall do it if not 
 you and I ? You have suggested one reason, but there are 
 others more available for our purposes. Since we cannot 
 persuade the enterprising and ambitious of the young 
 men to take root at home, can we not make youthful 
 romance and poetry more genteel or fashionable ? Can 
 we not suggest some improvements in the cold forms of 
 society, and bring young people together more simply 
 and naturally ? Can we not persuade parents to be young 
 again in their children, and thus win their confidence and 
 trust ? Can we not, in short, convince ourselves and 
 others, that truth and nature are better than convention- 
 ality? Can we have none of those charming heart- 
 histories that we read about in romances — of love that 
 grew up from childhood — of hearts that were drawn to 
 each other from babyhood ? Is there no such thing as 
 spiritual affinity ? "We stand in false relations, men and 
 women each to the other, therefore how can we expect to 
 arrive at a thorough knowledge of each other ? I wish I 
 could read the inmost experience of some single women I 
 know. But they will not reveal the secrets of their 
 prison-house." 
 
 " Then should we not respect their reserve, and not 
 seek to penetrate into the innermost of their being?" I 
 asked. 
 
226 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD ; OR, 
 
 "Individually I do so," replied Mary. "It is as a 
 class that I intend to look at them now — a class becoming 
 larger in the progress of civilization and intellectual refine- 
 ment : and yet the culture of the intellect never can com- 
 pensate a woman for the want of objects to fill her affec- 
 tions. I can give you an illustration. Look at Harriette 
 
 B . You knew her when she was beautiful and 
 
 young, full of talent, brilliant in conversation, and of 
 superior intellectual endowments. You would have said, 
 if any one had resources for happiness in herself, it 
 was she. Yet you see how changed she is now. Pale, 
 haggard, sarcastic, sick, and uncomfortable. She has 
 made some great mistake in life. What is it ?" 
 
 " Perhaps she made more than one," I answered. " She 
 would have been more than mortal if she had not made 
 many. Nevertheless I can, without breach of confidence, 
 speak of one, for which, if her own heart does not con- 
 demn her, she stands reproved by the judgment of her 
 friends. On the hill yonder you can discover, through 
 the trees, a fine, spacious house, with an avenue of chest- 
 nuts leading from the road to the door. In that house 
 lives the son of a worthy mechanic, who was born and 
 brought up in our village. They were homely people — 
 the father and mother both — and had but this one son. 
 He was an ambitious lad, and wanted an education ; but 
 they could not afford to give him one, so he resolved to 
 make his own way. He worked at his trade in the day- 
 time, and studied evenings, until he fitted himself for col- 
 lege. In order to raise money to defray the expenses of 
 his collegiate course, he taught a town school. At some 
 of the village gatherings he was introduced to Harriette, 
 and fell as desperately in love with her as he dared under 
 the circumstances — her father being a member of Con- 
 gress, and his own a mechanic. He was handsome and 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 227 
 
 intelligent, and as well-bred as could be expected of one 
 who had never acquired the external polish of good soci- 
 ety. But there was no mystery, no prestige about him. 
 Everybody knew who and what his father was, which, 
 under certain circumstances, may be the greatest draw- 
 back to a man's success. Nevertheless Harriette was- 
 discriminating enough to discover his superiority to most 
 young men of her acquaintance, and showed a decided 
 preference for his society. His admiration for her was 
 unbounded. In short, he became really in love. She 
 could not relinquish the pleasure of his society. Her 
 vanity was gratified by his admiration, but her pride 
 forbade her to return his love. The affair went on for 
 some time, finally he became emboldened to offer himself, 
 and was refused. He graduated honorably ^ and went to 
 school-keeping again, studying a profession at the same 
 time. The next we heard of him, years after, he was 
 
 married to the daughter of a wealthy merchant of , 
 
 who has since died and left them rich, and now they live 
 at their charming country-seat, and his widowed mother 
 with them. There is not a man in ' our village ' 
 more respected. No one knew better than Harriette, his 
 capabilities, but ' a prophet has no honor in his own 
 country.' 
 
 " A looker-on would pronounce her rejection of a true, 
 manly heart from such unworthy motives a great mistake 
 in Harriette's life, particularly as she was not unconscious 
 of his worth or insensible to his admiration. But 'trifles 
 light as air,' sometimes turn the scale of a woman's lot, 
 and we all must reap as we sow." 
 
 " That is one case, now tell me another, and vindicate 
 our sex from the charge of worldliness and false pride," 
 said Mary. 
 
 "O! I could tell you of many a history worthy of ' point- 
 
228 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 ing a moral ' or adorning a tale," I replied. " Of women 
 who loved 'not wisely but too well.' Of some 'who 
 never told their love;' of others who aspired too high; 
 of others still, who were deceived. I recall one at this 
 moment — a good old maid — the aunt Kindly of the neigh- 
 borhood, whose heart was thrown away on one who could 
 not estimate its value, and who repaid her fidelity by in- 
 difference. Too cowardly to confess his inconstancy and 
 ask for a release, he led her on year after year, trusting 
 that her sensitive nature would receive the wound of his 
 unkind ness by slow degrees, and his own neglect gra- 
 dually wear out her constancy. It was a slow but sure 
 poison, and with the conviction that she was no longer 
 the object of his affection, to whom all her youth was sac- 
 rificed, she seemed to pass at once beyond the boundary 
 of hope and anticipation, into a desert. It was not long 
 after the termination of their engagement that she heard 
 of his marriage to a young, blooming girl. What she 
 suffered no one knew. Such sorrows have no voice. 
 What she has achieved through the sacrifice of herself, 
 you and I can see and lay to heart." 
 
 "And is he happy with his young blooming wife?" 
 asked Mary. " I hope not, after breaking one woman's 
 heart." 
 
 " Wicked one!" I exclaimed. " Let me set you right 
 on one point. Whether he is happy or not, I cannot 
 judge. 'Leave him to Heaven and to the thorns which in 
 his bosom lodge, ' but don't say of her, that she has a 
 broken heart. ' Whosoever will lose his life for my sake, 
 shall find it.' God helps those who consecrate themselves 
 to others as she has done, filling the void which human 
 love could not fill ; drawing towards himself the soul's 
 intensest yearnings. And Mary, there is nothing in life 
 but God's love that can fill the void. You may talk of 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY DAY PEOPLE. 229 
 
 intellectual culture, of aesthetic tastes, of this and that re- 
 source, but it is all a mockery without this higher life, 
 with its infinite consolation and hope and blessedness. 
 Nov do those alone whose lot seems most solitary, need 
 this bond uniting them to something purer and nobler 
 than the present. There is not a woman that lives, mar- 
 ried or single, gifted or humble, whatever her station, her 
 influence, her condition, who does not feel often and bit- 
 terly, how unsatisfying is all that life offers, even in its 
 fullness, to the heart that craves an infinite love, a bound- 
 less trust, a peace in believing that no vicissitude can 
 disturb." 
 
 " And does not man need this staff also, Alice ?" asked 
 Mary. 
 
 " I cannot judge for man," I replied. " Man's nature 
 is unlike woman's, and there are many avenues through 
 which he can work and go out of himself, and not feed 
 upon his own sorrows." 
 
 " And ought there not to be more avenues for woman 
 also?" asked Mary. " Ought she to live so much in and 
 through the affections ? Is not her life directed too en- 
 tirely into one channel ?" 
 
 " If you expect a solution of any great problem from 
 me, Mary," said I, "you will look in vain. I always take 
 things as they are, and my own experience guides me in 
 my judgment of others. "We see, even in childhood, that 
 girls live in the affections. In their plays, in their love of 
 dolls and pets, in their bosom friendships, in short, in 
 all their manifestations, we see the feminine element 
 developing step by step to the consummation of their 
 destiny — marriage. However we may reason about it, 
 scoff at it, turn away from it, we do it at our peril, for 
 the finger of God points to that end and its results, as the 
 highest and the most important in its consequences. How 
 
230 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 our perverted system of education has distorted this beau- 
 tiful arrangement of the Divine Providence for the per- 
 fection of human happiness, you know as well as I, for 
 you, like myself, have grown into a higher knowledge, 
 founded on experience and an earnest seeking after truth ; 
 and I trust that both of us will be able, in the bringing 
 up of our children to present to their opening intelligence 
 and eager questionings, the reality of what is so often set 
 aside, or silenced by a frown of disapproval or a smile of 
 ridicule. We cannot check the growth of this yearning — 
 our duty is to direct it. Its manifestations are as various 
 as the characters in which it springs, but its foundation 
 is in the inmost of being. We may warp and distort the 
 external life, we may set up worldly objects, worldly 
 advantages, self-interest, or any other idol we please be- 
 fore the young heart, and say, that is the true good, the 
 permanent, the substantial — all this idealism, all this ro- 
 mance that wears so beguiling an aspect, is an illusiou ; 
 but we cannot kill the germ which God has implanted in 
 the heart. It will spring up and bear fruit — it may be 
 the bitter fruit of disappointment and anguish ; it may be 
 that in sorrow, the deceived one eats of it all the days of 
 her life, but she cannot say, I will not eat of it. There is 
 no pity in the law that has been violated. Let us then 
 seek to know these laws of our being, and live by them 
 ourselves, and teach them to our children. Indeed I 
 know of nothing in the ordinary mode of educating the 
 young so full of injustice to them, as the off-hand way so 
 many have of dismissing their little confidences and earn- 
 est inquiries. Nature prompts them to ask a thousand 
 questions. She has implanted in them a longing to dis- 
 close the workings of their young hearts to some one who 
 can understand them. And whom do they seek ? Not 
 the mother who has been young, who has trodden the 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 231 
 
 same path, been lured by the same clangers and tempta- 
 tions, been betrayed by the same impulses into the same 
 errors; they dare not pour out their hearts to her. What 
 they thirst for, is sympathy, and they go where they think 
 they shall find it, or if timid and reserved of nature, they 
 lock up their feelings in their own breasts, form an ideal 
 world, waste their life in musing, unfit themselves 
 for realities, and become morbid and sensitive — weak in 
 soul and body. And all this because we will not look at 
 truth as God has stamped it upon our human nature, and 
 because society has set up its model men and women, that 
 we have grown to think are a little better than God's 
 creations, at any-rate more genteel. Trust me, -Mary, no 
 virtue in the world is at so great a discount as simplicity 
 of character. It is as much as one's reputation is worth, 
 to dare to be true and sincere, and single-minded. 
 
 " But what am I talking myself into a fever for, without 
 even the merit of an argument? I know you agree with 
 me, that nature should have an orderly development, and 
 that, as we cannot improve upon God's laws, the wisest 
 thing is to try and conform to them. I don't think we 
 should throw the blame of this great evil of celibacy on 
 the Lord's Providence, but on a false education. If men 
 and women led truer lives they would undoubtedly be 
 happier; and as marriage is a Divine appointment, and 
 all Divine laws, if followed, would lead to the greatest 
 good, of course, if every soul had its mate the sum total 
 of happiness would be greatly augmented. But I am 
 quite sure my life will not be long enough to put all the 
 world right. I have set my sisters a good example. If 
 they don't choose to follow it, that is their affair.*' 
 
 " But you needn't feel so set up in your wisdom," said 
 Mary. " I am determined not to let the subject drop, and 
 
232 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 some day I intend to write a book for my benighted 
 6isters. But I shall wait till this furor, which pervades -the 
 feminine part of creation, has abated, for when J write a 
 book I wish to have it read, and it would stand a poor 
 chance at the present time, while such c a crop of books,' 
 written by women, is pouring in upon us. In the mean- 
 time, I shall be collecting facts and experiences — diving 
 into the secret causes of things — analyzing, comparing, 
 combining, and by-and-by you will hear the result. You 
 perceive, my dear, that the time has come for woman to 
 speak out in some way. The very silence to- which public 
 sentiment has condemned her for so long, has so concen- 
 trated her life that she would consume away entirely if 
 there was no outlet to her feelings. 
 
 " I don't think I shall turn lecturer, because spoken 
 words are but modulations of sound and soon forgotten. 
 I shall write a book, when the propitious moment arrives, 
 and society has need of just such a book as I, and only I 
 can write. I shall write a book for woman. I shall try 
 and prove that everybody ought to be happily married. 
 Perhaps, for the sake of the argument, I shall affirm that 
 even a marriage not as happy as it might be, is better 
 than none at all, because under a positive evil, one always 
 finds some compensation, and there is a satisfaction in 
 having tried every promised good, even if one finds it 
 wanting. Then I shall investigate the causes of this 
 social error, and try to discover the remedy. Then I shall 
 illustrate my work with little sketches of domestic happi- 
 ness, drawn from life, and wind up with ' Confessions of 
 an Old Maid,' and lastly, 'An Application' in the manner 
 of old Parson W 's sermons." 
 
 "And before you publish your book," said I, u you 
 must make a compact with all the married people of your 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 233 
 
 acquaintance to wear cheerful and contented faces, that 
 no ill-disposed critic can pronounce your arguments shal- 
 low and your facts fallacies. 
 
 "A suggestion most opportune," said Mary; "and I 
 will set the example. Ah, Alice ! would to heaven it 
 could be as easily followed! that every woman in the 
 world found it as easy, as I do, to be happy, and had as 
 good cause as I have to call marriage a Divine appoint- 
 ment! But if I begin to be egotistical, I shall end with 
 being very foolish, so I must leave you and walk off this 
 effervescence ; only answer one question : Since so many 
 women will stay single, in spite of all one can say or do, 
 what is the surest way to promote their happiness in 
 single life, and make their state actually one of ' single 
 blessedness V " 
 
 " If I had time to reflect upon this question,'' said I, 
 " I might give you the condensation of wisdom. But 1 
 have not the time, neither have I the strength to arrange 
 my ideas in order. The thought, most prominent in my 
 mind at this moment, is this : Women are affectional 
 beings. God made them so, and their highest happiness 
 is in obedience to this law of their nature. It is in vain 
 to substitute other interests, or to force themselves to walk 
 in other paths. Their hearts are only satisfied with love. 
 Fortunately there is no spot on this earth where human 
 affections may not find objects to bless. The poor, the 
 unhappy, the neglected are all around us. All around us 
 are little children, appealing to our sympathy, looking to 
 us for guidance and direction, asking for the love that is 
 lavished on unworthy objects, or wasted in pursuits that 
 are as aimless and hollow as the hearts engrossed by 
 them. Surely no woman need grow cold, or harsh, or 
 bitter, or feel she has no place in a world where the gentle 
 ministrations of love are so much needed. It is only in 
 20 
 
234 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 going out of her sphere, or refusing to walk in her God- 
 appointed path, that woman's heart becomes a dry and 
 barren desert. If she has not those objects to love which 
 she can call her own — let her be a co-worker with the 
 Infinite Father and gather into the fold of her affections 
 those who are starving for the blessing her heart aches to 
 bestow, and she will never be alone — never unhappy. 
 
 When you write your book, Mary, devote one chapter 
 to this subject : The true sphere of woman. Although I 
 may fail to convey to you my deep sympathy with the 
 question that so greatly agitates you at this moment, 
 believe me, I feel it at my heart's core, for I love my kind, 
 I love my sisters everywhere, I suffer with them, and I 
 long to help them. I watch with great interest the move- 
 ments of the day — listen with an earnest desire to know 
 the truth, to all the arguments in favor of woman's rights, 
 and acknowledge, with bitter sorrow, the wrongs under 
 which she groans. Still the end of all my reflections is 
 the same. It is not liberty to vote, to speak in public, to 
 learn this, that, and the other trade or profession, to stand 
 on the same intellectual platform with man, and to receive 
 the same intellectual culture. This she can do if she 
 pleases, but this will not secure the good she is seeking, 
 if the eternal distinctions which God has implanted in her 
 nature are forgotten or laid aside; and it seems to me that, 
 instead of striving to be as man, she should study rather 
 to be more womanly if she would exert that influence in 
 society to which she aspires. She must work through and 
 by her affections. The constant shining of the warm sun 
 will melt, drop by drop, the glaciers which an iron hand 
 might wrestle with in vain. Go, now, to walk. I am 
 tired of talking — tired of thinking. Write your book. 
 I will help you to truer thoughts when you under- 
 take the task, for I shall be where I can see more deeply 
 
THE EVERT-DAT LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 235 
 
 into the causes of things, and I will flow into your thought 
 with an inspiration that you will feel, although you may 
 never acknowledge or even suspect it is mine. Bathed 
 in an atmosphere of love — my heart throbbing in unison 
 with the myriads of happy beings who rejoice to do their 
 Father's will — no chains to clog — no weakness — no weari- 
 ness — no pain to remind me of mortality — I will work 
 with you — love with you — feel with you and rejoice with 
 you. Go now to walk and leave me to rest ; but do not, 
 for the world, breathe a word of what I have said above 
 a whisper, lest these trees, which screen the windows oppo- 
 site, should only have been pretending sleep, and as soon 
 as your back is turned, should reveal to the truant wind 
 your secret about the book, and all our wise sayings about 
 human and divine institutions, and somebody should be 
 beforehand with us, in giving the results of our investiga- 
 tions to the world. 
 
 Mary promised all I wished, tied on her bonnet, and 
 in quite too high a pitch of enthusiasm to find her gloves, 
 (alas ! my friend is not altogether made up by rule) hast- 
 ened down stairs for a walk. I saw her from the window, 
 hurrying as if in pursuit of something in the far distance — 
 walking with her whole soul — swinging her arm, as Bos- 
 ton women will always do — and there was such an energy, 
 such determination in every attitude and motion, so much 
 freedom and grace too, that I could not check a feeling of 
 satisfaction as I watched her out of sight, and reflected 
 that, whatever she put her hand to, and her heart in, she 
 would do with all her might. I suppose we may look for 
 her book when she prefers writing to action. In the 
 meantime may there be many to grow wiser and happier 
 by her example. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Mary and myself have many talks about Emily, but 
 
230 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 are, both of us, still in the dark respecting her sentiments 
 towards William. We differ, however, in our specula- 
 tions. I am sure she loves him, and has some token 
 whereby she is convinced of his love for her, which tends 
 to keep hope alive, and accounts for her cheerfulness dur- 
 ing their separation, and her tedious confinement. Mary 
 thinks that, if they had remained longer together, she 
 would, doubtless, have been in love, but being removed 
 from his immediate presence, the sentiment has subsided 
 into friendship ; and having never received from him 
 assurances of any stronger feelings than a brotherly inter- 
 est, besides having observed his admiration of Lucille, 
 6he, with great good sense and womanly dignity, holds 
 herself free, and is, in fact, heart-whole. She is quite 
 satisfied with the course she decided upon to come here, 
 and the good results which manifestly have followed — 
 barring always this sad injury which, painful as it is, as 
 Mary says, is nothing compared with the blight and sor- 
 row which unrequited affection would have cast upon her 
 life. Emily, love, which of us is right ? I am sure you 
 will be on my side, inasmuch as you are aware how many 
 times I have proved myself a true prophet in such cases, 
 in trusting to my natural romance and my sympathy with 
 young people, which, I thank the good Father, is still 
 warm and true, and which I feel will not expire with my 
 natural life. Komance, however it may be opposed to the 
 facts and actual occurrences on our earth, is a prophecy 
 of the soul's capabilities for happiness. Poetry is the 
 highest truth. To fall far short of our ideal, is by no 
 means a proof that it is an illusion. Whether in the 
 world of spirits there is making love and spiritual union, 
 is a question I can only answer to my own satisfaction. 
 But it forms so important a part of life here, and seems 
 so to spring from an eternal necessity of the soul, that I 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 237 
 
 do not see how anything short of annihilation can destroy 
 these attractions and affinities. But I do not forget what a 
 rebuff I met with, years ago, when I thought I had learned 
 a new truth and had a childish desire to make proselytes, 
 and, in the fullness of my own satisfaction, made very 
 ample communications to a friend. Instead of awaken- 
 ing sympathy and interest, I was quite put down for en- 
 tertaining the belief that we existed in the other world as 
 organized beings. She preferred the idea of being a 
 thought — a floating vapor — a principle — anything but a 
 living, feeling, organized existence in the human form. 
 Since then I have been cautious of Bpeaking of any 
 peculiar doctrines to the uninitiated. 
 
 To return to realities, however, and leave what may 
 appear to you mere idle speculations, let me tell you yet 
 more of Emily. Day after day she sits in her easy chair, 
 with the same sweet, hopeful smile, never weary, never 
 expressing even a longing to be out among the hills and 
 the woods with her young companions, but to all appear- 
 ance filled with the joy of her own thoughts. She thinks 
 she shall recover, although she says she knows her im- 
 provement must be very slow. She walks a little back 
 and forth in her room, and occasionally on the piazza. 
 The children keep her supplied with flowers. She listens 
 to their chat, dresses their dolls, plans pleasant excur- 
 sions for them, and makes all of us feel that she is 
 not lonely even if alone. She amuses herself with draw- 
 ing a good deal: has made sketches of many pretty 
 points in the landscape which she sees from her fevorite 
 window, and she looks sometimes to me, as she sits in 
 the rosy light of the gloaming, like an angel. I am with 
 her a good part of the day, as I am unable to join the 
 rural excursions of the others. I know every spot of the 
 village by heart, and the history of almost every family 
 
238 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 in the neighborhood : so I talk about this and that event 
 which happened when I was young, and, like all story- 
 tellers, figure myself largely in ray narrations. She, 
 brought up so well in the light and under the healthy 
 influence of a genial and rational Christianity, besides 
 being, in some respects, very differently constituted from 
 myself, cannot comprehend the vagaries, the impetuosity, 
 the indiscretions of a character such as mine was in youth. 
 But it interests her to have me relate the little incidents 
 of my early life, and it interests me to turn over the pages 
 of memory with her. There are, however, whole days 
 when the spell of silence is on me, and I cannot talk at 
 all. On those days I write in my journal, read, meditate, 
 and strive to bring into communion with my own spirit, 
 the beings who will soon be visible to my inner sight, and 
 the Almighty Father, in whose presence I must soon 
 appear. Are not my last earthly days bright and beauti- 
 ful? "Where are the shadows? "What has become of all 
 my dread ? How is it that I do not shrink more from a 
 change that once seemed so terrible, and why do I not feel 
 greater anguish at the thought of separation from my 
 beloved ones ? Is not this the answer ? God gives us 
 the strength needed for all emergencies, and mercifully 
 affords every alleviation which can make our inevitable 
 trials as light as possible. 
 
 # # # # * 
 
 Letters, received to-day from Rosalie and Lucille, have 
 thrown a shadow over our hitherto bright life. Rumors 
 of the shocking murder of Capt. Grey of the exploring 
 expedition, together with others of the party whose names 
 are not given, fill us with terrible apprehensions for the 
 safety of our dear young friend. As yet, nothing official 
 has reached us ; but there is little doubt that the party 
 is disbanded, and the leader killed. How many have 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 239 
 
 perished, or how many have been taken captive by the 
 Indians, is not ascertained, nor can be, until some of the 
 party return or send direct intelligence to their friends at 
 home. My apprehensions were gloomy from the first. 
 Poor William ! What he maybe suffering at this mo- 
 ment, if he should indeed be alive, seems worse than 
 death! Rosalie is nearly distracted. We must hope for 
 the best. Poor Emily ! I see her anguish in her face, 
 from which every ray of happiness has vanished. This 
 state of uncertainty will retard her recovery, perhaps 
 render it hopeless. You must come and cheer us. We 
 try to talk as if we had hope, and for her sake, we try to 
 be hopeful — cheerful influences are so necessary to her 
 restoration. Mary thinks she shall remove her to the sea 
 shore very soon. It wants some weeks yet of the time 
 appointed for William to join us. I do not give up hope, 
 but how suddenly our bright summer is clouded! We 
 must try and have more faith. Even if the worst should 
 befall him, we should remember there is no such thing as 
 accident — nothing can take place by chance. 
 
 * ^ ' % % # 
 
 Letters from Rosalie again. The papers give all the 
 particulars of the terrible disaster that can be obtained. 
 There is still hope that William is safe, as his name is not 
 among the list of murdered. A few of the party con- 
 trived to escape and reach St. Louis, and he may be 
 among them. They give horrible details of the barbarity 
 of the Indians. Capt. Grey and several of his men were 
 butchered, many others taken prisoners. Hope of Wil- 
 liam's safety and ultimate escape does not desert me, but 
 I can offer very little encouragement to my poor friends. 
 
 Emily looks sick and wretched. She tries to be cheer- 
 ful. She forces herself to keep busy, but there is no heart 
 in anything she does. Her eyes are heavy with the tears 
 
240 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD ; OR, 
 
 she cannot shed; the sweet thoughts that were mirrored 
 in their blue depths, like a summer landscape in a still 
 lake, are all vanished. Even the deep blue has faded. 
 Her brow is anxious and careworn. Mary speaks with 
 self-reproach of having been the cause of all, and fears 
 she acted hastily. How cruelly we are prone, in seasons 
 of sorrow, to afflict ourselves ! She acted from the light 
 she had, and with a conviction that it was her duty. This 
 is all we can any of us do. We ought not to blame our- 
 selves for errors in judgment, if our endeavor is to do 
 right. Why can we not learn to leave results with the 
 All-seeing? 
 
 Lizzie also has written to me within the last week. 
 She has several scholars, and being constantly occupied, 
 is in a fair way to regain a healthful tone of mind. Lu- 
 cille is engaged to a foreigner, who, it is said, has a title 
 and is rich. Mr. Rochester still continues his visits to 
 the widow, as her affianced husband. The last relic of the 
 old man is put off — the old gray pants have given place 
 to black broadcloth of the newest cut. You remember 
 our friend A — 's definition of a philanthropist: "One 
 who hates people and loves principles." To no one did 
 this apply so closely as to Mr. Rochester in former times. 
 But our advocate for freedom and equal rights is now in 
 chains himself. I am afraid he will exclaim, in the words 
 of the Spanish Ladye in the old ballad: 
 
 " Still let me retain this dear captivitie." 
 
 vF ^F vF vF vF 
 
 Mary and her children, with Emily, have been gone to 
 the sea-shore several days. I miss them sorely. My 
 husband is absent, just now, on business, my girls at 
 school during the day, and I am left alone to think. I 
 have sealed up my journal, and dedicated it to my dear 
 children. I shall not write in it any more. When they 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 241 
 
 are older, it will be pleasant to them to read it. Many 
 little anecdotes of their childhood are recorded there. I 
 have sketched their characters, as they present themselves 
 to me, perhaps with a mother's partiality and fondness, 
 but that will not make it less valuable. If I over-esti- 
 mated their virtues, it will be a stimulus to self-examina- 
 tion and 6elf-improvement. In its pages also, they will 
 read many phases of my inner experience, which may 
 serve as a light to guide them, and through which my 
 heart can yet speak to theirs. Dear children! I do not 
 ask happy years for them, if by that is understood ex- 
 emption from sorrow, and care, and anxiety, but that 
 they may be guided through the trials of life, to the only 
 source of comfort and strength. I know that they must 
 suffer. If suffering is the lot of man, much more is it of 
 woman ; but all suffering, rightly viewed, reveals a deeper 
 capacity of happiness. 
 
 Before my husband left me, we took a pleasant drive 
 along the old familiar places. It is probably the last 
 time I shall visit them. Years ago — it matters not to 
 enumerate them — the road through which we passed now, 
 was a foot-path where the lovers in our village were wont 
 to walk at twilight. Some of the old landmarks still 
 remain. Many pleasant little associations cluster around 
 these paths — but you know what they are, and I need 
 not repeat them. 
 
 I look forward, with real happiness, to the month you 
 have promised to spend with me. I cannot run about 
 with you, but you shall bring to me, in my pleasant room, 
 tokens of the glad sunshine and the green fields. You 
 shall go out " when the dew is on the grass," and come 
 back with the smell of the fresh, cool earth on your gar- 
 ments. Do you know that I am writing to you now in the 
 very same room where I used to sit and write my first 
 21 
 
242 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 published book, my "Poems and Essays for Children," 
 with my subjects, in the shape of engravings, strewed all 
 about; my husband busy also, and our golden-haired, 
 blue-eyed boy, sitting in the midst of his playthings, 
 building up and pulling down — eager — earnest — glad of 
 heart — and the gladdener of our hearts? I seem to see 
 him now! "I cannot make him dead," although — 
 
 " I know his face is hid 
 
 Under the coffin lid- 
 Closed are his eyes, cold is his forehead fair ; 
 
 My hand that marble felt, 
 
 O'er it in prayer I knelt, 
 Yet my heart whispers that — • he is not there. 
 
 " Not there ! Where, then, is he ? 
 
 The form I used to see, 
 Was but the raiment that he used to wear. 
 
 The grave that now doth press 
 
 Upon that cast-off dress, 
 Is but his wardrobe locked — he is not there. 
 
 " He lives ! In all the past 
 He lives ; nor, to the last, 
 Of seeing him again will I despair. 
 In dreams I see him now : 
 And on his angel brow 
 I see it written— Thou shalt see me there." 
 # # # # # 
 
 I shall bid adieu to our village to-morrow, and, by easy 
 
 journeys, join my friends at the Beach, stopping at L 
 
 on my way, to see, again, one glorious sunset behind the 
 wooded hills, and to greet the old friends there. I do not 
 say it, but I know none the less surely, it will be for the 
 last time. One of my pets, the daughter of a schoolmate 
 who lives near us, brought me a fancy cap, trimmed with 
 rosettes and loops of the most delicate pink, begging me 
 to wear it for Tier sake. I think it takes away a little of 
 the ghostly look of my face, and imparts the very slight- 
 est tinge of red to my cheek ; so not only for her sake, 
 
THE EVERY-DAT LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 243 
 
 but for the sake of all who see me, I shall wear it. I wish 
 to leave as pleasant an impression as possible, particu- 
 larly upon the minds of the young. For this reason I 
 do not forbid my children, who assist me in dressing, to 
 fasten my collar with a bow of ribbon, and arrange my 
 hair according to their notions of good taste and becom- 
 ingness. And when they press their young, fresh lips to 
 my poor, faded cheek, I feel glad that I am not unlovely 
 to them, and that they are not shocked when they look at 
 me. I do not think sick people take sufficient thought 
 to make the most of their advantages. It is so much 
 the custom to exclude sunshine, and pleasing objects 
 pertaining to outward life from their apartments, and in 
 place of articles of taste and beauty, to display battalions 
 of vials, and boxes, and potions, which could as easily 
 be kept out of sight. All external life should be as bright 
 and healthful as it can be made for the sick, as well as for 
 those who have the care of them ; and nurses should wear 
 as cheerful and hopeful a look as they can, losing no 
 opportunity of saying a word of comfort, encouragement, 
 and hope. The very sphere which emanates from such a 
 nurse and friend or physician, if it cannot call back the 
 angel of health, will soften the approach of the messen- 
 ger of death who stands in waiting. 
 
 # # # # # 
 
 I have enjoyed a few warm days here '■— have even 
 walked on the beach once or twice, but the air is growing 
 chill, or my blood is growing poorer, and my pulses 
 feebler. I do not think I shall stay much longer. I have 
 seen the ocean and been lulled by the music of the sleep- 
 less tide — ebbing and flowing, resting never. The sight 
 of it is glorious. I have rejoiced to behold it, but I am 
 more eager now to return to the quiet nook which I have 
 80 long called " my home." When the woods change 
 
244 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 their mantle and the leaves fall, I had rather be there. I 
 have had a hope all along, which grew stronger as the 
 time of William's promised return drew near, that we 
 should have some tidings of him. I cannot say that I 
 have lost hope now, but it is overbalanced by fear and 
 dread. Yet I think he lives. I cannot explain the feeling 
 or account for it, but I think he is alive and sometime 
 will return, but perhaps my eyes will never behold him. 
 Emily is improving in health, grows stronger, and al- 
 though very sad, evidently makes great effort to attain 
 cheerfulness. Yesterday, when we were alone together, 
 she alluded to the incident I related to her a few weeks 
 
 ago, of my last meeting with T at this place. " You 
 
 look back upon it as the turning point in your destiny," 
 said she. " I wish you would tell me, if you can remember, 
 whether you felt strong or weak to meet the future then." 
 
 I told her, as well as I could recollect, my feelings. She 
 sighed and said: "I believe I am almost wicked, but 
 lately I have felt so weak to meet the struggle of life, that 
 I almost long for death." 
 
 " That is wrong, Emily, but not unnatural," said I. 
 " There are periods in the lives of many young people, 
 traceable sometimes to one cause, sometimes to another, 
 when they believe themselves to be too unhappy to live, 
 and think they long for death. But let us look at it 
 rationally a moment. Let us ask ourselves, "What is this 
 death for which we sigh ? We cannot escape from our- 
 selves in this world or the other. We sigh for rest and 
 peace, but it is a boon we must earn before we can enjoy 
 it; and when we have learned the secret of its attainment, 
 we shall be in heaven, whether in this world or the other. 
 Take courage, my child, and hope. It is not in this place 
 or in that place — it is not to the past or in the future, that 
 we must turn for help and strength ; it is in the present. 
 
THE EVEBY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 24:5 
 
 God is no nearer us after we pass from earth, than he is 
 here in the midst of our toils, and cares, and hopes, and 
 fears. When we really believe this, we shall not know 
 what it is to be alone in our struggles." 
 
 ***** 
 
 "We were all gladdened yesterday by the arrival of Mr. 
 Herbert. Kind, affectionate, genial Mr. Herbert! He 
 brought us tidings of all our friends. Lizzie's school 
 nourishes, and her health and spirits improve. She will 
 succeed and be happy yet. Lucille's marriage is soon to 
 take place. Her father sanctions the engagement, and all 
 parties seem well pleased. Kosalie, poor child, is in the 
 greatest distress. Hearing nothing from her brother, she 
 fears the worst. Mr. Herbert tried to induce her to come 
 to us for a while, and thinks she may yet do so. The 
 little Willie's grandmother is dead, and the grandfather is 
 so infirm, that it is thought he cannot long survive. A 
 niece, from New Hampshire, is at present with them, and 
 takes care of the house and the little boy. Kosalie has 
 been to visit them, and only that she had not the heart to 
 take the little boy away from his grandfather, she would 
 have brought him home with her. She says he is all left 
 to love that belonged to her dear brother. 
 
 We were all strengthened and refreshed by the presence 
 of Mr. Herbert. We had talked so much about William, 
 dwelt so much on the uncertainty of the future, lingered 
 in such sad communion over the past of our acquaintance — 
 of all the happiness we had found in his society, the 
 hopes centered in him, the love we bore him, and the 
 visions we had painted of his future, that our daily life 
 had become morbidly sad. Of course, Herbert can say 
 nothing to remove our anxiety, but the presence of a good 
 man, strong of faith, and full of Christian love, is like 
 wholesome medicine to a mind diseased. He is one of 
 
246 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 those men that a woman loves to lean upon. He takes, 
 too, such a cheerful view of things — not only able to say 
 "all is right," but to assure us that he feels it. He says 
 we all are a little too apt to hug our griefs and to make a 
 merit of our sorrows. We virtually say to ourselves, it 
 is a tribute clue to those who once enjoyed life with us, 
 that we should not enjoy it when they are gone. But 
 what is it to enjoy life? What is the highest enjoyment 
 of the soul ? Is it not thankfulness for blessings and for 
 the capacity to enjoy them? Is it not to receive the love 
 of God into our hearts and to impart it to those around 
 us ? And is his love less, when he sends us trials, than 
 when he bestows what we call blessings? Spiritual bonds 
 cannot be broken. Our friends are not lost, although 
 with our mortal eyes we can see them no more. 
 
 " But it is the terrible uncertainty," said Mary, " the 
 possibilities of hardship, of suffering, of butchery, of 
 those horrible details which we so often hear of in ac- 
 counts of Indian massacre. These are worse than death. 
 These are what haunt us with regard to poor William. 
 It is not that he may be dead, but he may be, at this mo- 
 ment, tortured by a living death, and longing for those 
 whom he shall never meet again." 
 
 " My dear Mary," said Herbert, "I understand it all. 
 Suspense is the most wearing of all grief, if we suffer it 
 to be so. We cannot reach that point of trust that we 
 can rise above it wholly. But we can hinder ourselves 
 from dwelling upon possible scenes of anguish and suffer- 
 ing ; and this is the duty we owe to God and each other." 
 Emily was not present, and he spoke of our cares for her 
 in this respect: She is young, untried, feeble. We must 
 be strong and cheerful for her sake. 
 
 The question then arose again, Does she love him ? Of 
 this we, none of us, have a doubt now. But did he love 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 247 
 
 her ? My opinion is unchanged, and they agree with me 
 now. How could we ever have doubted ? How other- 
 wise could we interpret the nameless, indescribable some- 
 thing in her expression — half thoughtfulness, half dreami- 
 ness, that is the first awakening of the young heart to 
 love. Mary says, this sad event must throw a shadow 
 over Emily's whole future life. 
 
 "Not so, Mary," said Frank ; "you wrong the dear child 
 by such a thought. Once to have truly and purely loved, 
 although without its fulfillment of happiness in this life, is 
 to have enlarged the capacities of the soul for eternal hap- 
 piness hereafter. Bitter as the disappointment may be to 
 her, yet spiritually her life is richer, higher, holier. But 
 why should we give up hope ? William may yet live, 
 may yet make his escape, surmount all obstacles, and 
 return to us. Come, let us not exclude the light of the 
 outer or the inner world," and he drew up the curtain which 
 we had suffered to remain closed all day, and the bright 
 rays of the afternoon sun, shone into our pleasant parlor, 
 and the light of a brighter sun into our souls. Emily 
 came down at that moment. She is able to walk now 
 without help, but the injury to her spine has produced 
 a slight deformity, and a weakness from which I fear she 
 will never entirely recover. Herbert greeted her with a 
 smile, and all of us looked so much more cheerful ; in 
 short, there was so much more health, and hope, and 
 trust in our sphere than there had been, that she seemed 
 to imbibe its benignant influence. " Put on your thick 
 shawl and bonnet, and we will walk," said Mr. Herbert, 
 and she seemed glad to do so. We saw them from our 
 window standing on the beach — he so fatherly, so strong, 
 so tender in his love — she so full of all feminine gentle- 
 ness and grace, leaning on his arm, and both gazing over 
 the broad expanse of ocean, when a golden path of rays 
 
248 THE OLD COKNEE CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 seemed to stretch from them to the very portals of heaven. 
 The evening we passed together — all of us together. My 
 husband and children, Mr. Herbert, Mary and her little 
 folks, and Emily. It was the happiest evening we had 
 spent for some time. 
 
 Although I expect to meet you in a few days, I must 
 write of what has befallen since I sent my last letter. 
 You know we had all been made better and more cheerful 
 by Herbert's presence. Not that we had no more sad 
 misgivings or painful memories, but we were lifted out of 
 our gloom — we were elevated and felt stronger to meet, 
 and to bear trial. The younger children had gone to 
 bed. The rest of us had gathered around a bright, 
 blazing wood fire. It was a blustering night with- 
 out, and the hoarse murmur of the waves mingled with 
 the rushing of the wind, and made us think of the 
 poor sailors on the coast. We were just bemoaning the 
 necessity of separating for the night, and dreading to leave 
 the comfortable fire, as Mary rose, and going to the piano, 
 sang that exquisite air — " Rocked in the cradle of the 
 deep " — in which Herbert and my husband joined. Alas ! 
 I could only sing in spirit. We had decided to leave the 
 day after to-morrow. My husband and myself to go back 
 to our pleasant valley with the children, and the rest to 
 stay awhile in Boston, previous to returning to their 
 western home. I thought, during the singing, I heard a 
 light tap at the door, but not being sure of it, I did not 
 interrupt the music. Just at the closing word, as Mary 
 rose, the tap was repeated, and Herbert went to the door. 
 There, in her traveling dress, all in a tremor of excitement, 
 stood Rosalie, holding by the hand little Willie. She 
 threw herself into Mary's arms, and could not speak for 
 weeping. None of us could say a word, we were so 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 249 
 
 startled — so taken by surprise — so overwhelmed at 
 sight of her. Herbert took Willie in his arms, and was 
 about to close the door, while Mary tried with trembling 
 hands to undo the fastening of Rosalie's shawl, when she 
 rushed past us, and the next moment William stood be- 
 fore us. He came to me, grasped my hand as he said : 
 "You see I have not forgotten my promise." " Nor I 
 the conditions of its fulfillment, William," said I. " God 
 bless you." The next moment I turned to look at Emily. 
 I was just in time to beckon to Herbert, whose arm saved 
 her from falling, as she must have done, overcome by 
 sudden faintness. 
 
 William, Rosalie, and little Willie! Was it a dream? 
 No, they had arrived at that moment, had inquired for 
 our room, and come directly thither. None of us could 
 speak — we had so much to say — and so we voted not to 
 ask any questions that night. To make ourselves per- 
 fectly sure that we were all wide awake, Mary insisted 
 that William should give his hand to each in turn. A 
 timely draught of water and a whisper to Emily to try 
 and recover herself, brought her into the circle, but Oh, 
 how she trembled ! How pale she looked ! I pitied her. 
 I knew it was one of those intense moments when joy is 
 so unreal, so bewildering, that it amounts to pain. I drew 
 her to me and kept my arm around her. I could almost 
 hear the beating of her heart, as it came our turn to grasp 
 the hand of him, who to us had " been dead and was alive 
 again !" It was not the grasp, when he took hers, but it 
 was the look that accompanied it, that spoke volumes — 
 that made her turn first crimson red, then deadly pale. 
 He held her hand. He pressed it in both his own. I could 
 feel how she trembled. We gathered round the fire again. 
 We called Willie from one to another, caressing him and 
 
250 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 asking him questions. Then we sat down and only looked 
 at each other. 
 
 ""What is to become of us if we sit here all night?" 
 said I ; "for see, our last stick of wood is on the fire!" 
 
 " Emily, my child, you must be the first to depart," 
 said Mary. 
 
 It was a wise suggestion. I knew how she longed to 
 be alone. Rosalie declared it was cruel to send her away, 
 but we insisted that we knew best. 
 
 " To-morrow we can meet and talk it all over," said 
 Mr. Herbert, putting a candle in Emily's hand and kiss- 
 ing her good-night at the door. Springing up, my hus- 
 band went to secure rooms for the new-comers. William 
 followed and then Herbert, leaving us women alone. 
 Rosalie took the little boy on her knee, and we all drew 
 closer around the dying embers. We kissed the little fel- 
 low. Tears came to our eyes in spite of ourselves ; but 
 they were tears of happiness. 
 
 " Thank God, you are here !" said Mary. " William 
 is safe!" 
 
 " He came only last week," said Rosalie. "Oh, he 
 has suffered so much ! But it is all forgotten now. He 
 found Willie with us. I had just brought him home. 
 His grandfather died, and we could not think of allowing 
 him to go with his aunt to New Hampshire. He had 
 been with us only a few days, and we all loved him so, 
 and felt so sad too, when we looked at him, thinking 
 of his poor father, perhaps dead, perhaps wandering in 
 all sorts of dangers. Don't you think he looks like 
 William?" 
 
 She did not wait to hear our answer, but ran on : 
 
 " I was wretched till I took the child. Then I thought, 
 I shall have something to live for. William's child will 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 251 
 
 be a new tie to life. My brother came in upon me just 
 as we came upon you. We could not believe our eyes. 
 He was overcome at seeing us. He wept so over the 
 child. He had only been at home a day when he pro- 
 posed going to you. He had promised, he said, the last 
 of September to meet you. We urged him to stay a few 
 weeks to rest and recruit, for you see he is shockingly 
 travel- worn and broken. He will tell you of all he has 
 suffered. It is incredible how he could have escaped. 
 But he would not stay with us — he would come, and said 
 I must go with him and take Willie. So here we are, and 
 I know you are glad to see us both. I have not been so 
 happy for many a month. But we will not talk more to- 
 night. I must put my boy to bed, and we ought all to 
 rest. But first, let me speak of Emily. How changed — 
 how sick she is! how very pale!" 
 
 " Yes," said I, " but she is getting better daily." 
 " I hope so. for William's sake," said Rosalie, tenderly. 
 " I believe he loves her — has always loved her. I have 
 so much to tell you, but there come the gentlemen. To- 
 morrow seems an age away; but good-night." 
 So say I to you, Margarette, good-night. 
 
 The excitement of the evening, and the startling sur- 
 prise that the sudden appearance of our dear young friends 
 gave us, was a little too much for my weak nerves. I 
 could not sleep, but wandered in imagination to that fu- 
 ture, which, I trust, they will live to enjoy, long after my 
 eyes are closed to earthly scenes. I felt happy for them. 
 I did not need that any one should assure me of their 
 mutual love. I read in that one look of William's, all I 
 had so long believed, and more of the true state of his 
 affections, than he could ever have told me in words. 
 Why he had not seen fit to manifest it before — why he had 
 
252 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 been so freaky as to absent himself for so long a time, and 
 brave the perils of that terrible expedition, was the mys- 
 tery that troubled my nightly meditations. 
 
 This, however, is solved after a fashion now, but like 
 many of the vagaries of lovers, seems to have had very 
 little reason in it. 
 
 As I did not go down to breakfast, Mary came to my 
 room, and we had a quiet hour of talk, while the young 
 people were together in the parlor. After Rosalie and 
 myself had left last evening, William signified to Mary 
 his desire to have a few words with her, and our consider- 
 ate husbands left them together. The result of the inter- 
 view, was a complete avowal of his long cherished love 
 for Emily, which he said he had not dared to hope would 
 receive her sanction, while, at the same time, he could 
 not but cherish the hope, that Emily was not indifferent 
 to him. He had never, he said, declared his affection to 
 its object in words — partly from a consciousness of un- 
 worthiness, partly from a conviction, that his unsettled 
 habits of life, his apparent want of a definite purpose of 
 action and ability to pursue any object steadily, detracted 
 from Mary's estimation of his character as a man, and 
 would make her distrustful of his power to render any 
 woman happy. Pie had so often heard her say, that in 
 order to fill the highest capacity of a woman's affection, 
 a man must be strong, self-reliant, and everything else 
 that was lofty, at least in aspiration ; that feeling himself 
 but half a man in these qualifications, and conscious that 
 his powers were wasted on mere abstractions, that in 
 reality he did nothing, and could not even decide upon 
 one thing that he could do better than another, he lived 
 on from day to day, not willing to risk the possibilities 
 of a disappointment, and yet, not being able to determine 
 in what way to prove himself worthy, when suddenly he 
 
THE EVEKY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 253 
 
 received the astounding intelligence, that he was to be 
 deprived at once of the presence of his idol, and the hope 
 of ever being able to win her for his own. He felt sure 
 that it was to remove her from him, that the sudden de- 
 termination of departure from home was made. He be- 
 lieved that Mary had observed his growing interest and 
 disapproved it, and wished by her abrupt departure to 
 put an end to any expectations he might hitherto have 
 indulged. He interpreted it as a delicate, but peremptory 
 manner of expressing her disapprobation, and accepted 
 it accordingly. The few words he had been betrayed into 
 saying expressive of his interest in Emily, were not so 
 strong as to receive the depth of the sentiment he cherished 
 for her, and he had not even dared to believe that they 
 were thus understood by her. He saw that during the time 
 which elapsed between the announcement of their depart- 
 ure, and its actual occurrence, there was an evident de- 
 sire on Mary' spart, that all opportunity for a private inter- 
 view with Emily should be avoided. Nothing remained 
 for him but to acquiesce — to banish her image from his 
 heart, until he could think of her only as a friend and 
 sister, which months of weary separation, danger and 
 hardship had not enabled him to do. Nor had he in all 
 his difficulties and distresses, lost the hope for which 
 alone he desired life, and by which he was able to endure, 
 to struggle, and finally to overcome the barriers that se- 
 parated him from the object of his earnest attachment. 
 And now he had come to ask of those who knew her 
 worth, permission to try and gain her affections. He did 
 not care to have the past explained. Whether his con- 
 jectures had been right or not, he did not even ask at 
 present. He made no promises about what he might do 
 or become, to be worthy of her. He felt that with such 
 a stimulus to exertion, all the good within him must be 
 
254 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD ; OR, 
 
 developed, and to live for her happiness was all he asked. 
 How Mary replied to him, she did not tell una. She 
 gave him her sanction and her blessing however, to which 
 in spirit I add mine. If he had confided all this to me 
 some months ago, you perceive, he would never have 
 played that desperate game. The headstrong folly of a 
 man in love, whatever course it takes, is perfectly incom- 
 prehensible to a looker-on. If he was in doubt how his 
 suit would be received, why did he not satisfy himself by 
 a plain home-question, and not go a thousand miles round 
 to return at last to the same point from which he set out ? 
 O pride, pride! how out of place it seems in our dealings 
 with each other! Truly love must delight in obstacles, 
 if it will go out of its way to find them — and all the while 
 he was periling life and limb, among wild beasts of the 
 forest, and wild Indians of the prairie, his image was 
 cherished in the true heart that loved him alone. 
 
 About dinner-time I made my appearance below in a 
 tasteful wrapper and my new cap with pink bows. I 
 saw from the windows a group of our own people on the 
 beach. Herbert and Mary walking to and fro, my hus- 
 band and the young folks bobbing up and down among 
 the rocks, and scrambling about in a most extraordinary 
 and venturesome manner. It was a superb morning. A 
 sort of shadow flitted across my soul as I thought it is 
 the last — the last time my soul shall ever look upon this 
 glorious landscape through mortal eyes. Afterwards, I 
 was glad the last should be so bright and glorious, and 
 the shadow passed by. It was only a cloud between me 
 and Heaven. I went slowly down stairs. Just as my 
 hand was on the latch of the door, I heard low tones in 
 the room I was about to enter. Had I been younger and 
 stronger, I might have retreated ; as it was, I was forced 
 to enter. Two happy faces shone upon me. I was made 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVEKY-DAY PEOPLE. 255 
 
 to feel that my presence was not unwelcome William 
 drew my arm in his and led me to the sofa. " My dear 
 children," said I, taking a hand of each, " what can have 
 happened to make you both look so very satisfied ?" 
 
 I suppose it was a sort of awkward shyness, joined to 
 my childish love of mischief, that made me ask the ques- 
 tion, but it strangely belied my real feelings. But I can 
 never grow old, and sometimes have a provoking double 
 consciousness, which prompts me to manifest the very 
 opposite of what I feel, possibly to prevent the exposure 
 of emotion, which, if indulged, might go beyond bounds. 
 But when I looked first at one and then at the other of 
 my young friends, and felt the pressure of their thrilling 
 hands in mine, I said to myself, " What signifies it at 
 your age, and with one foot in the grave, to try and joke 
 with these happy souls ?" Could anything I might say — 
 could my sympathy with their happiness, paint the rain- 
 bow of their hopes with deeper tints, or add sweeter per- 
 fume to the roses that bestrewed their path ? And yet, 
 was I not nearer Paradise, nearer the Eternal Spring of 
 life than they were ? Did I not know from the Heavenly 
 Oracle, that this prophecy of bliss now sounding in their 
 ears, was an echo of the Divine Harmonies to which our 
 being is attuned, and which Infinite love will sometime 
 awaken in all their rich and endless combinations ! I, 
 too, had known the rapture of such an hour, when the 
 rose of youth bloomed on my cheek, and the pulse of 
 health danced through every vein. Through vicissitude 
 and trial, and heartache — through joy and sorrow, the 
 words of that prophecy still resounded in my soul — True 
 love is immortal, unchangeable. Through whatever 
 sorrows, and darkness, and adversity, it will not perish; 
 it cannot be lost. Therefore be happy, young, ardent, 
 trusting ones. Be happy without fear, only forget not 
 
256 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD ; OR, 
 
 Him, from whose infinite love floweth this fullness of 
 beatitude into your souls. 
 
 These thoughts passed through my mind, crowding 
 upon me so fast that I did not speak for some time. Wil- 
 liam was the first to break the silence. 
 
 "Why could you not have spared me the ordeal I im- 
 posed upon myself?" he asked. "One word, from you, 
 would have been enough, and yet you withheld it." 
 
 "Ungrateful boy!" I replied. "Did I not, in every 
 way that real friendship — to say nothing of womanly 
 curiosity — could dictate, try to gain your confidence, and 
 you would not be persuaded to trust me? Did I not point 
 out the folly of your joining that silly expedition, and 
 advise you to go eastward instead ? and did you not refuse 
 to be advised — headstrong, that you were — perverse, self- 
 willed, proud, and everything else that is provoking?" 
 
 "But one little word of encouragement would have 
 changed my course at once," he continued. 
 
 " And by what right do you suppose I could have 
 spoken it?" I asked, assuming a righteous indignation. 
 " By whose authority? What reason had I, or any one 
 else, to suppose this little girl cared for you? Surely she 
 never spoke to me of her preferences. It was not my 
 part to seek to penetrate her maidenly reserve. In a mat- 
 ter that concerned your happiness so nearly, it would 
 seem natural that you should interrogate. And how did 
 I know you loved the child ?" 
 
 " You must have known it," he replied. " Mrs. Herbert 
 must have known it, and she — Emily— ah ! — yes — she 
 knew it. She never doubted. God bless her! But how 
 much I have lost ! This is the bitter drop in my cup of 
 happiness now; the thought that all might have been 
 mine months ago ! So much bliss is lost from my life, 
 and nobody held me back!" 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EYERY-DAY PEOPLE. 257 
 
 " Held yon back, William!" I exclaimed. "You 
 strong, brawny, willful man ! Who would think of hold- 
 ing you back, when you were determined to go ?" 
 
 "And yet, how little would have sufficed!" said Wil- 
 liam, looking, at the same time, at Emily. 
 
 " How little ?" she repeated, scarcely as interrogatory, 
 but rather as an echo of his own words. 
 
 " One such look, one such word from you ; one passing 
 emotion of regret, at parting," said he, fondly. "But she 
 need not reproach herself, Mrs. Dearbon. In truth, I 
 would not have had it otherwise. I am glad that I can- 
 not say of the bliss of this moment, ''It was' — of this 
 assurance, so lately spoken, and which I make her repeat 
 over and over again — ' six months ago she spoke those 
 sweet words that I cannot hear enough.' To me there 
 is no past now. The present is enough." 
 
 What malicious spirit stirred the depths within me, as 
 he said these words, "For me there is no past?" And 
 yet, within that dark domain she dwells to whose ear that 
 voice was divinest music — to whom those words of love 
 once were life — Mabel, Mabel! But I rebuked the spirit, 
 and the vision of the " child-wife" vanished — not in dark- 
 ness, but in glory. The light of that world where she 
 dwells, who was thy heart's first love, William, is never 
 dimmed by selfish longing. We cannot penetrate these 
 mysteries of our being. Our human nature is too imper- 
 fect. She is happy now. Be thou happy also. Yet say 
 not there is no past. Let rather the memory of its joy, 
 of its love, of its sorrow consecrate the present. 
 
 I knew my presence was not unwelcome, and yet I felt 
 I had staid long enough. Those words, never said too 
 often, must be repeated over and over again — as they could 
 not be repeated if I were by. Besides, I found myself 
 growing serious and thoughtful, and I wanted to be alone. 
 22 
 
258 THE OLD CORNER CUrBOARD ; OR, 
 
 " There is," said I, rising to go and looking at "Wil- 
 liam — " there is something firmer than the everlasting 
 hills, and I am glad you have no further need of proof." 
 
 He answered by a grasp of my hand. Emily blushed 
 crimson, and hid her face on my shoulder. I pressed her 
 dear, shrinking form to my heart. It beats yet — thanks 
 to the kind Father! — with human sympathies. 
 
 If there is an hour in mortal life, whose intensity of 
 happiness will live as long as the soul's consciousness, it 
 is that, when the heart that loves first feels it is be- 
 loved. The memory of that hour in my own life, was the 
 key which admitted me into the sacred temple of their 
 happiness. I could only say, "God bless you both!" — 
 and remembering that I had left my knitting up-stairs, I 
 made a timely exit. William insisted upon giving me the 
 support of his arm in ascending the stairs. 
 
 "If anything could make me happier, than to be assured 
 of her love, it would be your sympathy, to whom she is 
 so dear," said he. 
 
 " You have it, my friend," said I. " My heartfelt sym- 
 pathy — my blessing on you both !" 
 
 To-morrow I must leave our happy friends for a while. 
 How glad I am that I leave them so very happy! But 
 two days ago, it was an effort to wear even an outside 
 cheerfulness, the habit of anxiety was so strong upon us. 
 Why will we not learn trust even in the darkest hours ? 
 It might have been otherwise. William might not have 
 returned ; but firmer than the everlasting hills, stronger 
 than human affection — stronger even than death is His 
 infinite love, who is above all. 
 
 A final adieu to the sea-shore, and I am once again at 
 my old home. I am so well that my husband suggests 
 we had better go West ; and I have promised, if I con- 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 259 
 
 tinue as strong as I am at present, to leave here the last 
 of October. When I wrote you that I wished to come 
 home once more, I thought it would be the last journey I 
 should ever make. I thought it would be coming home 
 to die. And although death seems no nearer to me, than 
 when I first came here, to you I may confess, however, 
 that I am growing weaker, and I have a presentiment still 
 that I shall never leave this spot, until called to the unseen 
 land. But if I should be able to go back in October to 
 my western home, I shall feel that " it is well." It will 
 be lonely for my husband and children to go home with- 
 out me. Yes, they will feel heavy-hearted at my loss at 
 any time ; but by -and -by the Comforter will come to 
 them. In labors of love and though tfulness for their 
 father and for each other, my children will find true hap- 
 piness. 
 
 Mary and her party remained at Boston, but will pass 
 a week or more with me before their departure for the 
 "West. Possibly we may all return together. I miss them 
 hourly. I should like to be an eye-witness of the bliss 
 of my two young friends. Emily's delicate health is now 
 William's greatest anxiety. His tenderness is beautiful. 
 The little Willie is, of course, the pet of the family. He 
 is a glorious little fellow. I can see something of his 
 mother's expression in his face, although his features are 
 more like the father's. Gentle Mabel, loving, and tenderly 
 beloved. Is she forgotten? How like a dream must his 
 early love seem to William now. These autumn leaves 
 are falling over the grave of his wife, far away. I was 
 about to say, how sad ! but I was wrong. The heart of 
 youth must have a living, present object for its love. Sad 
 and lonely his life would be without a home. 
 
 #■#-### 
 
 A few days ago an old friend of my mother's calle 1 
 
260 THE OLD COENER CUPBOARD ; OR, 
 
 upon me. She had met my children returning from 
 school with her own grandchildren, and learning whose 
 they were, was impelled to call on me, as she said, for 
 my mother's sake. They had been young together. They 
 were married about the same time — they had been mem- 
 bers of the same church, and she was one of the friends 
 who stood beside my mother's dying pillow. I was glad 
 to see her ; yet her visit left a painful impression for a 
 time, that I could not shake off. She belongs to the rigid 
 sect of Puritans, whose ancestors were among the first 
 settlers of this New England town. There was a pre- 
 cision, a formality in her manner which chilled the free 
 expression of my feelings. She had heard that I was a 
 consumptive and not long for this world, but evidently 
 thought, by my manner and appearance, that I was igno- 
 rant of my real situation, and the near approach of death. 
 It certainly could not have been owing to any frivolity or 
 lightness of manner ; it must have been from the cheer- 
 fulness with which I spoke of things appertaining to life. 
 She did not mean to be obtrusive, but could not rest easy 
 until she had obtained, by a series of close questions, my 
 confession of faith. Now, you know, religious discussions 
 have, from time immemorial, been distasteful to me. Not 
 that I am unable or unwilling to give a reason for the 
 faith that is in me. Not that I have no reason to give, as 
 some may suppose, from my dislike of argumentation ; 
 nor is it that I am only a negative receiver of the doc- 
 trines by which I hope to have arrived at truth. No one 
 can love them better, no one can attach higher importance 
 to them. They are, indeed, my life. On them are based 
 my hopes of happiness here and hereafter. By them I 
 have sought to know how to live, and in them I am wil- 
 ling to die. It is because they lie so near my heart that I 
 am unwilling to drag them forth for discussion, and 
 
THE EVERY- DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 261 
 
 seek to explain them merely to satisfy the curiosity of 
 another. I had lapsed, in her opinion, from the faith of 
 my fathers, and was spiritually a cast-away. She wept 
 over me — abjuring me for the sake of my mother — for the 
 sake of the blessed Saviour who died for me, to lay hold 
 on the faith by which alone I might hope to obtain salva- 
 tion. She asked me if I had any objection to her offering 
 up a prayer. Of course, I had none, and she bowed her 
 aged limbs in my presence, and prayed the Almighty, 
 before it was too late, to save my soul and sanctify me 
 through the truth. 
 
 There was a touching earnestness in her appeal and in 
 her manner, which moved me to tears ; but my faith is too 
 firmly fixed to be shaken now. When she arose I thanked 
 her, but I could say nothing more. I should have loved 
 to talk with her about my mother's early life, her last 
 hours, and many things relating to her. It would have 
 been sweet to refresh my memory with her image, and 
 have the dim outline filled out by one who knew her so 
 intimately. I had often been told of her spotless life and 
 peaceful death, but I had never asked her creed. I felt that 
 her hope and trust was mine: that she had gone before 
 me to our common Father, and it has long been one of 
 my sweetest anticipations that, when my spirit first enters 
 upon its untried life, she will be near to welcome me : I 
 shall not be alone. It is a hard faith that would destroy 
 our trust in a good Father, and place on the throne of 
 the universe an arbitrary — an inexorable judge. 
 
 I had not the strength, even if I had felt the wish, to 
 talk much with my aged friend. I thanked her as cheer- 
 fully as I could, for her kind concern in my spiritual wel- 
 fare, and told her that, what had been truth to me in life, 
 I felt would not fail me in the hour of death, and that 
 with a heart willing to be taught of God, and trusting in 
 
262 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 his infinite love and wisdom, I did not fear to rest my 
 hopes of salvation with him. He who had guided me 
 thus far in life, had given his promise never to forsake 
 those who put their trust in him. Her visit was kindly 
 meant, but I hope she will not come again. 
 
 # # # # •* 
 
 We are all together once more. The days are soft and 
 balmy, and the forests are gorgeous in their autumn 
 drapery. My husband gives me a drive every afternoon. 
 I enjoy more than I can express. We talk of the future 
 as if there were an earthly future for me as well as for him- 
 self. I say nothing to remind him that it cannot be, for I 
 know he does it consciously. He does not, cannot dwell 
 upon the thought that I must leave him. Nor need he. 
 It would not help him to bear my loss, and it would take 
 away from the joy of the present. So we speak of what 
 is to happen, of the children, and of our hopes and fears 
 for them, as if we were to watch their unfolding life to- 
 gether. So I believe we shall. 
 
 Mary is busy preparing her little folks for winter. 
 Emily and William have the world to themselves : the 
 world of reality and the world of dreams. The rose has 
 come back to the fair cheek of our darling, and her 
 strength improves daily. Yet we still fear she will never 
 be vigorous and strong. The beautiful proportions of her 
 figure are lost, but she does not seem deformed to us. 
 She is transformed by the pure soul which shines through 
 her whole being. They will be married as soon as Mary 
 is settled at her own home. 
 
 # # # # # 
 
 Do you think it possible that I can be getting well ? 
 after having made up my mind that I must soon die, that 
 I may dare to entertain a hope of recovery ? I know how 
 consumptives deceive themselves often and o*ren. I 
 
THE EVEBY-DAT LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 263 
 
 remember how it was with poor T . He always 
 
 talked of getting well ; always said he thought he was a 
 little better. None of his friends undeceived him, and he 
 was never brighter or more cheerful than the few days 
 that preceded his death. I thought, when I saw him last, 
 what a beautiful and kindly provision it is of our heavenly 
 Father, thus to soothe with hope, the long and wearisome 
 months of a lingering disease. You recollect how it 
 troubled the conscientious clergyman who visited him 
 during his illness, that he did not seem to be aware of his 
 actual condition. But his sister, who knew him better 
 than any one else, insisted that he should not be dis- 
 turbed. I remember what she said. " Why should we 
 trouble him? I know that he does not dread death, nor 
 fear to meet it, although he loves life and enjoys it. If 
 anybody ought to enjoy life it is he; and, indeed, for 
 such as he, there is no death." He was not a man to talk 
 much of his feelings, his hopes, or his fears — not even to 
 those he loved best ; but he needed not to speak in words : 
 his life was its own interpreter. The evening before he 
 died, he was bright and cheerful, and more tender than 
 usual, particularly to the children, his little brothers 
 and sisters. After an hour of delightful communion he 
 retired to rest as usual. Early in the morning, as was 
 her custom, his sister, his sole nurse, went in with his 
 cup of tea which he took in bed. No hand was out- 
 stretched to clasp hers — no voice spoke the morning wel- 
 come. The hush of death was in the room. His spirit 
 had passed away, all bright and warm and glowing with 
 its purified human affections, into the bosom of the Infin- 
 ite love. At first, as she afterwards told me, it gave her 
 a shock to find him dead. The thought that he had died 
 alone was painful. This, however, was but a momentary 
 pang. As she stood gazing upon his noble features, so 
 
264 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 serene, so majestic in their calm repose, she saw in spirit 
 a vision of angels, which seemed to say, "Why seek ye 
 the living among the dead ?" She never felt afterwards, 
 that he had died alone. 
 
 Hearing her speak thus of him and his last hours, I 
 said within myself, How beautiful thus to die ! In my 
 secret heart I pra} T ed for just such a death, and I ahve 
 felt an inward assurance for some time, that so gentle 
 would be the approach of the death -angel to me. And 
 yet I do not feel to-day, nor have I for some days past, 
 any tokens of his coming. Can it be possible that I am 
 getting well ? that I may yet pass years in this beautiful 
 world with my loved ones ? that I may watch the develop- 
 ment of my children's characters — share with my husband 
 his toils and joys — live to be and to do something — to 
 find out my own capacities, and to use them to nobler 
 purposes — live to realize some of my best dreams ! Who 
 knows? Not you — not I — but God, the good God. He 
 knows, and I can wait. I will at any -rate improve the 
 ,time and strength I have, in your behalf. I know you 
 love to get my letters, and to read them ; and I know I 
 love still more to write. Since you cannot be with us all 
 the time, I will keep you informed of our doings and 
 sayings. 
 
 To return then to our domestic details, I will relate a 
 little conversation we had, the other evening, about our 
 friend Mr. Rochester. He is not yet married, although I 
 predicted he would not endure a long engagement, which 
 proves I am not always, in such affairs, a true prophet. 
 Rosalie says he is a daily visitor at their house, and 
 always punctual to tea. She learned the other day from 
 an old resident, who knew him years ago when he was a 
 gay young man in society, some particulars of his life. 
 Handsome, she declares, as Adonis, but so wild, so extra- 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY -DAT PEOPLE. 265 
 
 vagant — his father could do nothing with him. Of course, 
 there is but one satisfactory solution of the problem how 
 the change was brought about, which transformed him 
 into the Mr. Rochester of our acquaintance. What makes 
 the crusty old bachelors and unhappy old maids in the 
 world \ Crosses in love, is the reply, stereotyped ages 
 ago. This it was, in truth, which changed the current of 
 our reckless young hero's life, and made him what he is, 
 or rather what he was a year ago. He didn't take the 
 disease kindly, and it left him terribly scarred; but the 
 scars, after all, are only skin deep. Now that he is filled 
 with happiness in the widow's genial society, he looks 
 a score of years younger. Happiness is the best cosmetic. 
 Well, to go back in my story, Frederick Rochester, 
 young, handsome, gay, and rich, fell in love with a poor, 
 simple, uneducated little cousin of his — beautiful as an 
 honri, but fickle as the wind. I think her name was 
 Bertha; I shall call her so at all hazards, for Bertha 
 sounds rather capricious. She was a distant relative, 
 whom he had never seen, until she came with her mother 
 to his father's house. Old Mr. Rochester, learning the 
 misfortunes of his kinswoman, offered her a home, little 
 thinking of the syren who was to charm away his son's 
 reason and judgment, and finally destroy his happiness. 
 
 They came. The mother, to assume the care of the 
 house, which had been left to take care of itself since the 
 death of Mrs. Rochester, and the daughter, to bewitch her 
 gay, young, spendthrift cousin. 
 
 How he fell in love, desperately, madly, as Rosalie says, 
 with the beautiful Bertha — how his father stormed about 
 it awhile, and then gave up, because he saw 'twas no use 
 trying to dam up the swollen torrent of his impetuous 
 affections — how she seemed to return his passion — all this 
 yon will find recorded in the chronicles of true lovers 
 23 
 
266 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 throughout the world. How he promised to sow his wild 
 oats and be a steady man, and swore that what he had 
 needed heretofore, was such an angel to guide him ; and 
 how his friends were compelled to acknowledge that, after 
 all, it was the making of him, this bondage of heart and 
 soul to the wily little god — all this you can compare with 
 the records of your own observation, and you will appre- 
 ciate our hero's position. But Bertha was too pretty to 
 be unobserved — too fond of admiration to be willing to 
 bloom in the quiet nook of a secluded country home. 
 She went to church, to singing-school, to village parties 
 and festivals, and a great many young men, besides 
 Frederick Rochester, contrived to tell her by word of 
 mouth, or sign of some kind, how pretty they thought 
 her; and her own glass told her the same story many 
 times a day. Still Frederick seemed to be the chosen 
 one. Her mother impressed upon her the fact of her 
 cousin's nice property — rich father — great expectations; 
 and these were weighty considerations : for the truth must 
 be told, she had no heart — she was nothing but a weak, 
 vain, frivolous, coquettish little beauty. Affairs went on, 
 however, smoothly and pleasantly between them, till sud- 
 denly, by one of those mysterious turns of the wheel, 
 which nobody expects, there came reverses to the family 
 of old Mr. Rochester. Some business house, in which 
 the greater part of his property was invested, failed and 
 his large fortune was lost. He bore it like a man, for he 
 was a man. He had made his money, and had known 
 what it was to work hard. A small competence remained, 
 barely sufficient to enable the family to live respectably ; 
 and Frederick was compelled to do as his father had done 
 before him — seek his fortune. He went into business, 
 through his father's influence, in one of our large cities. 
 He had an object whereby all toil was sweetened. Bertha 
 
THE EVEKY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY- DAY PEOPLE. 267 
 
 was the pole-star of his ambition. For her he labored 
 to be rich — labored hard, indefatigably, unremittingly, 
 and successfully; but just as the summit of his hopes was 
 gained, and buoyant with expectation, he was preparing 
 the home for his fair bride elect, he received a letter from 
 his father, that his angel had eloped with a young South- 
 erner, and was on her way to his plantation in Georgia. 
 
 Imagine the downfall of his hopes! Imagine the shock 
 to his pride and his affections ! Nothing could be done, 
 however. She had left him voluntarily — was the wife of 
 another. The future was a blank to him. Nobody could 
 offer him sympathy, for his nature was too proud to desire 
 it. He threw up all business, and off he went on a voyage 
 round the world. The only relief to his despair seemed 
 to be in constant change. Storm and tempest, danger 
 and hardship were congenial to his perturbed spirit. He 
 was gone a long time. What he suffered no one ever 
 knew, but he lived through it, and came out of the con- 
 flict stern, ascetic, joyless, as we knew him — the very 
 antipodes of his early manhood. Firm as a rock, he set 
 himself against the evils of society, the pomp and cir- 
 cumstance which attend wealth, the abuse of power, the 
 corruptions of party. But the one great curse of slavery 
 was the chief point of attack. The very names of South- 
 erner and slaveholder stirred the depths of his indigna- 
 tion. He refused all terms of brotherhood with them. 
 Doubtless, he thought a true feeling of philanthropy lay 
 at the bottom of this deep aversion. Far be it from me 
 to probe the old heart-wounds now. He had no reason 
 to look with charity on southern institutions and influ- 
 ence. But I honor his principles, and will not question 
 his motives too narrowly. Few of us could stand a close 
 scrutiny of motives. I hope, through his labors and 
 sacrifices, the blot upon our county's escutcheon is 
 
268 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD ; OE, 
 
 dimmed, and I know man} 7 a poor fugitive may thank 
 Mr. Rochester that he is a free man. I hope he will not 
 relax his efforts now, or forget, as he sits in his easy- chair 
 gazing, as I have no doubt he does, on the widow's fresh- 
 complexioned, kindly-hearted face, that "the trail of the 
 serpent" still lingers in Eden. 
 
 Rosalie says he is really lovable, that all the young 
 folks are won by his cheeriness. I always felt sure he 
 had a heart, and I am glad it is thawed out. The philan- 
 thropy of the head is like the sun in winter — light without 
 heat — but the philanthropy of the heart will gradually 
 melt away all evil and prejudice. But good-by, Mr. 
 Rochester. If you had your life to live over again, with 
 your present experience, I am sure you would not let the 
 fickleness and caprice of a weak girl make your best 
 years miserable. How differently trials affect us ! 
 
 Speaking of trials, remiuds me of a letter I received, 
 yesterday, from Lizzie — a sad letter. She feels alone with 
 all of us gone. She shrinks from making new friends, but 
 dreads more the thought of returning to her old ones. 
 How long it may be before the dove of peace broods over 
 the troubled waters of her soul! How sad is the picture 
 of her past life! What though I tell her to look not upon 
 it, repeating to her again and again, what 1 have so often 
 been compelled to say to myself: " Let the dead bury its 
 dead!" It still sounds in her ears like a mockery. How 
 can she forget, when the very effort to do so, forces her to 
 remember? After all, how little we can help one another 
 to bear sorrow! We hold up to our stricken friends the 
 feeble lamp of our experience, pointing out this and that 
 path which seemed, as we trod it, to bring us nearer to 
 the source of peace. We point onward, where the Eter- 
 nal sits enthroned, and say: Strive vpward, be strong, 
 be hopeful, be steadfast! and even while we are speaking, 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 269 
 
 our own feeble footsteps totter — the distance between us 
 and the heights to which we aspire, grows immeasurably 
 far off; as we gaze upon it, shadowy apprehensions of 
 unknown dangers in wait for us, fall dark over the way, 
 and we can only say, Let us kneel together — pilgrims as 
 we are — let us trust to the arm that never faileth, to the 
 love that never sleeps. "Where is all our boasted self- 
 reliance when the heart is overwhelmed? Humility is 
 forced upon us in the hour of sorrow. It is not in rest- 
 less striving, any more than by patient waiting, that we 
 attain to heavenly states. I remember how goaded I was 
 by the advice, constantly repeated and kindly meant, of a 
 friend who, in order to rouse me from a condition of mor- 
 bid depression, said: "Do something — think of some- 
 thing else — don't dwell upon your feelings." How I tried 
 to obey! How worse than fruitless was the attempt! 
 "Do something.'''' Yes, do your duties, bowed and suf- 
 fering one, mechanically. Move your arms, use your 
 fingers, walk, work, tire yourself bodily, as thoroughly as 
 you can. Your friends tell you not to think of yourself, 
 but try and get up some great interest, some enthusiasm 
 about something ; take up the study of some science — 
 some foreign language ; the more practical and philan- 
 thropic of your acquaintance say, go and visit the poor, 
 and sick, and suffering, and you will come back grateful 
 for all your blessings. Try these remedies, one and all, 
 they will do no harm; but there are, believe me, many 
 spiritual quacks abroad in the world; don't think you can 
 be made whole at once, or by any great specific of man's 
 invention. The best advice is that given by the old bear 
 to his little one, who complained that he could not go 
 alone. " Stop thinking, and walk." Yes, it is worth 
 every one's while occasionally to stop thinking or trying 
 to think. Be contented to exist day by day, and ask only 
 
270 THE OLD CORNEK CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 for your "daily bread". Your soul could not digest more 
 god-like fare if it was offered. Take your daily bread 
 and try to eat thankfully, though it is dry enough to choke 
 you. You may moisten it with a tear or two sometimes, 
 but that will not make it less nutritious, though it may 
 not be quite so palatable. You are out of sorts, sick, un- 
 sound, and you must be put on diet. Don't try to dis- 
 cover whether the soul makes the body sick, or the body 
 the soul, for this only aggravates your disorder. When 
 you are well, it will be time enough to dive into the mys- 
 teries of being. Be satisfied for a while, to believe that 
 the Lord, who made you, knows all about these things. 
 Leave yourself in his hands, and be patient. By-and-by, 
 as God liveth, from out these wrecks, this disorder, this 
 confusion of elements will arise a new Heaven and a new 
 earth. Some faint ray shines through the darkest gloom 
 from the light beyond. Follow it, steadfastly, patiently. 
 It will guide you to the only true source of beatitude. 
 No matter what theologians may preach, never mind the 
 disputes of learned doctors of Divinity, follow the little 
 light you have, step by step ; walk in it, act according to it, 
 and by-and-by, if you " do His will," you will know of the 
 doctrine whether it be true or not. 
 
 I told Mary the other day that I did not expect to wit- 
 ness the much-talked of wedding. She hopes otherwise. 
 A momentary pang shot through me, as is the case some- 
 times, when I think of leaving my husband and children. 
 I spoke in the fullness of my heart, when I said, " You 
 will love those I leave behind, Mary V 
 
 She burst into tears. It was then my turn to be com- 
 forter. 
 
 " Do not make me weak, dearest friend," said I, " now, 
 when I wish to be most resigned. Let us talk together of 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 271 
 
 our past friendship. How great a blessing it has been to 
 both of us ! How much, how very much we have en- 
 joyed ! I see you so happy in your husband and your 
 children, in your hopes and anticipations for Emily and 
 William, and I share with you all this happiness. Our 
 dear children will grow up together. I am satisfied to 
 know that you will love them, that you will comfort them 
 and their dear father, and I believe I shall not be far from 
 any of you. I think we are spiritually allied to each 
 other. I hope none of you will mourn for me. I could 
 not go in a better time. I have no anxieties, not even for 
 my children. Nelly is so womanly, so efficient, so unself- 
 ish, Katie will look up to her and yield to her judgment. 
 They will be companions for their father." 
 
 "But I shall miss you, Alice," said Mary, "oh, so 
 much !" 
 
 "While we were talking, the children came in. I saw 
 that Nelly observed Mary's eyes — yet red with weep- 
 ing, and as I rose to go to my room, she followed me. 
 "Mother," she asked, "had Aunt Mary been crying? 
 Has anything happened to Emily and "William ? I 
 thought we were all happy now." 
 
 " And so we are, my child," said I, pressing her to my 
 heart; " so we are. Sit down by me and I will tell you 
 the cause of your Aunt Mary's tears. You are no longer 
 a child." She laid her head upon my bosom. I kissed 
 again and again her fair forehead. I knew that what I 
 was about to tell her would wring her young and tender 
 heart, and I felt that I had not courage to do it; but after 
 a silent prayer for strength, I said to her : " Nelly, dear, 
 I shall be with you on earth but a little while longer. I 
 am going to our Father in heaven — to my loved ones who 
 are already there — my mother — my little boy — my early 
 
272 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 friends — and when I am gone, you must be the com- 
 forter — the helper — the friend of your father and sister." 
 How she wept — clinging to my neck and sobbing as if 
 her heart would break under this, her first sorrow, I 
 cannot tell you. But the struggle is past, and now she 
 is calm. She does not wish to leave my side, nor do I 
 send her away from me. I am able to talk cheerfully 
 and hopefully with her. But the buoyancy of youth has 
 given place to the thoughtfnlness of the woman. 
 
 I am so glad you have made your arrangements to 
 come to us soon. I hope nothing will detain you after 
 the appointed day. The weather is still mild and Indian- 
 summer like, and we cannot bear to think of moving 
 away from here at present. Herbert is in Boston on 
 business, and will come home (we call this home now) 
 next week. My husband says he can, without inconve- 
 nience, stay until later, and that if I continue as well as 
 I am at present, I shall even then be able to travel to a 
 milder winter. I was sitting in my own room yesterday, 
 before dinner, quite alone, having sent, Nelly to walk; I 
 am obliged to send her from me or she would never leave 
 my side. I try to convince her it is a sacred obligation 
 to take care of her health, without which she must fail of 
 the highest usefulness to others. She had been gone but 
 a kw momenta when I heard a light tap at the door. It 
 was William. 
 
 " I have come purposely to have a talk with you," said 
 he. " I have waited for an opportunity several days, but 
 sometimes you look so pale and weary, I am afraid to 
 press my claim on your sympathy, and sometimes I am 
 too much engrossed with my own happiness. Yet I have 
 much to say to you — many questions to ask that no one 
 can answer as well as you." 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 273 
 
 " You have chosen precisely the right moment, Wil- 
 liam," I replied. "I am neither sick nor weary now, and 
 my heart is always ready to sympathize with you in joy 
 and sorrow." 
 
 " I do not doubt it," he continued ; " but I am not so 
 selfish as to make too large a demand upon your time 
 and strength. Do you remember," he asked, as he seated 
 himself on the sofa beside me, " the day you told me I 
 should yet awake to the high purposes of life, and feel it 
 was a great thing to have lived and suffered ?" 
 
 " Yes, I remember it well, William," I answered. "And 
 you believe it now. I am glad to have lived long enough 
 to witness the dawn of this new life — to see you so 
 happy." 
 
 "I am happy, Mrs. Dearbon," he said, with feeling. 
 " I am very happy. I feel sometimes that I do not de- 
 serve so much — that I am not worthy that she, who has 
 never loved before, should love me so well. I have told 
 her all the past, and — " he hesitated. 
 
 " She loves you the more for what you have suffered," 
 I added. " That is woman's nature." 
 
 " I should not have said that," he replied ; " it was not 
 the thought I intended to express, but it is true, as you 
 say. Woman's nature is compassionate, unselfish ! I 
 meant to have told you that I concealed nothing, not 
 even the errors into which I was betrayed by my own 
 headstrong passions. I wish her to know me, not only 
 as I am, but as I have been. Above all things v I wish 
 her to believe, that however wild, lawless, impetuous I 
 may have been, I was not guilty of willful unkindness or 
 neglect. I am aware that in some respects appearances 
 were against me. My letters to Mabel were intercepted. 
 Had they not been, she would never have undertaken her 
 perilous journey in search of me." 
 
274 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD ; OR, 
 
 "We knew this, William," I answered as gently as I 
 conld, for I saw he was very much agitated. " Not one 
 of those who know you, ever believed that you were guilty 
 of willful neglect. All your youthful errors are long since 
 forgiven and forgotten." 
 
 "I thank you," said he, earnestly, " and most of all, 
 I thank her, who, with a thorough knowledge of the 
 errors of my past life, is willing to intrust her happiness 
 to my keeping. The sufferings I have endured help me 
 to feel the sacredness of the trust she reposes in me, and 
 will instruct me how to guard her tender heart from every 
 pang that human love can anticipate or avert. I do not 
 feel that I am less worthy of Emily for having passed 
 through a bitter experience, or, for having been taught by 
 unavailing repentance for the past, my highest duty in 
 the present. In the first transport of happiness, when 
 after our long separation I returned to find a welcome so 
 sweet — so unexpected — and to learn how fondly and faith- 
 fully my memory had been cherished, I remember to have 
 said in your presence — ''For me there is no past? I saw 
 the shadow that flitted across your spirit. It changed 
 in a moment the expression of your face. I knew you 
 were thinking of Mabel." 
 
 "You are right, William," I replied. "I did, for a 
 moment, almost reproach you in my inmost heart for 
 being too much absorbed in the present — for having 
 forgotten — " 
 
 "You wronged me, my dear friend," said he. "I did 
 not forget the past. The memory of Mabel is sacred. It 
 was the dangers which I had escaped in my perilous 
 adventures to which 1 alluded. I saw, in a moment, you 
 had misunderstood me. I said, within myself, ' Mrs. Dear- 
 bon thinks I have no right to this" new-found happiness.' " 
 
 "You do injustice to my feelings by the supposition, 
 
THE EVEKY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY -DAY PEOPLE. 275 
 
 William," I replied, seriously. " On the contrary, no 
 one rejoices more in your joy than I do. You are young: 
 long- years of life are before you : I would not have you 
 live without a home, without affection, without living 
 objects to bless, without those incentives to manly exer- 
 tion which God has appointed as the safeguard of virtue, 
 and the sources of our highest spiritual good. You 
 wronged me, William. Long, long before you had 
 acknowledged your attachment to Emily, I looked for- 
 ward to this event, as to one in every way desirable." 
 
 " You do not think me heartless and false, then," he 
 said, with emotion. " You believe it was not by pre- 
 meditated unkindness, not wholly from selfishness, that 
 my unrestrained passions beguiled Mabel's gentle heart 
 to take that step which ended in sorrow to so many, and 
 brought her, poor victim, to an early grave. At least 
 you think that years of remorse and unrest may, in part, 
 have atoned for my faults. You believe that if she had 
 lived, the devotion of my life would have made her 
 happy. She is not forgotten. Emily knows that she is 
 not forgotten. My short married life seems unreal as a 
 dream, but when I look on my boy, how can I forget his 
 mother? Emily would not wish it possible that I could 
 forget. She, too, loves the child for Mabel's sake, and I 
 love her the more for thus loving him. I can talk to you 
 in this way. I could to no one else. You have been a 
 mother to me, and Mabel felt that she owed you every- 
 thing." 
 
 " My son," 1 said, tears almost choking my utterance. 
 " My dear son, you have my heartfelt blessing. You will 
 be happy, calmly, rationally, virtuously happy. For her 
 sake who looks up to you, be strong, be steadfast, be a 
 good man. Let not the sorrows through which you have 
 passed, the faults into which you have been betrayed, 
 
276 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 fail of their appointed ministrations. I have passed 
 through many trials, seen many changes ; I have lived as 
 not every one lives among their fellows, for my heart is 
 closely knit to humanity, and the joys and sorrows of 
 others I cannot help making my own ; but the nearer I 
 draw to the unseen shore, while my spirit seems almost 
 to catch some rays of its celestial brightness, and to look 
 with a calmer gaze on human life, on God's children, the 
 more clearly I see that there is but one path to true hap- 
 piness. You know what I mean, William. It is a straight 
 and narrow path, often wearisome of ascent, hedged in by 
 difficulties and dangers, but it leads upward to the peace 
 we all covet." 
 
 I asked his permission to preach a little, which was 
 granted. 
 
 " It is not presumptuous in me now," I continued, " to 
 say that, what once appeared dark and mysterious in our 
 human relations, is revealed now in plainer characters to 
 my mind, and I seem to myself to have come into closer 
 spiritual communion with my kind, and to be drawn to 
 them more tenderly by sympathy with their struggles and 
 their sorrows. I wish, at this moment, that I had the 
 eloquence and fire of a Seraph, that I could express what 
 is stirring the depths of my soul as I look at you, and try 
 to picture the future that lies before you with Emily as 
 your wife, whom I believe you love most tenderly." 
 
 "God knows how tenderly!" he said, "and I hope 
 wisely." 
 
 " You will let me speak, I may never feel like it again," 
 I continued, and he encouraged me to go on. 
 
 I don't know how long I talked or exactly what I said, 
 but I tried not to abuse my privilege. It chafes and ex- 
 cites me sometimes that I am nothing but a weak woman, 
 so hampered and fettered by want of words (notwith- 
 
THE EVEKT-DAT LIFE OF EVERY-DAT PEOPLE. 277 
 
 standing that our sex is accused of having the "gift of 
 tongues" by right of inheritance from our much-abused 
 mother Eve), that after I have been talking ever so much 
 in earnest, I have only succeeded in puzzling my listeners 
 without convincing their intellects or warming their hearts. 
 
 " I falter, William," said I, " when I think of the im- 
 mense possibilities of happiness or misery that lie before 
 you. It may seem a light matter, if among the myriads of 
 human hearts, whose great want cries out to their Maker 
 and Father, two beings are wrecked in hope and happi- 
 ness, and their lives a failure ; but it is not so. God 
 knows how sacred one human life is, and we all feel, in 
 spite of our inflated philosophy or false theologies, that 
 we have a right to the care and protection of the Being 
 who made us." 
 
 I found he agreed with me thus far. 
 
 " I said to you a moment ago, you remember," I con- 
 tinned, " he a good man, and I did not mean be a great 
 man, as the world counts greatness ; 1 did not appeal to 
 your ambition, to your pride of intellectual or social pre- 
 eminence. These are but servants of the Master who 
 calls for your life's devotion. All God's gifts are but 
 means bestowed for the attainment of the highest end of 
 life, goodness — holiness: and if the wish, you just now 
 expressed to make Emily happy, came from the heart, if 
 it is indeed your earnest purpose, it will be its own fulfill- 
 ment. No matter what the externals of life may be, if 
 the wife whose deepest yearnings are for something to 
 reverence, to look up to — if the true woman, to whom has 
 been granted the keenest appreciation of the ' beauty of 
 holiness,' can rest secure of this in the man she loves, 
 though robbed of everything else, she will still be happy 
 m her choice." 
 
 I knew well, and I said plainly, appearances seemed 
 
278 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 to contradict my assertion. Many women are unhappy 
 who are united to what the world calls good men ; 
 but what the world calls good men are often no 
 more than negative, inoffensive, weak characters, who 
 lack even the vim to give a zest to evil. Such are not 
 the men I mean. Many women also are unhappy with- 
 out knowing why, and are always looking to externals for 
 the root of the evil which is hidden in the human heart. 
 Others are aching with a vague yearning for something, 
 they know not what. They have not studied their own 
 natures, they are restless, vacant, objectless. They say, 
 "It is because we are defrauded of our rights, we are 
 slaves, we are but half developed, our sphere is too 
 limited." All this is true, and much more. The wrongs 
 are deeper, the rights more lofty than any that have yet 
 been disclosed, that belong to women. Granted all the 
 privileges that so many women claim, and are they satis- 
 fied—are they happy? Oh, no! the want lies deeper 
 still. She has the right to expect to find somewhere, out 
 of herself, the wisdom, the strength, the holiness that 
 can call forth all her capacities for reverence, admiration, 
 and love, and without this the marriage relation is no 
 true type of spiritual union, no reflex of the Divine mar- 
 riage of love and wisdom which is the very sphere of 
 Heaven. This, or something like it, I tried to say to 
 William. 
 
 "I am trying to follow you, my dear friend," said he, 
 half seriously, half playfully; "but you know I haven't 
 got up yet so high in your divine philosophy. But don't 
 despair of me." 
 
 " No, indeed, I shall not despair of you or of the world 
 in general," I replied. " But can you not see, even with 
 your limited vision, how such true marriages, as I have 
 hinted at, would transform our world into an Eden ?" 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVEKY-DAY PEOPLE. 279 
 
 " I can discern but dimly," said William ; " but go on, 
 ' I '11 follow thee.' " 
 
 " I hope you don't mean to insinuate that a ghost is 
 beckoning to you, although, if I work myself up into any 
 great excitement, I shall be in danger of being consumed 
 bodily by my fervor. One thing I do wish, William," 
 said I ; " that I could live to see the end of these agita- 
 tions which are going on in the world." 
 
 "And woman triumphant, as she deserves to be," added 
 William. 
 
 " Now be serious," I added, " for I am so. Let me tell 
 you, conservative as you are may be, I am glad that 
 society is stirred up, although ' things rank and gross in 
 nature' may be brought to light. It is better that the evil 
 should come out in all its blackness before the eyes of 
 men. After the storm and the earthquake have done 
 their work, those who really love truth and goodness will 
 hear the still small voice saying, ' This is the way, walk 
 ye in it.' I see you are tired of my preaching, and I for- 
 give you, for I know what you want." 
 
 He evidently thought my feelings were hurt by his not 
 replying to what I had been saying ; but he was mistaken. 
 I was not so unwise as to expect he would feel as I did, 
 or if he understood me ever so well, I knew he could not 
 quite overcome that shyness which young people, par- 
 ticularly young men, have about talking sentiment or 
 religion. 
 
 " I have listened to every word you have said with my 
 whole soul, Mrs. Dearbon," he added after a pause. "I 
 feel it is all true, and I thank you for having said it." 
 
 "And now you wish to hear me talk about Emily," I 
 continued, "and I will gratify you. Ask any question 
 you choose, and I will answer it to the best of my 
 ability. 
 
280 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD! OR 
 
 "Talk about her, that is all I want," said he; "you 
 cannot wear out the subject or repeat anything too often. 
 I wish to hear all that has happened since 1 left } 7 ou — 
 everything she has said and done." 
 
 I opened my eyes in amazement. " The history of a 
 young maiden's life for a twelvemonth, with every parti- 
 cular of word, look, and action, even to her dreams, I 
 suppose. This history to be delivered extempore to her 
 enamored swain, with occasional interludes of sighs and 
 exclamations, the entertainment to wind up with a grand 
 triumphal symphony." 
 
 "The 'Rogue's March,' nourish, and exit," added 
 William. 
 
 "With Bengal lights, as accessories, rose-colored and 
 blue," 1 added. 
 
 "The morale, a grand blow up and crash in which the 
 fine fabric, woven of lovers' hopes, is entirely consumed ; 
 the lovers themselves, seen afterward in the common day- 
 light, nothing different from men and women in general." 
 
 " To begin then and improvise a little," I said, " please 
 open my desk and bring me two little sketches you will find 
 there ; or if you choose to keep them you may do so, pro- 
 vided I am not obliged to explain to your matter-of-fact 
 comprehension what they are intended to represent." My 
 back being turned, I did not see him look at the pictures. 
 
 "Are they mine ? Were they intended for me ?" he 
 inquired eagerly. 
 
 " Do you recognize them ?" I asked. 
 
 " To-be- sure I do," he answered earnestly. " They are 
 like and not like. The outline is capital. You have 
 given just that turn of the head, a little to one side, and 
 that wave of the hair is perfect, so is the curve of the 
 shoulder. Mrs. Dearbon, you are a genuine artist, or 
 else you were inspired by your subject. Which is it ?" 
 
THE EVERT-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 281 
 
 " I am a genuine artist, no doubt ; and was no doubt 
 inspired when I made these sketches," I answered; "but 
 are you sufficiently en rajyport with the original or with 
 me, to comprehend them ? One, you observe, bears the 
 date of the 10th of June. She was sitting by the west 
 window of the parlor, where you have often seen her, and 
 been perhaps almost as near her as you were at the mo- 
 ment this was taken." 
 
 " Nearer, I trust," said William. "At least more hap- 
 pily conscious of my propinquity." 
 
 " It is not personal presence that intensifies the com- 
 munion of souls," said I. 
 
 "Oh! that is as you fancy," replied William impa- 
 tiently. "I have not reached that climax yet. I want 
 the reality of a living presence : the eye to answer my 
 glance, the lips to — (I spare you thus much), the warm 
 hand to return my clasp — at least to feel it. I am not 
 satisfied to embrace a shadow." 
 
 "Away with your materialism," said I. " You have 
 yet to learn that what you, in your ignorance, call ' 'fancy ',' 
 is in truth the highest philosophy. But I shall not under- 
 take to convert you. To proceed with my explanation, 
 and I beg of you not to interrupt me until I have finished. 
 You see I have sketched her very imperfectly as she sat 
 looking off into the distance, her glance apparently rest- 
 ing on that bold sweep of hills that skirts the western 
 horizon. For my own part, I doubt whether she saw any 
 point in the landscape 
 
 ' Her eye was with her soul, and that was far away.' 
 
 Of course, I could not give the dreamy expression to the 
 face which it actually wore, because no human artist, not 
 even the most gifted, can paint thought, or hope, or love, 
 or the prophecies of youth. But you can fill up the out- 
 line to suit yourself." 
 24 
 
282 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 "It is very curious," he said musingly. "There may 
 be some truth in your fine-spun theories. The tenth of 
 June — I can recall the day perfectly. We had crossed the 
 Missouri. The main body of our party was to go north, 
 while the remaining twelve, myself among the number, 
 were to set out the following morning in a westerly direc- 
 tion, with an Indian guide, to obtain supplies of game, 
 return again to the fort, and remain until the rest of the 
 party joined us. I had a strange presentiment of evil, 
 and felt unaccountably gloomy. I was half-tempted to 
 turn back, but decided it would be cowardly. How 
 vividly I can recall the picture! The magnificence of the 
 scenery! There is nothing like it, I am persuaded; 
 nothing so grand, so vast, so sublime in its vastness as 
 the boundless West! The afternoon was glorious. The 
 sun set in a flood of golden mist. I think I could almost 
 have written poetry, but I am afraid if I had done so, it 
 would have been too sentimental for the popular taste. 
 My thoughts traveled to our own pleasant home. I was 
 with you — with Mrs. Herbert, with — I may as well con- 
 fess it — with Emily, and I should have been very glad 
 of your faith in spiritual presence at that moment, I 
 assure you." 
 
 " It is the fault of your willful blindness if yon cannot 
 believe it," I said ; " but let us turn to the other picture 
 which bears, you see, a later date. You perceive a few 
 lines written with a pencil on the margin. These too 
 need an explanation to your matter-of-fact comprehension. 
 'Although life looks very dark to me now, I know that 
 by-and-by it will grow bright again, not with the same, 
 but with a holier light — more subdued, but more steady 
 and serene.' We had been talking together — Emily and 
 I — not of herself but of myself. I had been telling her 
 something of my youthful experience. We were at the 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOrLE. 283 
 
 sea-shore. We had heard of the terrible fate of Captain 
 Grey's party, and feared that you were among the number 
 of those butchered. After I had told my story, Emily fell 
 into a silent, sad mood, and I took up my book, not to 
 read, but to conceal what I was doing, for I was trying to 
 sketch her face with its changed expression. We did not 
 speak to her, at that time, of you. We had never ques- 
 tioned her of her feelings for you. We saw she suffered, 
 and we divined the cause. I had just finished this imper- 
 fect outline as she looked up and said those words. I have 
 transcribed them, not because they are in any way origi- 
 nal or striking, but because they show the spirit of self- 
 renunciation she manifested at an age when the yearning 
 for happiness is strongest in the human heart." 
 
 I did not watch William's face as I spoke, for I saw he 
 was deeply moved, and I did not wish to appear to observe 
 more than he chose to betray. 
 
 " I am not worthy of such a spirit," he said, after a 
 pause. "God grant I may become so. I look back over 
 these years in which I have done nothing or worse than 
 nothing, and I ask myself: How can I repair this waste 
 of my faculties — this absolute squandering of time? I 
 know love does not exaggerate the beauty of her charac- 
 ter. On the contrary, I feel hardly capable of appreciat- 
 ing her as she deserves." 
 
 I smiled at his earnestness, and it vexed him. 
 
 " I see you do not enter into my feelings," he said. 
 "You think me extravagant." 
 
 " No; you are mistaken," I said. " I don't, know why 
 I smiled. You must forgive me." 
 
 "I wish to make her life happy, Mrs. Dearbon," he 
 continued. " How can 1 do it? How can I make my- 
 self worthy of her confidence ? She is deceived in me. 
 She has idealized me. Sometime she will awake from 
 
284 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 her dream to find me a creature full of imperfections, 
 inconsistencies — worse than that — full of faults. I have 
 told her so, but she will not believe me." 
 
 "I will assure her you have told nothing but the truth," 
 I said. " Perhaps she will believe you are a monster, on 
 my authority." 
 
 "Do not joke with me now, Mrs Dearbon," said 
 William earnestly, " or I shall think you are tired of 
 hearing me talk." 
 
 " Go on, my son," said I. "I love to hear you talk, 
 but I thought I was going to cry, so I turned it off with a 
 joke in which there was no heart at all. Go on, William, 
 I do understand you." 
 
 " Emily thinks," he continued, " that I am a religious 
 man. That humbles me more than all the rest, for I am 
 not what you or she understands by a good man. I have 
 no creed. I am of no church. I believe in no doctrines. 
 I have no clear faith in the future. I wish to be all you 
 say I ought to be for her sake, because I know she looks 
 up to me, she wishes to look up, and to be guided by me 
 as one stronger — more self-reliant than herself. I hope 
 she will not find herself wholly deceived. So help me 
 God, I will strive for higher objects — I will make my 
 mark, and she shall yet live to be satisfied with her 
 choice— to be glad at heart while she walks by my side, 
 and to feel her pulse beat faster when she reads on the 
 list of those who have labored for the good of their race, 
 her husband's name." 
 
 " God bless your resolves, William," I said ; " it would 
 not be a true and holy love that unites you, if it did not 
 move your religious nature to high aspirations. You will 
 be happy — she will be happy in your aifection, proud of 
 her choice— satisfied — I am tired now, and you must go 
 away. Do not fear to trouble me at any time if you 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVEKY-DAY PEOPLE. 285 
 
 desire to talk to me, and let me see you both as much as 
 you can, the little time you are here." 
 
 After he was gone, I could not help falling into a fit of 
 musing. I was glad he had opened his heart to me, for I 
 knew it was a relief. To no other one except Emily could 
 he speak so freely of the past. Can the heart love truly 
 more than once, I asked myself, as I sat thinking of the 
 young wife buried far away among the hills? I am 
 glad the question is not left for me to decide. It is not 
 for me to speculate, to theorize, to compare, to judge 
 another. I can rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep 
 with those that weep, wherever they are. 
 
 I know some natures require present objects to love, 
 yearning for the endearments of home, for wife, children 
 and friends— they wither when alone. " God setteth the 
 solitary in families," and I do not look upon such natures 
 as any less angelic for being so truly human. 
 
 How wearied was my head with thinking, and my 
 heart with feeling ! How little excitement I can endure ! 
 Oh glorious immortality beyond this fitful life ! Wonder- 
 ful are the depths yet unexplored of the soul's capacity 
 for happiness ! To give forever of the fullness of thought 
 and love, and forever to drink in new supplies from the 
 Infinite. Once I thought, if it should be but a dream — 
 this hereafter ! If this life were indeed all ! May God 
 forgive me for the shadow of doubt which hid his good- 
 ness from me. I believe his words now who says, 
 " Whosoever shall drink of the water that I shall give 
 him, shall thirst no more forever." 
 
 *.»«■:,** 
 
 My chamber is in the wing of this old-fashioned house, 
 and from my window I can look directly into Mary's 
 room. The other day, while taking my invalid privilege 
 of doing nothing, I sat watching my friend, seated at her 
 
286' THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 writing tabic — now leaning her head upon her hand, 
 and looking up — now writing away for dear life. I 
 verily believe it is the book ! I mentally exclaimed. She 
 has actually begun her novel. When we met at the din- 
 ner table, I could not resist throwing out a gentle inuendo. 
 It was in vain she held up her finger, I felt so mischiev- 
 ously disposed, that I pretended not to see it. " Tell 
 me," said I, " have you written the first chapter? Is it in 
 prose or verse, and did the divine afflatus come down 
 through those old-fashioned mouldings on your ceiling?" 
 
 I had contrived to awaken curiosity throughout our 
 little circle by this time, and Herbert was more eager 
 than any of us to know what it all meant. 
 
 " I ~tever can have a secret," said Mary indignantly. 
 " Nobody ever need hope to conceal any corner of their 
 soul from Alice, and what she thinks she knows, she 
 always tells the whole world. Whose affair is it, if I am 
 writing a book ? Haven't I as good a right to appear in 
 print as any one ? Who dares to say I am not competent ? 
 Did I not pass among all my friends as a genius long ago ? 
 Were not my poems published in the most transcendental 
 magazine in the Union, and were they not pronounced 
 inimitable? Who, of the uninitiated, ever dared to say 
 they were able to comprehend them ? And now have I 
 not earned my right to be called an author ? Yes, I have 
 begun my book. I did not begin with the first chapter, 
 I went into the very heart of the story at once — into the 
 very center of the plot, and I intend to work it out to- 
 wards the circumference. Herbert, that is the orderly 
 way isn't it ? Isn't it the way to put blood-warmth in 
 it? Yes, the divine afflatus did come through the old 
 mouldings, and filled the room where I was writing, and 
 to punish your curiosity, Alice, I shall not read you a 
 word of what I have written. I intended to have paid 
 
THE EVERT-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 287 
 
 you a confidential visit this afternoon, and brought my 
 work. Now, I shall do no such thing. I shall shut my- 
 self up, and write all the afternoon." 
 
 " You forget you are engaged for a drive this after- 
 noon with me," said Frank, "and that reminds me, 
 there is a button off my coat, which you said you would 
 sew on, as I shall need the garment in the cool of the 
 evening." 
 
 " Mr. Herbert," said Mary, looking very indignant, 
 "do you really think that I can descend from the heights 
 of inspiration, to sew buttons upon old great coats ? or 
 take homely drives, in a wagon, with nobody but my 
 husband ? Are you aware what it is to be inspired ? 
 Are you conscious of the honor in reserve for you ? To 
 be the husband of Mrs. Mary Herbert, author of ' Wo- 
 man's woes,' 'Heavings of the heart,' ' Soothings of 
 sympathy,' and 'Martyrdom of married women ? ' Will not 
 your heart glow, when you see hung up in all the great 
 Bookstores everywhere, a card printed in large black 
 letters. 'The great book of the age.' 'Sixty thousand 
 copies sold in less than three minutes.' 'Increasing 
 demand, for the popular Novel of the day.' Can you 
 anticipate the pride you will feel when the ' Sensation 
 book of the season,' is in everybody's mouth, and you 
 hear everybody asking, ' who is the author,' and you 
 know all the time who it is — the woman who honors you 
 with the title, ' husband f ' " 
 
 " See the children open their eyes," whispered William 
 to Emily. " They can't decide whether their mother is 
 joking, or in earnest." 
 
 " Will you put us in your Novel," asked Nelly ? 
 
 "You shall go out this afternoon, to collect incidents, 
 which is far better than gathering wild flowers, or dried 
 leaves," said Mary. " Yon must find some ragamuffin 
 
288 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 children, with gaunt faces, whom nobody claims, and 
 who are sent into the world half-grown without any his- 
 tories, just on purpose for authors to take up, and make 
 up, and contrive a past and future for. Put on your bon- 
 nets, this minute, all of you, and run up and down until 
 you find somebody miserable enough to figure in a book ; 
 and be sure that they have great black eyes — deep set — 
 with dark rims round them, like your uncle Herbert's 
 shell-bowed spectacles." 
 
 " I think that little Irish girl, that came here yesterday, 
 will do," said Katie. " I met her crying in the street, 
 and asked her what was the matter. She said her mother 
 had given her a three-cent piece to buy soap, and she had 
 lost it. I had ten cents in my pocket, and gave it to her. 
 Our landlady says it is an old trick of hers to be losing 
 three-cent pieces. It supports the family." 
 
 "My dear," said Mary, "poor people, who send their 
 children out to buy soap, will never do to figure in a 
 modern novel. To have the least suspicion of cleanliness 
 connected with them, puts them at once, out of the pale 
 of our sympathies. What a momentous task is ours!" 
 exclaimed Mary, with a groan. " To labor for such a 
 stupid, unappreciating world. But I will show it up. I 
 will hold the mirror up to nature, that it may see its 
 stolid front as it is." 
 
 " What a bon-bon for critics your book will be, Mary!" 
 said Frank. 
 
 " I think it will be very much like the pill all sugared 
 over, that a certain young Munchausen said he put in his 
 mouth, in a fit of desperation at being refused by the lady 
 of his love. The nature of these pills is to melt away to 
 a certain point, (he is my authority for this statement), 
 when they explode, and blow a person quite up out of their 
 misery." 
 
THE EYEKY-DAY LIFE OF EYEKY-DAY TEOPLL. 289 
 
 "And did your friend take one of the pills?" I asked, 
 very much interested. 
 
 " To-be-sure he did," replied Mary, " and went to sleep 
 with it in his mouth, waking just the moment before it 
 was ready to burst, repenting and spitting it out at the 
 same time. It exploded on the floor, and our hero is re- 
 served for future exploits." 
 
 ' ; His heart as sound as ever," added William. 
 
 "Just as sound, and I fear, no sounder," said Mary. 
 " But come, Frank, when the horse is at the door I shall 
 be ready to drive with you, and I will fasten your buttons 
 on for the present at least, until I see how my efforts to 
 elevate the world are appreciated, because if through the 
 stupidity of the public, I am suffered to remain in obscu- 
 rity, I do not think I shall have the persistence to fight 
 against circumstances." 
 
 When the various members of our little circle were 
 scattered — the children for their ramble in the woods, the 
 lovers to their cozy retreat in the west parlor, Herbert 
 and my husband on their respective missions — Mary and 
 myself were left vis-a-vis at the table. 
 
 Mary was the first to break silence. " I am sorry, 
 Alice," said she, "that you joked me about my book. 
 Although I spoke at first in joke, I have since seriously 
 considered the matter, and I actually made a beginning 
 this morning. I had not told Frank anything of my 
 plan, partly from shyness, and partly because he professes 
 not to like female writers. He says women can do much 
 more good, and exert a better influence by living true 
 lives, than by their written thoughts and experiences, and 
 besides he says, when people begin to take upon them- 
 selves the office of teacher and preacher, they are very 
 apt to deceive themselves into the belief, that because they 
 have a clear insight into truth, and are able to elevate 
 25 
 
£00 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 their understandings into its light, that, therefore, they 
 are living according to its requirements. ' No truth is 
 really a part of us,' he repeats over and over again, ' that 
 we do not make our own by living it, and one genuine 
 truth brought into act, does more to establish our own 
 spiritual life, and to elevate that of others, than the per- 
 suasive eloquence of the most transcendent intellect in 
 the world.' I admit that he is right, in part. I feel it 
 here in my heart, which his example has animated with, 
 at least, a warmer love of goodness than I ever had before I 
 knew him, and yet, I do not wholly agree with him. Our 
 perceptions of truth and duty are often vague and shadowy 
 to ourselves, and by the intellectual effort of clothing 
 them in words, to make them clear to another's compre- 
 hension, they become realities to us. Our heart warms 
 in the contemplation of the virtue we have tried to 
 depict — we feel a new impulse stirring within us, to 
 strive after perfection. The glow of enthusiasm may 
 subside, but the warmth that kindled it is not extin- 
 guished." 
 
 "How hard it is to keep 'heights which the soul is 
 competent to gain !' " I exclaimed. " I am afraid, Mary, 
 we sometimes mistake the nature of this enthusiasm, 
 you speak of. Step by step, in renunciation, we must 
 travel on, and only as self is put off, can the Divine be 
 put on." 
 
 " But would you have us plod on the weary way un- 
 cheered by any foretaste of the glory beyond ?" asked 
 Mary. " Must we always be looking where to plant our 
 feet, and can we never forget that we are chained to 
 mortality ?" 
 
 " If we soar so high as to forget it sometimes, we are 
 brought to acknowledge the fact so often," I replied, 
 " that the easiest way, it seems to me, is to begin with 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 291 
 
 the acknowledgment and rise gradually and by sure 
 degrees, toward the glory. You may call me in your 
 heart, a clod. I know you think me uninspired at this 
 moment ; and yet I speak as I feel. We must look on the 
 dull earth of duty and self-sacrifice, if we would follow 
 our Master 'in the regeneration.' We must be led like 
 him, into the wilderness to be tempted, and if like him, 
 we can overcome, angels will come and minister to us, 
 as they did to him. Then we shall not need to look 
 out of ourselves for the peace or the joy we covet. ' The 
 kingdom of heaven will be within us.' " 
 
 "Alice, I believe you," said Mary. " I know, from ex- 
 perience, that what you say is true. I have been all my 
 life long, trying to bring up my flagging mortality to 
 the mount of inspiration, toward which my eyes were 
 directed. But I was not content to get there step by step, 
 as is ordained for us all. I wanted to make a flying leap 
 over the heads of the groveling multitude. Sometimes 
 I thought I had succeeded. Sometimes I really believed 
 I had glimpses of the promised laud, but the earth-mists 
 came up cold and damp, and hid it from me, and the 
 wings of my spirit were weighed down and would not 
 bear me up again. Yes, it is best to keep our feet on the 
 earth, though our head may be in the clouds sometimes." 
 
 Dear Margarette, you and I know how vast is the dif- 
 ference between aspiration and action, between assenting 
 to, and living the truth. When the heart is warmed 
 through with the beams of the spiritual sun, the path of 
 duty will no longer seem difficult and stony. Out of the 
 ground will spring forth everything beautiful and fresh; 
 for then will open the soul's summer, warmed by the love 
 of the good Father. 
 
 " I will not finish my book just yet, Alice," said Mary. 
 " I believe it will not be just what the world needs. I 
 
292 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 don't think people want more light ; they have enough to 
 blind them now, and they need to learn how to use it. 
 You have made my heart a little heav} T , but I shall pluck 
 up courage and hope by-and-by, and go on, step by step, 
 as you say I ought to ; but, thank God, I do not travel 
 alone, I have always a great, good friend near to urge me 
 on, and show me the way, and point upward to the Friend 
 and Father of us all." 
 
 Mary and her children are making their last prepara- 
 tions before departing for their western home, and soon 
 will set out on their journey. They come to me every 
 moraine: with a smile like the sunshine, and ask how I 
 feel to-day. I have not been as well for a week past, and 
 I know they are anxious about me. Herbert cannot be 
 absent from his business much longer, still they are un- 
 willing to think that they must leave me behind. A few 
 days will decide for them and for me. If I do not get 
 better I shall grow worse rapidly. If better, I shall go 
 with them, if not, they will remain with me a while 
 longer. I feel how it will be. I hope, for their sakes, I 
 shall not linger long in helpless weakness. I, too, have 
 been preparing for my journey home. The Lord forgive 
 me if I have some natural pangs at leaving this bright 
 world and the kind hearts so endeared to me. 
 
 I have been looking over old letters, and destroying 
 them ruthlessly, except a few which I have laid by for my 
 children to read. I was sitting by my table, surrounded 
 by papers, piles of letters, and rolls of manuscript stories — 
 Alice Dearbon, the authoress — pondering in my own 
 mind, whether I should, with "one fell swoop," hurry 
 them into the fire, when Mary and Emily came in. 
 
 " Shall I, or shall I not ?" I asked, holding up a roll of 
 foolscap, closely written and tied with a bit of red tape. 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY- DAY PEOPLE. 293 
 
 "Burn them ?" exclaimed Mary. "Never! Give them 
 to me — all of them. They shall be published." 
 
 " Beware !" I said, " you have never read them." 
 
 " But I have read you, and I know that whatever you 
 write is an impress of your own thought. For that reason, 
 if for no other, I will cherish and preserve them." 
 
 How blind affection makes us ! thought I ; but to for- 
 give is very sweet and very easy. 
 
 " I wonder, indeed," said I, " how I ever came to fill 
 so many sheets with my own childish feelings and fancies. 
 You dignify these, my lucubrations, by calling them my 
 thoughts. I appreciate your esteem; but, my dear, I 
 never knew how to think. Nobody ever taught me, at 
 home or at school. I lived in a world of feeling and im- 
 agination. I am afraid the capacity of thinking never 
 
 belonged to me. Mr. S , of unenviable memory, my 
 
 cross-grained teacher at academy, put me in Euclid, 
 
 as a mental discipline ; but to this day, I have not been 
 able to discover even my need, much less how it was to 
 be answered by solving geometrical problems. I never 
 got over The Bridge, which might, if crossed in triumph, 
 have revealed intellectual wonders to me. A ' Bridge of 
 Sighs' it was to me. I went through volumes of intellec- 
 tual philosophy — I studied logic, I learned grammar, and 
 parsed Young's 'Night Thoughts' successfully, went 
 through Colburn's ' Sequel,' (but I am very sure I could 
 not go through it again); all this I did, to learn how to 
 think. After I got older, I read history and moral philo- 
 sophy, reviews, and critiques, still in the hope of finding 
 out the art of thinking. But I am persuaded, my province 
 is not in the department of intellect. It always produces 
 a confusion in my brain and gives me a headache even to 
 try and think. Lately, I took up a book on the Science 
 of Thinking. Somebody, who had never been able to 
 
294 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD ; OR, 
 
 think when he was young, 1 suppose, not only doubted 
 the wisdom of all teachers and all books, but declared, 
 modestly enough, yet with a sort of oracular persuasion, 
 that he had discovered a new way of thiuking, the only 
 true way, and an infallible way beside. ' Now,' said I to 
 myself, 'just as my poor mind is on its last legs, here is 
 somebody that might have helped me to go without 
 crutches. Nevertheless, I will see what he has to say, 
 perhaps I can yet have time to do up a deal of thinking 
 by this new method, and leave behind me some tokens 
 of having had, originally, a thinking principle, which, 
 owing to the stupidity of those who had charge of my 
 education, was never developed.' I seized upon the book 
 with childish eagerness. I read it. I found that, accord- 
 ing to the author's theory, thinking was intimately con- 
 nected with breathing. I began a series of experiments 
 in order to bring my wind apparatus into subjection to 
 my intellectual faculties, or vice versa, I didn't know 
 which. I did not understand exactly how it was to be 
 done ; not having learned the art of thinking by any for- 
 mer method, I could make no practical application of 
 what seemed a necessary preliminary. I went on with a 
 series of experiments, holding my breath, or tacitly 
 breathing, that is, breathing with an internal breath, now 
 breathing long and deep, then quick and hurried. From 
 being an unconscious operation of my physical organiza- 
 tion, breathing became a study. I was convinced it was 
 a science, the science of all sciences, if one could only get 
 the clue of it. In the very midst of my pursuit of know- 
 ledge under difficulties, the cook, whom I had trained to 
 know my way of doing things exactly, left me, and I was 
 obliged to serve in her capacity, and leave my scientific 
 investigations. I found that my thinking principle was 
 sufficient for common -pi ace purposes and for the essentials 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 295 
 
 of animal life, without which the breath would soon be 
 dissipated, and as I had not, with all rny assiduity, accom- 
 plished anything for my poor head, I made up my mind 
 that I was too old to become a strong-minded woman, 
 and as none of my friends complained of me, I wouldn't 
 trouble myself with any new-fangled notions about 
 breathing or thinking, but go on in the old way, trusting 
 to my intuitions, and by way of mental exercise, jumping 
 at conclusions, skipping over arguments, dodging to keep 
 out of the way of trains of reasoning, which, in this 
 age of mental power, is as much as a poor woman, who 
 never graduated at any female college, could be expected 
 to do."' 
 
 Emily laughed while I was talking. I knew she was 
 congratulating herself, that in this age, when women are 
 so rabid to know everything, there was one example of a 
 middle-aged female content with knowing nothing. She 
 was of a nature to understand me. 
 
 " Yes, my little blue-eyed girl," I said, drawing her 
 towards me (I love her as if she were my own); "yes, 
 Emily, never mind all this fuss about culture, and intel- 
 lect, and equality with mankind. It may do for some 
 people better than for you and me. We were not made 
 for it. Not that we are stupid ! Far from it. There is 
 something of more value than book-learning. Life brings 
 it to us, experience teaches it — sympathy with our 
 kind — fervent aspirations after goodness — love — our 
 beautiful social relations with their thousand springs of 
 happiness — duty — self-sacrifice — faith in God — trust in 
 goodness — delight in beauty — and deeper than all this, 
 the alternations of a higher life with the interests, and 
 hopes, and fears which belong to this — these are God's 
 teachings; — to understand them is wisdom. And here," 
 I ad led, opening my desk and taking from it a bible — the 
 
296 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD ; OR, 
 
 one you gave me the night of my marriage — " here, dear 
 child, is a book of exhaustless wisdom. It was given to 
 me on my marriage-day. I did not value it then as I do 
 now, for it was a sealed book to me — I could not under- 
 stand it. I loved it for the associations of my childhood 
 that hung 1 around it, for the mother's love which sancti- 
 fied it, and for the dear friend whose gift it was. I have 
 learned its value since. Keep it for my sake — read it for 
 your own, and may it be to you and to "William a mine 
 of wisdom which will open wider and deeper through the 
 ages of eternity." 
 
 You will not reproach me for giving away your gift, 
 Margarette, dear. I could not take it with me. I should 
 not need it. "Forever, O Lord, thy word is written in 
 Heaven" — the Eternal truth — God with us. 
 
 " Let us, dear Mary, pass this evening all together in 
 my room," said I, after a pause. " Nelly shall put every- 
 thing to rights, and make it bright and cheerful. We will 
 have a nice warm fire of wood, I will put on my new cap, 
 and we will celebrate our child's betrothal." 
 
 A bright idea flashed through my mind at that 
 moment. Nelly's monthly rose was in full flower with a 
 prodigality of buds and blossoms. 
 
 " Go down now and let me rest," said I. Mary looked 
 at the manuscripts. " I will not burn them," said I ; " I 
 will pack them all in a box and send them to my old friend 
 Margarette Singleside. She will keep them forever. So 
 go down, and after tea come again." 
 
 They obeyed me. I called after them to send Nelly to 
 me. She was not far away and was by my side in a 
 moment. 
 
 " You must twine a rose- wreath for the betrothal, 
 Nelly," I said. " We are to have a party in my room, at 
 which the bride will be. In Germany, you know, they 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EYERY-DAY PEOPLE. 297 
 
 call two who are engaged to be married, bride and groom, 
 and they celebrate the engagement by a little family festi- 
 val. I dont know exactly what they do at these fetes, 
 and it is of no great consequence. Twine the sweetest 
 wreath you can for our dear Emily, and make my room 
 as pleasant as it is possible to make it, while I lie down 
 and rest." 
 
 The child's heart was in her work. I could see her. 
 with my eyes half closed, flitting about from place to 
 place. I blessed her in my inmost soul. The wings of 
 sleep brooded over me. How sweetly over my feeble 
 frame crept the subtle influence! Rest — rest — peace. 
 Clouds seemed floating around me, golden clouds, like the 
 autumn sunset. I do not know even now whether I was 
 sleeping or awake. I dreamed I was in heaven. The 
 green carpet, which covered my room, was transfigured 
 to a mossy sod, sprinkled with flowers. The golden core- 
 opsis, like the eye of clay, the sweet-pea and mignionette 
 filled the air with their fragrance, and there amid the 
 garden, weaving a wreath of many -colored blossoms, his 
 eye roving from one to another, was my blue eyed boy — ■ 
 my first-born — living — glorified — an angel amidst the 
 bowers of paradise. " I have found thee once again, 
 life of my life!" I exclaimed, opening my arms. He 
 lifted his face to mine, he threw down his garlands, he 
 flew to me, scattering blossoms as he went, he nestled 
 in my bosom. A thrill of new life went through my 
 heart— a voice whispered "and there shall be no more 
 death — sorrow and sighing shall flee away forever and 
 forever." Was it a dream, or was I indeed in paradise? 
 After I awoke I seemed yet to feel his dear head pillowed 
 on my bosom. "The shadows of the fitful fire-light" 
 flickered on the wall — the cheerful glow shone over the 
 waves of Nell} 1 's brown hair, as she sat quietly by the fire, 
 
298 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOAK-D; OR, 
 
 waiting for me to awake. I rose refreshed. I had bathed 
 in the airs of paradise. My life was renewed, strength- 
 ened. But my letter is long enough, 1 will finish my 
 sketch another time. 
 
 I left off writing where I ought to have begun perhaps, 
 but you would be astonished, not without reason, if at 
 this late day, I should forget to be egotistical. After tea 
 my guests assembled. My easy-chair was placed in front 
 of the fire. My husband sat at the left of the fireplace, 
 where I could look at him, and my children stood on 
 either side of me. Emily and William sat, side by side, 
 opposite my husband, and the little Willie M'as on his 
 father's knee. Mary, Herbert, and their little folks were 
 grouped together, looking so good, so loving and happy ! 
 It was my party ! What a proud hostess I was ! On the 
 mantle before me Nelly had placed some dried leaves and 
 autumn grasses and grains, which her sister Katie had 
 gathered, and which she had arranged in a vase of home- 
 manufacture covered with wood-mosses. Wreaths, made 
 of the ground-pine, sprinkled with bright, red berries, 
 decorated the walls and the few pictures we possessed. 
 
 "All these grand preparations are for you, Emily," 
 said I. " We are all met here to celebrate your spiritual 
 marriage — your betrothment." 
 
 " I do not see why the minister should not be sent for 
 and make the two one on the spot," said my husband ; to 
 which others of the party assented. 
 
 Mary remembered, at that moment, certain legal pre- 
 liminaries, such as posting in the " meeting -house porclv'' 
 three weeks before the marriage, to give time for all 
 objections to be made and removed ; a necessity that we 
 were compelled to submit to. I motioned to Nelly, who 
 brought from a little closet the crown of roses and gave 
 
THE EVERY-DAY LIFE OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 299 
 
 it to me. I was just rising to go to rny young friends, 
 and "William put up his finger by way of remonstrance. 
 
 " We will come to you," he said, and drawing Emily's 
 arm within his, he led her towards me. How beautiful 
 she was, as she knelt down beside him! His strong arm 
 was around her — her eyelids drooped as he drew her 
 closer, closer till her head rested on his breast. 
 
 "Take the wreath, my son," I said, giving him the 
 fragrant chaplet. " It is to you the roses of her life are 
 given. You must give them back in blessings." 
 
 He took the crown of buds and flowers, and placed it 
 on her fair hair, rising while she knelt still beside me. 
 
 "Mine, in the sight of God, mine forever!" said he, 
 solemnly. 
 
 None of us spoke. Still she knelt. He took her hand 
 that lay upon my knee. She lifted her eyes to his face. 
 His were gazing upon her. She read all their meaning — 
 all the love, the deep tenderness of his manly heart was 
 written in that glance. Her eye turned then towards 
 Herbert and Mary. 
 
 t; Mother! — father! — for you are mine!" she exclaimed, 
 and she sprang to Herbert. He clasped her to his heart, 
 and she wept on the breast which had sheltered her so long. 
 
 I did not mean to have it a solemn feast, yet I saw we 
 were all weeping — Mary, Herbert, all of us weeping, yet 
 foolishly trying to smile through our tears, as if we were 
 gay. But it would not do. We were happy, which is far 
 better. "We were all happy, each in our own way and 
 with our own reflections. The path of life stretched out 
 far into the future for all but me. But was I less happy 
 because the angel of death stood in mine, with his crown 
 of asphodel for my pale brow \ No, I was not less 
 happy, but mine was a more solemn joy than theirs. I 
 thought of meetings, when my heart was young and 
 
300 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 fresh — of love and hope, when the world was all too small 
 for my soaring vision. I thought of an hour, long past, 
 when my soul was wed to another's; and then I thought 
 of partings — one after another — how they marked the 
 trodden way with graves — yet I was not sad. Thank 
 God ! I can say, with truth, I was not sad. Surely it 
 was not a dream, that meeting of yesterday. I feel it 
 yet — his dear head upon my breast. I see it yet — the 
 garden with its clustering flowers. It was not a dream — 
 I was in paradise. My spirit drank of the waters of eter- 
 nal life. I know not what death means. 
 
 I looked around. Herbert still stood there, Emily 
 leaning on his shoulder, and I could see the great tears 
 gathering in his eyes. 
 
 " Let us pray," said he. 
 
 It was an echo of the voice in each of our hearts, that 
 ached for some expression for their swelling emotions. 
 There are moments when we can only find relief in 
 prayer. We all knelt, and he prayed from a full heart 
 that knew well to whom it could turn. How, in after 
 years, will our happy wedded pair look back to this even- 
 ing and bless it ! 
 
 * # * # # 
 
 I am sorry you were obliged to defer your promised 
 visit after the appointed time. Last night I had a strange 
 attack. I thought — all my friends thought it was the 
 precursor of dissolution ; but it yielded to timely reme- 
 dies, and to-day I am up again in my easy-chair, but very 
 weak. Hasten to me, Margarette. The time we can stay 
 together will be short enough, even if my life should be 
 spared longer than I anticipate. I remember, when I was 
 young, hearing of the death of a dear schoolmate from 
 whom I had been but a short time separated. I thought, 
 had I been with her, could I not have sent a message to 
 
THE EVERT-DAY LIFE OF EVERY -DAY PEOPLE. 301 
 
 my mother? Was not the wish natural? Was it alto- 
 gether childish ? I confess, whether childish or not, I 
 have often since had the same longing. Have you ever 
 
 felt it ? Do you feel it now ? Our dear M , whom 
 
 we both loved so well. She is there — in that other coun- 
 try where I am going — not far off, as they used to tell us, 
 but nearer than we think. I shall see her soon. Will 
 she not know me? Will she not keep " the same beloved 
 name ?" Margarette, I shall soon meet her. We will 
 talk of you. We will be near you. Trust me. 
 
 Kind, good Margarette ! How faithful you have been ! 
 How strong to help me in my weakness! How true to 
 me in all my waywardness ! We have never known any 
 coldness — any wavering of our affections. Ours has been 
 a true friendship. I thought to find others steadfast as 
 you. I went among strangers, eager, earnest to make 
 friends. I made them, but none were like you, Marga- 
 rette. Come to me, dear, as soon as you can. I know I 
 shall never write you another letter. I leave for you my 
 old manuscripts. Do with them what you please. You 
 know if I had lived, I might have produced something 
 more worthy. But progress does not end here. 
 
 Farewell, my earliest and best friend — from Alice. 
 
 *?f vf- vF -7F 3f 
 
 These were the last written words of Alice Dearbon. 
 The following letter is from our mutual friend Margarette 
 Singleside, to whom I wrote, after hearing of our friend's 
 departure, begging her to give me an account of her last 
 hours . — Editor. 
 
 "Alarmed by the brevity of my friend's letter and the 
 indications of bodily weakness it betrayed, I went to her 
 at once. I found her much changed, although those, 
 who had been with her constantly, did not seem to detect 
 the progress of her disease, and evidently thought she 
 
 * 
 
302 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD; OR, 
 
 might live weeks and even months, and perhaps return, 
 without injury to her health, to her home in the West. 
 One glance at her features assured me this could never 
 be. She knew it herself, and for her own sake rejoiced. 
 She had longed to die in her early home, although for the 
 sake of those dear to her, she would cheerfully have 
 returned with them, for she felt it would be sad to them 
 to go back alone. 
 
 " The last week of her life we were all with her. It 
 was a happy week to us all. Those, who like her, had 
 passed the first vigor of maturity, and to whom the revo- 
 lutions of years seemed swifter and swifter in their 
 descent, were comforted under her loss, by the conviction, 
 that it could not be long, at farthest, before they should 
 meet her again ; and those to whom life and hope were 
 fresh and blooming, felt their happiness sanctified, not 
 diminished, by having the thought of that hour when the 
 cherished ties of affection must be severed — brought home 
 to their hearts. There was grief among our circle, and 
 many eyes were wet with tears, when alone, which in her 
 presence wore a cheerful and hopeful light. There was 
 grief but no gloom among us. There could be no gloom 
 while she was so cheerful. The last hour, so dreaded, 
 and for which we thought we were prepared, came unex- 
 pectedly to all. 
 
 " We watched her breathing through the night, 
 Her breathing soft and low — 
 As in her breast, the wave of life 
 Kept heaving to and fro. 
 
 " Our very hopes belied our fears — 
 Our fears our hopes belied ; 
 We thought her dying when she slept, 
 And sleeping when she died. 
 
 '•The light of a glorious autumn morning shone in at 
 the window. We thought her gazing upon it ; but 
 
THE EYERY-PAY LIFE OF EYERY-DAY PEOPLE. 303 
 
 " ' She knew another morn than ours.' 
 
 " I recalled at that time, as I often have since in think- 
 ing of her, many sentiments with regard to death, which 
 she used to express in familiar conversation with me, and 
 in her letters. Among them was this : ' I hope I shall 
 die in the morning, and die without apparent suffering. 
 I know that what we call the agony of death, may be a 
 mere convulsive action, of which the departing spirit is 
 unconscious. Still, 1 hope, for the sake of those who are 
 near me in my last hours, that I shall pass away quietly, 
 and leave no painful impression on their minds — particu- 
 larly on the minds of my dear children. I wish to die in 
 the morning for another reason. Imagination peoples the 
 dark with spectres and a nameless dread, which cannot 
 be defined, but I have felt it, and know what it is. A 
 shuddering, ghostly fear. I have felt it often, as a child — 
 a sort of consciousness of the supernatural, of spirits 
 hovering in the gloom. And then, one feels sadness so 
 much more oppressive in the night — particularly the 
 young do. Oh ! what nights of loneliness and grief I 
 have endured in childhood ! Do not let my children in- 
 dulge in gloomy imaginations. Let them be early taught 
 there is nothing to fear, if their hearts are stayed on God. 
 Teach them to employ their faculties for others. Teach 
 them to be happy.' 
 
 "Alice Dearbon was buried in the village graveyard, 
 beside her mother. The sweetbrier, planted by her own 
 hands, entwines itself lovingly over her last resting- 
 place." 
 
 FINALE BY THE EDITOR. 
 
 I was glad to welcome back the Herberts, Emily, Wil- 
 liam, and all. Mr. Dearbon and his two motherless 
 little girls went to their own house. Lizzie Cameron had 
 been busy there for several days, making everything look 
 
304 THE OLD CORNER CUPBOARD — FINALE. 
 
 home-like and cheerful. The marriage of Emily and 
 William took place soon after their return, and it was 
 decided by all, as Nelly was young and inexperienced, 
 that it would be a pleasant arrangement, and one condu- 
 cive to the comfort and cheerfulness of all parties, if the 
 married pair would take Mr. Dearbon's house, for the 
 winter, and as much longer as might seem desirable. 
 
 Ellen and Katie are very fond of Emily; so indeed, 
 are all the children, and her gentle influence is most 
 beneficial to them. 
 
 Poor Mr. Dearbon ! He is one of those silent and re- 
 served men, for whom there is no relief in unburthening 
 the heart. The love and watchfulness of his children are 
 a comfort and a joy to him. He is, outwardly, calm and 
 cheerful, but the vacant place no one can supply. Willie 
 is growing up noble and beautiful. 
 
 Rosalie is the same amiable, kind-hearted, and affec- 
 tionate creature as ever. She says it will not do for her 
 to stand in the way of her pretty young cousins, who are 
 attracting a good deal of attention in society. Therefore, 
 she is determined to be very magnanimous and give up 
 the field to them, if a certain poor young man, who is just 
 beginning the practice of law, learns how to make a good 
 pleader. Besides, she says, it would be a shame to make 
 her aunt the trouble of moving, when she is so nicely 
 fixed, and Mr. Rochester has got so into the habit of com- 
 ing there to pass his evenings. She thinks if she were to 
 be established in another home, there would be an addi- 
 tional motive, in the loneliness of the widow, to hasten on 
 a certain event to which matters have long been tending. 
 We all agree with her, that nothing is wanting to com- 
 plete the reform of our reformer, than that he should be a 
 married man. 
 
&lM /3</P^'2' 
 
Jewett, Sue; 
 
 The old ciorner cupboard 
 
 wm 
 
 an W^g'- 
 
 Lu 
 
 dfr 
 
 Jfc-93 
 
 Til — 
 
 M29415G 
 
 9s 
 
 £ 
 
f r l J i .' f rJ J ? i tJ fVJ i J 1 1* I iv Ir 
 
 HUH 
 
 fiiiiiwk 
 
 mm 
 
 Ilk 
 
 
 w