THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE MEMORIAL: 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE LIFE AND WHITINGS 
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 
 
 BY HER MOTHER, 
 
 AUTHORESS OF " S II A 1> Y SIDE." 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTORY NOTICE, 
 
 BY KEY. A. L. STOXE. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 PUBLISHED BY JOHN P. JEWETT AND COMPANY. 
 
 CLEVELAND, OHIO: .IIKNKY 1'. B. JKWETT.
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1857, by 
 
 JOHN P. JEWETT AND COMPANY, 
 In the Clerk's office of the District Court for the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 UTHOTYPED BY COWLE8 AND COMPANY, 
 PIUEXIX BUILDING, BOSTON.
 
 UVH3H2. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 THIS MEMoniAL of her dearly beloved and gifted daughter,^ 
 was commenced, by the authoress of " Shady Side," in the 
 year 1855, or less than two years after the publication of her 
 former work ; failing health obliged her to relinquish it for 
 a while, but she still cherished the hope that sufficient strength 
 would be given her to complete it, and to this hope she clung 
 until near the end of her pilgrimage. When she heard the 
 summons hence, and knew that she must leave the task unfin 
 ished, she committed it, and a few other objects very dear to 
 her heart, in earnest prayer, to the disposal of Infinite Wis 
 dom, and calmly laid herself down to rest. The work has been 
 finished by another hand ; but, as the point of interruption is 
 distinctly marked, in the progress of the narrative, no injustice 
 is done to the gifted writer whose name it bears, in attributing 
 it to her pen. 
 
 He who has thus joined his labors to those of the dear de 
 parted, has not enjoyed, in the progress of the work, the privi 
 lege of continuous, uninterrupted thought. He has taken it up, 
 for the most part, in the late evening, after the fatigue of many 
 hours' incessant labor for a daily newspaper, when both hand 
 and head were well nigh exhausted. But, however wearied, 
 he has found in it an overflowing fountain, to cheer his own 
 
 (iii) 
 
 1350465
 
 IV PREFACE. 
 
 heart ; and oftentimes, amid much physical weakness, has thus 
 gained valuable strength of soul. 
 
 Many may think that the letters written by the subject of 
 this memoir, and such parts of her journal as were proper for 
 the public eye, should have been inserted with but little com 
 ment, and left to interpret themselves. But the editor, having 
 found both pleasure and profit from similar labors of others, 
 has dared to hope that his combination of the whole into a con 
 tinuous narrative, might be more generally acceptable. 
 
 Amid all the causes for regret that the volume was not com 
 pleted by the hand which drew the design, there is a single 
 alleviating thought. If the work had been thus consummated, 
 much, of interest to the reader, which connects the mother's 
 character and history with that of the daughter, would have 
 been scrupulously omitted. The present writer has, of course, 
 felt himself at liberty to extract from the correspondence many 
 beautiful tributes to the mother's faithful affection, which will 
 be very precious to her friends, but which her own delicacy 
 would have forbidden her to insert while she held the pen. 
 
 "With this brief explanation, the work is given to the world, 
 to speak for itself. However imperfectly edited, there is a 
 voice in it which will reach the inner sense of the reader, and 
 will insist on being heard. It will have a charm, as well as a 
 lesson, for all who are in the morning of their days ; who can 
 scarcely realize, as yet, that their truant feet have commenced 
 life's weary journey. To the travellers farther on in the way, 
 it will speak in more earnest tones of warning or encourage 
 ment. While to those, whether young or old, who are near the 
 end, it will bring such a vision of the radiance waiting for the 
 sanctified soul, that they shall catch fresher glimpses of the 
 glory, while they linger on this side of the Kiver.
 
 INTRODUCTORY NOTICE. 
 
 THAT which the artist has done on another leaf, to bring before 
 the eye of the reader the natural likeness of one, with whose 
 thoughts he is to become familiar, the hand of a kinsman would 
 repeat, in these introductory lines, and hold up to the same reader, 
 if he will glance at it, at least, a dim and faint portraiture of the 
 inner life, whose features are more slowly, though more clearly, 
 to shine out in the self-revelations that follow. The advantage of 
 this double portraying, at the outset, will be, it is hoped, that he 
 who turns the succeeding leaves will approach the record, not as 
 the handwriting of a total stranger, but with something of the 
 freshened interest of one who has enjoyed a personal acquaintance 
 with the original life, and now searches the volume for the sayings 
 and doings of a dear departed friend. 
 
 If it be difficult, as all artists consent, to make the canvas faith 
 fully represent the life, where yet the face is one, because its 
 expressions are not only varying and manifold, but also because 
 there are impalpable shades and subtle lines, and an overspreading 
 and investing atmosphere, which no art can catch and transfer, 
 it cannot be easy, by a few hurried touches, to sketch a mind so 
 richly and variously endowed, so many-sided in its powers and 
 adaptations, harmonizing such opposites in the unison of practical 
 living, and so changeful with the play of a genius versatile and 
 strong, as hers whose biography is herein outlined. To this must 
 be added the disadvantage, with him who now sketches, of having 
 come in personal contact with this mind quite seldom iu its maturer 
 
 (v)
 
 VI INTRODUCTORY NOTICE. 
 
 development, though some of its earlier months were passed beneath 
 his own roof. All that can be here attempted is, to give a few of 
 those impressions, left by this dear gifted girl upon the mind of the 
 writer, in an intercourse less frequent, that he would now love to 
 remember. While it is not, for a moment, assumed that this char 
 acter approached perfection, either in genius or virtue, it is believed 
 that many a father will feel it a privilege to introduce his young 
 daughters to such a companion ; that many a mother will be thank 
 ful that she may welcome such a visitor to sit down with her and 
 her children at their fireside ; that many a maiden will cherish a 
 growing and grateful friendship for one so pure-minded, so genial, 
 so favored of nature and culture, with so high an ideal of true 
 womanhood, and so early lost ; and that even our literature will be 
 the gainer, in the rare thoughts and rich fancies gathered into this 
 brief Memorial. 
 
 It seems, moreover, but a just and fitting compensation that one, 
 whose outfit for a noble work in life was so complete, while that life 
 itself was so brief, and the race, she seemed so strong to run with 
 honor to herself and fruitful blessings to all around her, was thus 
 denied her, should be permitted to linger yet a little amid the homes 
 and circles from which her step has departed, to repeat in familiar 
 tones to our ears the utterances that were all too few, and to speak, 
 though dead, to many an eager listener, whose" ears never heard the 
 living voice. It may even have been one design of Providence, in 
 arresting this career where it paused, to bring out, what else had 
 been hidden from public regard, those youthful phases of a life, that 
 was not suffered to go beyond, and to hold it thus ever in sympathy 
 with the young of her own sex, whom it may now so greatly enrich. 
 
 " Our Mary," as all the kindred love to call her, had a pleasant 
 face to look upon. Her complexion was not fair, but had in it a 
 warm Southern tint, as though tropical suns had shone upon it. 
 Her eyes were very dark and sparkling, expressing with equal 
 felicity the mirthfulness of a light hour and the calm earnestness 
 which was the prevailing temperament of her mind. Her hair, a
 
 INTRODUCTORY NOTICE. VII 
 
 rich dark brown, whether dressed in curls or gathered back from 
 her face, preserved a wavy outline, which always suggested a sunny 
 temper. Her form was of the medium height, and rounded into the 
 full, soft outlines of youthful maturity. Something of these ex 
 ternal characteristics appears from the portrait facing the title-page; 
 but we think none of our readers will object to this fuller introduc 
 tion. The portrait there cannot smile; and it was only when 
 our Mary smiled that all the sweetness of her countenance could be 
 appreciated. 
 
 Her temperament, as has been already partly suggested, was both 
 cheerful and ardent. Nothing peevish, irritable, and fretful, so far 
 as the writer had opportunities of observation, ever expressed itself 
 in her voice or manner. If there were any tendencies in this direc 
 tion, in her early childhood, they were corrected by the wi& and 
 judicious nurture under which she grew up in her home. To this 
 influence also it must have been owing, in part, that she escaped the 
 danger of that unconscious selfishness into which an only daughter, 
 or an only son, is so liable to fall. This danger was also counter 
 vailed by her devotion to her brother ; and the isolation of such a 
 position more than compensated, by her confidential communion 
 tender, clinging, and intimate beyond the love of sisters with her 
 still youthful mother. This attachment was peculiar and charac 
 teristic. Of course it supposes strong sympathies and warm 
 affections, on the part of the mother, combined with great judg 
 ment and skill in training the heart of the daughter to such filial, 
 we might almost say equal, confidences. But few daughters, it is 
 believed, have ever lived, from mere childhood, in such sweet and 
 absorbing companionship with a mother ; the heart so entirely 
 trustful ; all its thoughts, experiences, and young dreams so un 
 guardedly confided; its affection, so caressing, passionate, and 
 demonstrative ; its sense of satisfaction in the fellowship so com 
 plete. It is this peculiar passion which has veined so deeply and 
 richly the correspondence, some of whose treasures are spread out 
 upon the pages that follow. If any of its expressions shall seem, to
 
 VIII INTRODUCTORY NOTICE. 
 
 colder natures, extravagant or overwrought, let it be remembered 
 that the wealth of deep and intense sensibilities that kept them 
 selves under careful restraint and allowed no indiscriminate license 
 of loving, poured itself out through this almost only channel, in its 
 most copious fulness. It was not extravagance, because it was the 
 richness of her nature. She had a large capacity for such a senti 
 ment, and only lavished out of her abundance. 
 
 Though cordial and kindly to all who claimed acquaintance with 
 her, and schooling the fastidiousness of her social tastes to a gentle 
 and conciliating demeanor in any presence, she yet, as to the ques 
 tion of friendships, used the prerogative of so select a nature. She 
 had but few intimate friends. The threshhold to the inner chamber 
 of her heart was crossed rarely, and only by those with whom her 
 hearfcould be thoroughly at home. These elect ones could testify 
 to that ardor of attachment and constancy of devotion which so 
 many felt she had to give and so few shared. 
 
 Her affections developing themselves under this law, while none 
 ever found her distant and repelling, of course it was in her home, 
 and with this small, favored circle, that all the sunny warmth of her 
 nature rayed out its solar brightness. There her wit was agile and 
 playful, there her exquisite humor followed its bent, there quaint 
 and rich felicities of thought and speech broke continually from her 
 lips. She was in those scenes as a well of crystal waters, whose 
 streams flowed forth with silvery music and sparkling light, to 
 gladden all that dwelt by her side. 
 
 Her conversational gifts, thus judged of, with such elements blend 
 ing in them, and indulging themselves in this prodigal but uncon 
 scious display, were of an order few persons of her years ever 
 surpassed. The matter and the manner of what was said were 
 always racy, piquant, and engaging, Avhile equally natural and 
 unaffected. 
 
 Possibly the mental characteristics of this youthful intellect, as 
 expressed in the correspondence and in the occasional pieces inserted 
 in this volume, will be judged as prevailingly inclined to the ima-
 
 INTRODUCTORY NOTICE. IX 
 
 ginative, and, therefore, as making up a being scarce fitted for the 
 homely duties and the disenchanting experiences of real life. But 
 this imaginative mind was eminently a practical mind. There was in 
 it a beautiful balance of reason and judgment against feeling and 
 imagination. It welcomed the common cares of life, looked serenely 
 upon them in their sharp and rugged outlines, and assumed them 
 with a tranquil hopefulness, born partly of these blended elements 
 of strength in her nature, and partly of her trust in Providence and 
 loyalty to the Great Disposer. This exquisite imagination was a 
 helper, rather than a hindrance, in her daily tasks. It lent a charm 
 to duty, lightened burdens, and breathed itself as a magical atmos 
 phere over life's rough places. In this Memorial, perhaps that trait 
 of her mind will seem disproportionately developed. For imagina 
 tion, having no theatre for itself amid the conventionalisms of 
 society, and denied full utterance in common intercourse, in this 
 case, poured out its fulness througli the pen, in song and sketch and 
 love-voices. The fruits of this faculty with Mary were, as we should 
 logically have concluded, a quick perception, a rapid sympathy and 
 an easy adjustment of her spirit, iu whatever scene, to the thoughts 
 and demonstrations befitting the place. It will be noticed that the 
 character of this power, as to temperament, was healthy and 
 cheerful. Over it bent a clear, bright sky; in the night, the stars 
 were there. There was nothing of morbid and sentimental gloom 
 in it, that asked indulgence or colored the expression. 
 
 Her mind was thus both quick and patient. It could fold its 
 wings and keep a governed pace with tho veriest plodder. It was 
 not only an imaginative, but a mathematical mind. It could hold 
 itself steadily to the investigation of truth and the conquest of a 
 problem, as well as soar to the level pave of heaven, to gather its 
 gems of price. These proportioned qualities, in their union, spe 
 cially fitted her for the work of teaching, unveiling to her eye each 
 young mind and heart, and steadying her feet to walk with such 
 unequal companionship. It might be supposed that, with such a 
 sensitive and poetic nature, the task of guiding the young, in the
 
 X INTRODUCTORY NOTICE. 
 
 initial process of their education, would have been wearing and 
 irksome. It was exhausting, for Mary devoted herself intensely to 
 it, but never a drudgery. With the highest views of the ca 
 pabilities of the human mind; with commensurate ideas of what 
 education must be, and a reverent acceptance of its peculiar 
 responsibilities, she blended again the influence of her sympa 
 thetic and imaginative nature, beguiling her spirit thus of all sense 
 of weariness, and all mere pressure of rigid duty. 
 
 We have spoken of cheerfulness as the atmosphere of her intellec 
 tual and social life. Of course it was a still more marked moral 
 quality. It had pleasant looks on cloudy days, and smiles in the 
 twilight, and hopeful words, when despondency knocked at the 
 door. It was a brave, stout heart, that of " our Mary." This cheer 
 fulness was not just the spring of elastic health, for it remained 
 blooming upon health's decline, and, joined to FAITH, sung its 
 sweetest strain as the evening shadows gathered upon this young 
 day. As a natural disposition, that is, distinguished from the spir 
 itual, this temper was a child of well-ordered activity and self- 
 control; of a mind never listless and never driven with loose reins. 
 It was the normal state of a thoughtful, earnest, disciplined nature, 
 accepting heartily its mission and work. There was nothing shallow 
 and superficial in it ; it was not a little outside amiability ; it 
 bathed and laved all the soul ; it was quickened by deep and warm 
 affections, and penetrated with keen and liv.ely sympathies. 
 
 After grace had renewed her heart, Mary's views of life were high 
 and controlling. In her this transition was not so broad and marked, 
 to outward observation, as it would have been, but that these views 
 seemed so congenial toher earnest and self-devoted spirit. She had 
 lofty and ardent aspirations not for a sphere not for a. career; 
 it was not a personal ambition, but for FIDELITY in her sphere, what 
 ever that sphere might be. Her piety, dating from the years of 
 childhood, was humble, earnest, and childlike. It found its special 
 moulds of development in the peculiarities of her own nature.
 
 INTRODUCTORY NOTICE. XI 
 
 Avoiding all artificialities, it was, in all its expressions, natural, be 
 cause it was sincere. Being simple and sincere, it was of course 
 charitable, and accepted any where the scripture test, Love, the 
 fulfilling of the Law. It abounded in the element of filial confidence 
 toward God, and, therefore, delighted in communion with him. Her 
 faith of scenes beyond sight, helped, doubtless, by her intense and 
 vivid habit of thought, was almost like open vision. " The veil be 
 tween this life and that beyond," this is the testimony of that com 
 panion-mother, who has herself passed behind that veil, " seemed 
 at times translucent to her quickened vision, and the transition 
 thither not so much a flight into the unknown as crossing the thresh 
 old of a mansion daily seen from afar." 
 
 She seemed to have a taste for music, and yet it was not for the 
 art. She was no great performer, either instrumentally or vocally. 
 The music she loved was an inner melody, the harmonies of pure 
 thoughts and high fancies, the chime of accordant utterances struck 
 from kindred souls. 
 
 It were easy to linger upon this desultory* talk. We have not 
 sought to dissect this character anatomically, and show it in its parts 
 and their relations. We have spoken as this dear one has come into 
 the presence of our thoughts, and stood and turned and drew our 
 heart after her, while we thus conversed with her image and mem 
 ory. Her character was one whole, intellect and heart interfused, 
 and all breathed upon by the spirit of human love and religious 
 'faith. 
 
 The portrait of the face, in this volume, shows us, of course, the 
 face in the ripest maturity which it reached ; and this sketch of the 
 character is of that character into which she grew in her ripest devel 
 opment on earth. So much excellence and symmetry were not at 
 once, or easily, attained. This was the calm summit on which her eye 
 was fixed, all along ; but up to it, by gradual approaches and a fre 
 quent sense of the steepness of the way, her feet were compelled, over 
 all roughness and difficulties, to climb. Only, after many a struggle 
 with native imperfections and opposing circumstances, by many tears,
 
 XII INTRODUCTORY NOTICE. 
 
 self conquests, and heroic efforts, was this elevation reached. Nor 
 did she once consider that she had attained to any superior height. 
 Still her aspirations were " onward and upward" and her look to 
 those celestial 'altitudes, at -which now she walks, her hand in that 
 maternal hand she loved best to clasp, on the heavenly hills.
 
 THE MEMORIAL; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE parish of Mt. Carmel, Hamden, lies in one of the 
 quiet valleys of New Haven county, in the State of Con 
 necticut. From its eastern side towers the rugged moun 
 tain-steep that gave name to the valley, a bold peak 
 of the Green Mountain range, six miles north of its termi 
 nation in East Rock, one of the well-known sentinels of 
 New Haven city. It was here, at the foot of Carmel, " our 
 Mary " first saw the light, Dec. 5th, 1833. 
 
 Her father, Stephen Hubbell, was pastor of the Congrega 
 tional church and minister of the parish, and her mother was 
 the youngest daughter of Dr. Noah Stone, of the same 
 county. This was their first child; and, though consecrated 
 to God from her birth, it was not till she had reached the 
 age of five months that she was carried to the sanctuary, 
 and publicly dedicated, by baptismal rite, under the name of 
 Mary Elizabeth. 
 
 Little Mary's infancy was somewhat peculiar in its MU-- 
 l 0)
 
 2 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 roundings. Her mother shared the pleasant task of nurse 
 with a young relative, whose education she was at the same 
 time conducting with care. No " baby -talk " was spoken to 
 the child ; and, as she did not come in contact with other 
 children, she only heard her native tongue in its comparative 
 purity. Whether principally as a consequence of this, or 
 more from original endowment, she developed early an 
 unusual bump of language, using words with a propriety 
 and affluence quite striking in a mere infant. This gift of 
 expression brought out an amount of thinking, comparing, 
 and reasoning, which we do not usually associate with so 
 tender an age. When only eighteen months old, a lady who 
 was speaking admiringly of her in her presence was checked, 
 by a significant glance at the child. " O," said she, " such a 
 baby cannot understand. She doesn't know what I mean." 
 The child's eyes sparkled ; and, with a cunning little shake 
 of the head, she said, "Manie does understand." A few 
 months later, and before her second birthday, a small willow 
 chair was brought by a visitor, and deposited in a corner 
 during her stay. After some minutes, Mary very quietly 
 and cautiously seated herself in if. As soon as she was 
 dkcovered, she arose, and said, as if in apology, " Only just 
 o how it would seem." 
 
 Little Mary was early brought to submit her will to that 
 of her parents. A habit of obedience was formed before 
 she could talk, attended by an implicit trust and confidence 
 that were never afterwards shaken. 
 
 "When she was a little more than two years old, her 
 father resigned his pastoral charge, which he had held six 
 years; and, previous to entering a new field, travelled and 
 recruited a twelvemonth, leaving Mary with her mother at
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 
 
 her maternal grandfather's in Oxford. Here the child al 
 most fell a victim to that fatal disease, scarlet fever. For 
 d:ivs her little life seemed on the point of expiring; but 
 God gave her back to our earnest prayers, with a quick 
 ened sense of obligation to train her up for his service and 
 glory. 
 
 From this illness, which seriously weakened her physical 
 constitution, her soul seemed to gather new strength and 
 maturity. " She would sit by the hour at her grandpa's knee, 
 listening to the stories he knew how to repeat so wisely and 
 so well, often anticipating the sequel herself, or helping him 
 out with the moral, or eagerly asking for more, till he 
 would think it needful to check her mental activity by a 
 game of romps. But for all her infant troubles, her chief 
 resort was " Talk to Manie; tell a story, please," " Talk to 
 Manic mother." Ah, my darling, thou didst never weary 
 of that charm while thy sweet life lasted! 
 
 Mary's fourth year had but just commenced when she ac 
 companied her parents to their new home in Wolcottville. 
 Here she was placed in a trying situation for a child. Her 
 mother was soon laid aside by illness, and all around her 
 were strangers. Her deportment in these new circumstances 
 won much commendation, and often called forth the excla 
 mation, " What a precocious child ! " We find here the germ 
 of that readiness for emergencies which in after years madfl 
 her so generally "equal to the occasion," however unex 
 pected. A little incident, it is remembered, passed from lip 
 to lip, as an instance of uncommon maturity in a child of 
 three years and four months. A lady called to make the 
 acquaintance of the new pastor and his wife, and found 
 that the former was out, and the latter too ill to see her.
 
 4 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 As she withdrew, evidently disappointed, little Mary followed 
 her to the door, and said, in her most engaging way : " I 
 hope you will call again. We have not seen many of the 
 new people yet, but it will make us very happy to." 
 
 At this time, a new fountain of love and tenderness was 
 opened in her heart, one which never afterward ceased to 
 well up and overflow, a little brother was born to her, 
 " baby Willie." From the day she first received the Heaven 
 sent treasure, with the characteristic remark, " What a dear 
 little heavenly present ! " onward through childhood and youth, 
 she lavished upon her young brother a wealth of sisterly 
 affection, as constant as it was fervent. This new relation 
 was the means of forming her to self-denial and a sense of 
 responsibility. 
 
 The following summer was eventful, also, to little Mary, 
 as the season of her introduction to written language. 
 Though not yet four years old, her desire to learn to read 
 was so earnest that her parents took pleasure in gratifying 
 her. So rapid was her progress, that, before winter, she 
 had the command of her elementary book of simple sen 
 tences, and began to read correctly the easiest portions of 
 the New Testament. She was not satisfied with reading 
 mechanically; she must have a meaning from the words. 
 Nor was she content with merely this : " the why and where- 
 f8re " must be known. Her inquisitiveness reached the ulti 
 mate end and relations of things; her stretch of thought 
 surprised us with questions in science and morals far beyond 
 her years ; so that often (as many fond parents before us 
 have done) we shook our heads wisely, and wondered where- 
 unto this would grow. 
 
 The religious sentiment of her nature was early devel-
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 5 
 
 oped. Conscience was quick to resjjpnd to culture; and 
 her heart was very tender in view of its relations to God 
 and a future life. The little nursery formulas of prayer 
 were soon insufficient for her. She was encouraged to ap 
 proach the Hearer of prayer with her confession, thanks 
 giving, or request, in her own language, with great seri 
 ousness and sincerity. So much was she in the habit 
 of acquiescing in the Divine will, that we could not but 
 hope she was thus early renewed- in heart. On one occa 
 sion, being very ill the day previous to a long-anticipated 
 journey, when some one told her our fears that she would 
 not be able to ride on the morrow, she replied, " It will be 
 just as our Heavenly Father pleases." Throughout that ill 
 ness she exhibited uniformly a sweet satisfaction at being in 
 the hands of God, who would do all things well. Had it 
 pleased him at that time to take her from us, or at any 
 subsequent period of her early childhood, we should have 
 felt that she had been made meet by grace for the upper 
 home. It is easy for parents to call forth from young lips 
 expressions of affectionate regard for the great and good 
 Being who is the Giver of every daily comfort. But let 
 Providence thwart the desires or cross the cherished pur 
 pose of these young hearts, and their rebellious will rises 
 up at once against this interference in their self-indulgence. 
 Is not, then, a habit of cheerful yielding to what God 
 appoints, a subjection of the childish will to his sovereign 
 pleasure, a far better test of a renewed heart than any out 
 bursts of seeming love and gratitude, as the recipients of his 
 goodness? But of this, in relation to the case before us, 
 more may be said hereafter. 
 
 There was in Mary's composition a vein of quiet humor, 
 i*
 
 6 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 which exhibited itself very early; often to the surprise of those 
 who had been struck by her sweetly serious and thoughtful 
 countenance. After a heavy rain, one summer morning found 
 us, at the commencement of a journey of thirty miles, with a 
 lean, lazy horse, that dragged the carriage slowly through the 
 mud, while the disheartened travellers were silent. Little 
 Mary at length looked up, and, said with a serio-comic air, 
 " O dear ! this reminds me of my hymn, ' How can a feeble, 
 helpless worm fulfil a task so hard?'" 
 
 The spring after she was four years of age, Mary was 
 sent to the village school. It had been our purpose to teach 
 her at home through her infancy ; but sickness in the family 
 interrupted this arrangement, and on the whole we had no 
 occasion to regret the change. All that summer she was a 
 most diligent and happy child, so absorbed with her studies 
 and books that, on her daily return from school, as soon as 
 her bonnet was put up in its place, her mother kissed, and 
 the baby tenderly caressed, she would proceed to her play 
 room ; and, arranging little chairs and stools for an infant 
 class, reenact the scenes of the school-room, varying the in 
 struction and discipline to suit her own fancy, which was 
 strikingly original. At this tender age she began to look 
 forward to teaching as her vocation, and never lost sight of 
 it afterward. Her parents, anticipating the probable neces 
 sities of the future, were quite willing to familiarize her 
 with the prospect, as a useful and desirable profession. 
 
 Another year passed, rapidly developing the child in 
 physical and mental growth. She commenced the rudi 
 ments of geography and mental arithmetic, and began to 
 have a reputation at school for ability in reading and reci 
 tation. Her father took much pains with her education,
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 7 
 
 and she was an apt pupil. To those early lessons she was 
 greatly indebted for the rare art of reading well, which in 
 later years added such a charm to the home circle. 
 
 About this time she found a new pleasure in a written 
 correspondence with her dear grandpa. He was so indul 
 gent as to pen all his letters to her in printed characters. 
 Her mother was her amanuensis, and was often amused at 
 the confidential tone in which she would say, " I have a 
 little letter in my mind for grandpa; can you write it for 
 me now, mamma ? " 
 
 It was during this summer her first attempt at rhyming 
 was discovered. Seeing her walk up and down the green 
 lawn of the parsonage, with an unusual glow on her cheek, 
 her eyes now raised to the sky, and then bent upon the grass, 
 and her lips moving, I drew near unobserved, and caught 
 the following couplet : 
 
 "My Father's sky above my head, 
 My Father's ground on which I tread." 
 
 She seemed quite abashed by the discovery; and I could 
 only draw from her the confession that she was "making a 
 rhyme," her sensibility precluding all further inquiry. 
 
 Her imaginative turn of mind was becoming more and 
 more apparent. In later years she has spoken of the vivid 
 pictures of imagination inwrought with her earliest recollec 
 tions. She once sketched for her own amusement an auto 
 biography of the first six or eight years of her life ; a 
 most interesting paper, which, unfortunately, is lost, prob 
 ably destroyed by herself. In that, it is remembered, she 
 gave the impression made upon her childish fancy by a 
 stately sunflower, growing before the nursery window, when
 
 8 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 she entered the new home at "W. Said she: "My first feeling 
 was, that the huge, ugly flower had a conscious being ; and 
 the idea afterward haunted me, till I came to think of it as 
 an evil genius. "While playing before it in the yard, it 
 seemed always staring or winking and nodding at me mali 
 ciously. And, after I was alone in my little crib for the 
 night, when I looked at the window, the moon reflected it 
 still upon the white curtain, bowing and mocking, as if to 
 say, ' I know you are there.' " 
 
 Her imaginative habits were stimulated at this tender 
 age by dwelling upon certain truths which belong to maturer 
 years, and which her own inquisitiveness elicited in con 
 nection with others level to her capacity. Thus, in listening 
 to the story of the fall of our first parents, there seemed 
 no end to her questions about the tempter. " Was he the 
 only good angel that became wicked ? " " Why did not 
 God keep the rest from following him ? " " Can these evil 
 angels come to this world now ? " etc., etc. Here was food 
 for fancy ; and it might have operated disastrously, had not 
 circumstances soon revealed her secret musings. 
 
 Her father was sitting late in his study, one summer 
 night, when he heard the pattering of little feet in the 
 ante-chamber ; and, looking up, saw Mary in her night 
 gown, as she timidly crossed the threshold, and approached 
 his table, fearful of a reproof for leaving her bed at that 
 hour. "May I stay with you a little while, father?" she 
 asked, as he opened his arms to receive her. Finding her 
 in a tremor of agitation, he inquired if she had been 
 troubled with a bad dream. "No; she had been awake 
 a long while." "Had she felt lonely in the darkness?" 
 "0 no; she was never afraid of the dark." "Surely, she
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 9 
 
 couldn't think there was anybody in the house to harm her?" 
 
 " No, it was not any person she was afraid of; but- " and, 
 
 hiding her face in his bosom, she faltered out the secret : 
 the object of her dread was, " the evil angels." On drawing 
 out her thoughts, it appeared that she was not afraid of 
 bodily harm ; but her fancy had seized upon the fact that 
 spirits have mysterious access to the souls of men ; and she 
 shuddered at the thought that some bad angel might be, 
 even then, in contact with her spirit. To her excited im 
 agination, the evil was more terrible because invisible. 
 
 Though only five years old at the time of this event, she 
 recalled it in after years, with gratitude for the judicious 
 treatment which freed her from a heavy burden, and sent 
 her back to sleep, light of heart. "I never shall forget," 
 she used to say, " how tenderly father folded me in his arms, 
 and how beautifully he soothed my fears, telling me that 
 God was able to protect me against all the designs of Satan, 
 and assuring me that it was not in the power of all the 
 evil angels in the universe to harm my soul, without my 
 will and consent. This was a great relief ; and, after divert 
 ing my thoughts with a little pleasant talk of other things, 
 he carried me so gently to my pillow, and kissed me good 
 night, that I always love him when I think of it, for I was 
 really in great trouble." 
 
 But, if the activity of her imagination at this early age 
 caused some solicitude, it was in a measure relieved by 
 witnessing the rapid development of other powers and fac 
 ulties. She reasoned much. Her judgment and sense of 
 propriety were frequently remarked. She was studious at 
 her daily tasks, and her memory unusually retentive. 
 
 Before she was six years old, her father was accustomed
 
 10 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 to take her on his knee after the Sabbath services, and 
 help her to recall something of the public exercises. She 
 soon became able to repeat the text, or tell where it might 
 be found, and often reported somewhat of the discourse. 
 An agent of the Bible Society once occupied the pulpit and 
 it was not noticed at the time that his sermon made any 
 striking impression on the child ; but, a year afterward, she 
 heard the same preacher in a distant church, where she was 
 visiting, and said to her friends : " This minister preached 
 for my father once." " Ah," said they, " you remember him, 
 then?" Some one expressing a doubt of the fact, she re 
 plied, quietly : " No, I don't remember Mm at all. It may not 
 be the same man; but I know it is the same sermon" 
 
 The qualities of her heart were also now rapidly devel 
 oping. Prominent, here, was her readiness to yield her own 
 preference and gratification to the wishes of those she loved. 
 Though a child of quick sensibilities, she was not so easily 
 controlled by an appeal to her feelings as to her reason. 
 If any unusual sacrifice was required of her, she had only 
 to be assured that circumstances made it necessary and best, 
 to secure her cheerful acquiescence. 
 
 She exhibited at this age very little personal vanity : 
 she loved merited praise, but quickly detected and despised 
 flattery. When asked the cause of her aversion to a certain 
 lady, her reply was, " She tells me I look just as handsome 
 as a pictured doll." Her perception of character seemed 
 intuitive; and there were but few persons whom she took 
 at once to her heart. 
 
 Her infancy, on the whole, was one of much promise. 
 In reviewing this early period, we may have gone too mi 
 nutely into the elements of character, and drawn too largely
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 11 
 
 from that hidden note-book, a mother's hi-art. But we wished 
 the reader to possess- with us the key to many an after- 
 record, else unexplained. 
 
 To those already acquainted with the subject of this Me 
 morial, through her correspondence and writings, no apology 
 for this chapter need be made. It is always interesting to 
 look back over a finished life to the first germs and bud 
 dings of character, especially when, as in the present instance, 
 the matured qualities are so much in harmony with the 
 earliest elements and developments. 
 
 With the infancy of " our Mary " closed the residence of 
 her parents at Wolcottville ; and all her home associations 
 were again broken up and removed.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 CHILDHOOD is generally viewed, not only as a period 
 of freedom from care, but as one in which life progresses 
 much as the birds and flowers grow, with little conscious 
 ness of the process, either mental or bodily. In allusion 
 to a paragraph which characterized our first years as a 
 careless, butterfly existence, the subject of our memoir re 
 marked, " I had no such childhood." 
 
 Another remark is also recalled. Two or three years 
 after she entered her " teens," some one expressed a suspi 
 cion that she would be a romantic young lady, to which 
 she replied, archly : " O no. I am through with all that ; 
 childhood was my season of romance." Still later, in a 
 rhyming description of a summer day's ramble with some 
 young friends, she writes : 
 
 "Ah! then I felt a very child, 
 Not laughing, frolicksome, and wild; 
 Not such does childhood seem 
 To me. It is a long, sweet dream, 
 Half-sad, half-joyous, beautiful 
 As some old painting, where the light 
 And shade are blent to witch the sight." 
 
 Mary's childhood was in some respects peculiar ; and, as 
 the next four or five years of her history were the most 
 critical of her life, it may be profitable to examine some 
 what closely the forming influences which attended them. 
 
 (12)
 
 MEMORIAL OF AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 13 
 
 With the opening of her seventh year, her home was 
 broken up, and she removed with her mother and Willie to 
 a new dwelling-place among strangers. The change was of 
 itself an evil. Our new residence was in Litchfield, as 
 boarders, in the venerable mansion known as the "Tal- 
 madge House," a familiar and honored name in the days 
 when the " Old Law School " was in its glory. This ancient 
 dwelling, still in good repair, though occupied by tenants, 
 had, with its surroundings, a great charm for the thoughtful, 
 imaginative child. Our windows looked out upon the broad, 
 quiet street, with its old memorial trees, through the length 
 of which there seemed to reign, even at midday, a solemn 
 grandeur befitting the days gone by. 
 
 The more distant prospect from this eminence was full 
 of rural beauty. Mary seemed at once to give herself up to 
 the inspiration of the place, and to draw from her outward 
 surroundings new materials of enjoyment. Leaving her, one 
 day, to spend an hour alone in our chamber, as a penalty 
 for some childish offence, she first expiated her fault by 
 tears, and then proceeded to arrange the room to her taste, 
 moving the shutters and the curtains till the lights and 
 shadows were adjusted with an artistic eye, when she seated 
 herself to enjoy the effect. When I returned, her face was 
 beaming with satisfaction, and her first thought was of my 
 sympathy in the beauty of the scene ; her next recalled the 
 offence, for which she seemed very penitent; and then .-In- 
 inquired, humbly, if it was wrong for her to take so much 
 pleasure when she was put here for a punishment, adding, 
 "It is so beautiful!" 
 
 The place had ample play-ground for the children, greenly 
 carpeted and nicely shaded. Here, during the long, bright
 
 14 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 days of that tranquil summer, Mary wandered alone or with 
 her young brother, revelling in the creations of her own 
 fancy. She had, indeed, her allotted tasks in the house, 
 school-hours, and needle-work; yet it was thought best for 
 her health that she should be much in the open air, and 
 she was often dismissed to the safe inclosure of these ample 
 grounds. 
 
 She afterwards confessed that she " lived all that summer 
 in two worlds." During her infancy, she had been much 
 engrossed with several volumes of the British Penny Maga 
 zine, illustrated ; and, in her eagerness to comprehend the 
 pictures, she had gathered much knowledge of English his 
 tory, far more than her parents were at the time aware of 
 communicating. She had drank in the story of many a 
 ruined castle, and guarded citadel, and marshaled army, and 
 royal princess, in the land whence our fathers came. 
 
 This was the treasury from which she largely drew for 
 the web of her fancy-loom, varying the colors and the pat 
 terns from day to day, but never tired with the processes. 
 With these materials many a drama was enacted, which she 
 enjoyed mostly alone. For, though her young brother was 
 always amused by the action of the play, she well knew 
 that what constituted its chief interest to her was beyond 
 his conception. 
 
 Sometimes she narrated the plot to her mother, after the 
 play was over: "The stratagem by which the imprisoned 
 princess escaped," or, " The wanderings of two children, who 
 strayed from a castle and got lost in the park," or some 
 other wonderful adventure, of which she and Willie were the 
 subjects. We knew that, in common with all children, she 
 entertained herself with the hypothetical and the imagi-
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 15 
 
 nary, yet we did not then suspect the extent to which she 
 was taxing her imagination, laying out a complete fairy 
 realm of fancy, where she roved at will, absorbed and de 
 lighted by her own creations. The excessive indulgence of 
 this mental habit showed its injurious effects in contributing 
 to that extreme sensitiveness of temperament, which, not long 
 after, hung a threatening cloud over her fair morning of 
 promise. 
 
 This dreamy, fascinating life at Litchfield ended with the 
 summer. After visiting through the autumn at the maternal 
 homestead, the family were again established in a home of 
 their own at Avon, in the same State. This parish, called 
 Avon East, to distinguish it from another ecclesiastical so 
 ciety in the same town, is a pleasant little village, on the 
 Farmington river, at the foot of Talcott mountain. It is 
 one of those quiet nestling places in the valley, nearly sur 
 rounded by hills and mountain-peaks, which lie like gems 
 all over the bosom of New England ; and, though not one 
 of the largest, will yield the palm to few in natural grace 
 and beauty. 
 
 Mary had not passed her seventh birthday as we entered 
 this new abode. Her heart, like her mother's, was slow in 
 calling it home. It was winter ; the people were all stran 
 gers ; and we shared a large tenement with another house 
 hold. The dear old mountain seemed the first thing to win 
 the child ; and it remained, while she lived, the anchor of 
 her home associations. This was not so bold a peak as the 
 sentinel of her birthplace, which her grandpa, an ardent 
 lover of nature, was wont to point out to her as ' Mary's blue 
 mountain ; " yet it was far more beautiful, stretching north and 
 south, in varied forms, three or four miles along the eastern
 
 16 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 border of the parish, parallel with the river, which hugged 
 its base, eager to find an outlet through some broken link 
 of the chain, in pursuing its way to the Connecticut. This 
 mountain scenery furnished valuable elements of intellectual 
 and moral influence, which left their impress on Mary's char 
 acter through life. She made quick friendships with nature 
 in all localities, while she made acquaintance slowly with new 
 schoolmates and companions. 
 
 One of these, who was two or three years older than her 
 self, writes thus of her first impressions of the little stranger : 
 " I love to look back and recall the day when, a little child, 
 I watched her as she sat in church by your side. O, what 
 has she not since been to me ? every thing good, and pure, 
 and comforting, and true. I shall never forget my first visit! 
 One incident made a deep impression on my mind. She 
 whispered something to me which was not quite proper. You 
 saw her, and inquired what she was saying. I thought, Now, 
 if I were in her place, what should I say? I should be quite 
 reluctant to confess. But, to my surprise, she reported her 
 words without hesitation, and explained why she had said so. 
 I looked to see you displeased ; but you quietly set the matter 
 right. I respected her the more for her frankness, and ac 
 knowledged her superiority. I went away thinking that, to 
 say the least, she was a very uncommon child ; she thought 
 of so many things, and expressed them in a way that I was 
 sure no other child would ever think of." 
 
 Another twelvemonth found the minister's family located 
 in a new parsonage. And now the home-feeling revived, and 
 the heart sent out anew its tendrils to twine around the 
 domestic hearthstone. None more than Mary delighted in the 
 change ; to her, " our house," and " my home," soon became
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 17 
 
 most significant and happy words. Here her home-life, as 
 it were, began : it was the only home her heart ever recog 
 nized, except the " fatherland " above. 
 
 Since writing the previous pages, a letter has come to 
 hand, addressed by Mary, in view of her nineteenth birth 
 day, to a new friend, in the course of which such graphic 
 allusion is made to some points in her history, over which 
 we have just been passing, that we cannot forbear to insert 
 an extract from it here. 
 
 " I long to take you on a pilgrimage through dear Con 
 necticut, and show you where are my shrines. First, we 
 would halt at the base of a bold precipitous mountain-peak, 
 called Carmel, some six miles from the city of New Haven. 
 There I woke to life, and breathed in my love of mountain- 
 scenery, which has deepened ever since. Then I would take 
 you farther inland, to a new village, whither we removed 
 while I was still in infancy, while I was yet an only child. 
 
 W was my "Willie's place of nativity. I remember the 
 
 parsonage, on its gravelly eminence, surrounded by a stinted 
 growth of hemlock and charred stumps of pine. I remem 
 ber the sad story of days which would make your heart 
 ache for mine, could I tell you all, sickness, birth, death, 
 came within the house. My lonely child-heart was separated 
 from the precious one, who lay months upon a bed of suffer 
 ing. In those times it was, my soul-life (strangely deep and 
 thoughtful, as I review it) consciously began. Yet even there 
 dawned the soft spring days, and smiled again the sun. One 
 such I think of, a mild afternoon in late April, when dear 
 mamma was first able to come out and stand on the green 
 plat which bordered our south door. The dandelions were 
 
 golden once more; the sun shone gently and warmly. Mother 
 2*
 
 18 MEMORIAL OP AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 
 
 was leaning on my father's arm. O, how my little heart 
 swelled and heaved, as I watched her, and the beauty of 
 earth and heaven, alternately. Then I first thought in 
 rhyme. 
 
 "Next, we would go to Lttchfield, dear ; an old name, that 
 must be familiar to you, and is associated in my mind with 
 many a vision of the picturesque, solemnly-quiet town that 
 bears it. There, in a mansion which dated back its exis 
 tence to the Revolutionary struggle, I spent one delicious 
 summer. O, what glorious food for my wild fancy, as I lay 
 in the deep grass of the yard, looking up at the sky through 
 giant trees ! The memory is like an Oriental dream to me. 
 I was at the time so frail in health as to be little confined 
 to books, and much allowed my own choice of pursuits. 
 That consisted in reverizing, while the little black girl who 
 had charge of me culled the dandelion-stems and strung 
 the gooseberries on long spires of grain. 
 
 "Then, if you were not weary, you should go to my 
 mother's once happy home, in the bosom of wild and count 
 less hills ; the house itself buried in orchard and meadow. 
 
 " Nor would I forget to introduce you thoroughly to my 
 1 City of Elms,' and to the hearts there that beat so kindly 
 and truly for me. 
 
 " Last of all, darling, we would stay us in my beautiful, 
 my blessed, my own home. O, how much those three em 
 phatic words express! And, if you should not love my 
 Avon, I should indeed know that I have a very partial 
 judgment."
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 THE hand which commenced this narrative, and penned 
 the foregoing precious memorials of Mary's infancy and 
 early childhood, weakened with the pen in its grasp, until, 
 at this page, it ceased from its labors. The mother and 
 daughter had been more to each other than is usually im 
 plied in that endeared relation. Their souls had become 
 knit together in a loving companionship, which seemed to 
 unite all that is tender in each of the various ties that bind 
 kindred to kindred and friend to friend. After Mary's de 
 parture, it was a sweet solace to the mother's grief to recall 
 the fulness of that life, now transferred to another sphere ; 
 and thus, against the shadows which hovered above the 
 closing sod, memory painted for the mother's eye a glowing 
 image of the loved one, now hidden from the eye of sense. 
 It was her purpose in this Memorial to present to the world, 
 and especially to that wide circle of friends who mourned 
 with her over so many blighted hopes, a transcript of this 
 image, as a key to the treasure so fondly cherished. Could 
 she have staid with us until the work was completed, no one 
 can doubt that the likeness would have been faithfully given, 
 with a vividnes^ and distinctness which should have won the 
 sympathy of every heart. But this was not to be, and she, 
 too, was called from our circle ere she had. fulfilled the lov 
 ing tusk. 
 
 It was most fortunate that, as far as she had gone, she 
 
 (19)
 
 20 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 had rendered her labors complete, and that she has thus sup 
 plied those points which could have been furnished by no other 
 skill. The true history of infancy and childhood can only 
 be drawn from a mother's memory; and, wanting this, no 
 after-colors could complete the portrait. These opening chap 
 ters, the key to the after-life, have been happily furnished 
 by the only hand which was competent for the work ; and a 
 ruder hand now takes up the fallen pencil. He is not a 
 stranger to the circle thus doubly bereaved, but cannot hope 
 to cure the disappointment which all must feel, that the Me 
 morial of one so dear was not wholly completed from the 
 one bright image in the heart which designed it. 
 
 The preceding narrative left Mary amid her growing at 
 tachments to the new Avon home. On her first ari-ival, in 
 the winter of 1839, she attended the public school in the 
 village for two months, until its close for the spring vaca 
 tion. During the next four years she was a pupil in an 
 excellent private school at Avon. This interval was a pecu 
 liarly happy and prosperous part of her school-days. She 
 made great proficiency in every branch of English educa 
 tion ; but arithmetic, and afterwards algebra, were her great 
 delight. The solving of difficult problems was one of her 
 recreations out of school-hours, and she never lost her relish 
 for it. 
 
 At a very early age she evinced great facility in composi 
 tion ; and her talent in this line was assiduously cultivated, 
 both in and out of school. Earlier and better, than all other 
 training of this gift, was that carried forward under the skil 
 ful supervision of her mother. She was taught, above all, 
 to think correctly, and then both speaking and writing cor 
 rectly followed, as a matter of course.
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 21 
 
 
 During this term she commenced the study of Latin, under 
 
 her father's tuition ; and here, as elsewhere, she was an earn 
 est and successful student. 
 
 Notwithstanding she had already given her parents the 
 assurance that a work of Divine grace had been commenced 
 in her heart, hers was too intense a nature not to be sorely 
 buffeted in its struggles after a holy life. She had given her 
 whole strength of mind to her studies, throwing into them 
 all her energy and spirit ; and, although so carefully watched 
 and guided and admonished, by the daily influence of a 
 Christian household, the cares of her school-life appeared to 
 wean her more and more from the pilgrim path in which she 
 had not yet been fully established. 
 
 About this time she had in her home a young compan 
 ion, twelve months older than herself, who had been received 
 to church-membership. This dear girl, who was really more 
 of a child than Mary, was one of those gentle, dove-like 
 souls, who are never ruffled. She was surprised at wit 
 nessing in Mary occasional ebullitions of feeling, often, as it 
 appeared to her, without sufficient cause; and once made a 
 remark upon her impetuosity, accompanied with the expres 
 sion of a hope that she was a Christian. 
 
 This led Mary to deep and earnest reflection, which was 
 followed by the abandonment of all hope that she was a 
 child of God. She even reproached herself bitterly for 
 having passed before her young companions as a Christian, 
 while wanting so much of the Christian spirit. 
 
 She was very reserved in regard to her own religious cx- 
 perienee ; but we know, from the revelations of after years, 
 that this step cost her a severer struggle than her friends 
 supposed. Her mother watched over her with intense anxi-
 
 22 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 ety. Daily did she carry the dear child on her heart to God, 
 and, as often as she offered a petition at the throne of grace, 
 was the case of the dear one presented, for the interference 
 of sovereign love. 
 
 In the winter of 1845 Mary went to Middletown to com 
 mence the study of music, and boarded in the family of her 
 uncle, Rev. A. L. Stone, then minister of the South Congre 
 gational church in that city. It was while there, and during 
 a season of spiritual refreshing in her uncle's congregation, 
 that her heart was drawn again in love to her Saviour ; and 
 from this she dated her conversion. In a letter to her cousin 
 Mary (who had previously entered the kingdom), dated 
 March, 1846, she makes an open avowal of her new-found 
 hope. "I hope I can now join you in praising the Lord for 
 his great goodness to us both. When I first heard the news 
 of your change, I felt very sad, for I feared that we should 
 be forever separated from each other. But now I hope, if 
 we never meet again on earth, we shall enjoy together an 
 eternity of bliss in heaven. I think that I, too, have found 
 the Saviour precious to my soul. O, pray for me, that I may 
 stand steadfast in the faith. Is it not precious to have 
 Jesus for a friend ? It seems as if every thing around me 
 was more beautiful than before, as if I could now see a 
 God in all his works." 
 
 We shall have abundant opportunity to notice the genu 
 ineness of this consecration, as it was illustrated in her after 
 life. From this moment she began in earnest her Christian 
 pilgrimage. It is true that she had, during the following 
 years, many days of darlmess, many doubts and fears, many 
 struggles against the temptations without and the corruption 
 within; and that she sometimes faltered, sometimes went
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 23 
 
 halting, sometimes cried out, in the bitterness of her soul, 
 that she could not see the path ; but she neverJ^t her hold 
 of Christ, or once fairly turned her back upon the goal here 
 set before her pilgrim feet. 
 
 The summer of 1846 was spent at home, or in visiting 
 friend:?, with snatches of home-study between. In the early 
 autumn, Mary, now in her thirteenth year, commenced a reg 
 ular course of study, under the tuition of her father and 
 mother. During the succeeding winter she gained a thorough 
 knowledge of the elementary Latin works, and before the 
 spring had mastered Sallust. 
 
 It was now more than a year since she had renewed her 
 hope in Christ; and, although she was only thirteen, the 
 maturity of her Christian character was so manifest that her 
 friends felt unwilling to deny her the blessed privilege of 
 enrolling herself with the followers of her Redeemer, and 
 publicly avowing her hope in his mercy. On the first of 
 May, therefore, she united with the Congregational church of 
 which her father was pastor. The season was to her one 
 of more than ordinary solemnity, and she could never allude 
 to it except in language that showed the deep impression 
 it made upon her mind. 
 
 The reader will be most interested in her own description 
 of the scene. 
 
 " It was a bright and beautiful Sabbath morning, the first 
 of May, 1847. Nature seemed hallowed by the sacredness 
 of the day ; the very flowers bloomed with a holier beauty, 
 and the birds sang a sweeter, more subdued lay. Earth 
 was hushed to peace. The sanctuary was filled with solemn 
 van-shippers. The sermon was finished; the loud chorus of 
 praise swelled upon the air, and sank again to silence ; the
 
 24 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 deep tones of prayer were sealed with the solemn 'amen/ 
 and all w^ hushed. A young, timid girl then stood forth, 
 with one companion, before the assembled congregation. 
 After hours of anticipation and anxiety, the trembler was 
 outwardly calm. I listened to a solemn confession of faith 
 from the lips of one who bore to me the twofold relation 
 of parent and pastor, and made it my own. My compan 
 ion then approached the sacred font, and was baptized into 
 the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy 
 Ghost. On my brow the seal of the covenant had been set 
 in early infancy, and I remained a spectator of the solemn 
 rite. Then well do I remember how my frame trembled as 
 I entered into that indissoluble covenant to be the Lord's 
 forever, and took upon myself that obligation, binding until 
 death, to continue in the fellowship of the saints, thereby 
 promising to watch, love, and pray for those who are heirs 
 of the same inheritance and partakers of the same hope. 
 Again the uplifted petition ascended for the blessing of 
 God upon the transaction; and well do I remember with 
 what soothing calm the concluding words fell on my agi 
 tated spirit, 'The Lord bless thee and keep thee; the Lord 
 make his face to shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee ; 
 the Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee 
 peace.' It was finished, and I was enrolled a member of 
 the church on earth ; and, I trust, through the grace of Him 
 who loved me and gave himself for me, a member of the 
 true body of Christ. How confident was I, then, that time 
 would never cloud my brilliant hopes, or weaken my high 
 resolves. The Christian life seemed one bright future ; the 
 narrow way, a path bordered with flowers ; the gates of the 
 heavenly city, speedily attained ! But now, although I have
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 25 
 
 just entered upon the pilgrimage, even so soon I see the 
 thorns by the wayside. The sun does not always shine ; 
 and, when the skies darken, I sometimes lose my hold of the 
 roil and stall'.' God be merciful to me a sinner!" 
 
 The young heart that assumed these solemn obligations 
 with such a deep sense of their sacred meaning, was not 
 likely to lose its trust, even though the way was rough and 
 thorny, and the skies should darken with threatening storms. 
 Not that its own strength was sufficient for the day of peril, 
 but He " who had wrought this self-same thing in her " was 
 One mighty to save, and he never suffered the soul thus 
 given to his keeping to be blinded to its ruin. 
 
 In the summer of 1847 she attended a private school at 
 Avon, taught by Miss Warren. This estimable young lady 
 had a lively appreciation of Mary's genius, and understood 
 her character better than any one out of her own family, who 
 had hitherto been engaged in her training. Under such 
 tuition, she made a rapid advance in her studies, while she 
 enjoyed u season of unusual peace and serenity of mind. 
 In a letter written to a schoolmate, during the autumn va 
 cation, she says: "Nothing new disturbs the quiet of little 
 Avon. The river still flows on peacefully; the mountain 
 towei's in grandeur above it; and night succeeds day, and 
 day night, as when the original owners of the soil met here 
 in bloody battle, or smoked the calumet, the pipe of peace." 
 
 But hers was not a nature to be satisfied with a life of 
 ease. She could not look out upon the peaceful river, and 
 cull the flowers upon its green banks, and have no thought 
 of the great sea to which its waters were flowing. The 
 mountain, which threw its deep shadow across this lovely 
 valley, did not shut out the world beyond from her thoughts.
 
 26 - THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 Not that she had one longing for its tinsel splendor or vain 
 pleasures; but she knew it was a world for which Christ 
 died, and in which she, too, had a mission and a sphere. 
 She did not reach after the future with day-dreams of 
 coveted joys, airy castles filled with gold or perfumes like a 
 fairy cup by the wishes of indolence ; but with solemn ques 
 tionings of how she could best live to fulfil the purpose of 
 her being, and be commended to God and her own con 
 science. In a letter to the same dear friend, written not 
 long after the one above quoted, she first alludes to these 
 heart-struggles, and relates how strangely she feels drawn 
 towards a missionary life. " It seems to me," she writes, " if 
 God should ever open to me the path of duty in that direc 
 tion, I could' cheerfully, yea, gladly, resign all to follow it. 
 Yet I feel unworthy such an honor." 
 
 This yearning after a future field of usefulness did not, 
 however, as it is too apt to do, give her a disrelish for pres 
 ent duty ; for in the same letter she adds : " I have been 
 earnestly longing to have the time arrive when I could do 
 some good in the world ; but I see that I have too much 
 overlooked the present. If, in the little sphere where I am 
 now placed, I do my duty, will it not be accepted, with the 
 sentence, ' She hath done what she could ' ? Ah ! here it 
 is I fail. If I am not faithful in little, how could I hope 
 to be appointed over much? The Lord give me grace and 
 strength to perform his will." Following up this wish for 
 present usefulness, she makes proposition in the same letter 
 for a concert of prayer, " on some part of every Monday 
 evening," for the conversion of a mutual friend. This pro 
 posal was accepted, and the engagement sacredly kept ; and,
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 27 
 
 when the object was accomplished, it was in after years as 
 frequently renewed in behalf of others. 
 
 The wintcifcof 1847-8 still found her in school at Avon. 
 The term closed on the 4th of April ; and, if we may judge 
 from the " School Oracle," an original paper, published by 
 the scholars for the closing examination, it was a most pleas 
 ant and profitable year to a large number of the pupils. 
 The morning after, amid all the joy which filled her heart 
 at the promise of a happy vacation, she went quietly back 
 to the deserted school-room, and " took a last farewell " of 
 the scenes she was to revisit no more. Thus, nothing linked 
 to the joys or sorrows of her heart was ever forgotten. 
 
 The summer of 1848 Mary passed in Hartford, Conn., 
 attending to music and drawing. In instrumental music she 
 was instructed by Mr. Gordon ; in vocal music she was a 
 pupil of the celebrated Mrs. Jameson, whose sweet voice and 
 winning manners she always mentioned with an ever-fresh 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 She returned to Avon in the autumn, and resumed her 
 studies at home. In a letter to one of her young compan 
 ions (Miss Lucy Yale, daughter of Rev. Cyrus Yale, then 
 minister of the Congregational church at New Hartford), 
 under date of Oct. 21, 1848, she thus chronicles a simple 
 event in her history : " I will try to describe, so that you can 
 imagine, how we all look in this dear little parlor. A bright 
 fire gleams through the crevices of the stove. Miss Bulkley 
 sits upon the lounge, finishing a drr-ss for me. and mother upon 
 a rocking-chair, sewing upon the same article, while I have 
 composed myself by the table to write. Yes, dearest, I am 
 actually this day being metamorphosed from a 'lily-child' to a 
 young lady with long dresses ! Can you realize that another
 
 28 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 month will carry me out of ' awkward fourteen ' ? Would that 
 all my bad qualities might depart with it. But no, that will 
 never be. Sad, sad, my dear, am I, to thinly that I must 
 some time forsake my happy, light-hearted girlhood for the 
 responsibilities of maturer life. Yet, why so ? The path 
 of duty is the path of happiness. May it be our earnest 
 prayer that, ' as our day is, so shall our strength be.' " 
 
 The reader will readily gather from this that her intellect 
 was not alone cultivated during these months of busy study ; 
 her heart was expanding under the gracious teachings of 
 a Divine instructor ; and the judicious counsels and still more 
 forcible example of Christian parents, were forming in her 
 a habit of constant reference to the will of God. Farther 
 on, in the letter referred to above, she quotes the lines, 
 
 "For all we know 
 Of what the blessed do above, 
 Is that they sing, and that they love," 
 
 which had formed part of a note she had received, and 
 adds : " I have since asked myself the question, ' Shall we, 
 who have mingled our voices together in songs of praise 
 on earth, be permitted to unite in the glorious anthems of 
 heaven, and to feel our hearts glowing with the holy and in 
 creasing love of God which constitutes the life of that blissful 
 world?' O Lucy ! many and severe are the trials we must 
 pass through ere our preparation for that blissful home is 
 completed ; and yet the grace of God will enable us to over 
 come all things, and endure to the end, if we will but seek 
 for it. Then let us go to Jesus, confiding in him as our 
 best and dearest friend, and feeling that, for him, and by his 
 strength, we can accomplish all things."
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 29 
 
 These are not unmeaning words, adopted by a child out of 
 a religious formula, but the solemn thoughts of a young 
 heart, looking upon life with an earnest sense of its present 
 and coming responsibilities, and taught by experience of the 
 only Source of strength. No one can doubt this who will 
 listen to the conclusion of the letter : " I hope I have not 
 wearied you with what was so interesting to me. Autumn 
 does not seem to me, this fall, as it has done in past years. 
 I used to look upon it as a time to indulge in bright musings 
 of a cheerful fireside and a happy home ; a time to frolic 
 among the withered leaves, and send my merry laugh through 
 the wood, and ramble with young companions, to gather ' the 
 last summer's beauties,' till, wearied with my own happiness, 
 I could sit quietly down to form glowing plans for the com 
 ing winter. Now, I cannot do this ; but I could sit hour 
 after hour, and look back upon the past, and forward into 
 the dim, shadowy future, till a strange sadness cornea over 
 
 me, and I almost dread the life before me." 
 3*
 
 CHAPTER IY. 
 
 THE last chapter brought Mary to the threshold of her 
 fifteenth year; the succeeding twelve months she dwelt at 
 Avon under the paternal roof. It was this year's residence 
 at home which bound the scenes of that valley so closely 
 to her heart, that no other spot on earth ever seemed half 
 so dear to her. She was unusually well and strong; and, 
 as she was studying under the tuition of her father and 
 mother, was permitted unrestrained intercourse with Nature. 
 She was never tired of this sweet companionship ; and there 
 was not a nook in all that valley, or the broad mountain 
 side beyond, which had not been visited by her exploring 
 feet. She had exchanged secrets with every babbling brook, 
 lounged gi'atefully under every protecting shade ; and, from 
 the misty mountain-top, her fancy, with tireless wing, had 
 taken far circuits into the dim future. In a letter, written 
 during the year to a beloved companion at New Haven, she 
 thus speaks of her attachment to these home-scenes : " This 
 is not, indeed, the home of my nativity, jjpd it may be want 
 ing in many of those hallowed attractions which cluster around 
 a spot where our earliest recollections centre, yet it is a dear 
 and precious home to me. Here my happy childhood has 
 been passed, and here, within a few months, new joys and sor 
 rows, before unknown, have followed each other in quick suc 
 cession. It is here the warmest affections of my heart bestow 
 
 (30)
 
 MEMORIAL OF AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 31 
 
 themselves, and imagination surrounds each loved object with 
 a bright halo." 
 
 One of the sorrows here noted was the illness of her 
 mother. Their souls were so closely knit, that one could not 
 suffer alone ; and every pang which the mother felt sent an 
 answering thrill through the daughter's heart. Happily, the 
 illness was not of long duration ; and the occasion of recovery- 
 was a solemn thanksgiving season in Mary's closet. The 
 discipline was to her exceedingly salutary. " In a letter to a 
 confidential friend, after the first outpourings of a thankful 
 heart, she adds : " I never before, it seems to me, felt eternity 
 so real, and life such a responsibility. Is it not a more solemn 
 thing to live than to die ? Weak and unworthy as we are, 
 how much we may do for our Divine Master ! " 
 
 Another sorrow, and the keenest because the most pro 
 tracted, was the illness of one of her schoolmates, a dear com 
 panion of her girlhood, who was stricken with consumption, 
 and slowly faded from earth. This grief was rendered in 
 tensely poignant by the fear that the dying girl, who had 
 never professed her faith in Christ, would be parted from her 
 heart with no promise of a reunion beyond the grave. Her 
 own spirit wrestled almost daily in prayer, that the deal* one 
 might be spared, at least until her heart was filled with the 
 peace of God ; and she urged all of her intimate friends to 
 join her in this one request. Her correspondence was full of 
 this earnestness. On her return from a short absence, she 
 writes : "I found my poor Marion wasting slowly, like a faded 
 rose ; and, in spite of the earnest pleadings of my heart, the 
 dreaded conviction has come, that her days are almost num 
 bered. Will you pray, love, that her sun may not ' go down 
 behind the darkened west, or hide itself amid the tempests of
 
 32 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 the sky, but melt away into the light of heaven ' ? O, how 
 can I keep back the tears, to think of one so young, so fair, 
 so joyous-hearted, bidding adieu to this bright earth, without 
 one cheering hope to light the pathway beyond ? " 
 
 These yearning prayers were answered ; and, as we shall 
 hereafter have occasion to note, the spirit of Marion left not 
 her tenement of clay until ripe for a mansion among the puri 
 fied of God's elect. 
 
 These alternating joys and sorrows still left much sunshine 
 for Mary's heart ; and, amid these varied influences, tempered 
 by a mother's counsels, new depths of thought, new fountains 
 of feeling, were opened in her soul. If that mother had 
 wholly failed in her duty, or been less conscious of the pre 
 cious charge thus entrusted to her, what a widely different 
 history had been the record of her child's after-life ! Some 
 hint of this may be gathered from the following extract of a 
 letter, written during the summer of this year : " Speaking of 
 vigils reminds me of the feeling I have often experienced with 
 regard to the Roman Catholic religion. It must, so it seems 
 to me, be very attractive, in its outward forms, to the young 
 and enthusiastic, whose minds are not fully enlightened by the 
 gospel. Would it be a hard thing for the ardent and credu 
 lous to bury all life's hopes in a cloister, if they supposed, by 
 so doing, that they won the peculiar smiles of Heaven ? I 
 have often thanked my heavenly Father that I am not early 
 exposed to such influences. I do think I am more easily led 
 into error than others ; at all events, I know I am not so much 
 on my guard as I ought to be." 
 
 It is not the silly and thoughtless who are most easily en 
 snared by blighting errors ; their very heedlessness makes 
 them less impressible. It is true that sluggish souls have their
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 33 
 
 peculiar temptation?, and all are more or less subject to the 
 currents of passion and prejudice ; but, as the ship in swiftest 
 motion is more easily guided than one at rest, so an active 
 and intense nature, if left chiefly to evil influences, is soonest 
 directed to the choice of its own ruin. 
 
 Mary's journal, commenced toward the close of 1847, and 
 continued at rare intervals in 1848, now became her constant 
 companion, and its records bear witness to the thoroughness of 
 her religious experience. Although of an ardent and poetic 
 temperament, her religion consisted in something more than 
 mere emotion ; it was a vital principle, not simply interwoven 
 with her habits of thought, but itself forming the basis of all 
 thought, and, in the main purpose of her life, dictating its 
 outworkings. Let no one suppose that, because her consecra 
 tion to God was made at such an early age, she had no wrest 
 lings with evil, no bemoanings for sin, no experience of the 
 sharpness of that contest which makes the Christian pilgrim 
 age also a warfare from the entrance at the spirit-gate to the 
 last wave of the receding river. It is true, she had few habits 
 of evil, and these not inveterate ; but she had bitter experi 
 ence of the deceitfulness of the human heart, even when under 
 the influence of Divine grace ; and the unsanctified longings 
 of its corrupt nature, the more formidable because of (lie 
 depths where they might hide, left her no day of wholly un 
 broken peace, until the last enemy was overcome. Some of 
 these conflicts are recorded in her journal ; others are briefly 
 hinted at, or wrung out of her tortured heart in passionate 
 exclamations amid the details of her experience, in confidential 
 letters ; many more were reserved for a mother's ear, and are 
 now sealed from earthly revcalings ; while, from all these, 
 glimpses, here and there, of the scene of warfare, from the
 
 34 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 occasional wail over temporary defeat, and the many psalms 
 of victory, heard from out the darkness of the strife, we know 
 
 that she entered into life through the same stormy seas that 
 
 
 threaten to deluge our souls. 
 
 The besetting sin of which she seemed most afraid, was a 
 too great satisfaction in the things of earth. Sometimes she 
 roused herself from worldliness by some such trumpet-blast as 
 this : " Weeks have passed, and no record of my daily life has 
 been made. Why, why should there be ? Imperfect is my 
 best service ; my heart the while is the scene of conflicting 
 emotions. Thoughts of the past, present, and future come 
 struggling up for utterance. When our very existence is 
 a mystery, when all around us reminds us that our sojourn 
 here is brief, and when the future life depends on the pres 
 ent conduct, how can we be satisfied with the paltry treasures 
 of earth ? Why are nc$ our thoughts drawn above and be 
 yond this lower sphere, to contemplate our own lot of bliss or 
 woe in eternity ? Why does not the heart-stirring question 
 oftener arise, ' Where shall I be when this corruption shall 
 put on incorruption, this mortal shall put on immortality'? 
 Alas ! most of our hopes and desires seem limited to this nar 
 row abode ! " 
 
 We have already spoken of her satisfaction in nature during 
 this year at home, and of the tinge of sadness it received 
 toward the close. Marion grew worse with the early frost ; 
 and Mary ever afterward recalled her memory with the first 
 tokens of the summer's change. During that year, how the 
 full .heart seemed divided between these varied, emotions. 
 She sits with her diary in her lap, gazing upon the autumnal 
 glories, until she cannot contain her joy. " How beautiful is 
 this scenery ! The mountain foliage presents every varying
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 35 
 
 tint. The rich crimson and russet brown intertwine wh^li the 
 pale green and delicate orange ; wliile, at intervals, the never- 
 lading evergreen stands out in bright relief. It is sunset, 
 and the departing beams cast o'er mountain, valley, and 
 streamlet a flood of gentle, holy radiance. A dreamy haze 
 i-c.-is on the hills, save here and there, where the retreating 
 sunlight falls, as if nature were smiling through her tears." 
 
 She follows, in the same strain, the departing sun to his 
 final setting, and then, by sad association, she thinks of her 
 1'ading, dying friend, Marion, and her enthusiasm softens into 
 a sad wail. "O earth ! beautiful as thou art, thou art no sat 
 isfying portion. I realize more strongly than ever the bless 
 edness of living, and the blessedness of dying, to those who, 
 in life or in death, are the Lord's." 
 
 The future of her lot was questioned with eager eyes during 
 the later months of this year, and often she rebukes her heart 
 for its overweening anxiety in this respect. She had early 
 felt drawn toward a missionary life, and the subject is several 
 times renewed in her journal. At first, she merely notes it 
 with a passing aspiration: " How I would love to become a 
 missionary, were I worthy; I have tJiomjIit rcry much of it 
 lutt'Ii/" It will not, however, be dismissed with a passing re 
 mark, and it comes up again : " I have thought of the mis 
 sionary work much, very much. O ! might I only dare hope 
 the Lord would call such a poor sinner as I to that blessed 
 work, how readily in His strength would I consecrate all." 
 And again : " I cannot drive that one question from my mind. 
 It gives me many conflicts ; may I be willing to do and be any 
 thing for God's glory." 
 
 She does not appear to have fully settled the question in her 
 own mind, the missionary spirit mingling with the desire to
 
 36 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 qualify herself as a teacher. She was moved to the latter by 
 the wish to add her earnings to the sources of family comfort, 
 soon to be somewhat diminished, as her father's patrimony was 
 nearly exhausted, and his salary as pastor of the Avon church 
 was insufficient for his support. At times there came between 
 both these cherished desires and her dazzled eyes, the bright 
 pictures Avhich fancy would weave of a poet's renown, the 
 life of authorship and fame. 
 
 Although not yet sixteen, she could not, if she would, have 
 been wholly unconscious of her poetic powers. She had never 
 labored to write ; poetry was not, with her, an effort. Often, 
 as she sat -with her diary before her, silent, from the multitude 
 of thoughts which crowded for utterance, each preventing the 
 other, she would break forth into numbers, and ease her full 
 heart with the soothing cadence of verse. It was not strange, 
 therefore, that her thoughts of the future should wear, at 
 times, this golden hue. This, however, she resolutely strug 
 gled to put aside ; and, as if afraid of her own weakness, be 
 gan to habituate herself to the thought of repaying to the 
 family the expense of her own training, by earning sufficient 
 to educate her brother. This dear boy, the object of her ten- 
 derest love, was now engaged in preparatory studies, but in a 
 few years would desire to enter college ; and, as the thought 
 grew upon her, she more than half resolved that she would 
 furnish the means. 
 
 But, first, to finish her own education was present duty; and 
 her parents resolved, after many sore struggles, to send her 
 from home to school. After inquiry in various directions, a 
 place was secured in the seminary, under the care of Rev. and 
 Mrs. John P. Cowles, at Ipswich, Mass. The principals were 
 old and tried friends, and the location was near to Boston,
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. . 37 
 
 where a brother and sister of her mother were residing, so 
 that she would not be sent wholly among strangers. 
 
 The struggle to tear herself away from home, at this time, 
 was one of the severest of her youthful trials. Home, to her, 
 meant something more than bed and board ; was even more 
 than the residence of those dearest to her. A thousand ties, 
 unseen by prosaic eyes, bound her to the charmed spot. She 
 had friends in flowers, in shaded retreats, in quiet little dells, 
 in moss-covered stones, in the deep shadows beneath the old 
 bridge that nodded so familiarly to her from the top of every 
 little rippling wave ; and, all the way up the broad mountain 
 side, yea, and upon its topmost summit, had she made friend 
 ships, and formed secret attachments. Nor did she forget to 
 bid them each a tender adieu. Ascending the mountain be 
 fore her departure, she calls over their dear names from the 
 top of the tower, and bids them all a fond good-by. Her 
 journal is her confidant in this farewell, so tinged with a pleas 
 ing sadness. " I have passed the shady gates of this rural 
 retreat, and looked upon the venerable mansion, and stolen 
 one glance at the silvery lake ; and now here I am, upon the 
 summit of the tower, with a most magnificent view spread out 
 before me. O for an artist's pencil or a poet's pen ! but I, 
 poor I, who am neither painter nor poet, must be content with 
 these struggling, half-expressed thoughts. On the east, lies 
 the blue Connecticut, in all its quiet beauty. Yonder, tower 
 tin; spires of Hartford; in the south, the prospect ia termin 
 ated by a bold peak ; and in the north, rise Mt. JTom and Mt. 
 Holyoke, with innumerable towns and villages scattered in the 
 foreground. But I turn from them all to behold my own 
 beautiful valley. The gentle Farmington winds at my feet, its 
 bright waters ever and anon gleaming through the foliage and
 
 38 MEMORIAL OP AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 
 
 sparkling in the sunlight. never did the spot seem to me so 
 exquisitely lovely ! 
 
 "Fair home of my childhood, how can I leave thee? One 
 last, lingering look at the wide prospect, and a sad adieu ; my 
 hour is spent. Farewell, each favorite cherished haunt! I 
 have visited you this once more, perhaps the last time. 
 Good-by, Good-by ! "
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 MARY left home for Ipswich, December 4, 1849, the day pre 
 ceding the sixteenth anniversary of her birth. This was her 
 first appearance at a boarding-school ; and the unfavorable 
 impression produced upon her mind by the striking contrast 
 between the system of training there pursued, and the home 
 culture, deepened the longer she staid. This fact is mentioned 
 without any intention of detracting from the merits of the in 
 stitution in which she was placed ; which is considered, as far 
 as the writer knows, one of the best of its kind in the country. 
 But Mary, like all young persons of her peculiar temperament, 
 needed a tuition widely varied from that which would be suc 
 cessful with a less sensitive nature ; and the Procrustean 
 method applied to a whole class, was sure to exceed, or come 
 short of the standard most favorable alike to her peace of 
 mind and general improvement. She missed, at the outset, 
 the lively appreciation of her wants and capabilities, which 
 had so drawn her toward the teaching of her judicious and ex 
 cellent mother. It was not that the lessons were loo severe, 
 for she expressly comments, in more than one of her letters, 
 upon the absence of that thoroughness of drill; "that search 
 ing process," as she called it, to which she had been accus 
 tomed. But she needed, on the part of her teacher, a soul 
 which would sympathize with her soul ; a tenderness which 
 would know from intuition, at the moment of contact, where it 
 
 was wise to press, and where it was dangerous to wound ; and 
 
 (39)
 
 40 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 a strength which was sufficient to command respect by the ex 
 hibition of conscious power without its indiscriminate and un- 
 needful exercise. Had she been sent from home, under similar 
 circumstances, one year before, the result would have been a 
 sad calamity to her ; as it was, the discipline was severe, leav 
 ing it still questionable whether it was in the main salutary or 
 injurious. 
 
 But, if she was disappointed in the school itself, how much 
 more in the daily life to which she was thus introduced ? She 
 was never popular as a child at school ; children could not un 
 derstand her (how should they when she was ofttimes an 
 enigma to herself?), and she could never give her love except 
 in exchange for love and confidence. Jealousy of her supe 
 rior gifts had, doubtless, something to do with this ; but her 
 own peculiarities of temper, joined to her extreme sensibility, 
 were oftener the occasion of her separation from her young 
 companions. She could not endure to be kept in the vestibule 
 of a friend's heart, and she would accept no half confidences ; 
 thus she was apt to be exacting from others, while there were 
 few who could measure the depths in her own affection, and 
 secure the same return from her. To those who could and did 
 do this, the treasure more than repaid the venture ; while to 
 the few she really loved, she was faithful until death. 
 
 The mention of these characteristics of her mental constitu 
 tion', will be a sufficient explanation of the reason why she felt 
 ill at ease amid the group of strangers of which she formed a 
 part. 
 
 She was too discerning not to perceive that the reason why 
 she was thus comparatively isolated, lay chiefly with herself; 
 and, too truthful to conceal this impression, or lay the blame 
 upon others, both in her journal and her correspondence, she
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 41 
 
 notes the fact, in tones of mingled self-commiseration and self- 
 upbraidings. To a dear frit -ml who failed at first to interpret 
 her aright, she wrote, soon after her arrival at Ipswich : 
 
 " For the first time, I feel alone in a crowd. All treat me 
 with courtesy and kindness, but none none is my friend. 
 Am I whimsical ? Notional ? YES ! I used to fancy that at 
 a boarding-school I should certainly find intimate friends ; 
 why is it not so ? Among so many, why do I not form some 
 real attachments? O dear! I am forced to the humbling 
 conclusion that few can love me ! that I am so different from 
 the rest of girlhood, as to draw none toward me by the attrac 
 tion of sympathy. Why should it not be so, when some who 
 show, in manner more powerful than words, that they do love 
 me even me sometimes express doubts whether they 
 ' really know me, after all ? ' 
 
 "I know that I am capricious and quick in my tempera 
 ment, and often conceal myself from my best friends ; but, for 
 all that, although I have a heart which cares not for the love 
 of the many, I still cling fondly and truly to the few. O dear, 
 dear ! how much egotism ! " 
 
 Even the assurance which her heart gave of its steady 
 devotion, was severely questioned, when she found herself pre 
 ferring her own pleasure on any account to that of her friends ; 
 for she writes in another place : 
 
 " How few friendships are constant and unselfish ; I think 
 sometimes that I am true to what friends I have ; but perhaps 
 I am mistaken." 
 
 Had it been summer, she would have found some compen 
 sation in communion with Nature ; but in winter, all that is 
 gentle and attractive in such communion, is sought for in vain. 
 
 " I find," she says in her journal, " no congenial spirits ; " 
 
 4*
 
 42 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 and during the whole of her residence at this school, she seems 
 not to have found one companion to whom she gave her entire 
 confidence. Those with Avhom she was brought most in con 
 tact, were gay and frivolous girls, whose most earnest long 
 ings were after dancing and the society of beaux ; and whose 
 most hearty dislikes were of family worship, a dreary Sunday, 
 and the long grace said before meal. She, who had never 
 known a gay and light-hearted childhood, Avas almost startled 
 by their exuberance of spirits ; and her inner life, with its 
 depths of emotion, its earnestness, its strange thoughtfulness, 
 appeared to them still more unnatural. She missed the blessed 
 household faith which made the love of God a constant pres 
 ence ; but this want, happily for her, sent her for comfort 
 where alone such a heart as hers could obtain it. After 
 recounting some of her disappointments, she writes : " Yet this 
 may be a necessary trial from above, to draw me nearer my 
 Saviour, and lead me to repose in him as my best friend." This 
 Friend did not disappoint her; ah ! when did He ever fail 
 the heart that came to Him alone for strength and comfort? 
 At first she can only trust. " It seems to me," she writes in 
 her journal, " that my existence would be one dreary blank 
 without my Saviour's cheering presence, and the bright 
 hopes of a better world ! " After a while, she settled down in 
 a little world of her own. She found a few pleasant acquain 
 tances but no intimate friends, and relied almost entirely on her 
 own resources for her enjoyment. She corresponded regularly 
 with her mother, writing to her every week or oftener, and 
 this was a great relief to her full heart. She did not allow 
 either memory or fancy to trench on the thoroughness with 
 which every school exercise was followed, even to the utmost 
 limit of prudence. But, when these were over, she had her
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 43 
 
 familiars. Soon after the term commenced, she writes: 
 "Whenever I am relieved from intellectual pressure, what 
 sweet memories come rushing over my mind. Plow often 
 ' some familiar, noteless thing ' recalls the names of the loved 
 and cherished. Sometimes, I become so absorbed in such 
 deep memories, that I am surrounded by a circle of laughing 
 girls before I am aware of it." 
 
 During this term, there was a work of grace in the semi 
 nary, and fifteen of her fellow students were hopefully con 
 verted. Mary took a deep interest in all the religious 
 privileges afforded her, both at the seminary, and in connection 
 with the ordinary means of grace, the prayer-meetings, and 
 worship of the sanctuary. When the services of the Sabbath 
 were less interesting than usual, she breaks forth in her journal, 
 not in ridicule of the preacher, but in self-condemnation, 
 either of the coldness of her own heart, or of her former 
 ingratitude when more highly favored. 
 
 There was an earnestness and directness in all her religious 
 exercises. She had stated seasons of prayer for each of her 
 friends ; and, at the village prayer meeting?, not unfrequently 
 selected some of her young companions as the subject of her 
 individual pleadings. The Mercy Seat was ever a home to 
 her ; a place of comfort and precious privilege, where her soul 
 was full of courage and light and peace ; a refuge in every dark 
 hour of trial and sorrow ; and, when the blinding storm came 
 so thickly, that she could see no ray of light, and there seemed 
 to come no answer from out the blessed Presence, she would 
 still cling to it and wait ; not patiently, perhaps, the soul in 
 distress is seldom patient, but with a well-taught despair of 
 help from any other quarter. 
 
 She had especial need of this source of consolation. Marion
 
 44 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 Chidsey, the dear young friend whose life was going out by a 
 wasting disease, grew worse toward the close of January, and 
 every symptom of change seemed to open a fresh wound in 
 Mary's sympathizing heart. To her mother she writes : " Can 
 it be that my dear Marion is worse? O ! you do not realize, 
 dear mother, how my heart sinks with the insupportable 
 thought, that she is fast declining to the grave, and I am so far 
 away that I cannot have even the mournful pleasure of speak 
 ing soothing words in her ear, and looking upon her sweet pale 
 face once again. ! how can I return to my happy home, to 
 miss one gentle greeting and the pleasure of one warm hand. 
 How freshly the scenes of the past rise up before me, the 
 daily task I conned with her, the long rambles through the 
 fields which we took together, the evening schools when we 
 sang from the same book, and our places in church, when Sab 
 bath after Sabbath we sat side by side. I have written her a 
 little note, but it has drawn so largely on my sympathies, that 
 my whole heart has gone out with it. All I can do is, to com 
 mend her to the gracious care of One, who doeth all things 
 well." 
 
 The tone of resignation breathed in the last line was not 
 recovered, as we learn from her journal, without a severe 
 struggle with her " native rebellion," which would not leave 
 the dear one in God's hands. The doubt which had at first 
 darkened her friend's pathway toward the tomb, had been hap 
 pily dissipated, and Marion had given decided evidence that she 
 was prepared to make a joyful exchange of worlds. Just 
 before she died, she sent to Mary a parting gift, a braid of 
 her hair and some flowers she had worn, with the message, 
 " Tell Mary, if we meet no more on earth, I hope we may 
 join each other again in heaven."
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 45 
 
 Tracing the tear-stained records with which Mary noted in 
 her journal each stage of Marion's sad decline, the words 
 deepening in intensity as the last 'scene approaches, we should 
 be prepared for an eloquent outburst of grief when the final 
 struggle was over. But no ! "With the last pang which the 
 loved one suffered, ended the last vain repining of Mary's 
 heart ; and her quick sympathy with the dear sufferer changes 
 to an exultant shout of victory : " Why art thou cast down, 
 O my soul ? Look up, and be comforted. Sorrow not for the 
 departed; but rather rejoice that one more is gone home. 
 She shall not return to me, but I may go to her. Sad heart ! 
 here is hope. Soon will death be swallowed up in victory ; 
 soon will heaven's bright glories open ; then, farewell pain and 
 sighing farewell tears and partings farewell earth with its 
 load of sin welcome immortality! 'The Lord gave; the 
 Lord hath taken away ; blessed be the name of the Lord ! ' " 
 
 Immediately following the announcement above noticed, 
 came the spring vacation, which Mary spent in visiting her 
 friends at Boston. Her heart, so long shut up to its own com 
 panionship, felt the natural reaction too keenly; and nearly the 
 whole vacation was spent in a thoughtless pursuit of pleasure. 
 She had, indeed, few opportunities for mingling in gay society, 
 and she indulged in no unwonted amusements ; but she gave up 
 her steady and constant communion with God, and delight only 
 in his favor, for a trial of earth's cup of vanities ; and the three 
 or four weeks of this experience prepared for her a season of 
 bitter repentance. "When she returned to Ipswich, and went 
 to her old place of secret prayer, then she felt the sad change, 
 and her soul cried out in the darkness of despair. To one of 
 the few friends with whom she held confidential intercourse 
 she writes :
 
 46 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 " I hope you may find for me a word of consolation some 
 where. I never knew every thing seem so dark before. I am 
 
 distressed with a sense of sinfulness in general, and yet I am 
 
 
 
 as hard-hearted as a rock in view of it. I want to repent, but 
 I can't. The sky is all leaden, and the air is so heavy that it 
 oppresses me. I have had the heartache so long that I have 
 a dreadful headache as an accompaniment. I do not take 
 delight in prayer, and I felt it to be a burden to go to church 
 on this blessed Sabbath. I do not love my Christian friends as 
 Christians with the old affection. I feel ashamed to confess 
 myself a professing Christian, while 1 exhibit such an incon 
 sistent walk and conversation. You Avould think, after all 
 this, I should be sunk in the depths of humility ; but no, if 
 you could see the pride of my heart, you would be astounded. 
 I am- a contradiction to myself! " 
 
 The letter contains more in the same sad strain ; but, toward 
 the close, there is a more bitter cry for help, which shows that 
 the tried heart, even in the depths of its misery, was seeking 
 for relief only at the Mercy Seat. And this she soon found ; 
 God was gracious unto her, and restored to her the light of his 
 countenance. With humble thankfulness she resumed the 
 unburdened intercourse with her Redeemer, and zealously de 
 voted herself renewedly to His service. 
 
 She appears to have obtained ease from her burden upon a 
 night, set apart, by agreement with her friend, for communion 
 with God. Who can say how much the pleadings of that 
 dear friend for her at the throne of grace may have aided in 
 this good work ? It is a memorable record in her journal. 
 
 "The anticipated season of solemn prayer and renewed 
 consecration to God, observed this night in concert with my 
 precious Emily, is one not to be forgotten while life remains.
 
 AN OXLY DAUGHTER. 47 
 
 r 
 
 After a long season of darkness and wandering, I trust that I 
 have returned to my gracious Saviour. O, how sweet it is 
 once more to feel His presence, as in days gone by ! "What 
 a sinful, erring child am I ! O ! the infinite kindness and 
 love of my Redeemer, who has lifted the light of his coun 
 tenance upon me, and given me peace, such peace as the 
 world can neither give nor take away,. My mind is filled 
 with sweet thoughts of that rest, where they who once enter 
 go no more out for ever. There is my treasure, and my heart 
 also." 
 
 This sweet comfort did not encourage her to sit down, to 
 dream alone of that rest. She knew that she must work if 
 she would look for strength ; and thus she adds, soon after, 
 " Methinks I am awaking to the beauty of an earnest life." 
 
 As the spring advanced, her heart warmed again to the 
 beauties of nature ; and, in spite of the many studies with 
 which she tasked her strength, there was no spot in all the 
 environs of her residence unexplored by her truant feet. The 
 sunny season came, with capricious and lagging footsteps, as 
 it ever does near our bleak, eastern coast ; but it came with 
 a double welcome to her heart. And here again we find her 
 craving " the poet's gift," but only that she might pour out in 
 numbers her appreciation of nature and its sublime teach 
 ings. 
 
 Nature was not to her merely a beautiful picture, or an in 
 spiration of delight, but a fountain of truth, whose mysteries, 
 interpreted by the written Word, were given as a refreshment 
 to the soul. Thus, wherever she went, her thoughts found 
 some lesson appropriate to the scene. The old cemetery was 
 one of her favorite haunts ; and, while her hands were culling 
 the flowers amid the moss-grown stones, her vivid imagina-
 
 48 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 * 
 
 tion would call np before her the buried dead, with strange, 
 earnest questions of their past or present state. Describing 
 such a walk in her journal, she says : " I passed by many 
 new-made graves, and paused to shed resistless tears over 
 one whose tombstone bore the simple inscription, ' Caroline, 
 JE. 16.' What thoughts did it call up of a grave in a quiet 
 
 valley, where the sod is not yet green. I felt a sweet and 
 
 * 
 
 subdued satisfaction in standing amid such mementos of the 
 past, and soliloquized, half aloud, ' Soon strangers will walk 
 above my lowly resting-place, and curious eyes will trace out 
 the name of one whose place knows her no more/ Then a 
 voice from the spirit-land almost seemed to whisper to me : 
 ' Death is but going home.' ' In my Father's house are many 
 mansions. I go to prepare a place for you ! ' ' 
 
 The Italics are hers. The quotation is not given as 
 prophecy. There are few, even of those who have lived to 
 old age, who have not had glimpses of the shortness and un 
 certainty of life, such as many superstitious people call " pre 
 sentiments ; " but it shows that such thoughts had no terrors 
 to her mind, and that she was walking the earth with pilgrim 
 feet, knowing that her rest was beyond. 
 
 Ipswich assumed fresh attractions in its spring attire ; and, 
 in connection with her botanical studies, she sought every 
 "vale and sequestered nook" within reasonable limits. Some 
 times this adventurous spirit carried her beyond prudent 
 limits. But her own pen shall tell the story. 
 
 " Every thing is lovely here. Though I miss my own 
 wild, picturesque mountain scenery, and many thoughts and 
 feelings it inspired, yet I have around me the beautiful in 
 nature. There is no blue mountain, up-towering to the sky, 
 on whose summit I can see the weary clouds at rest, or the
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 49 
 
 shadows of sunset fall ; yet my window is shaded by the trees 
 in full bloom, which fill the room with their fragrance, and 
 give a rest to two sweet robins, who wake me with their songs 
 in the early morning. All speechless things remind me to 
 be grateful for so much comfort, so much happiness. I have 
 pressed quite a collection of beautiful flowers, both wild and 
 cultivated. Every Saturday we take a long ramble in the 
 fields and woods, in search of stores for our herbarium. A 
 week ago to-day, we had too adventurous a walk ; and, though 
 we all came off safely, yet we experienced quite an escape. 
 Lizzie, my room-mate and Fannie F., another boarder, were 
 my companions. We walked about two miles from home, and 
 gathered quite a variety of beautiful wild flowers. After 
 rambling for some time, we lost ourselves in the wood ; and, 
 when we emerged, were on the bank of the river, nearly a 
 mile above the bridge, and opposite the ferry. Warm and 
 weary, we felt very much averse to travelling around, espe 
 cially as we could see our boarding-place nearly opposite to 
 us. So we asked the boy, who appeared to have charge of 
 the boat, to row us over. IJe readily consented, and we took 
 our seats in the boat. But I soon perceived, by its unsteady 
 motion, that we had an inexperienced oarsman. After a long 
 time, we reached the opposite shore ; but our ferryman, instead 
 of landing us on the sandy beach, rowed up to the dock, where 
 tin-, water was very deep. My companions, in their eagerness 
 to jump on shore, both sprang at once to the same side of the 
 boat, and thus nearly upset it. It half filled with water, and 
 Lizzie was precipitated into the river ! 
 
 " She screamed very loud, but neither Fannie or myself 
 uttered a sound, and I was, fortunately, never more self-pos 
 sessed. We seized her by the arms and hair, and, after much
 
 50 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 exertion, drew her back into the boat, where she immediately 
 fainted. Laying her head in my lap, I directed the oarsman 
 to land us at another point. Then Fannie and I, bearing the 
 exhausted girl between us, walked home, all of us wet, and 
 not a little agitated after the first scene was over." 
 
 Following this, in her journal, are many thanksgivings for 
 the escape ; and the whole record, for many weeks, is rich and 
 precious, but want of space compels us to omit much that 
 would add to the interest of the narrative. Now, it describes 
 her own quest after some companion whom she hopes to influ 
 ence for good. Again, it records a note from a girl she had 
 considered so wild and gay as to be almost beyond the influence 
 of religious truth, asking her prayers and Christian counsel, be 
 cause she believes her to be a sincere Christian. " Who am 
 I," asks the humble journalist, reviewing her own shortcom 
 ings, " that I should dare counsel any human being ? " And 
 yet, she does not refuse, and the two are seen together the 
 next day, with tears upon both their faces. 
 
 A few days after, her room-mate Lizzie, a sweet, affectionate 
 girl, showed Mary, at her request, the account she had written 
 in her journal of the adventure on the river. At the foot of- 
 it was entered, " 0, that I could be as good as my Mary ! " 
 Dearly as she loved judicious praise, nothing humbled Mary 
 more than commendation which she thought was undeserved ; 
 and, with this sentence ringing like an accusing monitor in her 
 ears, she flies to her closet, and, upon her knees, pours out no 
 feigned confession of her unworthiness. " I felt," she is writ 
 ing in her journal, " completely stunned, amazed, overcome. 
 I good ! 0, could she see my heart ; did she see my life as 
 God sees it, how would she recoil from me, as the chief of 
 sinners ! "
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 51 
 
 Towards the close of May, she became a little homesick, 
 and we find her trying to draw comfort from the daguerreo 
 types of the loved ones in the home circle. "Alas!" she says 
 " they do not satisfy the longings of my heart. I have looked 
 them over, one by one, and they are nought but shadoics ! " 
 
 At this time, she became so eager in the pursuit of k^P?l- 
 edge, that the standard of education which she had hitherto 
 conscientiously maintained, seemed to her not sufficiently 
 severe, and she notes in her journal a new division of her 
 time, to obtain, if possible^ more hours for study. This was 
 exceedingly injudicious, as she needed restraining, instead of 
 urging on ; her ambition being a constant goad to an exertion 
 too severe for the strongest physical frame. She maintained, 
 in addition to all her other tasks, two hours of silent study 
 every evening ; and, when exhausted nature craved relief, and 
 her head ached, as she says, " almost to bursting," she silences 
 its complainings with the thought, " The responsibilities of 
 womanhood are fast approaching, and I must not sink down in 
 fainlness, or shrink from them in despair, but meet them with 
 a brave and earnest heart." 
 
 She had many pleasant acquaintances, but she still clung to 
 INT isolating thoughts, and seemed never so happy as when 
 left, to herself. " I am alone. Alone ! how precious that word 
 has become to me during my life at Ipswich. I look forward 
 to an hour of solitude in my own room as a luxury." 
 
 Another record in her journal, just at the close of this May 
 (1850), shows her bitter anguish at undeserved censure. If 
 she felt moved to gratitude by judicious praise and was 
 deeply liutnMeil ]>y unde.-erved commendation, she was always 
 roused to bitter resentment by unmerited reproof. Such in 
 justice, owing to her peculiar temperament, she ever felt most
 
 52 THE MEMOKIAL OP 
 
 keenly, and it was always with her a temptation to evil. The 
 instance alluded to was a rebuke, before the whole class, for a 
 supposed fault which she had not committed. After "swallow 
 ing furiously, to keep down the rising words " of rebellion, she 
 succeeded in assuming an outward calm ; but the wound was 
 sorlfpind bleeding for many a day. The reproof represented 
 her as idle and inattentive ; and the injustice was the more 
 galling, from the fact that she was even then overtasking her 
 physical energies, in the prosecution of her studies. She had 
 great readiness of acquisition ; but she never allowed a love of 
 display to interfere with the thoroughness with which she mas 
 tered every point in her studies over which she passed. 
 
 She renewed her labors with increased energy, but with a 
 less cheerful spirit than before. " If I were not afraid," she 
 writes, " of making ambition my idol, I would struggle day 
 and night for intellectual superiority." 
 
 It is no wonder that, with all this mental excitement and 
 physical prostration, she should at last break down. On the 
 19th of June, she fainted at the seminary meeting, and, after 
 being carried out and partially recovered, again swooned sev 
 eral times, before she could be taken to her room. Not 
 withstanding this feebleness, she turned to her books on the 
 following day, although with a whirling brain, which wholly 
 unfitted her for study. 
 
 Her tender solicitude not to distress her parents, while com 
 municating to them the knowledge of her illness, was pecu 
 liarly striking. From a child she had shown a remarkable 
 sense of propriety in this respect, and was always careful 
 about wounding another's sensibilities. When she was a little 
 girl at her mother's knee, she reported a sudden death, not 
 abruptly, as a thoughtless child would, but, with tears, which
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 53 
 
 she struggled to restrain, said : " O mother, I've a sad thing to 
 tell you : little Georgie 'has no mother now." 
 
 And thus, amid all her distress, and over and above her 
 bodily anguish, she notices her " heart ache to think how much 
 solicitude " she is causing her parents. The latter, although 
 not realizing the full extent of her illness, or how much she 
 needed rest, wrote to her, urging her to come home, as but a 
 few weeks now remained of the term. But Mary still clung 
 to her studies. She had " finished the ^Eneid and botany," 
 but could not bear to lose even " a week's French." She 
 made a week's visit with her Boston friends, to recruit her 
 strength, and again returned to her studies, but without a full 
 recovery of health. Still, she struggled to continue, and did 
 maintain, her position until July 13, just a week before the 
 close of the term, when she was obliged to leave for home. 
 
 Her heart revived within her as she reached the summit 
 of the mountain, and gazed upon " the beautiful valley, with 
 its winding river, bordered by the rich summer foliage," 
 wherein lay her home.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 NOTWITHSTANDING the as'surance Mary had felt that the 
 home atmosphere would at once restore her to health, her 
 strength returned slowly, and she remained more or less an 
 invalid throughout the whole of the long summer vacation. 
 The scenes from which she had parted with such regret, when 
 she left for school, were associated with some sad as well as 
 pleasant memories, and the former she felt most deeply. On 
 the evening of the first Sabbath after her return, she thus 
 refers to the changes which most affected her : " This lovely 
 summer's day is drawing to its close ; I have retreated to the 
 study, and here am sitting by my favorite window, indulging 
 the emotions, glad and pensive, which throng around me. I 
 have attended church this afternoon, and now feel excessive 
 fatigue induced more by excitement of mind than actual weari 
 ness of body. I have once more worshipped in the old 
 sanctuary, surrounded by the same familiar congregation. 
 Since service, I have been reading Marion's funeral sermon, 
 which affected me deeply. A year ago, I saw her in perfect 
 health and loveliness ; now her body rests beneath the cold, 
 damp sod ; her spirit, perchance unseen, hovers over me now, 
 reading the sad tracings of my pen, and the more mournful 
 musings of my heart. I can only restore myself to com 
 posure by thinking of her as a glorified, redeemed spirit, 
 
 rejoicing for ever and ever in the love of God, the over- 
 
 (54)
 
 THE MEMORIAL OP AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 55 
 
 flowing Fountain, and holding converse with the bright host 
 which surround his throne." 
 
 At first these recollections and sad musings appeared to 
 grow upon her, and, under date of July 24th, she closes the 
 record with this significant allusion to her apprehensions : " I 
 am very weak to-day, and I do not know that I grow any 
 stronger. Perhaps this journal may be finally closed ere 
 long ! " 
 
 She seemed to have, however, no wasting disease, and with 
 rest and quiet, and careful nursing, the blood began once 
 more to course freely throughout her languid frame. She was 
 never lonely when she could commune with Nature ; and, 
 even in her invalid state, she did not tax the resources of her 
 friends for her own amusement. Amid her greatest weakness, 
 she writes to her dear Emily : " I have retreated to the most 
 quiet spot the study, which is fitted up as my sanctum. An 
 additional frame assists the lounge to support a mattrass ; my 
 shower-bath occupies an opposite corner. Is it not a very 
 comfortable retreat? Here I lie sometimes, at midnight, 
 looking out on the dark blue mountain, or upward to the silent 
 stars." 
 
 These watching eyes, that seemed to look down upon her 
 from their far height, found the door of her heart ever open to 
 their gaze, and she was never tired of giving them glance for 
 glance. In another place she writes : " I believe it always 
 makes my heart softer and better to look at the stars ; for their 
 searching rays seem to explore my very thoughts." 
 
 This is also commemorated in a few stanzas, written about 
 this time, " For Mother's Eye," and included, among other 
 fugitive pieces, in the collection at the close of this memoir. 
 She had written many verses previous to this ; but neither the
 
 56 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 piece referred to, nor any other she had thus far produced, 
 seemed at all to meet the wants of her soul. The visions which 
 she longed to embody in language, were too bright to be por 
 trayed by mere human words, and she could not at all satisfy 
 her own longings. While on a brief visit to New Haven, a 
 few weeks subsequently, she found sufficient strength to walk 
 with a friend for an hour in the moonlight about the beautiful 
 common. That night she records in her journal something of 
 her aspirations : " The quivering light was let in upon us 
 through the network of those glorious old trees. The State 
 House, alone, stood out in bright, bold relief, glistening like 
 white marble in the moonbeams. Fit scene to awake all the 
 romance in one's nature, and to rouse every emotion of beauty 
 slumbering in the soul. We had quite a conversation about 
 poetry ; and Mr. G., after quoting several passages very 
 enthusiastically, asked me if I overwrote poetry? I answered 
 that I laid no claim to the gift of poesy. O ! Will this boon 
 for ever be denied to me ! Perhaps the lyre, so silent here, 
 may be wakened at last in the upper temple, and vibrate with 
 the exquisite melody of Heaven, to be hushed no more ! " 
 
 It was during the quiet of this summer, as she gradually 
 gained in health and strength, that she fully decided, after many 
 prayers and heart struggles, to adopt for her future life, if it 
 was spared, the profession of a teacher. She proposed this to 
 herself, not without a full sense of its most irksome cares and 
 grave responsibilities. Under date of August 2Gth, she writes : 
 " I have felt very pensive to-night, as I sat at the piano, playing 
 some of my favorite airs. I looked forward to future years, 
 and imagined how, in after life, I might recall this evening as 
 one of quiet happiness and freedom from care, never more to 
 be enjoyed. I left my seat in the parlor, and stood beneath
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 57 
 
 the luxuriant woodbine which wreaths the door. I thought of 
 the life I must soon enter upon, my own chosen life, yet one 
 of hardship and fatigue, oftentimes of heart-sickness. How 
 little I realize the true nature of care and responsibility be 
 neath this sheltering roof!" 
 
 On the 3d of September, Mary again left home to commence 
 the new term at Ipswich. Her health was not fully restored, 
 and she felt a greater disrelish than ever for boarding-school life. 
 But this absence of outward comfort only served to draw her 
 nearer to that Friend, upon whom her cares were ever cast. 
 As the beautiful in Nature bound her not to earth, but seemed 
 to carry her thoughts upward to its counterpart in the heav 
 enly home, how much more did the very desolateness of the 
 landscape brighten, by contrast, the scenes in the city to come, 
 to which her pilgrim feet were journeying. Upon a rainy 
 Sabbath, the first after her return to Ipswich, she records: 
 " The storm still continues, but I feel an inward peace. I can 
 not but see that, when the sympathy of friends and the 
 delights of home are withdrawn, I cling closer to Jesus, and 
 trust more entirely in him for comfort and support in this life, 
 as well as for eternal blessedness in the life to come." 
 
 Her health was variable, and, on the whole, quite precarious ; 
 but she persevered in her studies, even beyond the limit of 
 prudence, her ambition needing no spur from her teachers. 
 She closes a day's record in her diary with the complaint : " I 
 am miserable in health to-day, numb hands, palpitating 
 heart, and hot, aching temples. 'Tis a problem whether I shall 
 be able to endure this study for even ten weeks. 0, how I 
 wish to be strong and well, and able to bear a double burden 
 of intellectual labor, but 'Thy will be done."' These moni 
 tions of life's frailty led her to examine anew the foundation of
 
 58 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 her hope. After one of these solemn seasons, she thus sums up 
 the result : " I have to-day been examining my hopes anew, 
 and I trust that I have been led (not without earnest and pray 
 erful consideration) to claim the promises given to God's 
 children, to feel that I am indeed one of Jesus' floc^, to 
 obtain some little glimpse of the rest in store for those who 
 persevere unto the end. O ! how precious seemed this to me, 
 a few hours since, as I heard ' the faith ' lightly spoken of. The 
 time of probation is short ; how soon will come the end ? 
 Soon earth will fade from the dim eye, friends bid farewell, 
 and death close every earthly scene ; then, through the wide, 
 opening vista, the departing spirit shall gaze upon the glories 
 of the New Jerusalem, and see the band of blessed ones, waiting, 
 with bright wings all plumed, to be its convoy thither, and hear 
 their seraphic melodies, sweeter than a^olian strains, as they 
 sing the alleluia. The soul struggling to be free, kindling 
 with new-born ecstacies, already breathing the pure air of 
 heaven, soon breaks the chain of mortality, and, in angel- 
 guise, swift treads the avenue to the courts above. The golden 
 gate opens wide ; from His high throne, serene in awful 
 majesty and love, speaks the Eternal Son, ' Come in, thou 
 blessed of my Father,' and the heir of Everlasting bliss enters 
 in, to go no more out forever. The portals close, and conceal 
 from us the sight of that felicity ; but we may hear its glad 
 praises pealing along the celestial plains ! O Death ! if this 
 be thou, where is thy sting? Thanks be to God, who giveth 
 us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ ! " 
 
 How like is this to some of the grand old music, composed as 
 a requiem for the martyrs, beginning with a low, soft wail, 
 and ending in a peal of certain triumph ! She seldom gives, 
 even in her journal, the long processes by which she was led
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 59 
 
 from darkness to light, or from height to height, in her Christian 
 experience. She mostly records the results, her sensitiveness 
 shrinking from the exposure of her inmost thoughts to the paper, 
 even though no eye but hers was permitted to see it. Especially 
 did she shrink from this exposure of her heart to others ; and, to 
 her most confidential friends, she seldom drew back the veil that 
 hid the presence-chamber of the soul. To her mother, " sit 
 ting on a low stool at her knee," was she most communicative of 
 her heart histories ; but this treasure (alas ! alas !) is not now 
 accessible. That there was a heart-life, full of the richest and 
 most varied experiences, seldom acknowledged in the presence 
 of others, the glimpses here and there obtained fully prove ; and, 
 when she did lift the veil, the privileged were conscious of a 
 vision never to be forgotten. Sometimes, in expressing her 
 sympathy for another's troubles, she lets in the light upon her 
 own. In answer to her dear friend, Leila, she writes, about 
 the middle of the school term : " As to those dark thoughts of 
 thine, my Leila, I marvel not at them ; I wonder only that you 
 have not experienced them before, they have so often been 
 visitors of mine. Sometimes I feel, dear Leila, that I am old 
 before my time. It is this constant fretting of the fettered 
 spirit against the walls of its prison house it is this which 
 I sometimes call ' heartache' With me, it is oftenest preceded 
 by longing aspirations for a nobler, higher, more earnest life, 
 and followed by a fit of despondency. Such feelings are part 
 of ourselves, and we can never shake them off, until every 
 desire of these yearning hearts is satisfied in the full enjoy 
 ments and activities of the world above. I once supposed that 
 such thoughts arose from the fact that I must carve my own 
 path in the future, and that this anxiety was its natural conse 
 quence. But, as I have hinted, I think otherwise now. I
 
 60 THE MEMOKIAL OP 
 
 believe that, if I were the child of affluence and luxury, this 
 would be the same. O, Leila ! I cannot, dare not, tell you 
 what wild, fearful, inexpressible, yet entrancing feelings, often 
 fill my heart. Many would term them idle romance; no, 
 they are full of deep, solemn, glorious and elevating truth. 
 But, I meant to talk of you and not of myself, and here I have 
 been opening a recess in my heart's sanctuary never before 
 unsealed. If these thoughts in you arise from the same source 
 as mine, and you ask my humble advice, it is not to strive to 
 conquer them directly, but to bury yourself in action, and if 
 they do not deserve a place within, I think they will speedily 
 disappear ! " 
 
 The reader will be struck with the many references in her 
 writings to future cares and burdens ; but her anxiety, in this 
 respect, was generally less a foreboding of trouble to come 
 than the economy of the good housewife preparing for the 
 coming winter. She was ever striving to embalm the sweets 
 of the passing hour, for use in the days of bitter trial in the 
 future. When her rebellious heart longed for a sphere dif 
 ferent from that in which she was placed, she schooled herself 
 to contentment, by recalling the fact that there was no state in 
 which duty, well performed, does not earn the promise of a 
 blessed reward. To a friend, who was almost ready to repine, 
 because her lot was cast where heroism seemed an impossi 
 bility, she writes : " Who can tell what your godly example 
 may not effect for the thoughtless around you ? Who can tell 
 but you may be the instrument, solely by the power and 
 beauty 'of a holy life, of turning some careless sinner from the 
 way that leadeth to death ? O blessed possibility ! " 
 
 Notwithstanding the "whirling of the brain," which fol 
 lowed almost each exhausting day, Mary still " rose early in the
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. Cl 
 
 morning and worked away at Cicero," and finished her term, 
 and its succeeding examination, without further interruption. 
 Her heart rejoiced, like an escaped captive, to return to its 
 home. " The next day," she writes, " like an arrow released 
 from the bow, I sped my way to my own Avon valley. 
 6
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A FEW weeks after her return from Ipswich, Mary readied 
 her seventeenth birthday. In a letter, written upon that anni 
 versary (December 5, 1850), she sums up, in a few brief sen 
 tences, the history we have been sketching, and brings herself 
 before us with a wonderful distinctness. We seem to see her 
 standing on the threshhold of womanhood, her heart chastened 
 with the varied experiences of the past ; half saddened by 
 life's changes ; but still ready, with a cheerful courage, if not a 
 buoyant hope, to meet the allotments of the future. 
 
 "Will you not let me weary you a while with myself? 
 Seventeen years ago, this day, a bright warder of Paradise, 
 who waited new employment, assumed the guardianship of an 
 infant who wakened into being beneath the bold, stern brow 
 of Mount Carmel. How fleetly, how pleasantly, glided away 
 the golden hours of childhood, it were needless to tell. Years 
 passed, and, in the first dawn of girlhood, the child stood before 
 the sacred altar, and publicly gave herself to God. Memory 
 follows her on, through a vista, six years in length, with its 
 possessions of deep experiences, gushing joys, and breaking 
 sorrows ; its gay hopes, and trying disappointments ; as the 
 many-tinted landscape of life gradually donned its soberer 
 hues, till the present era is reached, and the traveler stands, 
 with faltering footsteps, on the threshhold of womanhood, still 
 clinging to the past, and dreading to lift the veil of the future. 
 
 I am in doubt whether to smile or weep. One moment I look 
 
 (62)
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTEE. 63 
 
 forward sanguinely, beholding, with new pursuits, new useful 
 ness and happiness. The next, dear, faithful, old-fashioned 
 Memory lifts her kaleidoscope to my eye, and I feel ready to 
 exclaim, ' O that I were as in days and months past.' 
 
 "But not alone the visionary and ideal are present with, me; 
 the real and practical press close upon my heart. There is a 
 duty for each passing now ; there is a school in every present 
 hour. Emily ! plead with God for me. The responsibility 
 of existence is so real to me, that I am almost crushed by it. 
 To live ! O how infinitely more solemn, more awful, than to 
 die : the one consumes an inch of time ; the other swallows up 
 eternity. God mould us by his spirit, and strengthen us by 
 his grace, that we may glorify him in both. 
 
 " On Saturday afternoon, at sunset, I took a walk to the sum 
 mit of a certain ascent, where ' dear, sullen ledges, all the dis 
 tance fill.' On my return, I sauntered into the cemetery, to 
 muse close beside the dead. I shed tears over the grave of 
 one and another whom I had known and loved, and last I 
 turned to that of my angel Marion. My grief for her is ever 
 tearless. As I leaned sorrowfully upon the cold marble, the 
 last beam of the sun fell upon it, gilding, with sudden illumin 
 ation, the inscription : 
 
 ' Early, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew, 
 She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven.' 
 
 It comforted, while it saddened me ; and, stealing the agony 
 from my sorrow, left only that absorbing mournfulness, which 
 we all, at times, love to cherish. I passed out, and as I 
 crossed the public green, paused to gaze at the doorsteps and 
 narrow yard, where I played in early childhood, and through, 
 the uncurtained windows into the rooms from which I first looked
 
 64 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 out on a new home. All was deserted. My little flower-bed lay 
 neglected and in ruins, but one solitary rose remaining of all its 
 thrifty plants. A few more steps, and I was by the old school 
 room, with its time-worn stairs. O never, never, will come to 
 me days so happy as those which I passed upon its rude 
 benches. I lingered again beside the swing, where we be 
 guiled the summer recess. I reproved all mute objects around 
 me for the change, which, I knew too well, was within myself. 
 As I neared my home, I remembered the light, bounding steps 
 of the little girl who used to tread the very same path, and 
 her still lighter and more bounding heart. The exclamation 
 mounted to my lips, ' Even here I cannot be a child again.' 
 How much pleasure every one derives from reminiscences of 
 the past. Do you not hope we shall one day walk together 
 by the River of Life, and stand on some green hill of the 
 heavenly Canaan, and recall all our pilgrimage on earth, fully 
 understanding all the dark waters through which we have 
 passed, which now seem so mysterious ; recount all our 
 Father's parental kindness, and rejoice, Avith joy unspeakable, 
 in each other, and in Him who filleth all in all ? Death could 
 never seem unwelcome if we were sure of this. " 
 
 She apologizes for being so egotistical ; but the long letter 
 from which this was taken, was not wholly filled with herself. 
 The next day, in writing to another dear friend, she reverses 
 the telescope : " Let me leave other subjects, dear L., to ask 
 you how fares the world within ? Is sin any nearer conquered ? 
 Is grace any more triumphant ? How goes the battle ? Is it 
 an unwearying strife ? " And, a few weeks after, on the open 
 ing of the new year, she adds, to the same correspondent : 
 " Some who were wont to mingle New Years' greetings with 
 ours, are joining in the melodies of heaven. We are left a
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. . 65 
 
 little longer ; left to labor for the Master. Our turn will come 
 soon : a few short days and Jesus will take us in his arras. 
 Courage, faith, patience ! lie that endureth to the end shall 
 be saved. Do I weary you ? no ; I do not believe it ; our 
 theme is one of mutual interest ; our aims are one ; our trials 
 are one ; our joys arc one ; our reward one. When we join 
 hands, we walk faster on the pilgrimage." 
 
 Toward the close of January, Miss Warren, who was teach 
 ing the Avon private school, was obliged to leave, on account 
 of ill health ; and, at the urgent solicitation of the trustees, 
 Mary consented to supply the vacancy for a term of eight 
 weeks. As noticed above, she had but just entered her seven 
 teenth year ; but her marked success showed that she had 
 decided wisely, in looking forward to teaching as her chosen 
 profession. To much natural dignity of manner, she united 
 an intuitive perception of character, and a faculty of adapting 
 her instructions to the wants of each pupil; so that, while her 
 school was kept in excellent order, the scholars all loved their 
 teacher, and made excellent progress in their studie^yShe 
 had nerved her heart for sore trials at the outset, but m this 
 she was disappointed. The bitterness of her experience as a 
 teacher came later; and then, not so much from the necessary 
 burdens of the profession, as from the peculiarities of those 
 upon whom her comfort, was greatly dependent With this, 
 her first trial, she was abundantly satisfied, and thus speaks of 
 it : " So I am elevated to the dignity of a schoolmistress. 
 Don't you envy me? or docs not your fancy at all incline 
 towards this vocation? You know it is my profe^ion, and on 
 that account it is fortunate that I am so in love with it, that it 
 is emphatically my chosen field of trial, in which I hope, if 
 
 God spares my life, to spend many useful and happy years. I 
 6*
 
 66 . THE MEMOPJAL OP 
 
 commenced, three weeks ago, a term of eight weeks, with seven 
 teen pupils, most of them in advanced studies, although I have 
 six lads of Willie's age. My head and hands are full ; but I 
 am very happy, and enjoy myself very much. Let me give 
 you a little idea of my daily life. I rise at seven ; commence 
 the morning meal at eight ; and, after lingering an unreason 
 ably long time (so some say,) over the social breakfast-table, I 
 have just time to turn round once, and then don my bonnet for 
 the walk to school. I am monarch of all I survey until twelve 
 o'clock ; during the succeeding hour, I lay aside the dignity of 
 the schoolroom character, for my own wayward, girlish self. 
 After another session of three hours, I am again released. I 
 either ride before the tea hour, or spend the time in a pleasant 
 tete-a-tete with mother. The evening remains, my only in 
 terval for writing, reading, and sundries. Thus you have a 
 picture of my fatiguing, but happy life." 
 
 Her parents were delighted to notice that her new duties, 
 which left her but few intervals of leisure, did not so absorb 
 her^^ughts as to weaken her attachment to Christ, or induce 
 her ^5 neglect her religious duties. Her letters, at this time, 
 are full of the evidences of an abiding sense of nearness to the 
 Master. So much was this the case, that one of her corres 
 pondents replies, " Mary, I long to feel as you do ! ",, The 
 answer shows that it had not been spiritual pride which had 
 dictated the glowing thoughts that drew out this longing desire ; 
 it is as humble and gentle as if the praise had been meant as a 
 rebuke. " Do not, my dear one, ' long to feel' as /do ! O ! if 
 you knew the heartsearchings and heartachings, the painful 
 lockings backward, and the more painful lookings forward, the 
 sad doubts, and the fatal self-confidence, if you knew all 
 which makes up the private life of me, myself, you would never
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. G7 
 
 even think of such a longing. The only comfort I know of 
 for us both is looking away to Jesus ; looking at him, until our 
 hard hearts swell, and we bow in penitence; till that Faith, 
 which is now ' as a grain of mustard seed,' yield a safe and 
 wide shelter from every storm." 
 
 Mary was about to add another sentence to the above, when 
 the " storm " itself put her trust to the trial. Her maternal 
 grandfather, Dr. Noah Stone, of Oxford, Conn., whose genial 
 heart, poetic temperament, and simplicity of manners, united to 
 a highly cultivated taste had endeared him to her, both as a 
 counsellor and companion was called to his rest. He had been 
 feeble for a year or two ; but the announcement of his death 
 came at last quite unexpectedly. She resumes her pen a few 
 days afterward, to fill the sheet : 
 
 ' 31 y dear Kinily, Since last I handled my pen, I have passed 
 through the saddest, and most agitating experience of my life. 
 I have witnessed the burial of my beloved grandsire. The 
 news of his death came, at last, suddenly ; while I was writing 
 on this very page, the message arrived. Yesterday afternoon, 
 that countenance, heavenly even in death, was shut out from 
 my sight. There comes to my recollection at this moment the 
 beautiful tribute of a brother physician (Dr. Hooker, of New 
 Haven), who said, on beholding the lifeless clay, 'On that 
 benign face is written the history of a good man's life ! ' I 
 am very sorrowful ; but the first bitterness of grief has softened 
 into a lender and subdued melancholy, and I now take delight 
 in dwelling upon the new link that binds me to Heaven." 
 
 In a later correspondence, comparing an acquaintance with 
 the dear deceased, she says: "He has not the refined feelings, 
 the sensitive taste, the quick appreciation, the quiet humor, or 
 the cultivated intellect which dear grandpapa possessed. Never
 
 68 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 any body can be half so lovable and entertaining and angel- 
 like as grandpapa was." 
 
 About this time, there was a revival at Avon, in the parish 
 to which her father ministered, and her heart was very much 
 interested in the work. She even seems to have had a return 
 of the old missionary longing?, and again reviews her decision 
 in regard to the future. The revival resulted in many hopeful 
 conversions to God, but the intense excitement in her mind 
 was followed by that reaction, so natural to one thus constituted, 
 and we hear her voice out of the dim, uncertain light : " I am 
 gloomy to day. Life, in the future, looks dark and rugged ; in 
 the past, unsatisfying. I trust this darkness is the forerunner 
 of dawning." 
 
 The gray of morning did indeed soon lighten the east ; but 
 it was many long hours, ere she again rejoiced in the noontide 
 of God's countenance. The careless observer would not have 
 noticed these changes of feeling by any external signs. As she 
 says, herself, in one of her epistles : " There are deep places in 
 the youngest and gayest heart ; surely, there must be fathom 
 less recesses in a pensive and reflecting nature." In fact, 
 there is nothing more striking in her correspondence than the 
 changes in tone, governed, as they are, less by her own mood 
 than by some magical gradation of sympathy with the person 
 addressed. Her letters to her intimate friends would seem, to 
 a stranger, to be written by another hand, and dictated by 
 another mind and heart, than the one which dictated her ordi 
 nary correspondence. It is hardly symboled by a change from 
 a winter's landscape to the same scene under a vernal sky, or a 
 summer's sun ; it is more like a transition to another planet, so 
 entirely are the associations and belongings those of another 
 life.
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 69 
 
 Mary's school had been closed for several week?, and she 
 began to form plans for the ensuing year. She had rcsolVed, 
 with the concurrence of her parents, not to attempt a renewal 
 of her boarding-school life. She had fulfilled its duties faith 
 fully during her residence at Ipswich, but, for reasons already 
 stated, her memory of it was the least satisfactory to her of all 
 the associations of her school-days. In a hasty note, penned 
 to a schoolmate, she says : " Shall I congratulate, or lament 
 with you, upon the close of your life as a school-girl ? Per 
 haps you may answer, both. As for myself, I must say, that, 
 of late, the restraints and peculiar drill of a boarding-school, 
 have become rather irksome to me ; and, though I should be 
 very loth to abandon study, yet it would give me no great pain 
 to feel that my days of pupilage at a boarding-school were 
 numbered." 
 
 Ever keeping in mind the profession for which she was pre 
 paring, she wished especially to obtain a better knowledge of 
 French, with a more correct pronunciation than she could 
 acquire from English lips, and also to give more time to the 
 practice of music. Both these objects she at last secured, by a 
 residence in the family of Mons. Roberti,at New Haven. This 
 gentleman had formerly been professor of the French lan 
 guage in Yale College, and was always a most successful 
 teacher. His wife had been for many years an assistant 
 ti-achcr in one of the most celebrated of the New Haven pri 
 vate schools, and they had just commenced an establishment of 
 their own. Mary resided in the family, where French was 
 spoken ; received her lessons from Mr. Roberti, and enjoyed 
 the tuition of a celebrated professor of music who came to the 
 house for that purpose, but she was not attached to the " school," 
 and beyond the specific engagements, her time was at her own
 
 70 THE MEMORIAL OF AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 
 
 disposal. She taught vocal music to a little class made up 
 of ihe children of some of the city pastors and officers of- the 
 college ; and thus, in part, defrayed the expenses of her own 
 tuition. 
 
 Before leaving home to fulfil this engagement, she once 
 more, as of old, took a tender farewell of each dear scene in 
 the home valley. It was in one of these excursions, accom 
 panied by a friend, that she hastily penned a few lines in a 
 sylvan retreat, where poetry seemed the natural language of 
 the heart. These lines were preserved by her companion, and 
 are subjoined : 
 
 " The matin music of the forest choir, 
 The murm'ring of the gushing waterfall, 
 The distant rising of the village spire, 
 The hum of labor from the workman's hall, 
 All speak aloud to our responsive hearts ; 
 And, as our spirits sorrow or rejoice, 
 Like some vast harmony of various parts, 
 They give each deeper, subtler, feeling voice."
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE summer of 1851, during which Mary prosecuted her 
 studies at New Haven, in the family of Mons. Roberti, was most 
 gratefully remembered by her as the happiest period she ever 
 passed, away from her paternal home. Allusion has already 
 been made to her few most intimate friends. One of these, 
 Miss Emily T. -Hubbard, was a resident of New Haven, and 
 the charm of her society first attracted Mary to the city. 
 Afterwards, Miss Charlotte R. Andrew, also of New Haven, 
 daughter of a retired clergyman, was added to her list of inti 
 mates, and became almost equally beloved ; she is the " Lottie," 
 so frequently referred to in subsequent chapters. Miss Lucelia 
 Thompson, one of her Avon schoolmates, was also at this 
 time at school in New Haven ; she is the Leila so often 
 alluded to in her writings, and was ever most precious to her heart. 
 These three are here especially mentioned, not only because 
 they were united in the bonds of a mutual love, but because 
 they formed for themselves peculiar ties, under the mystical 
 name of a secret society, which pledged them to an affectionate 
 regard for each other's happiness here and hereafter. 
 
 This society or " Chorus," was only spoken of as tho " C. C. 
 C.," and there is no record that it ever included more than the 
 four whose names are above given. But its exercises for 
 mutual improvement were hallowed with prayer and praise; 
 
 and the friends thus connected, though now separated, no more 
 
 (71)
 
 72 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 to meet on earth, shall renew that friendship in a sublimer 
 chorus above. 
 
 While at New Haven, Mary enjoyed the ministrations of 
 Rev. Dr. Bacon; and, by request of her friend Emily, became 
 a teacher in the Broadway Sunday-school, then, if we mistake 
 not, a mission school. She never formed any engagement 
 lightly or without a more than ordinary consideration of its 
 responsibility. That she accepted this trust after serious 
 reflection, is proved by the following entry in her journal : "For 
 the second time in my life, I have assumed the responsibilities 
 of one who instructs others in the way of salvation. May the 
 Spirit of Wisdom from above aid me in a work, for which I 
 am so totally unworthy. I find the Saturday evening teachers' 
 meetings interesting and profitable. My only fear, at present, 
 is, that I shall be called to account for the misimprovement 
 of all these privileges." 
 
 A teacher who engages in this work, because it is both a 
 duty and a privilege, who shows a proper estimate of its im 
 portance, and, after seeking inspiration from the Fountain of 
 Wisdom, puts herself in the way of an answer to her prayer by 
 a faithful study of the Word of God in private and at the 
 teachers' meetings, is not apt to fail ; and the reader will not 
 be surprised to learn, that Mary was very useful in the good 
 work. The extract we have quoted, brief as it is, contains a 
 a hint for every Sunday-school teacher whose eye shall rest 
 upon this page. A hearty love for the work, and a trust in 
 God, which does not lead to any slackness in the use of means, 
 are the true elements of success. 
 
 In addition to her ordinary practice of music, Mary also 
 attended the choir meetings of the church where she worshipped
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 73 
 
 and regularly aided by her voice in the praises of the 
 sanctuary. 
 
 Her arrangements for study wefe just suited to her peculiar 
 temperament. She was too thorough and conscientious to 
 need outside pressure ; she had the best of tuition in her 
 French and music ; and she was free from the irksome drill of 
 a routine, not suited to her need and below her capabilities. 
 She continued to read Latin, and prosecute her study of math 
 ematics and intellectual philosophy. Best of all, she had the 
 luxury of a room to herself, where she could cherish and 
 nurture the life of the soul, by holding frequent communion 
 with God. This opportunity for solitary thought she had 
 sadly missed at Ipswich ; and now, although she daily enjoyed 
 the society of her three dearest maiden friends, she still clung 
 with affection to her old love. The trains of thought were 
 ever fresh and varied, but they were all colored by the per 
 vading influence of a deep personal piety. How ^often does 
 her journal bear witness to the preciousness of these seasons, 
 in language like the following : " ! how I love these sweet 
 hours of retirement. Again I have given my heart to God, 
 and felt his blessing resting on the consecration." 
 
 She seemed to have a peculiar sense of the subtle deceit- 
 fulness of the human heart, and her self-examinations were, 
 therefore, very searching. "And this," writing of a Sabbath's 
 services, "is a brief sketch of the outward day. How is it 
 within? Is this succession of religious exercises all the life 
 I have lived during these hallowed hours ? I cannot write 
 the answer upon paper. I love not to speak it within the 
 apartments of my own heart ; for every word I utter there 
 echoes and reechoes through the long corridors and resounding 
 halls, to remind me that its vibrations" reach the ear of God."
 
 74 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 These heart-searchings were not always satisfactory, as 
 many a record shows. Here is one : " The mellow hours of 
 this Sabbath sunset are on the landscape, as I seat myself to 
 take a review of God's day of rest. This morning, I felt my 
 Father's presence near me, but I allowed trifling thoughts to 
 obtain possession of me, and so lost Heaven's sunshine ; and, 
 to-night, earth, earth holds me in thrall ! " 
 
 She could not trifle thus with her most solemn convictions, 
 without severe rebuke from her sensitive conscience ; and her 
 soul was left pining amid the darkness, throughout the whole 
 of the week, as we find by the following extract from a lettei*, 
 written to her mother on the succeeding Saturday evening : 
 " This head aches too hardly, and this poor body is too weary, 
 to allow me to be present' at teacher's meeting to-night ; .so, 
 here, in my ' sanctum sanctorum,' I am seated, pen in hand, to 
 fasten to paper a few desultory thoughts for your perusal. A 
 better remedy this, you will say, for the heartache than the 
 headache. My spirit is near you on this dear Saturday even 
 ing, which is, at home, a calm, quiet preparation-hour for the 
 hallowed Sabbath ; a holy time, when a hush is on the house, 
 a soothing influence in the heart. When you have read thus 
 far, I imagine you will say, ' there are shadows upon your 
 path to-night, my child,' for you so seldom fail to discern the 
 phases of a soul that can veil itself to others. Nor would I 
 have it otherwise. It is consoling to feel that at least one 
 human friend sees me, knows me, in all my unworthiness, and 
 still loves. Yes, dear mother, there are some clouds in my 
 mental horizon, but I own that they are the fruit of my own 
 heart-wanderings from that source of happiness where I pro 
 fess to find my constant supply. I have been drinking awhile 
 at ' broken cisterns/ and, although my eyes are opened to see
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 75 
 
 their insufficiency, I am still sorrowful. I need not ask you, 
 dear mother, to send up your prayer for me, that I may be 
 made, a partaker of that living water, of which, if a man drink, 
 he shall never thirst." 
 
 The light for which she longed dawned upon her with the 
 Sabbath morning; but the discipline had been severe, and was 
 not soon forgotten. 
 
 The reader may ask: "Was she never playful? did she 
 always write in a serious strain ? " She had a quick apprecia 
 tion of the humorous, and was oftentimes sprightly and buoy 
 ant in spirit ; but this was the effervescence of her life, and 
 of too subtle a character, in most cases, to fasten upon paper. 
 She was always too sensitive in regard to her playful moods, 
 and too much afraid lest her mirth should degenerate into 
 boisterous folly. 
 
 In a letter, written to her mother but a few days after the 
 above, she indulges in several pages of humorous description, 
 but closes with an injunction not to expose this merry strain 
 to another's eye. " There has always been a corner for non 
 sense in my brain. You, dear mother, are one of the favored 
 few who enter it; please be careful to shut the door on going 
 in and coining out." 
 
 Her term at New Haven was drawing to a close. She 
 records that, although directing her own time, she had but 
 twice broken in upon her regular hours for study during the 
 whole term, and she had made great proficiency in her 
 studies. She had been very partial to Latin and Greek, 
 and had mastered a little German, but seemed to have no 
 "natural atlinity " for French, and only studied it to qualify 
 herself a> a teacher. The following, to her mother, is a little 
 exaggerated, being written in a playful style, but in spirit it
 
 76 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 betrays her estimate of the language : " The weeks I have 
 spent here have passed so fleetly, that they would seem like a 
 dream, did I not find myself often and involuntarily turning my 
 thoughts into French, into disagreeable, distasteful French, 
 that glides off the tongue so quickly there is no time for the 
 heart to speak in it. I never could converse long in this lan 
 guage with one I loved. However, lest you think I neglect 
 what I do not fancy, I will tell you what Mr. Roberti said at 
 the close of yesterday's recitation : ' You improve day by day, 
 mademoiselle. You compose with happiness.' This is as 
 literal a translation as I can give you." 
 
 Her father and mother had several times visited her since 
 she left them in the late spring, the distance being so short ; 
 and she had become so much attached to the place, that she 
 almost clung to it as to a second home. There is something 
 peculiarly fascinating, to a poetic nature, in the City of Iillms. 
 The noble old trees shut out the glare of the sun, and render 
 the shaded walks well fitted for studious reflection and quiet 
 thought. An air of contentment and calm repose broods like 
 an atmosphere over the Avhole city. An unusually large num 
 ber of tasteful and beautiful residences line the avenues, and 
 they have about them the home-like aspect peculiar to the 
 better class of New England country dwellings, but not often 
 seen in the city. She had learned to love even the room she 
 occupied, as the old patriarchs, in their wanderings, became 
 attached to the scenes where they had received especial 
 mercies from God. She planned to make a brief visit with 
 some family friends at Wilton, before she returned to Avon, 
 and her mother was expected to see her at New Haven before 
 she left. In view of this pleasure, she writes : " How I long 
 to see you, my dearest mother ! How I should love to have
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 77 
 
 you again in my little room, my little room, which so many, 
 many happy, and some troubled, hours have made dear and 
 sacred to me." She alludes, also, to the last meeting of the 
 chorus. " Our C. C. C. met there for the last time. 0, these 
 last times ! they wring some sorrow out of my heart, I assure 
 you." 
 
 Amid these parting days came also one of her seasons of 
 darkness. She " had allowed," as she says, " every tiling to 
 chafe and worry " her, and she forgot her usual refuge at the 
 throne of grace. " This matter," alluding to one of the an 
 noyances, " has had its influence in preparing for me a trial, 
 which, without it, would have come soon. The hurricane 
 which swept over my soul last week never will be forgotten. 
 Ah, it is I who have wrapped my future in clouds. Once, the 
 path of duty was clear to me as the day, and I felt ready to 
 walk in it with courage and joy. But I undertook awhile to 
 serve two gods, and then I lost my guiding star, and was left, 
 like the creatures of John Bunyan's dream, to grope about on 
 the hillsides, in thick darkness, stumbling over frightful skele 
 tons of my old hopes. Out of this sad state, God, in mercy, 
 delivered me ; but I have never since been allowed to sec 
 clearly the way in which I am to go." 
 
 Alas ! poor, sinful heart. This clear vision of her onward 
 path, had made her too confident in herself, and too negligent 
 of her only Guide ; and God, in mercy, narrowed the vision, 
 that she might be forced to lean wholly on his arm ! 
 
 In parting from her dear Xo\v Haven friends, she reserved 
 Emily until the last ; and, fearing that wJien the farewell hour 
 should come, her choking utterance might fail to express all 
 that she would say, she poured out her heart in a letter, in
 
 78 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 which are shadowed forth those poetical thoughts of the many 
 first and last times, which, afterwards, were woven into verse. 
 
 " When I took my pen, my thoughts were full of the pros 
 pect of leaving New Haven. These last two weeks have 
 been one continued good-by to me. And is this much-talked- 
 of, oft-anticipated summer in New Haven ended ? Yes. It 
 seems to me like an episode in my life ; a strange living-out 
 of a dream, of which, at times, I can recollect no one feature; 
 but the whole blended scene, like some work of the old artists, 
 leaves an impression of deep, mellow beauty in the soul. O 
 how much have I enjoyed, how much thought, how much 
 loved, how much hoped, how much suffered (for with me this 
 fourth clause is inseparable from the other three) ; and it is 
 over it never can be lived again. "Were I to return here, 
 and live a score of years, there could not be another ' first 
 summer.' I doubt if there could be another adieu, such as I 
 am saying now ! The morning my dear mother left, as she 
 turned from my room, I remarked : ' This is the last time we 
 shall ever enter this room together ; there is a last time to 
 every thing on earth.' She simply answered, ' Yes, and afrrst 
 time' Ah! it is so many of these Alphas and Omegas, fol 
 lowing in such swift succession, that have made my life, during 
 three months past, so poetical, and some of it sadly so, too. 
 You will think me visionary; and, having no talent at pleading, 
 I undertake not to refute the charge. If I am so, reality only 
 increases the tendency. And, in severing the ties that bind me 
 here, no, that can never be, in taking leave of their out 
 ward representatives, I have left you to the last. Having first 
 narrowed the circle, till the ' Chorus ' alone remained, I have 
 (one by one) reconciled myself to taking leave of them ; all 
 save Emily. To think that only once more I can listen to
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 79 
 
 your well-known ring at the door ; only once more meet and 
 clasp you in my arms ; that soon, again, correspondence will be 
 our only means of heart communion. ******* y ou 
 say that ' it is harder to- be left behind, than to go ; ' it is so, 
 Emily. God above be with you, my darling ; be Better, and 
 nearer, and dearer to you, than every thing else, and fit you, 
 by every dark hour here, for the brightness of his presence 
 hereafter. ' Faithful is He that calleth you, who also will do 
 it.' Let us trust ! Let us bless a loving Providence for all 
 the pain of our lot. We have both of us learned some new 
 lessons, some hard lessons. Did not He teach them to us ? 
 How know we but, when the next leaf in life's book is turned, 
 the page will be an illuminated one ? How know we that, in 
 a little while, the. rainbow will not span the cloud ? As Wil 
 liam Mountford says, in his Euthanasy, " Thousands of years 
 I had to wait, before being born, so that to wait a short while 
 before being blessed, is q, little thing, very.' " 
 
 There are more farewell words in the same strain ; but this 
 will serve to show that, if she made but few friends, she deeply 
 valued the few, and how her heart clung to every thing she 
 loved. There was no hypocrisy in these passionate expres 
 sions of attachment ; for, after the farewells had all been said, 
 she spent an hour upon her knees, before the open window, 
 pouring into the face of the gentle moonlight, and (may we 
 not hope ?) into the bosom of her God, all these yearnings of 
 her heart.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE week that succeeded her summer at New Haven, Mary 
 spent in a pleasant visit at the residence of her father's 
 brother, at "Wilton, Connecticut. He occupied the old paternal 
 homestead ; and, in addition to its many rural charms, not one 
 of which Avas wasted upon one so keenly alive to the beauties 
 of nature, the place possessed peculiar attractions for her, as 
 the early home of her own dear father. In a quiet Saturday 
 evening's chat with her journal, she thus describes her journey 
 and reception ; the date is August 9, 1851 : " The close of an 
 other week brings me beneath the old roof, where my father 
 spent his boyhood. I left New Haven at nine o'clock, this 
 morning ; came by railway as far as Norwalk, where myself 
 and baggage were transferred to a private carriage, with cousin 
 Henry as driver. We had a pleasant ride of seven .miles, 
 which brought us to Wilton, and to the low, white cottage, 
 with its vine-wreathed porches and overshadowing fruit-trees, 
 where my uncle resides. This is the old family dwelling-place ; 
 and, as I alighted from the carriage, I felt that where I stood, 
 almost a stranger, my own dear father had played in child 
 hood, or walked, with meditative step, in his early manhood. 
 But I had little time for such reflections, ere a boisterous greet 
 ing from the house-dog saluted us, and the cordial ' How do 
 you do ? ' of two tall boys at the gate, in whom I succeeded in 
 recognizing my baby cousins, grown up, made me aware that 
 something more than sentiment was expected of me. By this 
 
 (80)
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 81 
 
 time, my aunt appeared beneath the rustic porch of the ' end 
 door, ' and, giving Stephen and Bennie a hasty kiss, I met her 
 extended hand in mine, received a fiearty embrace, and, in less 
 than fifteen minutes after, was discussing the bountiful dinner 
 spread before me. The afternoon has been passed principally 
 in answering numerous inquiries about friends at home. My 
 uncle came home from his work at supper time, and joined his 
 exclamations with the rest, at the change three years had made 
 in my appearance. Towards evening, I took a walk, with 
 Henry, upon the river's bank, in the rear of the house; then 
 we had a chat for an hour or two in the parlor ; and here I 
 am, in the quiet 'spare chamber,' with its striped home-fa.-h- 
 ioned carpet, its little snowy-curtained toilette-table, its white- 
 spread bed, its solemn, stiff-backed chairs, which seem to defy 
 one to stir them an inch from their accustomed places, and 
 that Sunday look pervading the whole which makes me walk 
 with softened footfall, and peer cautiously into the depth of 
 the long room, unilluminated by my flickering candle, or the 
 moonbeams which struggle in through the low windows. 
 There is one who ought to share all this with me, whom I left 
 behind in her New Haven home, obliged to retract her promise 
 of coming with me. My parting from her was sad, as, indeed, 
 AV;IS all the last week of my stay in- the city of elms, a 
 lingering good-by to the scenes and friends of the .summer. I 
 made a little call upon Grandma Stone, at the Park House, as 
 she passed through the city on her way to Lyme ; this was the 
 brightest spot of the week. But I have not time to dwell 
 upon the past ; the candle expires, and, in dying, points to the 
 bed. Soon, sunk in its downy folds, I sleep ; pleasant thoughts, 
 and anticipations of the week to come, flit across my mind as 
 the heavy eyelids close."
 
 82 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 Notwithstanding all this anticipated pleasure, the hours 
 dragged toward the close, for she longed to be at home, and 
 her spirits again rose, as she once more entered her beloved 
 Avon. Her relish for home-pleasures never flagged, and, in 
 whatever mood, no other place seemed half so dear. How 
 like a household melody rung out the words which come from 
 her full heart : " Home again, home again ! dear and beautiful 
 experience, how many times has it been mine, and each timo 
 how increasingly dear ! Once more within the pleasant, 
 shaded parsonage, sui-rounded by those I love best : this is 
 real happiness." Awaking from this ecstatic dream, a few 
 hours after, she adds, " I am weary, but looking forward to 
 long days of soul-rest, heart-rest." 
 
 Her cup, however, was never long unmingled ; and the 
 reaction from the excitements of the .past drew after it a 
 train of melancholic musing. Ere many days had gone by, 
 she writes to Emily : " I am very moody this week. Day be 
 fore yesterday I was so full of joy, so very light-hearted, that 
 I thought myself more than happy; yesterday was calm, 
 serene, peaceful ; to-day is sorrowful. I have felt as if in the 
 fairy home of a dream ; reverie has succeeded reverie. Can 
 you wonder that I have been melancholy? All childhood 
 has been my guest, and buried friends, and happinesses that 
 have said ' good-by.' I have stood where those I love have 
 stood before me: attitudes, looks, words, tones, glances long for 
 gotten, have lived again. My own indiscretions, weaknesses, 
 follies, sins have looked me in the face. And later days 
 0, Emmie ! they have had their full share. Bitter cups have 
 been drank again, and the taste was bitterer at the second 
 draught! Moments of agitation have been passed through 
 again, without the self-possession which endured them once ;
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 83 
 
 very pleasant scenes have been remembered and longed after ; 
 and what had been mostly put out of mind has had a resur 
 rection-day." 
 
 The reader who has followed her through these conflicting 
 emotions, will catch a glimpse of her inner life, such as no 
 words but her own could paint. 
 
 Soon the sunlight again shone out of the gloom, and how 
 gladly she opened for it the dark corners of her heart ! The 
 difference between the light that aids the vision and that which 
 gives warmth to the chilled soul is beautifully expressed in 
 a simple question that occurs in a subsequent letter : " Is 
 there sunlight in your heart, dear Emmie? If so, does it 
 play faintly on the high places, or reach down deep into the 
 shadoivy nooks ! " 
 
 AVlio that has been in darkness and gloom, does not sym 
 pathize with this delicious sense of light in the depths of the 
 heart ? What healing is there in its blessed beams ! Hear 
 the calm, sweet utterances of a wounded spirit again made 
 whole : " The last rays of the first Sabbath sunset in the 
 autumn of '51 are still lingering upon the range of mountains 
 which bounds our eastern horizon. The day has been close 
 and fervid, but the evening is mild, balmy, and delicious. I 
 cannot see from my window the hues of the west, but only 
 their reflection in the opposite sky. The moon is almost at 
 its full, but, at this early hour, wears a pale, golden color. 
 You are looking at it, dear Emmie, and perhaps you may be 
 thinking of a place, where there is neither sun nor moon, a 
 place lighted directly from the Fountain of light. So was I. 
 There, ages upon ages hence, I shall walk with you, kneel 
 with you, sing with you. Sometimes I doubt it, but^ not to 
 night. I have had troublous weeks, but the voices of
 
 84 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 love and faith are loud now. Do I love any thing better 
 than God? Sinner as I am, do not I long after holiness? 
 Has not Christ offered me his salvation, and do not I gladly 
 accept it? "Will He suffer any who trust in him to perish? 
 To these questions peace-speaking answers have sprung up 
 in my heart to-day." 
 
 The reader will see that this sense of peace is no vagary 
 of an excited imagination, such as sometimes lulls the soul, 
 after a reaction of feeling, to a security fatal to its better 
 life. It has sprung from the light of God's Word, let in to 
 the depths of the soul, by an appropriating faith in Christ. It 
 is the peace promised by the Master to them who love him, 
 at once a foretaste and an assurance of the blessedness to 
 follow life's weary pilgrimage. 
 
 The whole of these autumn days were filled with deep 
 thought, traces of which abound both in her journal and cor 
 respondence. Now, it is a description of a journey, which 
 creates " an intolerable longing to travel ; " and, as she con 
 trasts the scenes pictured by her poetic imagination with the 
 dull routine of her every-day life, she only schools her heart 
 to submission with the hope, " that there will come a time 
 when my feet shall rest upon the mount of God, and my eyes 
 take in survey the glories of an universe." Chastened by 
 this into present patience, she turns without disgust to her 
 humble lot, and adds, with calm fortitude : " There is for me 
 a plain, practical sphere of duty and influence ; in it, with 
 upright endeavor and quiet contentment, I will strive to go, 
 nor seek to attain to things too high for me." 
 
 At another time, neither the peace or trust which breathe in 
 these wprds are at her command, and then comes a sadder 
 strain : "I have passed this afternoon uninterruptedly in sew-
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 85 
 
 ing, but the multitude of ray thoughts consumes me. All, even 
 to the most petty of my faults and the chagrins of my life, 
 come up anew ; the bitter remembrance fills my soul with 
 anguish." 
 
 Alas ! for our sinful nature ; its deep-rooted evil is but 
 slowly eradicated ; and, as it is plucked from the heart, what 
 sad wounds are made in the fibres to which it clings ! It was 
 grace alone that brought her, through those hours of anguish, 
 to a purer life ; for it was not morbid sensitiveness that mingled 
 the bitter in the cup, but the struggle of the old native pride 
 after the throne it had lost. Mary was conscious of this, for, 
 with returning comfort, she writes to Leila : " Through struggles 
 of soul, I have been led to feel that my own will must yield. 
 O ! my dear girl, you can never know what pride has entered 
 into the deep recesses of my heart, and hid itself there, until 
 you know by what a series of processes, with how much 
 anguish and soul-torture the demon was, in part, at least, driven 
 out ! " 
 
 Amid all these contending emotions, she lost not her relish 
 for the scenes and voices of rural life. We find .her often 
 threading her way to the mountain top, or sauntering along the 
 river's bank, or, with pencil and paper, seated under the shade 
 of the pines at Grove Hill, holding communion with the loved 
 and absent, while her soul is strengthened by the healthful 
 ministries around her. On one of those hazy autumn days, so 
 beautiful in New England, she writes from her favorite scat : 
 " I can hear no birds singing here to-day, but there is all that 
 choir of insect minstrels, whose low music is so sweet a lullaby ; 
 and a cool soft breeze sways the dark pines, coming nearer and 
 nearer, until it lifts my curls, and fans my cheek, and whispers 
 lovingly in mine ear. I feel more inclined to lay aside my
 
 86 THE MEMORIAL OF AN ONLY DAUGHTEK. 
 
 paper than to fill it ; to abandon myself to dreaming. * * * * 
 Yesterday I saw a sweet baby buried. How beautiful, in its 
 coffin, was that pure white face, the lips still colored as in life, 
 the soft brown hair, the rounded arms and hands, so like ala 
 baster, meekly folded and grasping a green leaf. It was put 
 in the ground and covered with earth ; that lovely little one, it 
 will never open its blue eyes, or bring the dimples to its cheek, 
 or clap its tiny hands again ; never ! Dust to dust, ashes to 
 ashes ; but there is no need of mourning. The child is 
 cradled in heaven, even on the Saviour's bosom, and angel 
 watchers will train it up for glory." 
 
 Mary had been very desirous of spending the winter in New 
 Haven, and attending Prof. Silliman's course of lectures on 
 chemistry and natural philosophy ; but she would not tax the 
 family purse with the attendant expenses, and no opening 
 seemed to present itself by which she could at once support 
 herself, and have the necessary leisure to profit by the proposed 
 study. While on a visit to Oxford, near the close of Septem 
 ber, she was proffered an opportunity to engage as an assistant 
 teacher in Miss Morse's school, on York Square, New Haven, 
 enabling her at once to gratify one of her dearest wishes, but 
 bringing with it a sense of grave responsibility, which sobered 
 her joy. At the close of the day, which opened this new field 
 of vision, she sits in the deepening twilight with her journal 
 in her lap, and we hear her saying : " The day is waning 
 now. Grandma lies dozing on the sofa. The open hearth- 
 fire sends out its flickering light, and casts broad shadows in 
 the room. The blaze is low, but clear and steady ; it speaks 
 of patient waiting and cheerful trust, but it does not brighten 
 up into hope-light. I will put by my writing and think."
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 MARY entered upon her duties as assistant teacher at Miss 
 Morse's school, in New Haven, on the 29th of September, 
 1851, nearly three months before her eighteenth birthday. 
 One of her dearest friends had also been engaged as an assist 
 ant in the same school, and they enjoyed the privilege of 
 sharing the same room, and were most intimate companions. 
 
 Before the first month had passed in this new sphere, she was 
 suddenly summoned to Avon, to the bedside of her mother, who 
 was alarmingly ill. The crisis was soon over, however, and 
 the dear invalid convalescent, so that, after a week's absence, 
 Mary again returned to her duties. 
 
 The sessions of the " C. C. C." were once more renewed, all 
 the members being still at New Haven. Mary again took her 
 place in the choir of Centre Church (Rev. Dr. Bacon's), and 
 resumed her class in the Sunday-school ; but in vain she 
 sought to reunite all the ties which were broken at the sum 
 mer parting. There was something very peculiar in her 
 attachments ; her first loves never, could be replaced. New 
 friends were tenderly loved, when her affection acknowledged 
 them as within its select circle ; new scenes made a vivid, 
 and oftentimes a lasting impression on her mind ; but neither 
 could take the place sacred to the memory of any she had 
 loved or consecrated in the past. It is not uncommon for 
 school-girls to weep bitterly over the sundering of pleasant 
 
 friendships, and to pledge their vows amid many tears, that 
 
 (87)
 
 88 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 the sorrow shall be perennial. But the next term fills up the 
 desolate place in the heart, and the grief is forgotten. It 
 was not so with Mary, although her peace of mind would 
 have been greater if such a forgetfulness had^ been possible. 
 In her heart, the dead joy was buried on the spot it had con 
 secrated while living, and its grave was hallowed ground, upon 
 which no fresh hope might tread. She could not have forgot 
 ten, if she would ; and such was the constitution of her mind, 
 stfl Avould not, if she could, have blotted out the record of the 
 past. The yearnings of her heart to recall the old emotions, 
 as she returned to nearly the same scenes at New Haven, 
 prevented her enjoying the buoyancy of feeling for which 
 she had hoped, but she went resolutely -at work to fulfil her 
 prescribed duties, and soon found relief in employment. With 
 what an eager longing did she always hail the dawning of 
 the Sabbath, that day of weariness to so many of the young. 
 " To-morrow," she says, under date of November 1st, " is the 
 blessed, peaceful Sabbath. O ! what an anchor to the soul, 
 after a week's tossing and temptations. I am more and more 
 convinced that it is proof of the noblest courage, the most self- 
 forgetting heroism, to live our life aright! " 
 
 We have already alluded to her searching self-examinations. 
 These were deepest when there came a cloud between her 
 heart and the light of her Tather's countenance ; but, on every 
 occasion of disagreement with earthly friends, her thoughts 
 took the same course. She was sorrowfully conscious of the 
 reason why there were so few who fully sympathized with her, 
 and seldom laid the blame of any little estrangement upon 
 others. Her journal is full of illustrations of this statement. 
 
 Her intensest emotions were not expressed in words, and
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTEK. 89 
 
 she often signalizes the omission of a record in her journal as 
 a period of feeling too deep for utterance. After a blank of 
 this sort, she makes the entry : " I feel that it is wrong to let 
 these days go by unjournalized ; yet they leave a record deep 
 in the heart, and will be more often and longer remembered 
 than many of which I have written here." 
 
 Her heart was ever most tender when she was suffering, 
 and she was never peevish or ill-tempered under physical pros 
 tration. Her recognition of the goodness of God, in hours of 
 pain and sickness, was ready and constant. After a Sabbath 
 of suffering, she writes : " It was lonely and sorrowful to be 
 deprived of so many Sabbath privileges ; yet many lessons fell 
 gently on my heart, as I lay here upon my bed, which, if 
 taught me at another time, would have seemed hard and 
 bitter." 
 
 The exactness, punctuality, and thoroughness, which char 
 acterized her performance of daily duties, were owing, not so 
 much to a habit of order, and a mind which had been well-dis 
 ciplined in its training, as to an abiding sense of her accounta 
 bility, for all her actions, to One whose eye was ever upon her. 
 This is shown in almost every page of her record ; which, how 
 ever varied in expression, proves' that she acted with a deep 
 sense of responsibility. " Another day," she writes, in view of a 
 November sunset, " is almost dead. Dead ! did I say ? No ; 
 there is a record-book in which its every moment lives ! " 
 
 Still, it is easier to be a heroine before the gaze of an ad 
 miring world than in the battle with life's petty trials ; and 
 Mary felt this when her courage, which had borne her bravely 
 through hours of bitter anguish, failed her in quieter scenes, 
 
 after the excitement of sterner struggles was over. " For 
 8* 

 
 90 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 whom," she writes of a dear companion, " I could lay down 
 my life, but for whom (alas ! humiliating thought) I have not 
 laid down my selfishness." 
 
 The poetical element in her character surrounded her Avith 
 an atmosphere peculiar to herself; so much was this the case, 
 that one of her young friends remarked to her, " Your life is 
 all a romance, wherever you go ! " This union of the poetical 
 and practical is not as unusual, perhaps, as those who recog 
 nize only the utility of the latter, are apt to suppose ; but it 
 was peculiarly striking in her character. She would take up 
 the pen, while waiting for her class, to say : " The rain has 
 descended in such torrents as to aid an active imagination in 
 picturing the deluge. Here it comes, beating against the window 
 panes in unabated force, bowing the skeleton trees, which, in 
 the absence of their summer drapery, can no longer bend with 
 grace ; " and then, as the scholars entered, lay it calmly aside, 
 and drill them thoroughly' in the most abstruse arithmetical 
 calculation. 
 
 This was a profitable season to Mary, in many respects. 
 She gave excellent satisfaction to Miss Morse, the principal of 
 the school, and acquired fresh aptness in her chosen vocation. 
 The lectures, which had drawn her to the city, were very in 
 structive to one who regarded study both as a duty and a priv 
 ilege, and furnished her mind with information which she could 
 have acquired, in its fulness, by no other method. 
 
 She had occasion, during this residence at New Haven, to 
 bless God for one of his richest mercies. Her beloved com 
 panion, to whom her soul was knit as David's to Jonathan, 
 who had been left to struggle away from hope amid distress 
 and darkness, was once more brought back to light and peace.
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 91 
 
 W 
 
 She records it under date of November 23rd : " This has 
 been, on many accounts, a blessed day. My dear Emma has 
 at last, through struggles, and temptations, and terrible dark 
 ness, come to the yielding point ; and, as she hopes, given up 
 all to God. Whether this be, as she thinks, for the first time 
 or not, I know it is a matter of endless thanksgiving to Him 
 who has led her to Himself. The Lord Almighty bless and 
 sanctify her ; keep her near his side, and be her everlasting 
 portion. And I, too ; has this taught me no lesson ? "Whose 
 unmerited grace has kept me from despair ? Who, despite all 
 my wanderings, has daily led me, by His goodness, to repent 
 ance, and has kept alive within me the hope of victory over 
 death and hell ? God, my God, what is man, that thou 
 shouldest be mindful of him ?" 
 
 As Mury did not return to her home until Christmas-day, 
 when the term closed, her eighteenth birthday (December 5th, 
 1851,) was spent at oSTcw Haven. " I sprang from my bed," she 
 writes at an early hour of that day, "just as the morning was 
 growing gray, and, standing before my window, looked out, for 
 the first time -on a birthday since my childhood, upon Mt. Car- 
 mel, which guards the spot of my nativity." Later in the day 
 ^hc writes, in a subdued strain : " Eighteen years of my proba 
 tion-time are passed. O! how short, and yet how long! Long 
 in retrospect; short as compared with the Eternal future. 
 How surely they have glided away, and left me only the re 
 membrance. Years of infancy dim and indistinct; years of 
 childhood beautiful, melancholy, ideal, unlike childhood ; 
 years of youth O ! how shall I describe them full of 
 struggles, the sufferings, the ecstacies, peculiar to a sensitive 
 perament ; full of romances lived out, of aspirations unsat- 
 d, of dreams many, and in all, I trust, of some experi-
 
 92 THE MEMORIAL OF AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 
 
 ence of a deep and earnest strife after the good, and true, and 
 noble. O ! that I could lay down self to-day, and take it up no 
 more for ever ; that, henceforth, I could live as one who is to 
 live immortally ! The Lord hear my prayer, which goeth not 
 forth from feigned lips ! "
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 MART returned to Avon, as we have seen, just in time to 
 greet the dawning of the new year (1852) in her valley home. 
 This was the dearest spot she had ever known ; and her heart 
 clung to it with the ties that were never fully severed, until all 
 earthly scenes faded from her sight. But her heavenly Father, 
 in his wise discipline, was chastening her heart, and preparing 
 it for a better home, and thus he weakened her hold of earth 
 that she might live more truly like a pilgrim, and be ready 
 for her final summons. 
 
 She had received an intimation, while at New Haven, that 
 
 the family might be obliged to seek a new resting-place. In 
 
 
 spite of the most rigid economy , her father's resources were 
 
 exhausted, and he felt that he must seek a new field, unless his 
 people would furnish a sum sufficient for his support. 
 
 This announcement came upon Mary's heart like the knell 
 of all the earthly joys she had ever known. " O ! my dear 
 Avon home," she writes unto her mother, who had briefly 
 hinted at the possibility of a change : " I have thought of it 
 much this day, and wept sorely. How hard it would be to 
 break the ties which bind me to that spot ; to see the parson 
 age, with its clustering vines and green shade-trees, in other 
 possession ; to see stranger faces looking out from its windows ; 
 to know that stranger footsteps are there ; that stranger hands 
 water the garden flowers and train the roses ; that other than 
 ourselves sit in each familiar room, walk each pleasant path- 
 
 (93)
 
 94: THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 way, linger in every spot, long consecrated to us by many 
 associations ! How trying it would be to come and go about 
 the place no more, save as a permitted guest ! " Then, school 
 ing her feelings to the lesson so hard to learn, she adds : "But 
 I need not think of this. What matter is it, since we hope'we 
 have a house in heaven, which will never change ownership 
 and which is made ready for us. O ! may we be sure of a 
 reiinion there ; then we can endure change and parting and 
 tears for a little while ! " 
 
 There may be some readers who will wonder at the depth 
 of this local attachment ; but those who better understand the 
 character here illustrated, will sympathize with her grief. 
 Sensitive, poetic natures, if peculiarly blessed, are also the 
 more keenly alive to pain. Besides, she was very con 
 stant in her attachments, and when she installed the loved 
 image in her heart, she dreaded any change in its lineaments. 
 " I dislike," she wrote on one occasion, " even what are called 
 ' pleasant changes,' in the things I love." 
 
 The parsonage was dear to her, not only for all its thronging 
 associations, but also (whose but a poet's heart would have 
 defined such a feeling ?) because these associations were hers 
 alone, and not mingled with any other family history. In a 
 letter to her cousin Mary, written in view of the uncertainty of 
 the future, she says : " When will you be at liberty to make 
 me a visit ? When shall I be at home to receive one ? 
 Where will that home be ? O Mary ! you have never lived 
 eleven happy years in one dear house, where none other, be 
 fore you, grew ttp from childhood to maidenhood, where the 
 garden flowers and the rose-vines were those you had planted, 
 trained, and watered ; and you do not know what it is to have 
 such a home, and feel that no other can ever be so precious."
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 95 
 
 We have another glimpse of the shadow of this coming 
 separation in the history of a day, as recorded in her journal : 
 " I seldom passed so quiet a day. I was reading ' Rose Doug 
 lass, or the autobiography of a minister's daughter.' Many 
 of Rose's trials I could fully appreciate ; some, thank God, I 
 know not from experience as yet. Well may I say, as yet ; for 
 I, like her, must soon leave this dear and beautiful home, and 
 think of it no longer as mine, but as a stranger's. I could not 
 keep back the tears, as I read her vivid picture of the leave- 
 taking. I walked with her through the bare, deserted rooms, 
 and out into the little garden, and felt how soon this would 
 be reality, instead of imagination, to me. And, alas ! some 
 times I tremble and grow dizzy, lest I too walk in the shadow 
 of an eclipse, like that which darkened the life of Rose." 
 
 This shadow will deepen as our history progresses, and we 
 need not notice it farther, now. Mary commenced anew the 
 study of Greek immediately upon her return, under the tui 
 tion of her father, but conned many of her lessons by the 
 bedside of her dear mother. All through the winter, and far 
 into the bright spring, that mother alternated between dis 
 tressing illness and the weakness of a partial convalescence ; 
 so that many, if not most, of the household cares came upon 
 the daughter. These bunions were borne cheerfully, and her 
 heart was lightest when she was most useful. 
 
 Labor with the hands, and the routine of household duties, 
 did not, however, absorb her thoughts, even when she was 
 thus occupied. Sometimes she analyzed every thought and 
 emotion, and at others she gave herself np to the quiet enjoy 
 ment of a day-dream or a sensation, which she knew would 
 fade- or vanish, if questioned. As an apology for the latter, 
 she writes : " I cannot tell why, indeed I want not to tell why ;
 
 96 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 for giving the reason of a feeling takes it partly away, as 
 multiplying the denominator of a fraction divides its value." 
 
 During what she calls " a week of very quiet days," she 
 records meditations and heart-searchings enough to show that, 
 if the surface of the river was calm, the current of life was 
 strong and deep. Now, it is her besetting sin which troubles 
 her ; and she -forces herself to notice her shortcomings, that 
 she may be more on her guard. "It is not one half-hour 
 since I was betrayed into impatience, on account of some in 
 terruption while reading aloud. Where was the fault? In 
 my own hasty spirit ? " 
 
 At another time, she rebukes her heart for its tiresome 
 pursuit of its own comfort. " I have been thinking what a 
 fatiguing thing it is to make one's personal happiness the 
 great aim of life." When heated in the struggle, she would 
 turn for refreshment to her closet, to communion with nature, 
 or to converse by letter with absent friends. " Write to me," 
 she pleads with Leila ; " write me soon. Your letters come 
 like a breeze from some cool island, filling the heart with 
 thoughts of quiet and peace." 
 
 A friend had given her, with an autograph, the motto, " Be 
 patient ; learn to labor and to wait ; " and she accepted the 
 injunction so earnestly, as to make it a means of practical 
 usefulness to her in all her after life. She recalled this advice 
 frequently during these days of quiet, unpretending toil. She 
 could extract nectar from the most unpromising cup. Shut 
 up within the house on a rainy day, when her lungs coveted 
 the luxury of the fresh outer air, she writes: " I have sat by 
 the window writing almost all this morning, and my eye has 
 wandered often from my paper to the sky, where I have 
 conned many a lesson. A rainy day it is to us almost
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 97 
 
 whatever we please ; it takes a hue from the coloring of our 
 own thoughts. If we are practical, what a quiet time for 
 diligent study or busy needlework. If we are dreamy, the 
 patter of the rain-drops lulls us to a deeper vision, and away 
 back to the dear past we glide, and walk the way from child 
 hood up once more, or leap onward to the stirring future, vand 
 reap its harvest of labor, joy, and sorrow, while it is yet but 
 seed-time. If we are sad, the pall of our own spirit enlarges 
 itself to overspread nature ; the tempest without seems to rise 
 and fall with the tempest within. If we are joyful and hope 
 ful, we forget not that, behind the clouds, a sun is shining as 
 truly as in the brightest day ; and we draw the analogy in 
 the spirit's world, and smile, and take fresh courage." 
 
 When the search for sweets in unpropitious circumstances 
 resulted in disappointment, she had diviner resources. If the 
 volume of nature was sealed, she turned to the surer word of 
 inspiration, saying to herself, "I must be more independent of 
 external circumstances, and rely on them less for happiness." 
 
 She enjoyed during these winter days, with especial delight, 
 the society of Rev. Joel Grant and his family circle at West 
 Avon. Mr. Grant was the minister at West Avon, but three 
 miles from Mary's home, and was especially esteemed by all his 
 brethren of the Congregational churches for his sterling piety 
 and sound practical sense which made him a very useful pas 
 tor. Mrs. Grant (the " Sister Abbie " to whom many of Mary's 
 most affectionate letters were addressed) was much beloved by 
 both Mary and her mother. She was older than Mary, but, 
 from her peculiar sprightliness of manner, and frank, generous 
 nature, her society gave a charm to the household circle of 
 which the visitor never wearied. As children were added to 
 
 the circle, they were dearly beloved for the parent's sake. 
 9
 
 98 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 And the kindness received from these dear, constant friends, 
 during many years of almost daily intercourse, made one of the 
 brightest pages of Mary's history. Her journal records the 
 most touching memorials of this kindness, and her appreciation 
 of it in her daily devotions. She knew of no higher return for 
 loving ministries than an invocation of grace for those to whom 
 she was thus indebted. Would she bless a friend, she has no 
 language but that of the Christian heart, and she often ex 
 presses it in words like these : " God bless you in every hour 
 of your life and step of your journey ; wisdom and grace 
 and strength be your daily portion, and our Lord Jesus Christ 
 your guide to the shelter of the Tree of Life." 
 
 Those Avho have had some experience of the many associa 
 tions connected with the minister's " study," in a country par 
 sonage, will not wonder at the following description, written 
 during these wintry days, at the Saturday evening twilight : 
 " But a calmer language, the medium of a calmer thought, 
 befits better this forerunner of the holy Sabbath. I am sit 
 ting, too, just Avhere he, who, to-morrow, if God will, shall 
 proclaim to us the lively oracles, has sat and studied the 
 Divine text-book. Yes, I am here in my father's precious 
 study, where memory fans many a waning light within my 
 soul, and feeds many a smouldering flame. O, could I tell 
 you of all the scenes that have passed here ! In this place 
 I have been reproved for childhood's waywardness, have 
 enjoyed all the luxury of dreamy and quiet communion with 
 my own thoughts. Here I was examined for admission to 
 the body of believers ; here I have lain r sick and weary, 
 trembling, lest health was gone for ever. To this place I have 
 brought sin-convicted ones, and knelt with them in no vain 
 prayer. Here, too, despite the sacredness of the room, I
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 99 
 
 have had many a hearty frolic. One such you remember; 
 hut 'tis not the only one. I have passed some sleepless nights 
 here, too. But why should I trouble you with such a solil 
 oquy ? " 
 
 Some of her sweetest thoughts were by her mother's bed 
 side. Her presence was ever grateful to the invalid parent, 
 and her face, radiant with sympathy, was, in the mother's eye, 
 brighter than the sunniest landscape. Let us peep into the 
 world of thought, which sends out such a gleam from its 
 illuminated windows. It is the journal, or " heart-book," as 
 she quaintly calls it, over which her pencil glides softly : " The 
 dear snow-fleece is drawing its veil between me and the outer 
 world. The light in the room is softened for mother's sake, 
 sick mother, who lies on the lounge amid blankets and cushions. 
 How sorry I am for her aches and her pains ! How trying it 
 is to be unable to relieve from suffering those whom we love ! 
 Strange ! that it should be harder to give them into the arms 
 of God's love, because he will not employ us to dispense his 
 healings ! I ought to write a letter to Leila this P. M., but I 
 do not feel in the mood for it. I would like to sit and dream a 
 little, if it were good for me, and build castles on the arrival of 
 the evening mail. I would like, still better, to pay a spiritual 
 visit to each of my friends, and catch them at their work or 
 study or recreation or musing, and be at liberty to read the 
 page just now being filled out upon their heart-book. Yes, 
 indeed I would ; but, unfortunately, the union between soul 
 and body is too intimate, and all I can do is, to send out my 
 dove, like Noah's, to make exploring expeditions ; and, if 
 Fancy brings back an olive-branch from some with whom 
 she often wages war, I shall be quite satisfied!" 
 
 These day-dreams tilled up only the hours of vacation.
 
 100 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 Household cares had their due attention ; and, when not pressed 
 with these, she says : " Greek and embroidery have filled up 
 my day ; only one instance of the extremes which daily meet, 
 and walk lovingly side by side." 
 
 Sometimes sins distressed her, for her conscience was very 
 tender, and she was still haunted by temptations from without 
 and within. Whenever she was in trouble, however, we have 
 no difficulty in tracing- it to the outworkings of a heart, as yet 
 but imperfectly sanctified. " I am lonely and distressed," she 
 records. " I rose with an unusually happy and energetic state 
 of mind, and was much strengthened in morning prayer; but 
 I seem to have lost the good influence in some way, for this 
 afternoon has been poorly improved. In the morning, I 
 studied vigorously ; after dinner, I undertook to revise a little 
 poem of mine, and became chafed and fretted in spirit, and 
 the task is still uncompleted." 
 
 Ah ! thou deceitful heart ! Was it not trusting in the 
 " good influence " of the fair morning's promise, instead of the 
 present grace, that should have followed thee through the day, 
 which left thee unarmed to meet the temptation ? In bitter 
 ness, repent of this self-righteousness, and come humbly back 
 to the only safe shelter ! 
 
 This impatience with the imperfections of her poetic compo 
 sitions was a temptation to which she was frequently subject. 
 She wrote prose with such remarkable facility that, when 
 her thoughts would insist on uttering themselves in verse, 
 she was seldom satisfied with the result. Had she lived for 
 longer practice, she would doubtless have had less reason for 
 dissatisfaction, for, in the style to which she was accustomed 5 
 it was no effort for her to write. The pen was a talisman 
 that had power to beguile her of many a weary thought.
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 101 
 
 She speaks of the pleasant exchange of the needle for the 
 pen, " It is so delightful to feel its swift gliding motion over 
 the paper, unfettered by fear of stitches showing through ! " 
 
 Let no one suppose that these dreamy reveries, or poetic 
 longings, made her life a vain show, filled only with yearn 
 ings after an ideal never to be realized. Let us follow her to 
 her Saturday evening closet, and hear the conclusion of a day 
 dream. It is near the last of these winter-days, and the wind 
 howls without, but there is no chill at the place of prayer. 
 She is, just now, talking with her journal : " I have lived 
 dreamily, yet performed my usual duties with alacrity. My 
 heart is its own constant romance. Perhaps I indulge fancy 
 too much, yet it seems as natural to me as to breathe. On 
 this eve of the blessed Sabbath, ! let me call in my rest 
 less thoughts, and hush my soul into a holy peace. Let the 
 calm of the approaching day rest upon me, like a heavenly 
 benediction. Let me take the book of God, and read its 
 blessed lessons, till I catch the spirit of that faith, wliich 
 sees God's sunshine above the clouds ; that Christian courage, 
 which quails not in the battle of life ; that glowing zeal, which 
 no waters of adversity can quench; that lowly humility, 
 which walks ever near the cross. Let me kneel in secret, 
 and confess the week's catalogue of sins, and acknowledge the 
 mercy that has been new every morning and fresh every 
 evening. And O, thou Divine Saviour! without thee, the 
 labor will be useless ; do thou prepare my heart to keep thy 
 Sabbath day ! " 
 
 9*
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 IT is spring once more ; Mary's last spring in Avon. We 
 have seen how closely she sympathized with nature ; each 
 season awoke its own memories, brought its own teachings, 
 was linked with some portion of her heart-life. The first 
 warm breath of this season (1852) came prematurely in early 
 March, and she writes of it : " O Emmie ! have you enjoyed 
 the glory of this day's morning, and are you feeling the beauty 
 of its evening ? The first touch of spring seems to rest on 
 every thing ; the cloud-hues are softer, the sunlight is more 
 genial, the breath of the wind is balmier, the lilac-buds are 
 swelling. Though I know that black dreary days are between, 
 the heralds of summer are whispering to me, telling me about 
 the fragrance of the first sweet flowers, and the songs of the 
 robin. I feel very happy, and summer memories come throng 
 ing upon me from the 'long ago' of childhood, when I lay in 
 the deep grassy yard of my brief Litchfield home, and, looking 
 into the heights of blue above me, forgot to weave the dan 
 delion curls, to the last cool August, spent amid the quiet 
 and beauty of this dear valley." She did not saunter off 
 to meet the spring, with truant feet, forgetful of what some 
 might designate as life's more practical duties. The day whose 
 outgoings were so filled with happy reveries was ushered in as 
 follows : " I rose with the earnest purpose of being practical 
 and energetic. After breakfast, ' set in order,' according to the 
 technical meaning of the term, my own chamber, the dining- 
 
 (102)
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 103 
 
 room, and mother's ; next occupied two hours in learning and 
 reciting Greek, then baked cake, and ate my dinner at one 
 o'clock." 
 
 She often accompanied her father in his parochial visits, and 
 her earnest sympathy was especially grateful to the poorer of 
 the flock. She thus describes a ' baptism on the mountain,' in 
 the home of a most worthy and excellent family; the rite 
 being administered in private, owing to the dangerous illness 
 of one of the infants : 
 
 " This forenoon, father was called to the house of a parish 
 ioner, three miles distant, to baptize his infant children, and 
 took me with him. 
 
 " The family tenant the house on the Mountain estate. Our 
 ride was wild and romantic up the mountain-side, through the 
 snowy fog of the morning, and for about half the distance along 
 the summit of the ridge, was over unbroken snow. I could 
 not help fancying that I was riding over Scottish hills, though a 
 glance at the cedars and pines, which over-arch and fringe the 
 road, taught me better. We found it raining on the mountain- 
 top ; still the cottagers were expecting us, and welcomed us 
 with the simple cordiality and respect peculiar to their race ; 
 for they arc Scotch, a reality which helped my imagination 
 not a little. 
 
 " The ceremony of baptism was solemn and touching ; it 
 was administered to twin boys, a fortnight old, the tiniest 
 babies I ever saw. That scene, in a lonely little group, I shall 
 not soon forget. The pale mother in her easy chair, looking 
 on with tearful eyes ; the mother's sister, with her quiet, 
 softened manner, as she handed the babes to their father ; the 
 strong man, whose lips quivered while he held them in his 
 arms to receive the seal of the covenant ; the earnest voice of
 
 104 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 the minister, as he pronounced the solemn words of consecra 
 tion ; and my own feelings, as we knelt in prayer, are still vivid 
 in my memory." 
 
 How often have conscientious persons, of a romantic temper 
 ament, asked themselves such questions as are suggested in the 
 following extract, and found it difficult to answer them to their 
 own satisfaction ? " Emmie, do you remember Nathalie's re 
 mark to Sister Rose, about keeping ' the sunshine of the heart 
 ever around that cold, stony ruin, Reality ? ' Is it not wise in 
 a more exalted sense than she means it ? Does religion re 
 quire us to dull the glow which an imaginative spirit is pecu 
 liarly apt to cast about every thing ? May not such a nature, 
 wisely trained and controlled, directed in its brightest fancies 
 and highest aspirations to the things which pertain to the king 
 dom of God, be even better adapted, than the more strictly 
 practical, to shed the light of a holy and beautiful cheerfulness 
 around the performance of every duty, however unpleasing or 
 apparently trivial ? It is a question I have pondered much of 
 late." 
 
 As the sunny days, harbingers of summer, alternated with 
 the cold and sleet peculiar to the New England climate, the 
 remembrance of past bereavements and disappointments, 
 nearly all of which had come with the spring, would wring a 
 burst of anguish from her heart. " Ah ! fond but vainly sad 
 remembrances," she would cry, " pressed closer to the heart at 
 every pang they inflict. Mine is a soul, learning patience in 
 the chains of circumstances. O for the country where youth is 
 eternal, and growing wisdom does never bring the heartache ! " 
 
 At other times she could look up and trust, even in the dark 
 ness. She writes to Emmie : " I have been thinking much of 
 the quotation in your letter, ' The shadow creeps, and creeps,
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 105 
 
 and is always looking over the shoulder of the sunshine.' 
 How true it is ; how easily said it is ; and yet, many things in 
 this world are like that famous shield of olden story, golden on 
 one side and silver on the other. Now, we might say, shadows 
 are of the earth, not of the sky. Above them all, above even 
 the clouds which cast them, is sunshine pure and radiant. 
 Perhaps these shadows are of our own procuring, caused by 
 something we erect or hold up. If we would away with the 
 shadows, we must see that no work of our hands comes be 
 tween us and the glorious sunbeams. 
 
 " But again ; perhaps they are the shadows God's own hand 
 hath cast, because their darkness and coolness favor the task 
 he has set us, or bring back the feverish pulse to its wonted 
 culm beating. If they are such, they should be precious shad 
 ows to us, for the contrast shall make more delightful to us 
 that land of ' sacred, high, eternal noon.' " 
 
 After alluding, at another time, to a season of darkness, she 
 adds : " But generally I keep trustful and hopeful. At any 
 rate, I know I have one dear friend who has travelled this 
 ground as well as I ; yes, and found more < sloughs ' in it, per 
 haps. I feel very secure of your sympathy. Do you ever 
 think how different from any other is the sympathy which 
 experience prompts ? There may be no more affection with it, 
 but there is a peculiar charm in it, a depth of sincerity and 
 appreciation, which does not lie under the fellow-feeling of one 
 who has not enjoyed or suffered the like." It is to this feeling 
 in our hearts the Great Friend appeals, who suffered in all 
 points, and by every woe which can wring the Christian's 
 heart. 
 
 The same thought is expressed in another connection. 
 " Julia is a dear good girl, and I have learned to prize her
 
 106 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 very much this winter. I know you would admire her Chris 
 tian character if you were well acquainted with it. . Her ten 
 der conscientiousness and deep sincerity often reprove me. 
 The longer I live, the more earnestly I believe that there can 
 be no very deep and lasting friendship, which is unhallowed 
 by Christian fellowship." 
 
 It was during this spring that she lost another friend, a 
 young minister, to whom the family were much attached. 
 After alluding pathetically to the last sermon she heard him 
 preach, she adds : " Heaven is growing dearer to me every 
 day ; every day I am sick of sin and self. But I lean securely 
 on Jesus ; and, though I often grieve him, as often he forgives. 
 I feel that he loves me with an everlasting love, and that he 
 will never leave me nor forsake me. Many a time the lan 
 guage of my heart is, with a new and strange intensity, 
 ' Whom have I in heaven but thee, and there is none upon the 
 earth that I desire beside thee ?' Every new disclosure of evil 
 in my heart ; every hard and weary struggle to resist it ; every 
 piercing of the thorns which grow about my life-track, make 
 me long for that better country, where sorrow and sighing, 
 change, sickness, parting, death, and sin, shall be shut out for- 
 evermore." 
 
 Recalling, in May, an incident which occurred a twelve 
 month previous, she exclaims, " How short a year ! How 
 filled with importance in so many respects ! How strange 
 and dreamy a year ; how painfully practical at times ; but 
 how golden-hued, as the evening shades fall upon it ! " 
 
 On the 1st of June, Mary made a brief visit to Oxford, 
 the home of her mother's childhood. As she passed through 
 New Haven, she found Emmie and Lottie waiting at the 
 depot to catch a moment's converse ere the cars went on. A
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 107 
 
 smile, (he pressure of a friendly hand, or a loving embrace 
 were more to her than to many others ; they seemed to hover 
 around her for hours afterward, like a sensible presence, and 
 she notes, in her description of the incident : " A subtle 
 fragrance made the rest of my journey sweet. I did not 
 wish to analyze it ; I only knew that I had lacked it before 
 I felt the warm pressure of their lips and arms." 
 
 Mary had passed many days of her childhood under the 
 care of her dear grandparents ; and, though one chair was now 
 vacant beside the hearthstone, she still enjoyed the quiet and 
 freshness of the scene. The following is the first entry in 
 her journal, the day after her arrival : 
 
 " Here, in this little basin, scooped out from the lofty hills 
 by the hand of the Great Artist, the sounds of the humdrum 
 world of business and of pleasure are quite excluded. The 
 twittering of the birds in the orchard-trees, invites us to the 
 poor man's opera, where nothing is demanded to insure the 
 enjoyment but a sensitive soul. This place is beautiful to 
 me ; the charm of my dear and pensive childhood lies upon 
 it. The charm of what was an earthly, but is now a heavenly 
 presence, environs the other. O ! my dear, dear grandpa ! his 
 fervent prayer, his sweet sympathy, his loving smile, his wise 
 and gentle counsel, are lost to me for a lifetime. Death only 
 can restore him to me. Life, with its freshness and beauty 
 may bless me, but it cannot bring back what has passed be 
 yond the veil. I have been to his grave this afternoon. The 
 text engraved upon the tombstone sweetly comforted me, 'I 
 shall be satisfied when I awake with Thy likeness.' " 
 
 Oxford Centre is surrounded by rugged hills, with patches 
 of fertile soil, wherever the rocky surface will afford it a quiet 
 resting place ; and, rough as it is, has even to the eye of the
 
 108 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 stranger, much natural beauty. To Mary, it was associated 
 with most hallowed memories, and every feature of its land 
 scape had a charm for her poetical imagination. Writing from 
 the brow of an overlooking hill, she thus describes it : " The 
 picturesque village ; the bold, uneven ridges that shut it in, 
 with all their depth and varied hue of foliage ; their slopes, 
 checkered with green, waving fields, and dark furrowed ground; 
 the little pond, silvery with the rays of the setting sun, make 
 a'beautiful picture. My companions admired it and expressed 
 their admiration, yet there was in them some subtle lack 
 of sympathy with my emotion, which I cannot explain. I 
 am too nice, too fastidious. And yet I know of two persons 
 who would have gazed at it almost silently with me, with only 
 one, earnest glance, or a low word, or a single enthusiastic 
 ejaculation. My dear mother, and my dear Emmie, I wanted 
 you here ! " 
 
 She was never disgusted with nature in its homeliest form, 
 and this gave value in her eyes to many a simple story, which 
 
 professional critics condemned as beneath their notice. Speak- 
 
 
 ing of such a book, she says, "Its charm lies in the very 
 
 naturalness and truthfulness and homeliness of the whole 
 tale." 
 
 Her journal is chiefly written in such a style, and many 
 pages which would seem common-place to one of a different 
 temperament, have this charm for a sympathizing reader. 
 There is this exception, however, that, along the commonest 
 thoroughfare of her daily life, we ever and anon discover 
 glimpses of a more exalted vision. Take the page open before 
 us, from which we have just cited the description of the 
 Oxford valley. It is another day, and she has been anxiously 
 watching the unfavorable weather, for her young brother has
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 109 
 
 driven over from Avon with a message, and is waiting to 
 return : 
 
 " The day is cloudy and misty for some time after my 
 waking, and finally the rain tumbles down. Willie hesitates 
 about leaving in such disagreeable circumstances, but, mus 
 tering counsel and resolution, at last dodges away between the 
 shower. "VVe all turn weather-watchers during the day, for 
 his dear sake. I sew and sew upon my dress-waist, and finish 
 it in the early evening. Life within my heart is also sombre 
 and shadowed. I quiet myself; no, I excite myself, by a long 
 train of thought upon the marvel of that spiritual atmosphere 
 which places those who breathe it above the clouds and the 
 tempests of our changeful sky." 
 
 These sombre thoughts came oftenest when her eyes were 
 trying to peer into the future of her earthly pilgrimage, and 
 it may be that she indulged them too much ; but she was very 
 quick to school her heart, when the " perhaps " threw its 
 gloomy shadow over present duty. Just before leaving Oxford, 
 she writes: "As I sit in this lonely chamber, my thoughts 
 run forward, with electric speed, to the possibilities of the 
 future. Perhaps I shall never see this hallowed spot again ; 
 perhaps, if I do, it will have passed to stranger hands. O ! 
 sad, tormenting perhaps, ever thrusting thyself as a guest, 
 invited or no, hearest thou not whence the voice cometh: 
 ' Take, therefore, no thought of the morrow, for the morrow 
 shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the 
 day is the evil thereof.' " 
 
 10
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 "THE stagecoach heaves in sight. I hang for a moment 
 upon grandma's neck, kiss all the dear ones, and whirl away 
 from 'Oxford. At Seymour, I exchange horse-power for 
 steam, and am soon on my way to New Haven. I lean my 
 head against the car-window, and look out upon the wild 
 scenery, which is lighted up by such gay sunbeams. Now 
 we wind on the very verge of the Naugatuck's precipitous 
 bank, in a line almost perpendicular to the blue river. I 
 feel an adventurous, witching kind of fear. I peep out of the 
 opposite window, and see the bank still towering above me, 
 a steep ridge of rock. I turn back to my first lookout. Be 
 yond the water is a second bluff, wealthy with evergreen 
 beauty. So my eyes flit hither and thither for a while, till 
 the connection between them and my thoughts is broken. I 
 become very quiet, sitting alone and dreamily in my seat. I 
 have searched for the place of my destination before the iron 
 steed is there ; and it is not that little green nook which we 
 fly past that brings the swift smile; it is not this dusty 
 sand-plain over which we now rattle that raises a sigh. No ; 
 yonder, beneath the shadowing elms, scenes and faces, old or 
 prospective, must answer for both." 
 
 This letter fully explains itself. Mary spent three or four 
 days at New Haven, the guest of her Aunt Anna, her father's 
 sister, then a widow and living in that city. How thickly 
 the old memories came thronging about her, is shown by the 
 
 (110)
 
 THE MEMORIAL OF AN ONLY DAUGHTER. Ill 
 
 many pages in her journal devoted to this brief period. 
 Emmie and Lottie were her daily companions, and they vis 
 ited together many of the old familiar scenes, and poured out 
 their hearts to each other in unrestrained communion. Many 
 of her old pupils came to see her, and hung about her neck, 
 as if they had just unsealed the fountain of their affection. 
 Every tree, every turning of the street, brought back the 
 past with a lifelike reality. Even the sunlight that streamed 
 through the window, in Miss Comstock's parlor, seems to have 
 been eloquent with the same utterances. " The gold light on 
 the carpet spoke softly and earnestly to me. O ! how many 
 times I have listened to it before, and it always retained that 
 wondrous power of soothing. How it used to talk to me in . 
 the morning, as I first met it there, and at the mellow even- 
 time. How it smiled that Christmas morning, when I couldn't 
 smile at all ! " 
 
 It was during this brief visit at New Haven that she re 
 ceived from Emmie the first positive announcement of her 
 betrothal to one whom they had both known since her .first 
 residence in the city. She does not reply with a light jest or 
 a gay laugh, but folds her silently to her heart, and enters in 
 her daily record, " God bless her evermore. It has long been 
 my daily prayer : this day I lay a new petition beside it, and 
 number another name in that precious list, which is counted 
 over morning and evening." 
 
 On the loth of June, 1852, Mary went to New York, upon 
 the invitation of her maternal uncle, a resident of Brooklyn. 
 The discomforts of a summer ride upon the New Haven rail 
 road are too well known to need lengthy description, and many 
 will recognize the picture : 
 
 " The ride is vastly uncomfortable, dust on my clothing,
 
 112 THE MEMOEIAL OP 
 
 dust bronzing my face, dust choking my breath, dust blinding 
 my eyes, like a cataract ; dust here, dust there, dust every 
 where ; with a dry, suffocating heat, which provokes me to 
 open a window, at the risk of sheltering a homeless cinder in 
 my organ of vision ; and I arrive, as warm, as soiled, and 
 as tired as is needful for a good picture." 
 
 She arrived at the time of the Kossuth excitement, and her 
 heart was thrilled with his wonderful eloquence, and her en 
 thusiasm kindled by his glowing description of his country's 
 wrongs. Still, with an instinctive appreciation of his position 
 and prospects, she pictured his failure in words of prophecy, 
 which have since become history. 
 
 Of course she visited Greenwood ; and we are tempted to 
 give a brief extract from her record of it, at the risk of 
 wearying those who have heard the changes rung upon this 
 theme, in almost every variety of human utterance : 
 
 "I have just returned from beautiful Greenwood, charmed, 
 of course, though perhaps a little less so than I had expected. 
 My first rapt meditations, as I stood by the grave of the 
 Indian girl, and looked down upon the silver lake and the 
 forest beyond, were broken by an untimely exclamation from 
 my companion. I maintained my silence, and was soon lost 
 in reverie again. I looked on all, with the curious eye of a 
 stranger. Others, near me, bent weeping over cherished 
 graves. How great the contrast ! In this silent city I held 
 no ownership ; no form I once had loved was there crumbling 
 into dust. Ah ! I had chosen a sorrowful theme. My heart 
 wandered to other kindred spots, which it could not enter 
 without a throb of pain ; and, as I wound along those shaded 
 walks, and paused to look out upon the ocean waves, the 
 gratification of the eye and fancy was almost lost sight of in
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 113 
 
 deeper musing. The beauty, the bloom, the new life of this 
 month of June, is singularly soothing at Greenwood. These 
 thousand varieties of roses, all expanding to loveliness and 
 perfume, a little while ago were sere and dead, and white with 
 a veil of snow. The imagery now is all hopeful ; ' I am the 
 Resurrection and the Life ' comes home to the soul with pecu 
 liar power. 
 
 " The cemetery is vastly more cheerful than Mt. Auburn ; 
 and yet I like the somberer ground best. A gentleman asked 
 me, this evening, if to be buried in Greenwood were not 
 'worth dying for?' Ah ! when my body shall need an earthly 
 resting-place, let it not be even in the deepest shades and 
 quietest nooks of that ' city of the dead,' but somewhere more 
 apart from the eye and step of the curious and the indifferent 
 visitor. Let not so many feet hurry heedlessly by it ; let not 
 so many eyes look upon it, and never moisten ! " 
 
 The many objects of interest in the great city were all 
 visited and duly examined ; but nature ever claimed her sym 
 pathy more than art, and her excursions to various beautiful 
 localities in the vicinity of the metropolis, appear to have given 
 her the highest pleasure. She thus describes her vision from 
 the heights of Hobokni : 
 
 " Across the river lay the pile of brick we had left behind 
 us, with all its possessions of wealth and wretchedness, gran 
 deur and filth, its fever of trade, its costly edifices, its nominal 
 princes, its depths of vice, its sorrow-stricken poor, its whirl 
 of fashion, a world in miniature, like the great world, a 
 mingling of extremes. 
 
 " I turned my eye away from it, far up the broad blue Hud 
 son, where white sails leaned lovingly against the azure sky, 
 
 10*
 
 114 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 framed in by the dark, green cliffs ; and, far down, past bust 
 ling Jersey city, to that gate of the open sea, through which, 
 dim and distant, I could discern the outward-bound vessels, as 
 they sailed onward to the pathway of the great deep." 
 
 The reader will see, in this, the strong beating of a heart 
 which had little sympathy with artificialities, and could not be 
 captivated by the whirl of a great city. In answer to a ques 
 tion upon this subject, she writes : " Missing here the congenial 
 intercourse with kindred spirits, and the hallowing influence of 
 mountains, forests, fields, and gardens, I rejoice in the experi 
 ence that the soul has deep, shady nocks within herself, where 
 she may retire ; and, shaking off the dust from her outer gar 
 ments, breathe the free, pure air of a better region, and soothe 
 her fretful throbbing by the side of the river of the water of 
 life, which floweth down to man from the throne of God. If 
 you have imagined, in my letters, any giddy sympathy with 
 what is tinsel and dross, you have, let me say, misapprehended 
 me ; think you I could live on lozenges ? " 
 
 And, to another correspondent, she writes in nearly the 
 same strain : " I am longing for the country now. There is 
 health to my soul in the breath of its breezes, the depth of its 
 shade, the fragrance of its incense-flowers, and the thousand 
 voices which talk to me there on every side. There the fret 
 ful and feverish world is easily shut out ; and the nobility, the 
 purity, the calm of a better atmosphere, are drawn around the 
 soul, and creep within it. You are in the midst of this, and I 
 am imprisoned by tall brick walls and columns of dust." 
 
 Mary had promised herself much pleasure in hearing the 
 celebrated preachers whose praise is in all the churches ; but, 
 as her visit was during the usual summer vacation, she was
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 115 
 
 sorely disappointed. After alluding to her regret in having 
 missed the opportunity of hearing either Dr. Storrs or Mr. 
 Beecher, she thus describes her impressions of Dr. Bethune : 
 
 " Yesterday morning I listened to a most excellent sermon 
 from Dr. Bethune, on the text, ' Behold he prayeth.' It was 
 rich in beauty of thought and expression, and full of practical 
 earnestness. Sweet consolation, pungent reproof, heavenly 
 counsel, fell from the speaker's lips by turns ; and each were 
 enriched and enforced by many apt, precious, Scripture quota 
 tions. None of these impressed my mind more deeply than 
 the words of the royal poet : ' Trust in Him at all times ; ye 
 people, pour out your heart before him : God is a refuge for 
 us.' 
 
 " Let us follow the dear command. What could be more 
 soothing? Trust in Him at all times, trust Him while the 
 flush of health and youth are on the cheek, trust Him when 
 the shadows of evening shall come, trust Him when glad 
 ness lights the eye, trust Him when weeping dims it, trust 
 Him when the days of life flow calm and even, trust Him in 
 the heat and the din of battle, trust Him while warm hearts 
 beat generously back to ours, trust Him when none save the 
 Divine heart of infinite love answers our craving for sympa 
 thy, trust Him when our earthly garments begin to unclasp, 
 and we feel the cold spray of the dark river, and all things slip 
 from our grasp as we stand waiting upon the brink, trust 
 Him, for He shall bring us home, with songs and crowns of 
 rejoicing." 
 
 The Scripture quotation, upon which she thus enlarges, clung 
 to her memory most faithfully ; for, the day before her return 
 home, she enters in her journal ; " Weary of excitement, long-
 
 116 THE MEMORIAL OP AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 
 
 ing for peace and rest, I gladly fly back to my dearest of 
 homes. To-morrow, to-morrow ! O thou to-morrow, the near 
 and the distant, what hast thou in store for me ? My weak 
 self, trust in Him at all times, pour out your heart before 
 Him!"
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 MARY returned to her home, July 7, 1852 ; and began a reso 
 lute search for an opening, through which to enter upon her 
 chosen sphere of labor. She was not yet nineteen, but was 
 far more mature in mind and character than most persons of 
 that age ; and her parents did not attempt to dissuade her from 
 the purpose she had formed. Her father's salary was too slen 
 der for the support of the family ; and, as already stated, his 
 patrimony was exhausted in the service of the Avon parish, 
 :u id lie was about to seek another field of labor. Her brother 
 was acquiring an education, and each year the expenses of his 
 school-life necessarily increased. This was no unforeseen 
 emergency ; for several years she had looked forward to such 
 a crisis, and prepared herself to meet it. She already knew 
 something of the ruggedness of the way she had chosen, and 
 she could not subdue her sensitive heart to stoicism ; but she 
 still went bravely on. While preparing for the greater self- 
 denial in the distance, she did not fill her hours with present 
 repinings and vain regrets. She knew full well that the only 
 way to prepare for future victory was to fulfil present duty 
 with a patient courage and a cheerful zeal. Writing to Leila, 
 whose future, like hers, was lost amid the shadows that covered 
 the hill-side up which their pilgrim feet must struggle, she 
 says : " I trust you have passed a happy day, in the quiet per 
 formance of many a duty. Things which sometimes seem to 
 
 us plain and uncongenial and useless are not so in reality. 
 
 (117)
 
 118 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 In the eye of God there existeth no such thing as a trifle. 
 Whatever he giveth us to do becomes a high and holy duty, 
 worth doing well and bravely. Is it not so ? You and I have 
 some thorns in our pathway : an easier road, my dear Leila, 
 might spoil us. Courage, then ! Rest will be sweeter after 
 toil." 
 
 Alas for the weakness of our humanity ! This battle-shout 
 was a little too confident ; and the next, only a day later, was 
 in a more subdued strain : 
 
 " I am faint-hearted to-night, my Emmie. O that, like a 
 tired child in its mother's arms, I could sink into the arms of 
 Jesus, and lie there to rest. A life before me, I must enter 
 it, struggling and self-relying, to speak humanly. Alas ! I 
 feel a-weary ; and I forget, sometimes, that the Everlasting 
 Arms are underneath me still, and that the Unsleeping Eye 
 will watch over me when friends are far away. And the 
 work, the suffering, the endurance ! O my own shrinking, 
 erring heart ! One passage of the Holy Word comforts me. 
 * To those who, by patient continuance in well-doing, seek for 
 glory, and honor, and immortality, eternal life.' " 
 
 This was not a cry from the depths, else would not this 
 cheering promise have answered it so speedily. It came, 
 however, from the vale, where there was no exultant joy. The 
 comfort and peace, prefigured by the humble truthfulness in the 
 promise, soon came. In answer to Leila, who had written that 
 the sunlight was as bright in her inner as her outer world, 
 "Mary replies : 
 
 " It is a blessed thing, dear Leila, this ' sunlight ' ! God 
 keep it in your heart forever. It is far from night in my own 
 soul; but, did you ever contrast- the fresh, dancing light of a 
 morning in May with the soft, mellow ray of an October
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 119 
 
 evening, stealing upon you through deep, many-colored forest 
 vistas ? The sun is the same, but you would not recognize it. 
 Every blade of steel must be tempered ere it is fitted for the 
 battle-field ; and, in each trial, whether exclusively my own or 
 eudured for others' sake, I feel that God has a design." 
 
 The month that followed was one of such excitement, such 
 alternations of hope and disappointment, while she was seeking 
 an avenue of usefulness, that she could not bring her pen to 
 execute its office, and her journal was all untouched. The 
 question was at last decided, and she opens a new volume, with 
 this modest preface : 
 
 " Thoughts far too vague for other ken than mine, 
 And subtle feelings I alone divine, 
 And inmost views of what I sec without, 
 And hopes, whose basis I myself may doubt, 
 And fears that to another follies seem, 
 And all the soul's deep yearning, and wild dream, 
 And her strange fancies, light as summer cloud, 
 All sorrows underneath which I am bowed, 
 All joys that make my heart leap like the rill, 
 Or, like a river, flow full, deep, and still, 
 Shall find, whene'er they choose, within this book 
 A hiding-place, where none save me may look ! " 
 
 The interval which preceded this entry we cannot better 
 describe than in the after record which her own pen made 
 of it. "We omit only a few minor details : 
 
 " Before commencing my usual order of daily record, it 
 seems to me desirable to go back a few weeks of my life, 
 and notice some events, which are to me quite important. In 
 July last, I became engaged to take charge of a school in 
 Montgomery, N. Y. ; but, through some misunderstanding on 
 the part of my employer, the contract was broken ere the
 
 120 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 time arrived for leaving home, so that for several weeks my 
 course was all undecided. At that time, I received a visit 
 from Eaamie. In the midst of it, a letter came from Uncle 
 
 David, summoning me to New York to meet a Mr. D , 
 
 from Baltimore, who was in search of a teacher. I was obliged 
 to go alone ; but, circumstances all proving favorable, I accom 
 plished the journey, and formed an agreement to teach in Bal 
 timore. I went to New York on Saturday, and returned the 
 following Monday. After a brief visit with Emmie, at Man 
 chester, I had but a little more than a week in which to pre 
 pare for my new residence. 
 
 " Such is the scheme of those weeks. To fill it out would 
 be utterly impossible. My poor heart was in continual 
 struggles and tears and watchings, yet I appeared outwardly 
 controlled and cheerful. Besides the pain of parting from 
 those I love, and going afar to a city in which I knew net a 
 single human face, I had the sorrow of feeling that I should not 
 return again to my Avon home, and of bidding a long fare 
 well to our friends, the Grants, who leave for Illinois the next 
 month. There were, also, minor trials, of which the time has 
 gone by to speak, but which took a deep hold upon me, and 
 have not yet all relinquished their grasp. The bitterness of 
 that sorrow I can never forget. I thank my God that he led 
 me very tenderly through it, and did indeed set my foot upon a 
 rock. 
 
 " Amid the many mercies I have to record, not the least is 
 the gift of a new friendship. It is nearly two months since I 
 received a complimentary note from ' Helen Irving,' the edi 
 tress of the Ladies' "Wreath. It was called forth by the ap 
 pearance of a little poem from my pen, entitled, ' The First 
 Time.' This note opened a correspondence between us, each
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 121 
 
 retaining for a while her nomme de plume. In so little time, 
 the interest at first excited, had warmed into a dear affection, 
 and disguises were laid aside. Yet, with Miss Phillips' per 
 mission, the name by which I first knew her, the name of 
 Helen will dwell oftener and more sweetly on my lips than 
 Anna.' " 
 
 Mary left home for Baltimore on the 3d of September. 
 
 She had engaged as principal English teacher in Mr. D s 
 
 boarding and day school, at a salary of $300 per annum, 
 together with a home in his family. Her first missive home 
 was commenced in the cars, while scarcely out of sight of the 
 Avon valley, and is so characteristic, that we extract the 
 opening page : 
 
 "CANAL RAILROAD, September 3d, 1852. 
 
 " DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER, We have just left Plain- 
 villc depot, and are whirling along with such a swift, irregular 
 motion, that all my letters must look like those unsuccessful 
 attempts to imitate the elementary copy of ' hooks,' which I 
 remember long ago, back in my dear childhood's school-days. 
 Nevertheless, I am 4iappy to take out pencil and paper to 
 beguile the way, and to commence thus early that correspon 
 dence which must be our solace during a long separation. 
 
 " This trial of parting from you has weighed heavily upon 
 me for so long a time, has been so often wept over ' in 
 secret places,' that the whole force of it did not fall upon me 
 this morning, and I felt in some measure prepared to meet 
 it. I was, indeed, very sad, and it was hard to keep back the 
 tears as much as I did ; yet I did not have the sinking feeling 
 which I have sometimes experienced. My spirit is steeped in 
 courage and patience; why should it not be? The noblest 
 
 and the sweetest motives urge me to be strong. The cry of 
 11
 
 122 THE MEMORIAL OF AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 
 
 my heart is unto God, ' Show me the way wherein I should 
 walk, for I lift up mine eyes unto thee.' And He never dis 
 appoints the soul that waits on him ; none of them that trust 
 in the Lord shall be desolate. 
 
 " I expect to work hard, to lay myself out for my pupils, to 
 meet the wishes of my employers, and thus to add my mite of 
 pecuniary ability to the family treasury." 
 
 She had all along taught her heart to respect the injunction, 
 "to labor and to wait;" and, now that she is setting out in her 
 work, it is pleasant to note that she does not falter, and that 
 she enters the field with the high resolve still upon her lips. 
 On the steamboat, with the scene of her labors almost in sight, 
 she continues her ' pencillings by the way ' : " I notice, as we 
 pass near the shore, that the maples are beginning to put on 
 their autumn dress ; this reminds me of days and months to 
 come, of the long year before me, and, of life. I hear a cry 
 in my heart, sad, yet earnest, ' I will learn to labor yea, if 
 it must be so to wait' "
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 
 MARY'S first day in Baltimore was the Christian Sabbath. 
 
 Peacefully its light dawned upon her in her new home, 
 
 
 and she was much interested in the preaching of Rev. Dr. 
 
 Backus, whose church the family attended. But the holy at 
 mosphere to which she had been accustomed on this blessed 
 day was wanting ; and, pining for sympathy, she could only 
 turn to her closet, and pour out her thoughts before God. 
 The French teachers, Mons. and Mme. B., were pleasant com 
 panions, but were both Roman Catholics, and lived much by 
 themselves. Mary's first impression of the tone of piety in 
 the family may be gathered from the following extract taken 
 from the first letter written to the home circle, on the evening 
 of her first Lord's day at Baltimore : 
 
 "If I ever felt shut up to the necessity of a heart-com 
 munion with my heavenly Father, without much aid from 
 what is external, I do to-day. Again and again I have cried, 
 ' My soul, wait thou only upon God ; for my expectation is 
 from him.' Sad enough I am to feel that there is little of the 
 atmosphere of spiritual Christianity in this new home. There 
 has been no family worship yet, and a very brief blessing 
 :t>kc(l at the table is the only thing savoring of religion. The 
 talk at dinner was about the old scholars and their different 
 peculiarities; the number of people at the Springs; the time 
 when they would return; the mention of the last bull at 
 Newport ; and about a man who attaches himself to no denom- 
 
 (123)
 
 124 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 ination, but is a ' universal Christian/ and much admired as a 
 preacher. O mother, mazier, God give me grace to live in 
 this place ! " 
 
 But it was not alone on the Sabbath that she missed the 
 healthful influences of the home circle ; and she soon came to 
 regard the rest and quiet of that day as a welcome treasure, 
 in contrast with the less grateful atmosphere which prevailed 
 during the week. We extract in this connection part of her 
 first letter to Leila, as it gives a glimpse of her surroundings 
 in her new home. 
 
 "BALTIMORE, Sept. 6, 1852. 
 
 "Mr DEAR LEILA, "When I have said these three 
 words, I have told you all, the true affection, the deep 
 gratitude, and the unfailing constancy of my heart toward 
 you. 
 
 " To you first, after my parents, I offer greeting, and the 
 earliest hour which my duties and my strength allow I seize 
 for you. I am seated in a lonely little room, in the third 
 story of this large house. One narrow beam of sunshine 
 streams through the almost closed shutters, and falls upon 
 the blue and white counterpane of my single bed, and, far 
 ther on, touches aslant the face of a dark-stained wardrobe. 
 A wash-stand, a petite dressing-table, my trunks, and two 
 wooden chairs, stand upon the bare oak floor. This state of 
 things, which looked to me quite comfortless on Saturday night 
 when I arrived, has grown to -seem very cheerful now ; and 
 here, if God spares my life, how warm, how quick, will be 
 my heart-throbs ! 
 
 " The particulars of my journey I presume you will learn 
 from mother, ere this reaches you. The most beautiful part 
 of the way, to me, was after I took the last line of boats down
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 125 
 
 the river. It was just at the going down of the sun, and I 
 kneeled upon the rich cushions before a stern window of the 
 cabin, and kept my position for more than an hour, watching 
 the glory in sky and wave. By-and-by the day faded, and 
 
 " ' The stars sat, one by one, 
 Each on his golden throne.' 
 
 " Then my soul, in its exceeding mournfulness, in its great 
 yearning after what is lost, was comforted from heaven ; and 
 the prayer, that had been offered so many, many times during 
 the day, from a fainting and agonized spirit, went up once 
 more, calmly, sweetly, consolingly. Ah ! dearest, have you 
 known what it is to cry to God, and cry again, with the heart 
 full, yet feel in answer only -the echo of your own words, your 
 own sighs ? And have you known what it is, at last, to hear 
 the voice of comfort, to fall upon the Saviour's bosom, to feel 
 the Everlasting Arms beneath, to rest, in the sense of heavenly 
 acceptance and guardianship ? 
 
 " So did I then ; and, worn out mentally and bodily, I lay 
 down, with my shawl for a pillow, and, pressing that sense 
 of safety to my heart, fell asleep. 
 
 " When I awoke, we were nearing the wharf at Baltimore, 
 and it was half-past ten o'clock. "We reached this home at 
 eleven, and I was very kindly received by Mrs. D . 
 
 " The school opened this morning, and I have spent most of 
 the day in arranging classes. It Avill be at least a week before 
 we shall be settled. Almost all of the girls I have seen have 
 pretty faces, and I have not yet seen an ill-disposed one among 
 them. * * * * 
 
 " I always look forward with so much pleasure to my Sab 
 baths, when I am absent from home, I mean peculiarly so, 
 11*
 
 126 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 because I do not have in the family those glimpses of Sunday 
 through the Aveek, which visit us at the dear parsonage. O 
 Leila, my love, I shall be much tried and tempted here. God 
 give me more grace ! " 
 
 The labor of the school was far greater than she had ex 
 pected. Accustomed to the steady discipline and excellent 
 order of New England private schools, she was not at all 
 prepared for the physical labor necessary to establish some 
 degree of system before any instruction could be given with 
 advantage. Among those pursuing the same studies in one 
 class there were no two at the same lesson ; and the govern 
 ment of the school had been sadly neglected by some of her 
 predecessors. With great tact, untiring industry, unwearied 
 patience, and a steady aim at one definite result, she succeeded 
 in bringing order out of this chaos, very much to the satisfac 
 tion of Mr. D , and without weakening her hold upon the 
 
 affections of her pupils. But the effort overtaxed her powers. 
 In a letter to her mother, after recounting her labors, her dis 
 couragements at the beginning, and her success, she adds : 
 " But O, mother, it is harder than any work I ever imagined ! " 
 
 Her situation in Baltimore was trying in many respects. 
 In addition to the labors described, many of which she would 
 not have encountered in a school which had been under pre 
 vious good management, and besides all the want of congenial 
 society, a deprivation keenly felt by one of her peculiar 
 temperament, there was the distance from home and from 
 most of the associations of her early years. She felt " shut 
 out from the country." This implied something more than 
 the absence of green fields and natural landscapes. There 
 was something which made her heart say, "The country 
 seems very far away from Baltimore."
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 127 
 
 She soon became very much attached to her pupils. During 
 the first week of her service, she wrote of them : " The girls 
 are all very respectful to me, and many of them so soon give . 
 me loving glances out of their beautiful eyes. I am not in 
 the least boastful, and, I am sure,- not too sanguine ; but I do 
 hope not to receive a rude or impudent word from any of 
 them. Some of them are very winning, and I love them 
 already." 
 
 This feeling was soon reciprocated, and the prophecy noted 
 was literally fulfilled. The girls soon learned to love their 
 faithful, sympathizing teacher ; and among the more intelli 
 gent, her very faithfulness, a little irksome at first, soon en 
 deared her all the more to them. The little tokens of this 
 loving confidence were multiplied, and became very precious 
 to her. The rose-buds carefully selected and brought to her 
 fresh with the dew of morning ; the kiss patiently waited for 
 at noon ; the strife as to who should bring her a book, or 
 show her some trifling attention ; the earnest request of a 
 dozen at once, for the seat nearest to her at recitation, all 
 showed that these professions of attachment came from the 
 heart. 
 
 There was much consolation to her in these tokens of affec 
 tion ; but her heart, separated from those who knew something 
 of its depths, was yearning for a sympathy which the affection 
 ate caresses of children could not supply. This want of her 
 soul, and her constant care that no manifestation of it should 
 chill the growing attachment of her pupils, are thus touchingly 
 alluded to in a letter to her mother : 
 
 " Alas ! the children, whom I always try to meet with a 
 patient temper and an unclouded face, never pass my outer 
 threshold. They see not the heart-struggles, the heart-
 
 128 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 failures, the few heart-successes ; they know not how my very 
 soul often turns into prayer for strength, for wisdom, and for 
 hope ! " 
 
 This prayer was not the vain cry of a despairing heart, but 
 the earnest petition of a - soul which knew the Source of 
 strength, and sought it, not so much for the mere comfort of its 
 possession, as for its help in the performance of life's daily 
 duties. When was it ever denied to such a spirit ? And so we 
 read, in the same letter, a little farther on : " Yet I am thank 
 ful that, little by little, day by day, I can see that my strife 
 is not in vain ; that the life within grows deeper, rises higher, 
 with every throb. When I look back upon the way by which 
 I have gradually been led to more lofty views of that 
 which is real and eternal, I wonder ; and it seems to me that, 
 just now, I should not be much benefited by what the world 
 calls ' an easy life.' It has been in trial-paths that I have 
 taken most onward steps. I fear that my best impulses and 
 highest purposes would be drowned in a calm, and smiling 
 sea. I am glad, however, that this is no subject for my 
 choice." 
 
 We have seen that Mary entered upon her duties with a 
 lofty courage, and a steady purpose to allow no weakness of 
 her heart to interfere with their faithful performance. While 
 she sought for strength only through Divine grace, she was 
 sustained ; but the confidence thus gained soon relapsed into 
 self-reliance, and from the grasp of this broken reed she was 
 left to fall into the depths, that she might be taught again to 
 look upward for light. If any other tried and tempted heart 
 has thus suffered without finding a way out of the thick 
 darkness, let this plaintive voice direct their stumbling feet. 
 It speaks from the pages of her diary :
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 129 
 
 " To my task, to-night, I bring a sad and weary heart, so 
 weary, that it is impatient of even this light employment ; so 
 sad, that it sends to my eyes the overflowing tears. Where 
 is the courageous hope and the high resolve which have not 
 once before slackened since I entered upon this new life ? 
 Plain enough it is, that they are fled, and, to my self-accusing 
 spirit, the reason is equally plain. 
 
 " This afternoon, as I sat a second time in the sanctuary, 
 with the mellow light of the declining sun softly radiating 
 about me, and the solemn tones of the preacher on my ear, 
 I found space to reflect ; and, with the consciousness of sin, 
 came a sorrow too deep to be easily shaken off. I did, indeed, 
 return to my chamber, to fall upon my knees and cry unto God 
 for his forgiveness. I do, indeed, feel that He has heard me ; 
 yet the sadness still remains, freshened whenever I think how 
 could I forsake the only source of comfort open unto me, 
 when my spirit is pressed by trials which need a more than 
 human strength and wisdom, to meet ? "
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 FAITHFULNESS to her many duties wearied both body and 
 mind ; but these trials Mary had anticipated, and such weariness 
 never led to despondency. She first refreshed her mind from 
 the wells of comfort whose depths were never exhausted ; and, 
 the moment the fresh tide of feeling banished the sorer heart 
 throbs, mere physical prostration was forgotten, and the soul 
 revelled in another atmosphere. Let us look in upon her, at 
 the close of her school-hours, upon the afternoon of a day in 
 September. She is still sitting in the school-room, with one 
 hand upon her weary head, the other guiding the pen over the 
 pages of her daily record. If we are near enough, we may 
 copy the soliloquy : 
 
 " My head aches, as I think how these walls echoed to-day, 
 and shall echo to-morrow, the confused murmurings of fifty 
 tongues, and these desks, now empty and prim, be filled with 
 as many restless and noisy children. And yet I did not find 
 it, this morning, an impossible task to teach with patience and 
 gentleness, so I will not despair about what is to come." 
 
 The soul, thus rebuked for its fearfulness of the to-morrow, 
 for its faint-heartedness under the burden, was still unsatisfied, 
 and she takes- it to task more severely : 
 
 " O you sad and restless soul ! Don't you feel ashamed not 
 to be happy, now, in the bright morning of your youth? 
 Come ! spring above the clouds and bathe in pure sunlight. 
 See! it is shining, glad and changeless for you. Struggle 
 
 (130)
 
 THE MEMORIAL OF AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 131 
 
 on ! "What if you arc lonely, and faint, and burdened ? The 
 journey is short, and the end thereof an endless glory. 
 
 " There arc many wayside flowers, too, to pluck, loves 
 and friendships, and hours of happy thoughts, and pleasant 
 hopes, and green laurels. Look about, and weave thee a 
 wreath, and dry up thy tears. Think of the beautiful land 
 scape thou art passing by upon thy road, and, above all, think 
 of the meeting thou art coming to with Infinite Beauty and 
 Infinite Goodness, with perfect rest and perfect pleasure, with 
 all thy dearest treasures, where there is no shadow of parting, 
 forever." 
 
 She needed all the consolation and courage and hope which 
 these lofty considerations were fitted to give. How different 
 from the ideal struggle of her youthful dreams, camp the stern 
 reality ! With all the romance with which her heart ever 
 invested life's commonest scenes, she could not always shake 
 off a painful sense of its burdens ; but, even then, she could 
 look through all, with her eye- steadily fixed on the closing 
 scene. She did not rebelliously refuse the cup because it was 
 not unmingled sweetness. 
 
 " There is no effervescence of the wine of life to-day : pure 
 and rich I hope it is, but it does not sparkle in the cup. 
 
 There seems to settle upon me such a sense of what lies be 
 lt 
 
 tween me and the last dream, if my -day be a long one, as 
 touches every nerve of the soul ; and, if they do not all quiver, 
 it is because the hand of the Comforter hath been laid upon 
 me. My heart is so full that, through all the school exercises, 
 the tears were, by a strong effort, restrained within the eye 
 lids. They are not bitter, nor indeed very sorrowful, tears ; 
 for God knows that my resolution is, by patient continuance in 
 well-doing, to ' strive for glory and honor and immortality.'
 
 > 
 
 132 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 " I never imagined that life could seem to me as it does 
 now. I feel no distaste for the practical duties, or the daily 
 pleasures, of my lot ; but I cannot become absorbed in them, 
 or forget any, while realizing how soon they will cease, how 
 binding upon me is the obligation to fulfil in them all the 
 great, high ends of this probation." 
 
 Notwithstanding these occasional shadows, the soul, thus 
 strengthened, often rejoiced in a clearer light, and she was 
 generally cheerful and contented in her daily employment. 
 "Whenever relieved from the pressure of present obligation, 
 her heart very naturally went out after the dear ones at home ; 
 but this did not make her moody or dissatisfied with her sphere 
 of toil. 
 
 " Dearest mother," she writes, in a postscript to her weekly 
 letter, " I cannot refrain from saying a little more to you this 
 night. The evening is gloriously moonlit. My window and 
 blinds are thrown wide open ; and it is because the beauty 
 of the night so touches my very self that I must speak to you. 
 I do not feel, just now, that we are far apart. Why is it that 
 the light of day is never such a link between separated friends 
 as the light of night ? The sun seems to shine in a sort of 
 general, indiscriminate manner ; while we think of the moon 
 as more exclusive, looking directly into our eyes, and the 
 eyes we love. I have taken a grand, long walk this afternoon, 
 and have entertained a great many happy thoughts. I won 
 der sometimes why I indulge any sad ones, when there is so 
 much prepared every day for my joy." 
 
 "We have had before us the shadow and the moonlight ; a 
 little farther on it is .broad day, and we can almost catch a 
 glimpse of the dancing sunbeams. 
 
 " Thanks to you, dear mother, for ever stirring my heart to
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 133 
 
 some sweet and right feeling by your ' word in season.' It 
 seems to me now that I can never forget my lesson of grati 
 tude to our heavenly Father ; but my poor heart, I know, is 
 always wandering out of the way, so I will try to keep a 
 faithful watch. The glow of the morning is very fresh on 
 my spirit to-day. I feel as I did last winter, ' it is a pleasant 
 thin* to live and be young.' I don't think there is any harm 
 in it, either, for youth is a gift of God, to be enjoyed as much 
 as any other ; and the feeling I now indulge in is not at all 
 saddened by the recollection that the body will grow old. 
 
 " no, I never will grow old ! 
 
 Though years on years roll by, 
 And silver o'er my dark brown hair, 
 
 And dim my laughing eye, 
 They shall not sjirivcl up my soul, 
 
 Nor dim the glance of lovo 
 My heart casts on this world of ours, 
 
 Or lifts to that above.' " 
 
 Mary had been well instructed in music, and to a pleasant 
 voice united considerable taste and skill; but, for reasons 
 which those who sympathize the most closely with her will 
 thoroughly understand, she seldom gave expression to her 
 deepest emotions in song. She could not express her passions 
 or affections in set words and phrases ; and, although willing 
 at all times to gratify her friends at their request, and often 
 sitting down to the piano as a pastime, she seldom found relief 
 in it for the disquiet of her soul. To use her own words, she 
 "had less confidence in her musical abilities than in any 
 other." But she loved music ; and to the performance of a 
 master her spirit bowed, as if its own chords had been swept 
 
 12
 
 134 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 by an unseen hand. Referring to the execution of a " Reli- 
 gioso Adagio," on the violin, at a concert she attended, she. 
 writes: "There was a whole soul-experience, a whole life- 
 progress in the piece, that moved me to tears. The simple 
 prayer of the child, the gay gladness of an unburdened heart, 
 the fervor of the enthusiast, the gentle sigh of sadness, the 
 deep, passionate gloom of wo, the faint groan of a pro%rate 
 spirit, the earnest struggles of mature life, the quiet and 
 somewhat mournful peace of the subdued and patient sufferer, 
 the sublime strain of one departing to glory, these, and 
 more, infinitely more, which I cannot express, were embodied 
 there. I bowed to the touch of that electric power which 
 seems a messenger of God to move the heart of man." 
 
 Notwithstanding this intensity of feeling, which is thought by 
 many to be peculiarly the gift of a southern clime, Mary still 
 clung to rugged New England with a first love that nothing 
 could quench. While October came to her, in Baltimore, Avith 
 balmy breath and azure skies, cold'winds Avere sweeping OA'er 
 the northern hills; but her spirit seemed more attuned to their 
 Avild song than to the soft vespers of her autumn lullabies. 
 Writing to Miss. Phillips, Avho shrank, in her home near the 
 stormy coast, from the cutting blast, she says : 
 
 " You dread the Avinter, my love. The atmosphere of those 
 towns on the Massachusetts coast is intensely cold compared 
 with the sheltered A'alleys of the interior. But a New Eng 
 land climate for me, after all, dear Helen. Those Avho love 
 me call me an Italian, and I seek not to deny the southern fire 
 in my A'eins ; but I Avill not lose my birthright. I am a child 
 of the North, still. I IOA T C her Avild winds and roaring seas ; 
 ' I love the battle of her storms ; I love her keen, piercing 
 frost, and the glitter of her shorter sunlight on the iced earth
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 135 
 
 and forest. If ever my soul rises to a queenly might, it is in 
 the glorious winter-time, when, by some innate sympathy with 
 tlic stern strength of nature, she shakes off her trammels, and 
 rushes on to bear down the obstacles which wall her from the 
 desired goal. 
 
 " And the nights, the winter nights ! O, surely, we would 
 rather be frozen than give them up. They will bear com 
 parison with the balmiest summer. In the months of heat 
 and bloom, the earth has her play-spell, as it were, and every 
 thing allures us to a dreamy ease ; but in the remainder of 
 the year, all the secret voices, which ^whisper to us tell of 
 action, urge to action. Is it not so ? 
 
 " And yet, how positively I have been speaking. It may 
 not be so to you, even though it is to me. Your spirit has 
 the hue of a sunny sky, and the fragrance of a thousand 
 flowers, and the melody of the woods ; and even its sadness, 
 like the summer shower, draws a rainbow after it. So God 
 keep it ever, and make your life a long September, melting, 
 when its autumn comes, into that Paradisean beauty which 
 knows no earthly measurement or change. 
 
 " And for me, the same God give me conduct through the 
 winter, help me meet the storm with an unquailing eye, or 
 hide me when its might is too severe, and keep all my 
 goings, that my feet slip not in icy paths. Then, indeed, will 
 thi.s heart be ready for an eternal spring."
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE dullest, prosiest place, to common eyes, was lighted up 
 with a glory for Mary's keener vision ; and, from the window of 
 her cheerless room, she saw rarer landscapes than ever painter 
 fastened upon the glowing canvas. Let us look in upon her, 
 on this October afternoon, as she sits with her little drawing- 
 case in her lap, writing to her mother. 
 
 " I am seated by the open window of my room, which, hap 
 pily, is opposite a little gap in the block facing me ; so that I 
 have the view of a small court, green with grass, and box, and 
 young fruit-trees, and, beyond these, the dear sunset-clouds, 
 seen through the screen of a tall, slender maple. I turn my 
 head a little to the north, and my eye takes in the cathedral, 
 already familiar to you, with its heaven-directed crosses, and 
 its yard, shaded by the weeping willow. Here I stand every 
 night, about ten o'clock, talking to the moon and stars, sending 
 messages to you, and receiving spirit-answers, through the 
 stillness and paleness of evening. 
 
 " But I forget, it is not evening now, and I am not en- 
 wrappered gazing into the sky, but all dressed for the after 
 noon (after the fashion of this vain world), cool, in this morn 
 ing-glory muslin with thin white sleeves, just telling you it is 
 October by this gay plaided sack, which helps a simple velvet 
 to conceal the bare brunette neck. Now can you not see me ? 
 If not, then the object of this sublime description still stretches 
 away unattained into the dim distance." 
 
 (136)
 
 THE MEMORIAL OF AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 137 
 
 It was natural for such a loving heart to cling too closely to 
 earthly friends, and look to them for that comfort which can 
 only come frofti a deeper fountain. Often God hid his face 
 from her, when she thus withdrew her trust from him, in order 
 that she might give him her whole heart. To her mother, she 
 writes : 
 
 " I have been pretty low in spirits this week, until to-day. 
 This morning, or perhaps last evening, I managed to get the 
 better of my depression. I believe I had been looking too 
 much to your words to comfort me ; and I felt, at last, the 
 necessity of a surer consolation. To seek this with the whole 
 heart, you know, is to find." 
 
 If there were ever an excuse for leaning on a human lover, 
 Mary might well have been pardoned for reposing such trust 
 in her mother, for that mother had been her dearest, most con 
 stant, truest earthly friend. A day or two before, she had 
 written of her, to her new correspondent: 
 
 " Dear Helen, I want very much to have you know my 
 mother. If you love me at all, you would love her very 
 much, for she has trained all that there is good in me. O, 
 her deep, rich, wise affection embraces me, present or absent. 
 She is 1 to me as a second life. I have not a thought concealed 
 from her. We know each other so perfectly, that, hundreds of 
 times, eye answers eye, and thought responds to thought, with 
 out any medium of speech. O how many times, my heart all 
 unstrung, have I turned to my precious mother, and rested in 
 her love. She reads me as quickly and easily as you will this 
 page ; and it seems to me that I could not live without this con 
 stant appreciation. Mamma is not quite twenty years older than 
 myself; so that she is better lilted to be both sister and mother." 
 
 It was during this October that Mary heard of Leila's con- 
 
 12*
 
 138 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 secration to the cause of missions, and that she had resolved to 
 spend her life among the Choctaws. Although this arrange 
 ment was not consummated, and the dear friend entered upon 
 her sacred duties in a still more distant field, yet it was the 
 first time her heart had fully realized the trial of such a sepa 
 ration. At first, she gave vent to a burst of grief; wildly de 
 manding " if God requires such a sacrifice of the affections?" 
 Then she struggles, " with a long thought-time, over her bad 
 self," until faith is triumphant, and she sits down and writes a 
 cheerful and encouraging letter to Leila ; adding, in her diary, 
 " O, how much better to comfort and strengthen her in doing 
 right, than weakly to sit down and complain of my own share 
 in the trial ! " She felt the trial none the less keenly, because 
 she saw the Wisdom which inflicted it, and meekly kissed the 
 uplifted Hand. Her loves were so few, that any change or 
 anguish that came to them inflicted upon her a pang as keen. 
 She says, in a random sentence in her diary, the fuller of 
 meaning because so isolated, " My heart has never moved 
 down to Baltimore." 
 
 Just now, it was divided between the home valley and that 
 little group from its farthest limit, who were following the set 
 ting sun to enter upon a new field in the distant west. The 
 Grants had left the West Avon parsonage, twin village with 
 her dear home, as already noticed. Each step of their jour 
 ney is as sad to her as a funeral march, it announces such a 
 sorrowful disruption of so many tender ties. 
 
 " My heart," she writes in her journal, " is faint in its very 
 depths, just now, with thoughts of the dear friends who have 
 started on their westward journey. O ! is it true that they 
 have really gone ? I can think so vividly of the empty 
 rooms in that deserted parsonage, about which the autumn
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 139 
 
 wind is sighing in the pines. O ! the aches, the sore aches 
 in my heart will not be soothed, when I remember that I shall 
 see there, no more, those who made that humble home an 
 Eden to me. I can only hoard that dear happiness of the 
 past among my jealously guarded treasures ; I can only live 
 again in dreams, what reality shall never renew." 
 
 This " heart-ache " lasted several days, but was at length 
 partially relieved by a flood of tears, she had tried hi vain to 
 shed when the grief first pressed upon her. Those who have 
 coveted this luxury, sometimes without success, will readily 
 sympathize with the following brief allusion : " The ' crying 
 spell,' courted for many days, needed no wooing when it came 
 at last ; but a shower of tears kissed my cheek like a willing 
 bride." 
 
 One of Mary's privileges, during the period of her resi 
 dence in Baltimore, was the free use of the library at the 
 Athenrcum, where she found in books a charm for many a 
 lonely hour. She began to analyze her own powers, as she 
 pored over the productions of genius in the past, and to ask 
 why she, too, might not stand among these gifted ones, and 
 utter something worthy to live after her. To her mother, 
 first and only, she hints this desire, which almost grew into a 
 purpose, and would, doubtless, have been fulfilled if her years 
 had been prolonged. " Within myself," she writes, " day by 
 day, desire and confidence increase with regard to literary 
 pursuits." She felt that she had not done herself any justice 
 in her writings, hitherto published, and she had a yearning 
 after an ideal excellence toward which she was making no 
 tardy progress. She had no leisure time in Baltimore for 
 such exertion, and accomplished little with her pen, except
 
 140 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 her correspondence with her friends. She says to her mother: 
 " I could write something worthier of praise than I have done, 
 I am sure, if I had the time, and the necessary privacy. 
 But the future and the unknown I leave in Providential 
 hands. If I understand myself, I am willing to be and to 
 do what God appoints." 
 
 There is, in this connection, a sad foreboding, which strikes 
 us now almost like prophecy. In alluding to her inclination 
 towards literary pursuits, she adds : " To nobody but you, dear 
 mother, could I speak this hope. Your smile, if sceptical, 
 will not be cold ; and, if my hope fails, your thought, in after 
 years resting upon it, will judge (O, how kindly !) and think, 
 perhaps, it might have been realized in another clime, be 
 neath another sky ! " 
 
 She would have uttered this only to her mother's ear, 
 that mother, who understood her heart so well ! Even her 
 father, tender, faithful, considerate, and kind as he ever was 
 to her, could not enter into every shade of thought, and read 
 each look and tone, and minister to the need of her craving 
 spirit, in the place of this, her best earthly friend. How 
 touchingly this is expressed hi the following extract : 
 
 " I am half sorry that father had the first and solitary read 
 ing of those long letters of mine to you. He replies to me, 
 ( What struggles of heart, what wings of fancy, what staggerings 
 of faith you have to record,' as if he, at least, wondered at 
 my experience. I cannot explain why, (I do almost adore 
 my father,) and yet, in all the living world, there is no 
 touch I can bear close upon my shrinking soul but yours. 
 O God in heaven, spare you to me, my mother, my mother ! " 
 
 She suffered but little, when among strangers, with " home-
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 141 
 
 sickness," as the expression is ordinarily understood ; but that 
 inexpressible longing for communion with the absent, which is 
 so hard to be denied, threw a shadow over many of her 
 thoughtful hours. Her fancy aided her much in escaping 
 from the bitterness of this separation from the home circle; 
 for with its help she could defy both space and time. How 
 vividly the home scene was present to her thoughts, as she 
 wrote the following, it occurs near the close of a letter of 
 twenty pages : 
 
 " While I have been pursuing this letter, with sundry inter 
 ruptions, the sunlight has faded from the window, the rose has 
 piil.-d in the sky of the west, and softly and dreamily, one 
 by one, creep in the solemn shadows, and bring, with a 
 strength indescribable to one who has not felt it, the yearning 
 for friends, the longing for home. 
 
 " As 1 sit here in this far chamber, upon which your eyes 
 have never rested, and look out on the coming night, through 
 the dimness and over the distance, I see you, my beloved ones! 
 I see you circling the cheerful tea-table, you, dear father, 
 with your warm, unbent look resting on the face opposite ; 
 you, dear mother, raising the well-creamed cup, with that 
 smile of yours, which diffuses gladness just like an atmos 
 phere ; you, my darling, bright, restless boy, prating away of 
 school exploits, and wayside news. O Willie! my Willie! 
 on your dear face may never seal of sorrow set; may no 
 withering care trace early silver threads in your crown of 
 chestnut hair. My precious brother! would that my puny 
 arm could secure you a good and happy life. 
 
 " The pleasant glances go round, and the fresh, earnest 
 chat flows on; the whilom hungry student begins to be ap- 
 petiteless, and the tea-cups are empty. The fire chimes in
 
 142 THE MEMORIAL OP AN ONLY DAUGHTEE. 
 
 its low singing voice, and now, I still think, an eye falls upon 
 the vacant place where another chair used to stand, and a 
 remembrance flies to the absent daughter of the house. Bless 
 you for it ! I know that your loving recollections cannot leave 
 me out of mind ! "
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THOSE who have followed this simple narrative from its 
 beginning, will not fail to notice the maturity and strength of 
 soul which she rapidly acquired during this residence at Balti 
 more. The extracts just given were all penned during the 
 first six weeks of her absence from home ; but they show that 
 she was leading an intenser life. She felt every rude shock in 
 the rough way she was pursuing ; but each one gave her a 
 firmer tread, and a more resolute faith. When the trial came, 
 instead of sinking beneath the burden, she accepted it, as part 
 of a wise discipline, and thus profited by the lesson, however 
 severe. She did not steel her heart stoically against suffer 
 ing, or keep back the tears which every fresh wound sent to 
 her overflowing eyes ; but she learned to look up, even through 
 the greatest dimness of vision, and see a Father's hand direct 
 ing every allotment of her way. Her mother was quick to 
 detect the least sadness in the tone of her letters, and this was 
 a fresh inducement for her to cultivate a cheerful spirit. That, 
 mother was at this time undergoing much suffering, mental and 
 physical. How close the mutual sympathy may be gathered 
 from the following extract from a letter, which was begun 
 during the first rain-storm of the season : 
 
 " Your yesterday's letter, dear mother, was very sombre, to 
 come from one who always contrives to fling a brightness for 
 other eyes on every shady place. It will not do for us to be 
 cast down. I feel how dear is the one great hope, which 
 
 (143)
 
 144: THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 reaches forward to the better country ; and I have other hopes, 
 too, such as any young, ardent heart will have, in the gloomiest 
 day. I expect much happiness, even in this world. I can 
 look at to-morrow, and sing a courageous song, and take a 
 light step, as well as put on an armor of endurance. 
 
 " And here, just as if to encourage the brave feeling, our 
 Father's sunshine smiles out of a rifted cloud, and caresses this 
 page, and the head which bends above it. Isn't this a beauti 
 ful promise-token ? My heart, that has kept steadily up to a 
 becoming standard of happiness all day, is ready to dance, 
 now that the storm is over. The clouds are each moment be 
 coming still more broken, and there is a patch of golden sky 
 in the west. How precious is a little thing to the heart, some 
 times ! 
 
 " I am so sorry for your ailments of body, and all your 
 cares and ti-ials of soul. God give you his strength, my be 
 loved mother, without which there is only weakness in the 
 mightiest, * * * * 
 
 " It were hard, indeed, for me to be any thing less than a 
 comfort to you ; but I am obliged to admit some unwelcome 
 convictions upon this point. Be assured that I am very 
 happy now, and prospered, as I have all along been, in the 
 performance of duty. It is, I trust, greatly for my benefit to 
 be situated just as I am. I do not say this in a vague sort of 
 way, but I really mean it. If I improve this discipline, I 
 shall grow more earnest and strong, and less selfish, than I 
 fear I should in my precious New England home." 
 
 The gayety of heart is here a little colored, to soothe the 
 anxiety of her mother, but it was not assumed. The secret 
 of her life, throughout these months of toil, is admirably 
 summed up by herself in a single sentence :
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 145 
 
 " I have so much to thank God for, that it would be wicked 
 
 to be sad ; and so much to think, and feel, and act, that it 
 
 
 would be impossible (it seems to me) to be frivolous." 
 
 She had a quick, warm sympathy with childhood. " The 
 scholars," she writes to her father, " do obey me, and love me 
 still ; the consummation so devoutly to be wished. I have 
 struggled hard, and with some suffering, to gain this hold upon 
 them ; but the success is worth more than all the toil." 
 
 Persons of her sensitive temperament feel the magnetic 
 attraction or repulsion which makes their choice of friends 
 seem, to common eyes, like the veriest caprice. Some com 
 plained that they could not understand her and were at times 
 almost persuaded that she was cold and heartless. To others, 
 her heart opened as a door on willing hinges to one who has 
 the key, and all her wealth of affection rewarded the access. 
 To Miss Phillips, whose love met at once an answer and re 
 ward, she writes : " My love bounded to meet the first word 
 you ever addressed to me ; my heart recognized something it 
 had waited for eighteen years, and throbbed with the con 
 sciousness of your identity with one of its images." 
 
 Mary was not easily flattered, unless the incense was deli 
 cately offered. Coarse praise, or a noisy tribute of admiration, 
 only provoked her disgust. Alluding to some attempts to 
 excite her vanity, in a letter to her mother, she adds : " A 
 glance, looking to be answered in my eye intelligently and 
 sympathetically, or an attitude of earnest listening to what I 
 said, has flattered me a great deal more deeply, many a time. 
 Some slight thing like this hits the mark, when a clumsier 
 arrow falls short." 
 
 The last day of autumn finds her still toiling cheerfully 
 
 " five and a half hours each day in school ; patiently travelling 
 13
 
 146 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 through a desert of history, arithmetic, Latin grammar, etc., 
 and presiding over the study of the few boarders, out of 
 school-hours ; " and welcoming the quiet of the late evening, in 
 her own little chamber. She speaks of the day as summer- 
 like : " The departing season glances back, to say another 
 adieu, and to strengthen and heighten the image of beauty she 
 leaves in our hearts." 
 
 November came in with sour and biting winds ; and, on its 
 second day, she writes : " We are having dismal weather at 
 present, and I am just in the position to grow blue." After 
 reciting formally eight other reasons for being sad, she thus 
 concludes the argument : " Now, have I not good and sufficient 
 cause for a regular, desperate fit of melancholy ? Would not 
 any young lady, at mature eighteen, be expected to indulge, 
 upon such grounds ? Do you not imagine me, at this very 
 moment, sitting with a face a cubit long, all draped in stream 
 ing tears, all set round with dishevelled ringlets, which float 
 unheeded, ' beautiful, even in their confusion ? ' Alas, alas ! 
 that I must dissolve the affecting picture. I am the possessor 
 of as bright a face, as cloudless eyes, as well-ordered locks, as 
 at any time of my life. I do, positively and energetically, 
 Decline to be miserable. My follies I repent of; my anxieties I 
 give up to One better able to bear them ; the lesser troubles, 
 which grate away the spice of life by littles, I set my feet 
 upon ; and, mounting upward, win a light bosom. 
 
 " As to the seasons of weeping over which you tenderly 
 lament, dearest mother, pray give me the enjoyment once in 
 a while. What member of the illustrious ranks of girlhood 
 does not claim these as her special right ? I am well, and 
 strong, and thriving, and happy, and heart-whole; what do 
 you want more, except that I should grow better ? "
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTEE. 147 
 
 The ringing music of this disclaimer of sadness has the old 
 childhood-tone ; and the following, written to her mother a 
 few days later, although a little less buoyant, is in harmony 
 with it: 
 
 " Father thinks of me rightly as a child still, a child 
 always toward you both, within the walls of home. There the 
 spirit throws off its new dress of womanhood, and feels, 
 how sweetly ! the old freedom, the old lightness. Yet, to the 
 world, to strangers, I am sad when I think of it, I seem 
 a maiden grown. The idea strikes me strangely, sometimes, 
 as I feel the consciousness of responsibility and care connected 
 with my station here. "Within myself, I receive half-wonder- 
 ingly the deference that is paid me. I love going away from 
 it all, to shut behind me the door of my little room (which has 
 music in its closing hinges), and come back again in fancy to 
 a younger girlhood, and a less thoughtful life." 
 
 "With this child-like freshness of thought and feeling, came 
 the old longing for the gift of ready poetic utterance, and a 
 struggling consciousness that this power lay somewhere 
 within her reach, and might yet come at her call. To Helen 
 she writes : " I cannot describe to you how I feel, of late, 
 the life within widening, deepening, and growing clear. 
 Thoughts, and fancies, and themes of song come to me like 
 winged visitants, often when my mental powers arc busy with 
 prosy tilings ; and seem not of me, but a gift from without." 
 
 And to her mother, under the same date, she incloses a few 
 lines on the sudden death of a sister of her dear Lucy Yale, 
 written, as she says, amid the press of severer duties, both to 
 show her sympathy and to gratify the impulse of her own 
 heart, and adds: " I am certain, it' T had the leisure, I could 
 compose with much greater freedom and ease than ever be-
 
 148 THE MEMOEIAL OF 
 
 fore. A thousand strains of song seem floating in my soul, 
 which might be prisoned on paper, were there time." 
 
 There occurs in a letter, written about the same date as the 
 above, an allusion to the lights and shadows of life in the par 
 sonage, which will be read with peculiar interest by those who 
 have wept over the scenes so vividly portrayed in " Shady 
 Side." Few persons of her age were ever so well fitted to 
 form a just estimate upon this subject, and hers is worth re 
 cording, as tending to throw light upon a pathway which there 
 is reason to fear has been too much shadowed : 
 
 "You were busy, in your last letter, dear E., in conjuring 
 up obscurities ; you have a marvellous talent for it ; but ah ! 
 you cannot hide yourself. They who give their lives to the 
 spread of the gospel can never occupy an insignificant post. 
 Theirs is a commanding place in- the Christian army, and so it 
 looks to God, and to his people, however it may look to them 
 which oppose him. 
 
 " The ministry has, as you say, many peculiar trials, which 
 are as ' a thorn in the side ' ; but I know full well the ' sunny 
 side,' and that is, O how beautiful ! I speak not only of its 
 higher comforts and joys, but even of those which are limited 
 to this life. There are the deep, grateful affection of many 
 hearts among the flock, and the free, cordial, sympathizing 
 intercourse with professional friends. Then, too, in the case 
 of country ministers, who are much shut out from congenial 
 society, there is such delightful closeness in the home-bond 
 as I believe few other families experience. Sometimes, in 
 view of dark days, through which my beloved ones have 
 passed, or are passing, I forget myself, and grow bitter ; but I 
 always repent it afterward. It may seem to you strange, as 
 well as you know me, and as often as you have heard me
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 149 
 
 'deliver my opinions' upon such subjects, if I should tell you 
 that, were I ever to love and be wedded, I would choose that 
 my life-companion should be a country pastor. Yet, truly and 
 seriously, that is rny secret preference. I speak of it only 
 to show you that my thorough familiarity with a minister's 
 life, and that of his family, has not made me desirous of ceasing 
 to share it ; but I turn to it from every other with the same 
 fond feeling that ' Rose Douglass ' experienced." 
 
 13*
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 "December 5, 1852.* 
 
 " CHILDHOOD opens into womanhood. In its door I stand 
 to-day, looking backward upon green valleys and pleasant 
 streams, forward to mountains which tower above, to shifting 
 billows, to skies of intenser hue. Nineteen years ago this 
 day, in the shelter of Connecticut's Mt. Carmel, I awoke to 
 existence ; and fond hearts, which welcomed my infant breath, 
 have watched me with the dearest of human love and tender 
 ness to the present hour. Nineteen years ! they seem a long 
 time to me, I can measure them by such changes, and so 
 many, within myself. As my thoughts traverse them again, 
 how beautiful do they all appear, the sweet, dreaming child- 
 years, so safe in the protection of a home where every influ 
 ence helped me toward goodness ; the free and golden girlhood, 
 whose meridian I have reached. God has given me a cup of 
 joy which is not yet fully drained. 
 
 " But, since my last birth-day, the rand of change, which 
 lies so heavily on many a spirit, has touched mine also. I 
 well remember the gray of that morning, twelve months ago, 
 when, suddenly breaking loose from dreams, I sprang to my 
 window, with the words upon my lips, ' Eighteen ! eighteen ! ' 
 
 " That window looked upon the massy and purple front of 
 old West Rock ; this window before me faces the dome and 
 turrets of Baltimore Cathedral. That morning, Emmie's arm 
 
 encircled me, and her loving wishes met the ear, on which 
 
 (150)
 
 THE MEMORIAL OP AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 151 
 
 these strange matin-bells are falling now. T7ten, fancy and 
 feeling and hope, in brilliant confusion, blent their charms 
 in the web of the future. To-day, the earnest thoughts of 
 life thicken around me ; every thing has an intenser look, and 
 the halo-mist is gone. I behold the way, I see the end, I gird 
 myself for the journey. The older heart is richer, and deeper, 
 and more resolved, but ah ! more subdued and chastened, too, 
 than the younger. 
 
 " The Lord hath led me by a wondrous and a strange path 
 during the year that is gone. Through deep waters he has 
 brought me to stand upon this firm ground which my feet are 
 now pressing, and to lift unto him the hallelujah which I raise 
 this day. Passing over this threshold of my nineteenth natal 
 morning, I pause to cry unto him for might of soul to meet 
 the future." 
 
 This soliloquy from Mary's journal is more descriptive of 
 her thoughts and feelings, more illustrative of her character, 
 than any thing which could come from another pen. Under 
 the same date she utters many of the same thoughts to her 
 mother, but there is an intensity of affection in the utterance 
 which tempts us to give an additional extract: 
 
 " The child you have guarded through the helplessness of 
 infancy and the waywardness of youth, numbers to-day her 
 nineteentli year. If it be a reward to her mother that ' her 
 children rise up and call her blessed,' then there is joy for 
 you. My affection overflows toward father and brother, but 
 to-day, next to my God, I thank and love my mother. Look 
 ing back adown the vista of the past, I see how my life has 
 revolved :ibout you as a centre; how, from my earliest remem 
 brance, you have continually moulded my nature, and influ 
 enced alike, action, word, and thought.
 
 152 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 " Every thing in me which is good or admirable I owe to 
 you. You trained and biased my intellect and taste ; you 
 kept me from becoming an idle dreamer, and a hater of philo 
 sophical studies ; you gave me my earnest, practical views of 
 life. You, dear mother, first taught me a love for what is 
 gentle and meek, you have ever softened my too fiery spirit. 
 And more, my mother : I perceive now how, all my childhood 
 up, your instructions and kind pleadings drew me always to 
 ward a Saviour's love, till I yielded to its blessed power. 
 
 " Since I have grown to girlhood, you have been (how few 
 daughters can say it !) my most sympathizing and intimate 
 friend. Especially within the past year have you corrected 
 so many hasty judgments, restrained so many wild impulses, 
 strengthened so many desponding hopes, that I feel as if this 
 were, somehow, a separate debt of gratitude." 
 
 There is more in the same vein, but this will give an idea 
 of the spirit that pervades the whole. Well might a mother 
 feel that she was blessed in such a child ! 
 
 Mary had now passed her first quarter-day, and received her 
 salary promptly. Reserving enough for her merest exigences, 
 she remitted the remainder to her father, begging him to use 
 it for the family expenses, and in educating Willie, as if it 
 were part of his own salary. " I wish it to be considered 
 yours," she writes, "just as much as if it did not first pass 
 through my hands." 
 
 The year 1853 dawned upon her amid the pressing duties 
 of her teacher-life. On its first day, she addresses Leila as 
 follows : 
 
 " To write to you is always a spiritual refreshment ; a cool 
 ing draught, which a soul, ardent and fevered as mine, turns to 
 with inexpressible relief. There lingers about the page which
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 153 
 
 comes from or even goes to you, a certain soothing air of your 
 presence. Dear Leila, when the dusty struggles of this world 
 are over, it seems to me that the death-calm will be sweet ! 
 
 " The year 1852, the dear and precious year, is gone to its 
 returnless bourne. You and I doubtless have shed more tears 
 over the old, than smiles on the new, thus far ; yet here, with 
 pen and heart, I pledge you wishes for the future, which, if 
 they have in them less of mirth than once, have not less of 
 gladness or sincerity." 
 
 This was the language of a true Christian, a tried warrior, 
 a faithful friend. There is no shrinking from the trials to 
 come, but there is much thankfulness for the mercies past ; 
 no indecorous haste to greet the new and the unknown, but 
 a secret longing after the rest which shall follow the final 
 victory. 
 
 In the same cheerful and courageous strain she writes to 
 the troubled household group at home. They were now 
 walking on the " shady side " of their pilgrim pathway, the 
 pastor having already fully determined to seek a new field, but 
 the future being to him as yet all dark and uncertain. The 
 mother had just finished and sent to the publisher the work 
 whose name we have quoted, but its success was yet unde 
 cided. 
 
 " Let me congratulate you first, dear mother, upon the close 
 of your long task. I am so impatient to see the book, and 
 annoyed that I stand only the same chance with thousands 
 of other and more careless people ! I doubt not of its suc 
 cess, and you must bravely steel yourself to meet the promis 
 cuous criticism which it will probably receive, sure all the 
 while that it is reaching and moving the great popular heart." 
 
 This was as literally fulfilled as if the prophecy had come
 
 154 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 from a higher inspiration than the daughter's loving appreci 
 ation of the mother's genius and judgment. Another, written 
 a few days after, was not less signally verified. " Do not let 
 dear, dear father despond. All will come out safely and 
 brightly ; so keep your hope and courage up, for I sec the 
 sunshine and the rainbows" 
 
 How much need they had at the parsonage for such cheer 
 ful words, such interpretations of the future, those alone can 
 know whose own way has been so hedged up that they must 
 walk alone by faith and not by sight. Here is another in a 
 still .more playful strain, which succeeded the above, and came 
 just in time to set their hearts a glow of a bleak January night: 
 
 " I take my pen in an unusually happy frame of mind, in 
 duced by many little causes, such, you know, as make up the 
 sum of existence. Well, there is a white beauty on every 
 thing without, a real ice-crust formed in the busy night ; 
 and now the snow, the snow, the dear, dear snow, is coming 
 down, soft and pure as if it began its fall in heaven, to coyer up 
 the ugly brown of the roofs, and the uglier red of the pave 
 ments ; and how can my heart be very dark when Nature has 
 put on such a light dress ? If such an old lady as she can 
 come out in feathers, I surely had better be excused from 
 weeds ! And you think, ' Mary, dear, this is nonsense suffi 
 cient ? ' O no, I was mistaken ; you don't think so ; you say, 
 'Ah! let the poor child run on, no doubt she does it seldom 
 enough, let her dip her pen in the froth of the ink, if she 
 likes : we will bear with it ! ' 
 
 " Yes, to be sure you will, for you have the bravest and 
 kindest of those brave kind hearts which belong to beloved 
 New England, the land where may God give me to live and 
 to die ; the land whose winters, glorious on her mountain-sides
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 155 
 
 
 
 and river-valleys, are worth, each one, a hundred thousand 
 summers fragrant with the flowers of -the South; whose 
 hearths glow bright as the free and generous spirit of b*r 
 
 is ; whose air is yet tell-tale of the old heroic days, M i 
 
 :n were earnest, and open, and true, and women wen 
 
 ery inch women ! " 
 
 How soon was this merry heart saddened, and the sensitive 
 spirit made to quiver again, with a fresh sorrow ! While she 
 w:is writing the above, Lottie's elder sister, so lately a bride, 
 was passing away from, earth. Her letter to Lottie, although 
 written hastily, ere the first burst of grief was fairly over, 
 and while she was only intent upon comforting her beloved 
 friend, is so full of tender consolation, that we are tempted to 
 copy it entire. 
 
 "BALTIMORE, January 13, 1853. 
 
 " LOTTIE, DEAR LOTTIE, Was grief ever meant to be 
 written of, with the cold pen, upon the cold paper? My sym 
 pathies for you in this great sorrow, eclipsing the brightness 
 and hushing the music of life, are such as only gathering tears 
 can speak, are such as you could only bear to feel through 
 the silent pressure of my clasping arms ; and the tenderest 
 words seem harsh, now, unsoftened by a broken voice. My 
 constant prayer commends you, as the sole hope, unto Him 
 who hath pronounced that heavenly benediction, ' Blessed are 
 they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.' 
 
 " Our Father hath taken your beloved one unto the country 
 of the angels. O, if any but God did inflict such wounds, 
 they were beyond healing. But, in the wildest darkness of 
 grief, when we refuse to look at lesser alleviations, there is 
 one consciousness before which the soul bows itself, this is
 
 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 , the hand of a Friend who loves us more fondly and wisely 
 fr 
 
 than any other in the universe. 
 
 " You will feel, dearest, how unbecoming it is for a stranger 
 to grief like yours even to "breathe of its bitterness ; how 
 impossible to realize the difficulty of tasting a cordial. Alas ! 
 that the heart must come back a thousand weary times 
 
 from its search after rest, to cry, 
 
 " ' Thou art gone hence ; our light is flown, 
 Our beautiful, that seemed too much our own 
 
 Ever to die. 
 
 Thou tak'st our summer hence ; the light, the tone, 
 The music of our being, all in one, 
 
 Depart with thee ! ' 
 
 ' The happiness of the past, rushing like a lava-tide over 
 the present, sweeps away the feeble barriers of that calm 
 which had just begun to build within. 
 
 " Heaven is bright, but our hearthstone, O how dark ! 
 There is one more seraph, but there is one less child. She is 
 singing to her harp of glory, but we are weeping. She hath 
 never more to taste bereavement and the grave, but we must 
 drink again of the bitter cup. So doth the heart hover be 
 tween its two voices, quivering with every modulation, as none 
 but the Infinite can understand or ease. 
 
 " The very Prince of Peace rest you upon his bosom, and, 
 by his own gentle teaching, lead you to think of that sweet 
 sister as never lost, but parted only for a little while from your 
 eye and kiss, as still unchanged in her happy home, loving 
 you as dearly, remembering you as frequently, as ever your 
 fondness could wish ; coming to you as the minister of heavenly 
 mercies ; waiting for your departure from this land of shadows ;
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 157 
 
 watching when you shall enter the land of perfect light, and 
 welcoming you, after these few flying years are over, to be 
 blessed forever in heaven. There, and only there, every sor 
 row of the soul shall die eternally. The God of Israel guide 
 you, my own dear Lottie, and be your strength and portion. 
 " Believe me, in every change of life, your sympathizing 
 
 " MARY." 
 
 14
 
 CHAPTER XX. . 
 
 THERE is a question which will tremble, unuttered, on many 
 a lip,' as the reader bends over these pages ; and some who 
 have followed the pilgrim through light and shadow, over the 
 rugged mountain and along the flowery vale, will long to ask 
 if she had no heart-struggles of a kind not here recorded, no 
 budding hopes of wedded life shadowed or blighted. The 
 answer is not difficult, and its truth rests on the fullest evi 
 dence. No human love came between her and her mother's 
 heart. There were some, perhaps many, who would fain 
 have wooed, and her love was not unsought by those whom 
 even partial friends might have considered worthy of success ; 
 but, just before her nineteenth birth-day, she could say, 
 " Thankful am I that my romance does not mn in the wed 
 ding line ; thankful am I that, free as the winds of heaven, I 
 own no ties save blessed friendships and dear home affections." 
 And, a month or two after, in reply to the badinage of a 
 friend, she writes : " Brighter and brighter within grows the 
 high ideal, yet looked at less often than once, because dimmer 
 and dimmer grows the faith that it will ever be clothed in 
 reality for me." 
 
 Every one must be struck with her intense love of the beau 
 tiful in nature, as shown in all her writings ; but this love, 
 instead of crowding holier thoughts from her heart, always 
 seemed, when intensest, to lead her into a diviner presence. 
 She looks out upon a closing day, above which the sky is 
 
 (158)
 
 MEMORIAL OF AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 159 
 
 beautifully blue, and her quick devotion adds: "It looks not 
 far up to heaven through the crystal ! " 
 
 From the bare schoolroom in Baltimore, she could see more 
 beauties through the uncurtained window than many find in 
 the loveliest landscape. At the close of one of the last days 
 in January (1853), she writes to her mother : 
 
 " The window, opposite which I am sitting, looks off to the 
 ' old town,' separated from us by an arm of the bay. A soft 
 rosiness hangs over it, the kiss of the sunset, imparting a 
 beauty to what in itself is dull and uninteresting. It is like 
 the past of life, mellowed by the distance, and colored through 
 the medium of years. Nature has a better alphabet for our 
 hearts than the Phenician. She expresses feelings that we 
 cannot put in words. 
 
 " Now the light is growing more dim, and the mist of the 
 low ground rises between me and the far horizon. Steadily 
 the shades are gathering together into night, our twilights 
 are almost briefer than at home, it seems to me. There is low 
 gentle music in the room beneath me ; it chimes in with the 
 hour. The tears gather softly in my eyes as I listen to it. I 
 think of many an evening, when I sat where I shall never sit 
 again, in the shadow of the twilight, and touched the familiar 
 keys, and sang some old familiar air, while thou listened-t at 
 the open door, and the light air wafted in the scents of 
 summer. Other fingers than mine are mistress of those keys 
 now, and I do not regret it ; yet I just allow one little sigh, 
 for that old piano was very dear. 
 
 " The darkness is deeper, and the outlines of objects without 
 mingle in indistinct gray." 
 
 And perchance the memory of that piano, sold at her own 
 earnest request, to supply some family necessities which her
 
 160 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 father's limited income could not reach, sent a deeper dimness 
 to the eyes and added fresh sadness to the fading twilight. 
 
 A day or two later (February 3), her heart again bounds 
 with fresh delight. 
 
 "My darling Mamma, we are having a spring here; breath 
 ing an air, soft and moist and warm as April, dwelling under 
 a sky of the most delicate blue, which, just now, is flowered 
 o'er with little saffron clouds. This is one of my rosy days. I 
 knew it when I woke and watched for the first tiny glimmer of 
 sunshine to fall on the wall. 
 
 " Why is it that sometimes without any apology of natural 
 circumstances, the pulse of the heart quickens consciously into 
 a livelier happiness ? The steps which at another time seem 
 long and weary, are bounded over with that elastic tread 
 which scarce touches the ground. The hours that another 
 day" move by, hanging their forlorn heads, look up smilingly 
 into our face and fling us flowers. The gladness within, 
 shining out, lights up every dark corner ; flowing out, sweeps 
 away every ugly sight. 
 
 " ' life is full, O life is deep ! 
 
 Earth is fair to see, 
 A beautiful and blessed place, 
 
 For it holdeth love and thce ! ' 
 
 " It is still, at times, the old story, ' a pleasant thing to live 
 and be young,' and no grave questioning face shall make me 
 give up the motto. Don't read this rhapsody to any body, be 
 cause any one but you would think it a sort of a rave, you 
 know ! " 
 
 There is but little ' gossip ' in any of Mary's letters ; many 
 sweet pictures of household scenes, many snatches of pleas-
 
 AN OXLY DAUGHTER. 1G1 
 
 antry, more records of life's earnest experiences, much of 
 the out break ings of affection and sympathy, but little to 
 wound, and nothing for mischief. She was too intense for 
 trifling, too conscientious for idle tattling. Alluding to reports 
 Which a friend had informed her were in circulation regarding 
 the probable marriage of a bereaved husband with a sister of 
 his deceased wife, she exclaims indignantly : 
 
 " At any rate, dear E., it is brutal for society to begin its 
 heartless speculations so early ! Ere yet above that dead 
 wife's sweet face the upturned mould has lost its freshness, 
 while yet husband and sister have not awaked from the first 
 crush of grief, is it possible that there are people who can 
 coolly give the one away to the other, overlooking that dark 
 wave which separates them, that bright spirit which, bend 
 ing from above, links them still by the old unchanged relation ? 
 Ah! verily, one might think there is no reverence on the 
 earth, even for sorrow ! " 
 
 While lingering over these days of toil and trial in Balti 
 more, we must not forget that which filled the greatest portion 
 of the hours with comfort, if not with gladness, the mercy 
 of God in Christ. Up to the date we have now reached 
 (February Gth, 1853), Mary had been in Baltimore five 
 months, and had written, as she incidentally mentions, over 
 one hundred letters to various friends, a large part of them to 
 her kindred at home. Some of these covered several sheets, 
 and there is not one of them which would not be found interest 
 ing and instructive. We have given a sentence, here and there, 
 as illustrative of her character and experience ; but, of course, 
 amid such a mass of manuscript, by far the greater portion is 
 omitted. In these, are many touching expressions of religious 
 feeling, which are omitted, because they cannot well be abbre- 
 
 14*
 
 162 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 viated, and a brief extract, without the connection, would often 
 destroy the tone of the record. Enough is given, however, to 
 show that she lived near unto God, that she spent much time 
 every day in the study of his word, and in private devotion, 
 and that her faith and hope grew stronger and brighter wilfr 
 each day's experience. Here is a record of one of the later 
 hours of the day of rest : 
 
 "My dear Mother, if you were here, up in this little 
 room, we would put our arms around each other, and have a 
 long conversation about so many things ! And I do not be 
 lieve the briefest part of it would be about that precious home 
 to which, I trust, we are journeying, and where we shall meet 
 to live with each other eternally; about our Saviour, who 
 conducts us thither, and his everlasting love. 
 
 "I have been reading to-day those chapters of John's Gospel, 
 from the restoring of Lazarus to life, and onward. Ah ! often 
 as I have read that account of the last days and last words 
 of Jesus, never do I go over it, but it seems more divinely 
 tender and beautiful than before. It appears to me that here 
 we come nearer that side of our Redeemer's nature which is 
 like our own, than anywhere else in the whole gospel. His 
 human heart, in its wonderful sorrow and affection, shades our 
 eyes from the Deity at which we cannot look and live ; and 
 when he draws us to him, saying, 'As the Father hath 
 loved me, even so have I loved you/ the whole soul melts at 
 his feet in a passionate answering of repentance and devotion. 
 The words, uttered centuries ago, drop upon the heart as if 
 from living lips ; and for a while, at least, it seems reality that 
 neither ' life nor death, nor any other creature, shall be able to 
 separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our 
 Lord.'"
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 163 
 
 Sometimes, in the midst of her deepest sadness or most 
 earnest struggles, came some sweet text, or the verse of a 
 hymn, to comfort or .encourage her. She says in her journal : 
 " Very weary, and well nigh distracted, I sat in the midst 
 of my school, this morning, and felt just that moment like 
 giving up all in despair. The spirit of impatience, which I 
 had put down, struggled afresh for the victory. Then, of a 
 sudden, came to my mind that one line, 
 
 " ' Cheerful we tread the desert through,' 
 
 and I felt my courage rise again. Here, in the wilderness, I 
 must fight my way along." 
 
 As we turn the pages of her journal, to make the above 
 extract, we find that the next day's record is the last entry. 
 Through several years, with but short intervals, she had con 
 fided her thoughts and feelings and hopes to these silent 
 friends. Here, in the midst of the fourth volume, the record 
 ceases. It was doubtless an intimation of failing physical 
 strength, although not a word is uttered in regard to it. She 
 had obtained a piece of drugget to cover a portion of the 
 bare floor in her little room, but she had no fire in it through 
 out the whole winter. To be much alone was a necessity of 
 her existence ; and the school-room, shared out of school-hours 
 with four young ladies who boarded in the family, did not 
 give her the seclusion necessary to her comfort. Mr. and 
 Mrs. D always treated her with respect, if not with af 
 fectionate confidence, and she uttered no complaints ; but her 
 cheerless room, her only solitude during a long winter's even 
 ing, was such a contrast to the home wherein she had been 
 reared, that she must have felt it keenly; and her friends 
 believe that the chill of that unheated apartment first planted
 
 164 MEMORIAL OP AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 
 
 the seeds of that fatal disease which took her from earth in 
 the morning^of her life. 
 
 The last words of her journal, penned just as she had 
 parted from a friend who was going to her mother's home, 
 are so prophetic, and descriptive of all that yet remains of 
 her history, that we cannot forbear copying them: 
 
 "I am a little sad, now that the dark, .lonely night has 
 fallen, and my friend has gone in that direction whither my 
 heart is ever moving, while I am left behind. I will not say 
 that the great wandering tears all stay at home, within. No, 
 some of them run races over my cheek ; yet, after all, I shall 
 go to bed a happy child, for I have some bright spots in the 
 future to look at, and they are not very far ahead."
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Tin: changed tone of Mary's letters to some of her friends 
 to whom she wrote only at considerable intervals, changed, 
 because dictated by a chastened spirit, led one to ask her if 
 " a winter at the South " had not altered her views of life. 
 She replied, at once : " ' A winter at the South ' has changed 
 me in some respects, yet perhaps not more than this year of 
 deeper thought and feeling would have done anywhere. I 
 have learned to think differently of the world, less gaily of 
 the future, more earnestly of the truth, and, believe me, more 
 devotedly of those I love." 
 
 In March, Mary had a brief vacation, and improved the 
 opportunity to spend a few days at home, a kind friend having 
 offered her this great joy, and paid the entire expenses of her 
 journey. She returned to Baltimore, bringing a volume of 
 "Shady Side" with her. The book had attracted much at 
 tention, and her mother had been severely pained by the har.-h 
 censures of those who were determined on applying its por 
 traitures to themselves, and still protested against the truth 
 fulness of the likeness. "Who, outside of this narrow circle 
 of cavillers, will not coincide with the justice of the following? 
 
 " I am thinking much of you, and of your troubles about 
 'Shady Side.' I am confident that you have done a good work, 
 and Providence will perfect that which concerneth it. Do 
 not, let the anger of unreasonable men, or the criticism of coil- 
 hearted ones, give you pain. I believe that, rising above all
 
 166 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 clamors, will be heard the voice of sympathy and generous 
 indignation from the great mass of truly Christian people. 
 We will trust this, like every thing else, in the keeping of the 
 Almighty Hand. He will surely give you, in due season, the 
 reward of those who speak the truth and that only, in meek 
 ness and sincerity, breasting a sinful and perverse world." 
 
 How .wonderfully has this been verified by the almost unan 
 imous approval of the Christian world ! 
 
 A little way back, we copied a letter of condolence to 
 Lottie, upon the death of her married sister, who had left a 
 young babe to Lottie's care, and gone sweetly to her rest. A 
 letter from Emmie, received in April, so won upon Mary's 
 sympathy, that she tries once more to comfort her afflicted 
 friend. Who, but one who had herself passed through deep 
 experiences, could so tenderly sympathize with a stricken 
 spirit ; or, without seeming obtrusive of counsel, so wisely 
 direct it to the true fountain of consolation ? 
 
 % 
 "BALTIMORE, April 13, 1853. 
 
 "DEAREST LOTTIE, It is near the sunsetting of an after 
 noon, soft and fragrant as our New England June. The low 
 white clouds, the pale rose of the west, the odors of the young 
 buds, and the soft, grieving wind, combine in a soothing beauty 
 which steals over my heart, as I wish it could over yours. 
 There is a voice of gentleness in the day, which falls tenderly 
 on the inward sense, and a prophecy of bloom and warmth, 
 silently advancing to meet us, although we cannot hear their 
 tread or see them come. God will take care of the summer, 
 will bring back the birds, and lift up to the sun again the 
 buried flowers. Do you.not believe he will, dear Lottie ? 
 
 "I have been afraid to write you, may I say it without
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 1C7 
 
 wounding you, love? Only afraid, lest my touch upon the* 
 trembling chords of your life be, involuntarily, a rude one; 
 yet how ran I longer restrain the impulse which cries out 
 toward you ? 
 
 " You will let me say how tenderly I love you, how, 
 kneeling morning and night in this little, solitary room, so far 
 off, I never leave your dear name out of my prayer. When 
 my heart aches, many times, with the vain and intense longing 
 to do something for you, I go to Jesus, and tell him the desire. 
 If he answers, and gives you of his comforts, how far sweeter 
 is it than all earthly ministries ! 
 
 " Surely in the morning gladness it is pleasant to sing to 
 gether, but when do we draw closest ? Ah! in the night-time, 
 when the darkness surrounds us, we lose each other if we 
 stand afar. In grief, the chain between us grows shorter, and 
 every link is more fully charged with the electric current. So 
 it is, that, having always loved you fervently and truly, I do so 
 now more consciously from hour to hour. 
 
 " Dear Emma writes me to-day that she has been to see 
 you, and that you are 'almost sick.' My poor Lottie, our 
 Father heal you in body and in spirit. I hope this beautiful 
 waking spring will be an angel of good to you. 
 
 " Kiss the little darling for me ; Emmie says she is beauti 
 ful. God love her. 
 
 " Have you heard from Leila ? Do you know that our 
 beloved has given away her heart, and the pledge of her hand, 
 to a missionary elect for India? The chosen one is Rev. 
 William Barker ; he sails next autumn, or, at the latest possi 
 bility, the spring following. Docs it not seem utterly impossi 
 ble of realization ? My brain i.s dixxy, and my heart full of 
 tears, in trying to make it seem true. What is there left un-
 
 1G8 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 'touched by the hand of change? Only one thing, the Rock 
 of Ages." 
 
 From these extracts, it is easy to see that Mary was always 
 afflicted in the affliction of her friends. To her mother she 
 says : " I have no dear friend for whom I have not suffered 
 much. My heart was in deep waters last night, but to-day I 
 am trying to trust in overruling Love. If the darkest hour 
 heralds the dawn, I think my morning is near at hand, though 
 no streaks of red shine in the east" 
 
 Ah ! there were deeper waters and a thicker night for thee, 
 young pilgrim, before the bursting light of the everlasting 
 morning. 
 
 In the midst of the blackest night or the deepest tempest, 
 she never seemed to lose her trust in the Wisdom which con 
 trolled the disturbing elements. " It cannot be " (we hear her 
 voice in the pauses of the howling winds) " that sunshine is 
 good for my development ; else why should I go in spirit from 
 storm to storm ? " 
 
 She was quick to learn the blessed truth that poring over 
 one's own sorrows is not the best balm for their sting ; and 
 that the fountain of healing or strength is not found in the 
 depths of selfish grief. " Many a time," she writes, " when 
 my heart is cold and stupid in petition for itself, it has been 
 warmed and softened by pleading for others." This is the 
 secret talisman for the church, as well as for private Christians. 
 Waste not, O sluggish heart, thine energies upon thyself, but 
 break forth in acts of kindness to others, and in resolute ser 
 vice to the Master. Beating one's own limbs will not set the 
 heart a-glow, like an hour of earnest toil in the field. 
 
 Nothing passed over Mary's heart without leaving its me 
 mento ; and thus her memory was filled with ever-thronging
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 169 
 
 shapes. After recounting some of these to Emily, she ex 
 claims: "O the by-gone days, the forever by-gone! As I 
 look at them, they melt into one soft moonlight remembrance ; 
 a beauty and a sadness, veiled in mist." 
 
 There is one touching allusion to the parish troubles, which 
 was written hastily, when the hearts of the minister's family 
 were sore and bleeding, under what they felt to be unkind 
 treatment from those for whom they had so cheerfully labored; 
 and Mary, amid her distant toils, sympathized strongly with 
 the home-feeling. In writing to Leila, she says : " With 
 respect to the excitement among our people, and the crisis it 
 has reached, I need say little, for you understand it even better 
 than I do. I have tried to uproot every angry and vindictive 
 feeling, and patiently, forgivingly, humbly, commit the matter 
 unto the Lord. Months may not bring eyes to a blind people, 
 but years will ; and, when the objects of their persecution are 
 far away, laboring on a new soil, or lying in a distant grave, 
 then the seeds sown in the past shall spring up, and bear fruit; 
 and, in the hearts of those now unjust and cruel, shall rise up 
 a sad, remorseful memory. God will take care of the end." 
 
 It was amid these storms that the poetry, " Life -has taken 
 another round," was written. 
 
 Early in May, Leila whose betrothal is noticed in a letter 
 to Lottie a few pages back was married in the church at 
 Avon, and Mary could not resist the impulse to be present on 
 the occasion, as, according to the arrangements then made, it 
 would be her only opportunity of seeing this beloved friend 
 before she sailed for India. She accordingly went from Bal 
 timore to Avon in a single day and night, and returned after 
 the Sabbath with almost equal dispatch. Her charge to the 
 
 bridegroom will be found among her collected, articles at the 
 15
 
 170 THE MEMOEIAL OP 
 
 close of this volume. The letters written to Leila, both before 
 and after the wedding, are full of tenderness ; but they cover 
 many pages, and we -are reluctantly compelled to omit them. 
 In the latter, after alluding to the checkered history of some 
 who were treading life's pathway with them, she exclaims : 
 
 " O life, how strange it is ! to one, a journey, a victory, or 
 defeat; to another, an encampment by green and pleasant 
 banks. O love, how full of mystery is it! to one a crowning, 
 a glory, a bloom ; to another, sorrow, bitterness, and frost ; to 
 yet another, only a dim dream waited for in the distant 
 future ! " 
 
 The time drew near for her to leave Baltimore, the last 
 
 term of the year being nearly closed. Mrs. D had left, 
 
 to visit her family friends in Great Britain, and Miss Malone, 
 a lady of gentle manners and great kindness of heart, had 
 taken her place and presided over the domestic duties of the 
 establishment. From this good lady, who was a 'member of 
 the Methodist church, and whose piety was at once cheerful 
 and glowing, Mary received so many grateful attentions, so 
 much unobtrusive kindness, that she never ceased to remember 
 her with sincere affection. 
 
 Mary was worn down with the arduous labors of the year. 
 Those who teach in a day-school, where their duties end with 
 the afternoon session, cannot realize how greatly the burden is 
 increased by any care, however light, extending through the 
 day.. Alluding to the prospect of an engagement on a differ 
 ent footing in another school, she writes: "I look almost 
 with envy on the privilege of going away entirely from the 
 scenes of labor out of school-hours. In a boarding-school, the 
 work is never finished and the care never shifted." 
 
 She longed to return to Avon, although the thought that it
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 171 
 
 was to be lior liomc no longer, robbed that return of half its 
 sweetness. And yet, the charm of precious scenes was not 
 the sort of instinct which many call " strong local attachment." 
 None knew better than she, the mysterious links that bound 
 these places to her heart. "Ah!" she exclaims, "how quickly 
 altered are scenes and places the most beloved, by the absence 
 of that which glorified them ! " 
 
 And as she thinks of returning, how sadly her heart shivers 
 with the chill of that coming desolation. 
 
 ' When I return," she writes to Emmie, " it will be to dis 
 mantle our parsonage, to tear away from the old beloved spot 
 a thousand tendrils, which it seems to me will break in sever 
 ing, and never twine again elsewhere. I feel as if I were 
 standing on a narrow bridge leading from the past to the 
 future, which forbids to cr^es with me a great multitude of 
 pleasant memories." 
 
 To Helen she had written many times of her father's in 
 tention to separate from his people ; but, after the act was 
 consummated, she sought in vain for words to express her 
 emotion. " Have I written you," she says sadly, " since my 
 father's dismissal from Avon? It took place last Tuesday; 
 the dissolution of the pastoral bond, however, dates from July 
 1st. The reality, whose shadow has hung about me so long, 
 at last enters my heart, and. brings with it a regret which time 
 may soften, but can never remove." 
 
 To another friend she writes : " How soon will my precious 
 childhood's home be dismantled and desolate, vocal only with 
 far-off echoes of happy voices, all removed ; and my favorite 
 spots and old loves, sacred to memory, a tablet written close 
 with the story of an ended life ! "
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 MART returned to Avon about the first of July, 1853, but 
 the charm of her home was gone, for the family were already 
 making arrangements for removal. She visited her old and 
 favorite haunts with a sad heart, like one who attends at the 
 death-bed of a friend. Those who saw her at this period 
 represent her as haunted with an ever-watchful sorrow, which 
 swept its shadow over her face even when it was wreathed in 
 smileb. But her journal is closed, and she could not utter a 
 word out of her full heart, even to her intimate correspondents. 
 One day, a week after she returned, she penned a hasty letter 
 to "Sister Abby," who, it will be remembered, left the "West 
 Avon parsonage for a residence in Lockport, Illinois, from 
 which we take the following extract : 
 
 " I long to see you with an intensity that makes the heart 
 ache. It is so difficult to write to you now of the many, many 
 things which I wish you to know and to feel with me. From 
 amid this tempest of feeling within*, and this multitude of 
 scenes without, how shall I make my feeble words bear to you 
 all their mighty freight ? 
 
 " I have just come in from a beautiful ride, a ride to 
 West Avon ; and the old sights, the old paths have set many 
 chords quivering. Some little changes there are about tho 
 dear old parsonage : it seems to me that the spirit of the place 
 is evidently changed. I thought perhaps that I was taking a 
 
 (172)
 
 THE MEMORIAL OP AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 173 
 
 last look, as we passed it in the sad, soft twilight, and my eyes 
 gathered every feature into a picture for memory. Alas, the 
 strange want within which cried out for you ! 
 
 "I looked earnestly and separately at the windows, half 
 hoping to see Johnnie's golden head, and your beloved face, 
 but all was apparently still and vacant. The doors were 
 closed, and no token of cheerful presence showed itself from 
 within. I longed to stop ; and yet, on wiser thought, I would 
 not enter the altered home, I would not disturb the old im 
 age as combined with yours. * * * * 
 
 " I came home very weary, dear sister, in body and at 
 heart. I call myself at home once more ; but over the sweet 
 ness and the blessedness of the words hangs a dark, fixed 
 shadow. You, who know all, are not in need of explana 
 tions. I realize that your heart will beat very close to mine 
 through these farewell days. My dear, dear Mrs. Grant, 
 ! once to put my arms about your neck, and weep there, 
 would do your sister Mary a world of good. 
 
 " Father and mother are now absent at North Stonington, 
 Conn., and it is nearly settled that there will be our future 
 home. I am sure that mother will write you all needful and 
 important particulars, therefore I need not insert them here. 
 
 " I do not, as you probably suppose, return to Baltimore 
 any more. I have several applications to teach in various 
 quarters, but my future is yet all undecided." 
 
 This might well be called " a season of farewells," for, a 
 week later, Mary was called to say the last adieu to Leila, 
 who, with her husband, set sail for their missionary field at 
 Alimednugger, in India. The following letter was just in 
 
 time to reach the ship before it left port : 
 15*
 
 174 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 "Avox, Friday eve, July 13, 1853. 
 
 " MINE OWN BELOVED, As I take my pen to begin that 
 correspondence, henceforth to be our only intercourse, O how 
 swiftly come the mindful tears ! 
 
 " That shadowed day has risen and set, the day of fare 
 wells which saw us part. There lingers with me yet the last 
 sweet words, the feeling of your kisses and tears upon my 
 upturned face, the last, last close pressure of our hands, as 
 the retreating train separated us. I felt, when you were gone, 
 for a moment, almost as if I had lost you by death, and the 
 whole storm of sorrow, all day withheld, burst upon my heart. 
 We returned to the Daguerrean rooms, and there, where I 
 breathed the very air you had just left, we sat waiting for 
 our pictures. I looked at the sofa we had occupied together, 
 the window where we had stood ; all spoke a volume of you, 
 every object intensified the realization of your absence. In 
 this hour of soul-bitterness there was only one comfort : He, 
 who hath wrought this, is ' our God forever and ever ; ' he 
 will be our guide, even unto death ; he will receive us into 
 glory. 
 
 " Leila, my dearest one, Jesus, our Saviour, show you the 
 path which is marked by his foot-prints, hallowed by his suf 
 ferings, and ended, by his death, in an everlasting home. He 
 can be with you always, everywhere ; he can understand you 
 entirely and continually. No ocean, or desert, or danger, can 
 lie between you and him. His familiar and infinitely tender 
 look reaches you where all else is new and strange. Your 
 hand can never be unclasped from his, whatever else it must 
 let go. When all sweet home-music is hushed in your ear, 
 his voice will sound there still, saying, 'I have loved thee 
 with an everlasting love.' Be strong in the word of his
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 175 
 
 grace, which is able to keep you from falling. He has called, 
 and you have answered, ' I go cheerfully.' What better 
 pledge can you have he is your elder Brother and gracious 
 Friend ? To Him, as the only .sweet and sure repose, I com 
 mend you, daily ' making mention of you always in my 
 prayers.' 
 
 " I know you will see the traces of my weariness in what 
 I write to-night. I have not grown rested after our last day. 
 I shall be well again soon, so do not be anxious. 
 
 " To-day I have been alone with dear mother for the first 
 time since I came home, which seems very precious to me. 
 This afternoon we visited at Mr. C.'s ; I tried to be cheerful, 
 and to make cheerfulness, but succeeded ill. Too many 
 chords were quivering in my heart to allow my usual de 
 meanor. 'This is a time when adieus thicken on every 
 hand.' 
 
 " I send you, dear Leila, as I promised, my parting offering 
 to you ; may it soothe and somewhat comfort you when bos 
 omed on the billows. And now, my dear ' child,' that we are 
 separated for our lives, do not think any differently of your 
 Mary from what you have been accustomed to do. I will 
 still be to you, in my own thought, all the same, and that for- 
 evermore, the same in love, in confidence, in appreciation, in 
 faithfulness. However long distance may prevent you from 
 receiving even a poor assurance of this upon paper, never 
 cease to believe it so. Day by day, week' by week, year by 
 year, while I live, I shall carry you in my heart, as I have 
 ever done. 
 
 " O, how vain is the effort to prepare the heart for such a 
 parting as oui'S ! However we might have looked at it in the 
 light of the future, when it becomes a present reality, we find
 
 176 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 that we knew not its dimensions, that we had not calculated 
 how deep a shadow it must throw upon our path. My darling, 
 God keep you, and bring us to see each other's face in peace, 
 by the light of that place which needeth neither sun nor moon. 
 "Till then, your MARY." 
 
 The above bears, as is stated in it, the traces of weariness, 
 and this was something more than the languor caused by the 
 weight of sorrow. Mary was not " well again soon ; " she was 
 never fully restored to health. In a letter written to Mrs. 
 Grant, two weeks later, is the first definite mention, in any 
 of her correspondence, of the disease which finally proved 
 fatal. We make a brief extract, which also brings vividly 
 before us " the dismantling of the parsonage," to which she 
 had alluded in a former letter. 
 
 " MY SISTER ABBY, The rich sunlight of the afternoon 
 is streaming through these uncurtained windows, upon naked 
 walls, bare floors, and rough, half-laden boxes. Three tired 
 individuals are taking a lunch and a respite. I, being one of 
 them, choose to recreate in the manner evident to you ; so I 
 have established myself in the sofa-chair, in the room which 
 used to be our pleasant parlor, with a book, paper, pen, and a 
 little inkstand, all in my lap ; which description, I am sure, 
 will make apology for any irregular movements of the hand 
 upon the page. 
 
 " O, how much, a thousand times how much, is there to say 
 to you ; but I am in a state of chaos, mentally, physically, and 
 locally, so do not expect much coherency from me. Your let 
 ter, dear sister, was read with some tears. I cannot come to 
 you, no, indeed I cannot. Even were my father and moth 
 er willing, under any circumstances, my health is hardly
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 177 
 
 equal to it now. You know I do not like to acknowledge ill 
 ness ; but my evasion of the truth would be impossible. I 
 have a troublesome cough, commenced in Baltimore, and 
 grown worse since my return. Mother thinks I have a little 
 fever every afternoon, and all who love me are urgent that I 
 should 'take care of myself, a new and hard lesson for me 
 to learn. Yet I am trying, and I hope, by-and-by, a good 
 many weeks hence, to be well again. Some moments bring to 
 me sadder anticipations ; but, we can trust our Father in 
 heaven." 
 
 The family left the Avon parsonage on Saturday, the Gth 
 of August. If Mary's health had been less feeble, she would 
 have left on record an eloquent farewell to each ' of her fa 
 miliars ' in that lovely valley. Nothing, however, can be more 
 touching than the following, from a little note written to Anna, 
 while resting at the seaside on the way to North Stonington^ 
 
 "We left our home on Saturday afternoon. The rain had 
 fallen with violence all the day ; tears dropped on us from 
 the ivy above the door ; tears from the young maples at 
 the gate, as we turned away from the little parsonage, and 
 looked bat'k through its desolate windows into the closed and 
 empty rooms. Just as we left the village, the blessed sun 
 beams darted out, and sent their living mists up to kiss the 
 forehead of the mountain, so the last look of ' Monte- Video ' 
 fell on my heart like a smile. A prophet-light seemed to 
 shine out of the old over the new ! Weary and sick, and 
 spirit-worn, I took it as one of Heaven's comforting min 
 isters. 
 
 " We are now on the way to a people who wait for us 
 with affectionate welcomings, where we hopo to build a little 
 nest of peace and quiet. Father is to be installed next
 
 178 THE MEMORIAL OF AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 
 
 Wednesday : we must be at Stonington the Monday before. 
 You don't know how I dread meeting strangers when I am 
 so stupid ! 
 
 " I am staying for a few days with dear friends here in Mad 
 ison, by the sea-side, and living the laziest life ! rising about 
 nine o'clock, breakfasting and dining on oysters at twelve; 
 amusing myself with medicines every few hours, and lolling 
 in easy-chairs, when I do not lie upon the bed. A very ener 
 vating mode of existence, is it not ? I should be ashamed of 
 it, if I could do any better ; but my cough is very troublesome, 
 and I cannot even crawl down to this glorious beach, a few 
 yards from the house. I can only look at the bright blue 
 Sound, and the lazy sloops that scarcely move in this breath 
 less weather. Like theirs, ' my sails flap idly 'gainst the mast 
 of my intent.' "
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 MARY reached North Stonington the second week in August, 
 1853, and her father was duly installed over the Congrega 
 tional Church in that town, two days after their arrival. The 
 fatigue of the journey, and the excitement connected with the 
 greeting of so many new acquaintances, produced a slight 
 reaction, and she became weaker than ever. Her friends had 
 denied her the privilege of correspondence, in the belief that 
 it over-taxed her strength ; but her dear friend, Mrs. Grant, 
 had lost a darling babe, her sweet Mary, and the invalid 
 begged a sheet of note paper on which to write a few words 
 of condolence. In that she says, " I have ceased putting my 
 arms around anybody now ; those whom I have, at times, held 
 up, must change places with me." 
 
 In the same note, and indeed in all of her letters from 
 North Stonington, she speaks most gratefully of the kindness 
 of that dear people, a kindness which met her with a wel 
 come born of the heart, and which followed her without 
 abatement through all Jier subsequent residence, even to the 
 last sad duty that mortal can fulfil to mortal. On the 23d 
 of August, she writes to Miss Phillips : 
 
 " Let me tell you about my surroundings. As you pass 
 down the principal street of this pleasant village, there stands, 
 just at a turn where a sober brook comes purling from the 
 meadows, a substantial, cloflPly-shaded mansion, built in the 
 spirit of forty years ago. Two most ambitious evergreens 
 
 (179)
 
 180 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 monopolize the narrow front yard, and stretch their cones 
 with a Babel-like intentio* toward the sky. Within, the old 
 and new blend charmingly; quiet, airy rooms, wearing the 
 solid look of the great corner-beams and heavy mouldings, yet 
 luxurious with modern comforts. You will find me in one of 
 the large ' front chambers,' open to the east and south. I am 
 sitting indolently in the extreme of an easy-chair, all alone. 
 
 " Can you think of me, and are you ready now to ask why I 
 am not in that young parsonage across the brook ? Because, 
 my dearest, we have not yet been able, amid our cares and 
 the incompleteness of our new residence, to become established 
 in our own house. We are still the guests of the people, at 
 their urgent desire and our urgent necessity. 
 
 " If you knew that my dear mother is in Boston to-day, 
 perhaps you would feel as much nearer to me as I do to you. 
 She left us, this morning, to make a hurried visit to the furni 
 ture warerooms of that good city. Father and Willie are 
 ' distributing ' themselves among our friends here, in order to 
 satisfy the many claims ; but I, being an invalid, am absolved 
 from such fatiguing duties, and indulged in remaining at this 
 one home. Home! did I say? Ah! that was too sacred a 
 word, and yet I could almost, almost use it, in gratitude for 
 such kind and tender and unremitting care as I am receiving. 
 O, it goes down to the depths of my weary heart, the almost 
 parental love of these strangers; and I wonder that so sweet 
 a gift should have lain in wait for poor undeserving me ! 
 
 " You will want to know about my health, dear Anna. Do 
 I not seem better to you in this letter than the last ? I trust 
 I am recovering slowly; I hardly dare to hope so, at times. 
 My cough is not as violent; tire syrup prescribed by a kind 
 friend has benefited me ; but I still have my afternoon
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 181 
 
 rise of fever, which seems naturally endowed with an obstinate 
 disposition. 
 
 " I feel usually pretty cheerful, whether I look onward along 
 the vista of fair human years, or upward through the deep 
 blue of this summer sky, to the ' shining gates.' Our Father 
 
 in heaven will make all- things right and beautiful in his time. 
 
 ******* 
 
 " You ask me, love, when I shall send another poem to ' The 
 Era.' I was not sure 'The Era' wanted another; and, indeed, 
 I am not sure I shall ever write one again. My fancies are 
 diseased, I believe, they come and go, the strangest, singing, 
 winged things, since my illness. If I could have coaxed a 
 pencil and paper out of the hard heart of medical and maternal 
 supervision, when I was in New Haven, I might have sent you 
 one of my weird specimens. But I was utterly prevented 
 from committing any such folly. 
 
 " Next week we hope to be fully arranged at the parsonage ; 
 and, as soon as I hear from you, I will try to write again, and 
 give you a description in earnest of the new resting-place." 
 
 Her most alarming symptoms had not been reported even to 
 her intimate correspondents, as she could not bear to create 
 any unnecessary anxiety in their hearts ; but, in answer to a 
 very earnest request from Emmie, she wrote more frankly. 
 
 " I have grown weak so rapidly since I came here, that the 
 use of the pen has been denied me ; and now I am on ten 
 minutes' allowance, and can only write you briefly. 
 
 " I have the nicest and wisest of doctors, the tenderest nurs 
 ing; and if wishes, and prayers, and loving assiduities could 
 make me well again, I were now the healthiest girl in Christen 
 dom. But ' that ugly cough ' has no intention to part from me 
 
 lightly ; it keeps hold steadily, day by day, night by night. 
 16
 
 182 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 If there ever comes a bright time, when it and I shall sever 
 company, I shall feel, in the fulness of my heart, that our 
 Father's mercy took me from under the very shadow of the 
 gates of death, where I am waiting, dear Emily, looking on 
 the freshness and the beauty of life, leaning toward all the 
 blessedness of human love, and the greatness of human hope, 
 yet knowing that life and love and hope, so far as they are 
 mortal, may soon be far behind me ! " 
 
 "Pray for me, darling, take these words gently, and be 
 not too grieved : there is still, so far as earthly eyes see, a nar 
 row little path back to health and renewed life. I love to 
 think I am climbing it, because health is gladness, and life 
 is very dear. 
 
 " My Doctor Palmer spoke 'more cheerfully to-day ; he is 
 very candid, and will not give false encouragement, I think. 
 He forbids my talking much, and, as he left, said, ' We will 
 Lave you so you can talk a great deal, by-and-by, I hope.' 
 
 " I wanted to tell you of the inexpressible kindness of the 
 new friends, with whom I have staid nearly a fortnight (wo 
 only came to the parsonage on Saturday) ; but there is no 
 room, and little ability. Do you remember a talk ' we three ' 
 had in your parlor one July night ? Dear Emmie, I shrink 
 to cast that first deep shadow over you ; God forbid it, if it be 
 his will. He watches us, and cares for us ; I commend us all 
 to him, with an humble trust in the name of Jesus. Our 
 Father give you gladness, my darling, and many fragrant 
 years." 
 
 She would not shadow the days of her friends by depriving 
 them of all hope of her recovery, and therefore wrote all the 
 encouragement she could conscientiously give, reserving, as 
 far as possible, the deeper tints in the prospect. To one of
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 183 
 
 the wisest and truest of her friends, she poured out her heart 
 more fully upon this subject than even to her own family 
 fru'iidrf. We copy nearly the whole of a note penned to her 
 under date of September .5, as it shows her state of mind far 
 more clearly than it could be given in any language of our 
 own: 
 
 "Monday eve, Sept. 5, 1851. 
 
 "O ABBY, MY DEAREST SISTER, Your letter to mother 
 has just reached us, and opened in my heart a fountain of 
 tear.-;, deeper and bitterer than I knew was there. 
 
 " Is it so, that I shall not see you again in this sweet life ? 
 I am afraid it is ; others have some hope for me, I have little 
 for myself, very little. I stand where I can look in at the gate 
 of the dark valley ; if I ever come up again, it will seem to 
 me wonderfully merciful. Sometimes I tremble about that 
 which is beyond ; how can such a poor, miserable sinner as I 
 be one of God's beloved? Then, again, the way seems clear 
 and beautiful and sure to heaven, and I feel glad to go. 
 
 " Last night, the Sabbath sunset was glorious, purple and 
 gold and azure beneath. As I sat and watched it, with the 
 quiet, sweet feeling that our Father spread for me the beau 
 tiful sight, it seemed so easy to go right up those golden stairs 
 to the Eternal City, and be at rest ! Yet I had my mother 
 in my arms, and wanted to take her, too; there was an earth 
 ward link ; and the heart, once turning thatwise, felt so many 
 others, i'elt the separation from my few most intimate friends, 
 from the hopes and activities of my young life. God only 
 knows the issue to come. His will, yes, my darling sister, his 
 blessed, perfect will be done. If he sees it best to take me 
 away, he can fill the place I should leave empty in one house 
 hold, and in a lew devoted hearts.
 
 184 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 " Pray for me, dear Abby, as earnestly as you can ; pray 
 that, if it be possible, this cup may pass from me. I long, 
 from day to day, to be cheerfully pleasant, to give honor to 
 the Saviour in every word and way ; and, if Death is waiting 
 for me, to meet it, serenely trustful, with full assurance of my 
 welcome home. 
 
 "I have poured out my whole soul to you, dearest; I 
 couldn't help it. Do write me. The Lord comfort you, and 
 be merciful to us all. 
 
 " Evermore yours, MART." 
 
 Those who have lost a dear friend from their side by pul- 
 monic consumption, know well the insidious character of the 
 disease, and the crushing anxiety attending the frequent al 
 ternations of hope and fear, as the symptoms change from 
 day to day. The foregoing letter was written during the 
 downward swing of the pendulum ; here is an extract from 
 one, a week later, after the depths were passed : 
 
 "NORTH STONINGTON, Sept. 12, 1853. 
 
 " MY DEAREST EMMA, I have lived, since I wrote you, 
 O, how long ! I have passed such days as can never be for 
 gotten, or regretted. Can you imagine what it is to come face 
 to face with Death, the strong angel, and feel his close grasp 
 upon you, waiting the signal to sunder soul from body ? to 
 give up every little, lingering hope of life, and meet, in the 
 anxious smile of beloved ones, clearer than in tears, the secret 
 fear and the burden of sorrow, yet, in all this, to be at peace, 
 resting gladly in the Almighty Father's will, looking, with a 
 sweet sense of safety, down the path to the dark river, and 
 ' beyond to the ' fields of living green ' ? 
 
 "This has been my experience, darling, and now, that
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 185 
 
 almost miraculously a new hope is born in this household, 
 and life seems spread out before me again, and the dear eyes 
 that wept not for grief are moistened with joy and gratitude, 
 I can scarcely believe it i-eal. Those symptoms (so alarming 
 to a consumptive), the hectic fever and raising of blood, have 
 left me, it may be to return again after a temporary respite. 
 We hope not ; but the signs of my most deceitful disease are 
 littl! to be trusted. My good doctor said, 'You are better, 
 greatly better than I expected, on the up-hill side ;' but, as 
 he said, it is far easier to go down than up. Be assured, dear 
 Emmie, which ever way I go, I am happy ; it is wonderful to 
 me that I am, but the grace of God is given to me freely for 
 the asking." 
 
 This mercy of God to Mary during the most trying pe 
 riods of her last illness, is one of the sweetest memories left 
 to her friends, and has ever been to them a cause of devout 
 thanksgiving ; and this the more, because her life was not 
 one that flowed on calmly as a peaceful river through a 
 flowery vale. Her intensity of thought and feeling, her keen 
 sensibility, her earnest longings after the unattained, had 
 ever urged her beyond the limit of a quiet, serene composure 
 of soul, and, as she often said, made the storm and tempest 
 
 necessary to her strength and growth. But, as in nature, the 
 
 
 stream which is nursed in the hills, fed by the storm, lashed 
 
 into commotion as it sweeps through the mountain-gorge, 
 chafes and foams along its rocky bed, leaps from basin to 
 basin, and pours in an impetuous flood down to the plain, when 
 it reaches its fulness, flows under the broad sunshine, without 
 a ripple on its surface, into the still sea, so the tumult of 
 doubt and distressing gloom, and moan of anguish, which we 
 
 have marked in her earlier pathway, or heard from the thick 
 16*
 
 186 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 darkness of her previous conflicts, all gave place, as Mary 
 approached the end of her pilgrimage, to that sweet peace 
 which, in such an hour, is only the gift of God. 
 
 In a letter of condolence to Lottie, upon the death of her sis 
 ter's child, written on the 24th September, she says : " Since I 
 wrote to Emmie, I have been better, and worse, and better 
 again : amid these alternations of disease, when hope and fear 
 are thrown in even balance, I find it hard to keep a tranquil 
 heart." And yet, her serenity was so great that it was a mar 
 vel to all of her friends. We have all seen or heard of sick 
 rooms, where the patient sufferer, given over of friends, waited 
 calmly for the last hour ; or where, amid torturing pain, the 
 soul cried out for release, or rejoiced that the suffering was 
 nearly over ; but what more cheerful trust, amid the distress 
 ing alternations of a changeful disease, what sweeter voice of 
 patient cheerfulness, ever came from a couch where hope and 
 fear lay in an even balance, than we find in the following note, 
 under date of September 25 ? 
 
 "Mr BELOVED EMMIE, It is somewhat a peril for me 
 to use the pen; yet, with so much of comfort in my poor body, 
 it seems to me I must answer your last note. The afternoon 
 sun falls softly aslant the western windows of this pleasant 
 little .nursery; and so deeply shaded are they that there is no 
 light to put out the glow of the dear wood-fire on the hearth. 
 I am sitting before the bright inside glow, watching the little 
 flames curl upward, looking into the heart of the brilliant coals, 
 and now and then at the outer rim of pale dead ashes. * * 
 
 " Darling, again, after a rest upon the bed, I take this in 
 efficient pen. You say that ' We shall be happy, again as we 
 have been in the past ! ' O, how tenderly do I recall, in the 
 quietude of a sick room, the years that once were mine, the
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 187 
 
 eighteen cherished years gone to their graves, with all their 
 history of a beating human heart, and its changing world. 
 O ! how fondly have I reviewed their thousand scenes, 
 pleasures too fair to live longer than the rainbow, and like it 
 pendant on the clouds ; soberer joys and deeper, that shone 
 long and faithfully ; hours of social gladness ; hours of talk 
 with the voices of the sky, and mountains, and woods, and 
 streams. How have I traced the lineaments of faces that 
 grew cold and faded in the midst of the years ! O Emmie, 
 ' as we have been ' can it be ? 
 
 " One thing you must teach yourself, my darling, or you 
 may regret it, not to say any more that I ' shall certainly 
 get well ; ' don't feel, dear Emmie, that I ' must get well.' 
 Could you spend one day with me, I think you would only 
 say, ' I hope,' I think you would pray, ' if it be possible!' 
 Since my little note to you, I have relapsed somewhat into 
 my old ways. For twenty-four hours I was under the domin 
 ion of a burning heat, which left me more prostrated than I 
 had previously been since my illness. I am gradually getting 
 back to my usual strength as an invalid. Dr. P. says, if I 
 can wear out this fever, he thinks the cough will gradually 
 subside ; at present, the scales hang almost evenly in the bal 
 ance. We have nothing to do but to wait : God give us grace 
 for it. If you and I are not to spend more sweet days in 
 this world together, we hope we shall in the new earth, beneath 
 the new heavens, which shall never pass away, and where no 
 inhabitant shall say, ' I am sick.' 
 
 " Write me often, for your letter is like a sunbeam in a dark 
 room. Be cheerful, my dearest, not one good thing will our 
 God withhold from them that love him. 
 
 " In all sincerity, your happy and loving MARY."
 
 CHAPTEE XXIV. 
 
 THROUGHOUT all the following winter (1853-4) her disease 
 kept alive in the hearts of her friends a constant succession of 
 hopes and fears, changing oftener than the fickle sky, bright 
 mornings were followed by a gloomy overcast meridian, and a 
 sullen, stormy nightfall ; or, misty, threatening daybreaks, by 
 a balmy afternoon, and a golden, many-hued sunset. Instead 
 of the mammoth sheets she used to fill, in her correspondence 
 with her friends, we find a few brief notes, full of the sweet 
 ness of a sanctified heart, revealing the dreamy life she led, 
 "just under heaven's bright gate." It was during this winter 
 that she composed the piece entitled " Mors Moras Nectens" 
 which will be found among her poems in the latter part of 
 this volume. As her physical vigor wasted, her soul seemed 
 to reach the depth of its poetic fulness, but her friends denied 
 her the use of the pen, so that most of these beautiful visions 
 were unrecorded. A touching prayer she sent after Leila 
 "on the deep," was written previously, just after the sad fare 
 well. The first letter from Leila was received in the autumn, 
 by a vessel which spoke the missionary ship on its passage to 
 India ; and it did much to cheer the invalid. 
 
 During all the sad changes of her disease, she thoughtfully 
 concealed many of her most distressing pains, and was grate 
 ful for every cheerful Avord and loving smile. In return for a 
 beautiful letter from Emily, she replies : 
 
 " That was a kind letter, darling, as soothing to me as rest 
 
 (188)
 
 THE MEMORIAL OP AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 189 
 
 is to the weary, as song is to the sad. It was like a prolonged 
 caress : it had the sweetness of your lip and eye lingering 
 in it. I was confident, before, that you loved me, and were 
 very sorry for my sorrow. But there are times when it is not 
 enough to know that the water lies clear and abundant in the 
 basin, when we must needs have the jet opened and the 
 fountain playing, to satisfy our fever. 
 
 " It is generous in you to say that I am ' a blessing ' to 
 you now, in these my days of helplessness and suffering. I 
 sometimes feel, painfully, that I can no longer be to my friends 
 even the small comfort and pleasure which I was once. It 
 is one of my most earnest prayers to God, that no shadow 
 may fall from my face on theirs, no clouds above my sick 
 room throw a gloom across their path ; that, if I must die, He 
 would make my life radiant and cheerful to the end, leaving 
 only a happy memory ! " 
 
 Blessed be His name, this prayer was answered ; and the 
 light of those closing days has left an after radiance which 
 dispelled the darkness even from the tomb. Like the linger 
 ing twilight beneath a polar sky, which fades not into night, 
 it shall brighten into the dawning glory of the eternal 
 morning. 
 
 We have seen with what varied emotions she ever greeted 
 her birthdays, at one time with the bounding joy of a 
 gofc happy heart, at another with the sober thoughtfulness of 
 one who was conscious that each year added its indelible 
 record to the history soon to be sealed up to the final judg 
 ment. The 5th of December, 1853, found her upon the 
 couch, a suffering invalid, and we have no record of the mem 
 ories, the hopes, the fears which filled its hours as they went 
 slowly by. In a letter written to Anna a week after, during
 
 190 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 an interval of comparative comfort and freedom from pain, she 
 thus alludes to it : " Since I wrote you last, I have passed my 
 twentieth birth-day. Does it seem true that all the dear 
 'teens are gone ? But the twenties are a richer race ; woman 
 hood brings a deeper life than girlhood ; I will not yet begin 
 to look back and regret ! " 
 
 The new year was greeted, also, with fewer written saluta 
 tions than any she had passed since childhood. The only me 
 mento of its date is a letter to Lottie, for whose grief, in the 
 bereavement already alluded to, her warm heart is full of 
 earnest sympathy. We annex an extract : 
 
 "Mr PRECIOUS LOTTIE, May this new year soften your 
 severe sorrows, and fill your heart with blessed comforts. 
 There are times, in every history, when days that have been 
 anniversaries of joy, quicken and deepen the currents of grief, 
 -we see their suns rise and set through mournful tears. Be 
 cause I feel that your heart is aching to-day, I must speak to 
 you, and tell you I have wept and prayed for you, my dear, 
 lonely Lottie. Yet, for one thing thank God : you have angel 
 ministries that were wanting a year ago I * * * 
 
 " I remember you daily and tenderly ; and, when the heav 
 enly home seems nearest to me, I often think what gladness is 
 waiting there for you ! 
 
 " Four months ago, dear Lottie, I believed these winter 
 snows would spread over my last low place of rest. I dared 
 not hope to be still a dweller on this dear earth, which blesses 
 me with so much love and beauty. One year ago, how little 
 did I expect to be a helpless invalid, retaining life with a 
 trembling hold; I could scarcely have comprehended, then, the 
 thanksgiving which I offer now. So swiftly and surprisingly
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 191 
 
 docs change follow change ; so closely do life and death 
 mingle their elements in the shifting scene." 
 
 The letters of her loving friends were a great comfort to 
 her during the confinement of the winter. To Anna she says: 
 " I cannot tell you what a luxury your letters are to me, your 
 loving, charming letters. Whenever I open one, out flies a 
 nightingale, and nestles in my opened heart, and trills there 
 softly all day, so that my soul has come to be full of your 
 singing birds ! " 
 
 The air of the winter had been very severe, and Mary 
 looked with intense longing for the spring, -whose balmy breath 
 is ever so grateful to the diseased lungs. Her brother, 
 although a mere boy, had been asked to teach a school in a 
 neighboring town, and was far more successful than many 
 with older heads, having given entire satisfaction to his pat 
 rons. Her mother's health was feeble, and she was also worn 
 down with watching and anxiety, but she kept up a cheerful 
 countenance, that the home of the dear invalid might be un 
 clouded. Her father, while faithful to his people, seemed to 
 lead a double life, bearing his only daughter on his heart by 
 day and night, and never weary of making sacrifices for her 
 comfort. The people of the village were ever most kind and 
 considerate ; without being obtrusive, they were continually 
 watchful of opportunities to testify their loving sympathy. 
 Nothing that loving hearts or gentle hands could do for the 
 sufferer was left untried ; but. the gift of healing was delayed, 
 and the chill winds of the season aggravated the disease. 
 
 By the advice of her physician, she determined to meet the 
 spring half-way. Her maternal uncle was living at Brooklyn, 
 Long Island, and was urgent that she should come at least as 
 far south as that city. She could go readily by boat from
 
 192 THE MEMOKIAL OP 
 
 Stonington, and, if not injured by the journey, could rest 
 there a while, and go on to Philadelphia. This plan was 
 adopted, and she reached Brooklyn at the close of the first 
 week in March. She suffered but little by the fatigues of the 
 way. Dr. Palmer, who resided at Stonington, thoughtfully 
 and kindly proffered her his own carriage, and took her, 
 after the ride of eight miles, to his own house, to wait for 
 the boat. " Our passage," she writes from Brooklyn, " was 
 unusually quiet. I suffered from a high fever till after mid 
 night, but found sweet rest during the morning watches. The 
 boat came in between five and six, A. M., and found New 
 York in tears ; we took a close carriage for my uncle'b-, in 
 Brooklyn, where we are now delightfully located." 
 
 The weather was unusually favorable, and she gained some 
 thing in strength during the first few days. Under date of 
 March 12th, she says : " The sky is fair and blue as May 
 skies are, and the red buds of the maple have perceptibly 
 swelled since I came. I think I am better than usual in this 
 summer-like air." 
 
 That Mary was not as sanguine in regard to the future as 
 some of her friends, is very evident. In a letter to her 
 cousin Mary, written soon after her arrival at Brooklyn, she 
 says at the close : " To-day is certainly the rosiest we have 
 had this spring. This warm, blessed sunshine goes down into 
 the shadowy places of the heart, carrying with it a thought 
 of our Father's love. Sometimes I have faith in the summer 
 air to heal me ; oftener I expect otherwise. It is very sweet 
 to feel that God is over all blessed forever." 
 
 With a few days of still warmer weather came fresh cour 
 age, and she writes to Emma: " O, I wish I could express 
 to you how delightful is our infant spring in Brooklyn ! The
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 193 
 
 sunshine is radiant and soft, the air a breath from the balmy 
 south, the deep sky opens up so far towards heaven. I can 
 not tell you how the new blood begins to fill my veins ; how, 
 to-day, my lungs cease to pant and heave, and the dull pain 
 in my head is ashamed to stay. I have taken an hour's ride, 
 the very sweetest ride in my whole life. I have now returned, 
 and am lying on a lounge in uncle's library, with a book in 
 my hand, and not a single weary pain has crept upon me." 
 
 The reader must not suppose that, through all these trials 
 and sufferings, Mary preserved, on every occasion, the temper 
 and spirit of a saint She often alluded to inward conflicts, 
 and struggles with temptation for the victory is never com 
 pleted until we reach the farther bank of the river ; but these 
 struggles led her to cling more closely to her only strength 
 and hope. Alluding to some of these trials, she says, in a 
 conlidential note to her mother : " The lessons of the world 
 are grown hard to me, for I have not breathed its atmosphere 
 these many months. But all is good and sweet and wise in 
 the end, I rest sure ; and, if I can grow pure and gentle and 
 noble in every trial, shall we not bless our heavenly Father 
 for every one ? I try, I do try to bear all things with a heav 
 enly temper; but I fail!" 
 
 Her mother had taken her to Brooklyn, and returned, 
 leaving her in the care of her uncle and aunt, who, with her 
 maternal grandmother, spared no pains to make her comfort 
 able. Every tiling which could tempt her appetite was pro 
 cured for the table, and a thoughtful care followed her every 
 moment. She had not, at this time, any appearance of illness 
 to the eye of a stranger. Her form had lost a little of its 
 fulness, and her complexion had bleached to a purer white 
 ness ; but she was not at all emaciated, and the paleness of 
 17
 
 194 THE MEMORIAL OF AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 
 
 her full, rounded cheeks, seemed but a natural contrast to the 
 dark clustering curls which partially shaded them. 
 
 Her mother went down to Brooklyn again on the 6th of 
 April, and on the 13th, she and Mary journeyed to Philadel 
 phia. Some dear friends had arranged a quiet boarding-place 
 for the invalids, and they staid until the first week in May. 
 While in Philadelphia, Mary received much attention, and 
 mentions in her letters, with grateful affection, Grace Green 
 wood and her husband (the twain then newly married, and 
 very happy as groom and bride), and Mr. and Mrs. Plumley. 
 
 To an afflicted friend, who had feared to write to her of 
 her own griefs, lest the demand upon her sympathy should 
 be too pressing, she replies, describing the afflictions that she 
 herself had suffered, and adding : 
 
 " You feared to talk to me of sorrow, and I think it possible 
 you will fear less after I once clearly say to you, ' I have suf 
 fered.' 
 
 " Grief enriches life as no other element can ; enriches, more 
 than all, that essence of life, the love of God. In the deep 
 thought of my soul, when her perceptions are clearest, I give 
 thanks for every bitterness I have tasted. For trials present 
 and to come, one must beg strength ; but for trials past, one 
 can sometimes sing praises." 
 
 During the first week in May, the invalids again turned 
 northward, and, after spending another day or two in Brook 
 lyn, returned to their home in North Stonington.
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 MARY was but little benefited by her excursion, although 
 she seemed stronger on her return, and enjoyed a better appe 
 tite : the troublesome cough still clung to her, and the hectic 
 flush came and went, as usual. 
 
 Soon after her return, she received the sad intelligence of 
 the*dangerous illness of Rev. Mr. Yale, already alluded to, 
 whose daughter Lucy had been one of her dearest companions. 
 Ever yearning with sympathy for her sorrowing friends, she 
 essayed, even in her weakness, to write a few words of com 
 fort. "We copy the most of it, not because it compares favor 
 ably in literary excellence with many which she wrote while 
 in health, but because it was nearly the last of her voluminous 
 correspondence, only two more letters completing the list. 
 
 "NORTH STONINGTON, May 22, 1854. 
 
 "MY BELOVED LUCY, I am not fit this afternoon to 
 hold a pen, yet I have waited in vain for a time of strength, 
 and I cannot longer delay to pour out my tears to you. We 
 received, on Friday last, the afflictive news of your father's 
 sickness and danger ; and, though I have been unable to ex 
 press my sympathy, I have scarce forgotten you one waking 
 hour. O, was I not one of you ? another sister, a cherished 
 daughter ? and the darkness that lies on my adopted home 
 falls heavily, too, on me. What shall we do, Lucy ? The 
 Lord our God strengthen us ! 
 
 " I have thought and talked of you more than usual, since 
 
 (195)
 
 196 THE MEMOK1AL OP 
 
 our return from Philadelphia, a week ago, and have said, 
 often, how beautiful your home must look in the awakening 
 spring, and longed to be there, little thinking what presence 
 was hovering near you. Now, over the green slope of yard, 
 and the early flowers, and the sweet-scented shrubs, and the 
 great trees feathery with young leaves and throbbing with 
 the songs of young birds, falls a shadow so dark, a stillness so 
 deep, that I cannot look or listen, but only with blinded eyes 
 cry, ' Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from us.' 
 
 " And when I come to you in spirit, I pass sorrowfully up 
 the grassy path, and in at the side door, beneath the swjjying 
 branches, and, in the silent house, I clasp my hands, and wait, 
 like you, watching for the day-dawn. O, if it break not in 
 this world, how bright will it be beyond ! 
 
 " The circle of those I love is at present a circle of the 
 sorrowing ; and, when I see so many beloved ones treading 
 the path of trial, I hardly venture to say, ' Lord, remove 
 from me this burden.' The past two years have taught 
 us both to suffer, dear Lucy. "We have both stood in the 
 close presence of Death, you, beside the bed of the be 
 loved, to watch the last breath ; and I, in the near anticipation 
 of that hour when human ministries should be needful to me 
 no more. Which gives the most conscious and thrilling and 
 solemn knowledge, no heart that has not tried both can judge. 
 O, how great a thing to LIVE, sometimes ; how sorrowful, even 
 to agony. May we not say to each other in heaven, how 
 blessed a thing ? " 
 
 Her last letter to Lottie, the last but one she ever wrote, 
 describes her weakness, less painful than in the early spring, 
 but rendering her " stupid, and inclined to sleep," and closes
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. ^ 197 
 
 a fitting close to a long and affectionate correspondence with 
 this simple sentence : 
 
 " My Lottie, good-by. O, fold me in your arms, and love 
 me, and I will be yours as long as I live ! " 
 
 This note to Lottie was written on the 25th of May ; for 
 several days she had been unusually drowsy, and this was 
 followed by a season of darkness, not that which hides the 
 light of heaven from one who is in the depths, but more like 
 a stupor which comes upon the soul but half awake to the 
 realities of life, when it struggles as if in bonds it has not the 
 strength to throw off. On the 9th of June, she sat in the back 
 parlor of the parsonage, waiting for her mother to retire to 
 the adjoining bed-room for her regular afternoon siesta. Her 
 face seemed unusually animated, and her mother delayed her 
 departure until playfully urged to leave her alone. She re 
 tired, but left the door partly open, so that she could see her 
 daughter's countenance. Never had it been inspired with such 
 a glow. She seemed to have drawn near to the Celestial 
 City, until the light from its radiant glory fell upon her, and 
 was reflected from her face. She sat as if totally unconscious 
 of what was passing around her, and listening to some en 
 chanting strain, now first audible to her sensitive ear. Her 
 mother could not sleep, and lay watcliing this beaming face, 
 which changed its expression only as a half-smile, like a fresh 
 sunshine, broke over it. 
 
 At last the mother spoke; but Mary, half-playfully, half-seri- 
 onsly, held up a warning finger, as if beseeching her not to 
 break the spell. Watching her more closely, her mother saw 
 that she had a sheet of paper in her lap, and that she now 
 began to move her pencil over the page, as if trying to recall 
 
 the strains of some half-remembered song. When she had 
 17*
 
 198 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 finished, she threw her arms about her mother's neck, and 
 wept glad tears, and almost sang for joy. The darkness, the 
 stupor, the bonds, had all been lifted from her soul, and she 
 had once more come back to light and peace. She never 
 passed another meridian on earth ; and the glad, exultant song 
 she had just penned became a sweet solace to her friends, so 
 like was it to the shout of victory. It is given among the 
 selections at the close of the volume, but we cannot forbear 
 inserting it here : 
 
 " Soul of mine, 
 
 Mourning in darkness thicker than the night, 
 With clasped hands before an empty shrine, 
 
 Give thanks ; the heaven hath opened ; there is light ! 
 
 " Kich and fair, 
 
 Glories of nature home return to me : 
 The calm serene that fills the violet air, 
 
 The wondrous shading of the distant sea. 
 
 " Full and sweet, 
 
 On wings more light than ever spanned the air, 
 That wondrous incense, for the altar meet, 
 Descends once more unto my poet-share. 
 
 " Bright and grand, 
 
 Old pictures show, which, in my sad despair, 
 I said, with aching heart and nerveless hand, 
 God had denied to my beseeching prayer. 
 
 " Soft and slow, 
 
 Through all the chambers of my weary soul, 
 / hear the blessed music come and go, 
 
 And the low measures thrill me as they roll. 
 
 " Soul of mine, 
 
 Shine in the light that breaks upon thcc pure ; 
 Give back an answering flash ! the gem is thine ; 
 Sing, and thy song shall teach thee to endure ! "
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 199 
 
 The following morning, the fatal 10th of June, was one of 
 the brightest of the whole year ; it was the clear shining of 
 the sun after rain, and the air was filled with the fragrance 
 of opening flowers. Mary had rested sweetly, and rose in 
 unusual spirits, the light in her soul irradiating her counte 
 nance and sparkli^jg from her eye. Her step had not been so 
 elastic for months, and the graceful bound with which she 
 crossed the parlor threshold was noticed by her mother with 
 a thrill of joy, as it seemed a fresh promise of returning vigor. 
 She breakfasted with the family, eating with uncommon relish, 
 and the table was enlivened with cheerful and happy conver 
 sation. The family worship on that morning was unusually 
 spiritual and refreshing. The Scripture which came in course 
 was in II. Timothy, 4th chapter ; and, as each one read aloud 
 in turn, there came to Mary the 7th and 8th verses, which she 
 read with an expression that sent a thrill to the hearts of all. 
 
 7. "I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept> 
 the faith : 
 
 8. " Henceforth there is laid up for mo a crown of righteousness, which 
 the Lord, the righteous Judge, shall give me at that day; and not to me 
 only, but unto all them also that love his appearing." 
 
 Her mother afterwards observed, in alluding to that morning 
 scene, that "it was sweet and affectionate and heavenly 
 enough to grace the closing day of a life so beautiful." 
 
 Her physician came about nine o'clock, and she sat down 
 by his side in the parlor, and conversed nearly an hour with 
 him, at first in relation to her disease, and afterwards upon 
 miscellaneous topics. About half-past ten o'clock her father 
 proposed a ride, to which she assented, and he left the house 
 to procure a horse and carriage. During his absence, she
 
 200 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 took a book, and, as her mother went up stairs with the girl, 
 to superintend some domestic arrangement, Mary sat upon the 
 sofa, absorbed in her reading. A few minutes after, her 
 mother heard her cough twice or thrice, and, fancying that 
 the cough sounded strangely, she ran down immediately. 
 Mary was not in the parlor, and her mother followed her into 
 the bed-room, which opened out of it, and there beheld her 
 daughter bending above the basin upon the washstand, with 
 the blood streaming from her lips. She had ruptured a ves 
 sel in her lungs, and was breathing with great difficulty. Her 
 mother caught her in her arms, when Mary inquired, with 
 strange calmness, " Mother, what will the end be ? " "I 
 canftot tell, my daughter," was the reply ; " but trust in Jesus, 
 he will do all things well." 
 
 Mary was helped to the bedside, a neighbor within hearing 
 was summoned, and every thing possible was done for her 
 relief; but in vain. The crimson tide still poured from her 
 lips, and she soon felt faint. Her father drove up with the 
 carriage ; a messenger was dispatched to recall the physician, 
 who had been gone a half-hour; and anxious friends essayed 
 to arrest the fatal hemorrhage. Her mother whispered to 
 know if Jesus was near and precious in that trying hour, and 
 a swift pressure of the hand, a loving glance from that dark 
 eye, ere yet it assumed the glassy fixedness of the final 
 change, made a sure and intelligent response. Within less 
 than fifteen minutes from the first alarm, the pulse was still, 
 and all was over. 
 
 When the physician returned, he said that no human skill 
 could have prolonged her life, after the bleeding commenced, 
 although, but for the rupture of this vessel, she would proba 
 bly" have lived another year or two, perhaps longer, and grad-
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 201 
 
 ually sunk, after weary days of pain and weakness, into the 
 welcome tomb. 
 
 O, how kind was He, who had resolved to recall the treas 
 ure he had lent, to spare her, and the friends whose hearts 
 were so closely bound to hers, the sad and bitter anguish of 
 such a lingering death ! He took the flower in its bloom, ere 
 a hue had faded, nay, while the morning dew was yet fresh 
 upon it, to wear it in his own bosom. 
 
 We have stated that Mary was not at all emaciated, and 
 that her countenance bore, to the eye of a stranger, but few 
 traces of disease. After death, the expression of her face was 
 peculiarly striking. It seemed lifted and brightened into 
 a serene beauty ; there was a look of majesty about the 
 brow, as if the soul, brought suddenly to the near view of 
 things beyond the veil, had at the very last made a mighty 
 effort to grasp the grandeurs of the approaching scene, and 
 left upon its tenement, at the moment of parting, the assurance 
 of its triumphant victory. 
 
 But we need not sit in communion with the beloved dust. 
 It looks, indeed, as if a whisper might wake it again to life, 
 with the song of triumph still upon its lips ; but the mother's 
 face has bent in anguish above it, and called it by names that 
 would once have thrilled the heart, but there was no voice or 
 answer. 
 
 Friends, near and remote, gathered to the funeral, which 
 took place on Monday afternoon, the 12th of June. The ser 
 vices were held in the church, which was crowded with a tear 
 ful assemblage. Several clergymen were present, of whom 
 three were invited to officiate on the occasion. 
 
 The dear form was laid, by tender hands, in a beautiful spot 
 beneath a spreading oak in the village cemetery. Beloved
 
 202 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 young companions, who had known her only in these later 
 months of comparative helplessness, but who had nevertheless 
 learned to love her, gathered about the vaulted grave, and 
 sang, with voices the more touching from their very tremu- 
 lousness, the following beautiful hymn : 
 
 " 0, for the death of those 
 
 Who slumber in the Lord ! 
 
 O, be like theirs my last repose, 
 
 Like theirs my last reward. 
 
 "Their bodies in the ground 
 
 In silent hope may lie, 
 Till the last trumpet's joyful sound 
 Shall call them to the sky. 
 
 " Their ransomed spirits soar, 
 
 On wings of faith and love, 
 
 To meet the Saviour they adore, 
 
 And reign with him above. 
 
 " With us their names shall live 
 
 Through long succeeding years, 
 Embalmed with all our hearts can give, 
 
 Our praises and our tears." 
 
 % 
 There rises from the head of that simple mound, a beautiful 
 
 marble slab, designed with rare taste, containing this inscrip 
 tion, written by her mother : 
 
 OUR MARY, 
 
 CHILD OF GENIUS AND OF SONG, 
 
 CHILD, TOO, OF GOD. 
 
 HE SPARED HER TO US TWENTY SWEET YEABS, 
 THEN TOOK HER TO HIMSELF, 
 
 JUNE 10, 1854. 
 HIS WILL BE DONE. 
 
 WB FOttOW SOON.
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 203 
 
 And, now that the dear dust is hidden from our sight, why 
 linger we still beside the closed grave ? Is it not because we 
 are conscious of a PRESENCE, something not buried in the 
 tomb ; something more, even, than the fragrance of a sweet 
 memory ; a BRIGHTNESS, that fades not, though the sun has set, 
 but will live to bless the world, live evermore ?
 
 POEMS. 
 
 (205)
 
 POEMS, 
 
 SHADOWS. 
 
 THE sunlight never beameth bright 
 
 Upon the gladsome earth, 
 But forest dark, or mountain height, 
 
 Must give a shadow birth. 
 
 Yet, that which veils the blessed light 
 
 Is nearer heaven than we; 
 And views, perhaps with clearer sight, 
 
 Why this should always be. 
 
 One lesson here we daily learn : 
 
 However bright our way, 
 Across its track, at every turn, 
 
 Will noiseless shadows stray. 
 
 Some are so very broad and deep 
 
 That we forget the sun ; 
 And some so gently o'er us creep, 
 
 They blend with light in one. 
 
 There is one land, and only one, 
 
 Where shadows never fall, 
 Where reigns a bright and endless noon, 
 
 For God gives light to all. 
 
 December 23, 1851. 
 
 * (207)
 
 208 THE MKMOUIAL OF 
 
 MY HEART. 
 
 I HAVE a heart, a loving heart, 
 
 For those I call my own ; 
 From out its depths quick answers start, 
 
 To true affection's tone. 
 It lavishes its- store of gold 
 
 Upon the chosen few : 
 This heart of mine shall ne'er grow cold, 
 
 My chosen ones, to you. 
 
 a heart, a cold, proud heart 
 
 For those who would unlock 
 This hidden casket's inmost part, 
 
 Jts brightest gems to mock. 
 This heart, in polished outward mien, 
 
 Can veil what it may feel, 
 And not to wisest ken, I ween, 
 
 By word or look reveal. 
 
 I have a heart, so quickly stirred 
 
 To pleasure or to pain, 
 That oft the slightest little word 
 
 Will send through every vein 
 The rushing blood ; or silent look, 
 
 Withdrawn as soon as given, 
 Will stand inscribed in memory's book 
 
 To life's remotest even. 
 
 I have a heart, too warm a heart, 
 
 For Nature, everywhere; 
 A heart that cannot words impart 
 
 To thoughts all glowing there. 
 I love the singing-birds of spring; 
 The summer, with its flowers; 
 But most, the year's sad autumnifcg, 
 
 I love all lovely hours.
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 209 
 
 I have a heart, a wayward heart, 
 
 Which daily goes astray, 
 Doth daily from the right depart, 
 
 And lose the upward way. 
 O ! that this heart were safe within 
 
 The pearly gates above, 
 Safe from temptation, pure from sin, 
 
 And blest in perfect love! 
 
 A NEW YEAR'S GREETING FROM THE "HOUSEHOLD 
 WALLS." 
 
 ! MARVEL not that our voice we raise, 
 
 As another year comes round, 
 To swell the chorus of happy lays, 
 
 Which our echoing sides rebound. 
 The New Year's morn, the glad New Year's morn, 
 
 'Tis a merry festal time; 
 We welcome it in at early dawn, 
 
 With joyous, heartfelt chime. 
 
 We watched the scenes of a twelvemonth flown ; 
 
 We saw the dramas that passed, 
 As they glided by us, one by one, 
 
 In pictures dissolving fast. 
 We gazed on your smiles, we gazed on tears, 
 
 In hours of sadness and joy ; 
 We heard all the parents' hopes and fears 
 
 For their darling girl and boy. 
 
 We have marked you each, apart, alone, 
 
 Or gathered as now you stand, 
 Unbereft.by the months that have flown, 
 
 A united household band. 
 '18*
 
 210 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 We have shared your joy, have shared your grief, 
 
 For seven long happy years : 
 In storms, how oft was it our relief 
 
 To shed on your heads our tears ! 
 
 Then marvel not that our voice we raise, 
 
 As another year comes round, 
 To swell the chorus of happy lays, 
 
 Which our echoing sides rebound. 
 The New- Year's morn, the glad New- Year's morn, 
 
 'Tis a merry festal time ; 
 We welcome it in at early dawn, 
 
 With joyous, heartfelt chime. 
 
 WITH AN AUTOGRAPH, TO LOTTIE. 
 
 AH ! who in hours of sorrow 
 A poet's pen can borrow, 
 
 And wield with power, 
 Save those who from on high 
 The gift of minstrelsy 
 
 Claim as their dower? 
 
 Mine is an humble portion, 
 A drop in life's vast ocean, 
 
 I have no lyre ; 
 Then vainly to rehearse 
 My inner thoughts, in verso, 
 
 Should I aspire. 
 
 O ! what a dim revealing 
 Of the deep spirit's feeling 
 
 Are human words; 
 As if one's ear but caught 
 The far-off echo brought 
 
 From the heart's chords.
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 211 
 
 But, soul to soul unfolding, 
 A deep communion holding, 
 
 We language find. 
 Through Nature's kindly aid, 
 And silence vocal made, 
 
 Mind meeteth mind. 
 
 So, why, in idle prating, 
 
 The past's dear scenes relating, 
 
 Or sad to-day, 
 Should I essay to tell 
 How much this word Farewell 
 
 Bends to its sway ? 
 
 A brighter light dawns o'er as ; 
 We sec in heaven, before us, 
 
 A purer speech, 
 Its harmonies entire; 
 The universe's choir 
 
 Our souls shall teach. 
 
 FOR THE "C. C. C." 
 
 AT A FAREWELL MEETING. 
 
 No cloud is gathering in the deep blue sky, 
 No blight is on the opening flowers, 
 The birds still carol in the bowers, 
 
 It is no time to speak the word, Good-by. 
 
 Yet on our hearts there falls a twilight shade, 
 And Nature's tones, gay to the glad, 
 Are to our cars as low and sad 
 
 As if each sound some mournful music made.
 
 212 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 For every hour upon tho soul will crowd 
 
 A thought of all our pleasures past, 
 
 A thought that this must be the last 
 Dear union to our " Choral " band allowed. 
 
 When first we met, that well-remembered time, 
 
 A happy spell was on each soul; 
 
 We lightly bowed to its control, 
 Our spirits mingled in harmonious chime. 
 
 To one we gave the sceptre in her hand, 
 
 Her of the winning face and mien; 
 
 Say, has she wisely ruled as queen, 
 And gained obedience from a loyal band? 
 
 To one our hearts we yielded up in trust; 
 
 O, has her gentle watch been true? 
 
 Has she proved firm, and cautious, too, 
 And is not one of all her treasures lost ? 
 
 Our scribe has she fulfilled the appointed task? 
 
 Who, with her deep and earnest eye, 
 
 Our hidden feelings can espy, 
 And answer questions ere the lips can ask. 
 
 And her for whom a double sphere we found, 
 
 How faithful does her record look 
 
 Upon the pages of a book, 
 Whose clasps in future years shall be unbound! 
 
 Four hearts respond, their pulses beat as one, 
 
 Their answers vibrate back again 
 
 Along the "telegraphic chain," 
 And to each soul the yea or nay is known. 
 
 We've met in many a loved, familiar room, 
 To some by earlier scenes made dear, 
 Where memories of the past could cheer, 
 
 When present thoughts had wrapped the soul in gloom.
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 213 
 
 We've met beneath the arching roof of heaven, 
 
 Away from human sound or sight, 
 
 And drank in all the deep delight 
 By Nature to her loving children given. 
 
 We've met in mirthfulness untamed and wild, 
 
 When, for our choral minstrelsy, 
 
 Bang out the laugh, as glad and freo 
 As from the lips of any joyous child. 
 
 We've met in sadness, when the starting tear, 
 
 Which trembled in some downcast eye, 
 
 Has waked a ready sympathy, 
 And made us feel, when sorrowful, how dear 
 
 A faithful friend ; how rare the treasure, too, 
 
 Anew we daily, hourly learn, 
 
 And, with a deeper fondness, turn 
 From all the changeful to the tried and true. 
 
 Thus have we met. No more, in shady bowers, 
 
 In social hall, or trysting-place, 
 
 Shall we exchange the glad embrace, 
 Or join our circle at the appointed hour. 
 
 The tears are in our hearts. We cannot sing, 
 
 Yet silently wo all will raise 
 
 To God our gratitude and praise; 
 For his parental kindness, thanks we bring. 
 
 Our Father's blessing rest on every head, 
 Go with us wheresoe'er we go ; , 
 
 Our cloud and pillar be, to show 
 
 The path in which his will would have us tread. 
 
 That path the eye which traced it only sees : 
 
 Within the valley it may lie, 
 
 Or many a precipice pass by, 
 Or long or short, we wait God's high decrees.
 
 214 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 In life our spirits never shall divide, 
 
 United by a living faith ; 
 
 And when, across the stream of death, 
 Our souls are landed on the heavenly side, 
 
 This parting-time, in our new joy, shall seem 
 As passing showers in rainbow light, 
 Or as the darkness of the night, 
 
 When softly melting in the morning's beam. 
 
 Once more, let our resounding chorus swell. 
 How often will the full refrain 
 Be echoed by each lonely strain, 
 
 This last dear harmony, this sad Farewell! 
 
 THE FIRST TIME. 
 
 THERE is a dawn to every thing we know, 
 A budding, ere the perfect blossoms show, 
 An Alpha in the heart's experiencing, 
 A flight begun upon an untried wing. 
 Initial lessons ! e'en when more is known, 
 They have a sweet and bitter all their own. 
 Initial hours ! no after hours can throw 
 Such lights and shadows o'er the way we go; 
 Not of all others, they the best or worst, 
 This halo circles them : they were the first. 
 
 The hour when first we left our early home, 
 Mid stranger faces, stranger scenes to roam, 
 The busy world seemed lonely, wide, and cold : 
 At night we missed the shelter of the fold ; 
 By day we wondered if there might be found, 
 Amid the crowd of gladsome faces round,
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 215 
 
 One heart so sad and weary as our own; 
 
 And that poor heart was ever answering, "None." 
 
 We hud not learned so early to espy 
 
 A sorrow lurking in the gayest eye. 
 
 Time may have sternly taught us how to bear 
 
 Our grief, with none its heavy load to share. 
 
 For passing trials we may have no tears, 
 
 And yet may weep that first of vanished years. 
 
 What kindling joy within our spirits burned, 
 When to our household band we first returned; 
 And, once again, within the well-loved place, 
 A Mother clasped us in her close embrace, 
 A Father's kiss upon our brow was set, 
 A Sister's cheek with glistening welcome wet, 
 Affection's pride glowed in a Brother's eye, 
 And every shade of grief made haste to fly. 
 So melts away some mellow strain of song, 
 Which in the spirit is reechoed long; 
 But, as the mem'ry plays it o'er and o'er, 
 Each time 'tis mellower music than before. 
 So lingers oft the golden sky of day, 
 When the last sunbeam long hath passed away. 
 
 The sight our curious, eager eyes first caught 
 Of some fair spot, long in the fancy sought, 
 Some bustling mart, our childhood ached to see, 
 Whose heroes or whose belles we fain would be, 
 Or quiet town, beneath whose "classic shade" 
 The plots of half our youthful dreams were laid : 
 This moved and thrilled us with electric power, 
 And hallowed in our hearts that first glad hour. 
 
 The time when first we saw some cherished face, 
 The words wo spoke, the tones, the looks, the place, 
 Within the soul's vast picture-hall they stand, 
 Vivid, as fresh from some great' artist's hand.
 
 216 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 These fadeless lines no dust of Time shall spot, 
 E'en Death's dark waves their colors cannot blot. 
 The first swift stroke that bowed some cherished head, 
 And laid a much-loved form beside the dead, 
 That closed the lips our own were wont to press, 
 
 And sealed the eyes in leaden heaviness, 
 And laid the earthy clods and turf above 
 The vacant temple of the soul we love, 
 Though Death may since have taken from our side 
 A dearer friend, and left a wound more wide, 
 There was a bitterness came brimming up, 
 We ne'er have tasted since that first full cup; 
 An aching sense that wo must meet the fato 
 Of loss and grief repeated, soon or late ; 
 That now the Archer will not long forbear, 
 * Since once his cruel arrow did not spare. 
 
 ! " the first time" these simple words will start 
 To deepest feeling many a careless heart, 
 As with a powerful hand, unbid, they roll 
 Strains of long-silent music o'er the soul J 
 
 WITH AN AUTOGRAPH. TO EMMIE. 
 
 LET other friends, who know and love thee well, 
 Of happy hours and gladsome meetings tell ; 
 With earnest wishes paint thy future fair, 
 Or build thee golden palaces in air; 
 Let all whose hearts have loved and cherished thee 
 Bring at thy call a leaf for memory, 
 But ask me not. Within" that spirit-book, 
 Upon whoso page no eye save thine may look, 
 My name is written many a time, I ween, 
 With thousand varied stories wove between ;
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 217 
 
 And, if it be more blessed far to give 
 
 The heart's exhaustless wealth than to receive, 
 
 Then, 'mid the many bitter cups below, 
 
 One draught of sweetness will be mine, I know. 
 
 God bless thee, darling ! deep and firm and true 
 
 The love that daily breathes this prayer for you. 
 
 THE BOUQUET. 
 
 UPOX a joyous bridal eve, 
 A dark-eyed .girl did gaily wear, 
 
 Inwoven with the myrtle leaf, 
 A knot of roses bright and fair. 
 
 One eye (and not one eye alone) 
 
 Saw, in the rosebud's blooming grace, 
 
 A likeness to the maiden's own, 
 A floral portrait of her face. 
 
 One sought of her the fair bouquet, 
 
 Its nameless charms to call his own. 
 'It was not made to give away," 
 She archly said, in look and tone. 
 
 Right winsomcly his cause ho plead, 
 But truly counted not the cost, 
 
 For every earnest word ho said 
 Was so much zeal and logic lost. 
 
 The will, at last, on cither side, 
 Impelled each quick and firm reply ; 
 
 The two, well mated m their pride, 
 Unyielding, let the sweet flowers die. 
 
 * * * # * * 
 
 19
 
 218 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 The months of bloom and beauty passed, 
 The Frost King laid his chilly hand 
 
 On garden-beds. Time saw, at last, 
 The maiden penitential stand. 
 
 But now her gift could only be 
 
 The type of what it might have been ; 
 
 Like painted pictures of the sea, 
 Or gilded dust, for morning's sheen. 
 
 Alas ! the story is not new. 
 
 How often, in our wasteful hours, 
 We lose the beautiful, the true, 
 
 And rest content with paper flowers. 
 
 AN AFTER STRAIN. 
 
 [WRITTEN A YEAR OH MORE AFTER THE FOREGOING.] 
 
 LIFE has taken another round; 
 
 Our tinsel flowers are faded now, 
 About the giver's thoughtful brow 
 
 The buds of opening joys are wound, 
 And quiet, in her dreaming eyes, 
 
 Sit gentler beauties than of old; 
 Her smile hath caught a look which lies 
 
 On meadows sunlit into gold. 
 
 Life has taken another round, 
 
 And fresher flowers, from other hand, 
 Perchance the winner's care demand, 
 
 Young "roses" with young "myrtle" bound,- 
 Richer in fragrance than the gift 
 
 " Repentant " fingers dared to send ; 
 Whose petals other burden lift 
 
 Than tardy kindness from a friend.
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 219 
 
 Life has taken another round, 
 
 And boats that glided prow by prow 
 Arc sad, and widely sundered now: 
 
 Some linger in the quiet Sound, 
 And some on stranger waters ride, 
 
 And one, alone, upon its way, 
 Borne onward by the imperious tide, 
 
 Welcomes a rougher billow's spray. 
 
 Life has taken another round, 
 
 And, in its strangely shifting sky, 
 The wrestlinc clouds and sunshine fly, 
 
 And weird-like shadows check the ground. 
 The muse, that once in sportive strain 
 
 Told careless talcs of. fun and flowers, 
 Touches my graver pen again 
 
 With lessons of intenscr hours. 
 
 Life has taken another round, 
 
 I sing as one upon the sea, 
 Watching the waves rise heavily, 
 
 Hearing the storm-winds gather sound, 
 While brightly through the uncertain night, 
 
 Across the wave, a star shines calm, 
 And safely towards its growing light 
 
 The pilot steers, with steady arm. 
 
 OUR WREATH. 
 
 WRITTEN FOE "TOE LADIES' WKEATII," EDITED BT HELEN VrSO. 
 
 WE have a wreath of many flowers, 
 
 And very graceful twining, 
 Where wildwood dells and garden bowers 
 
 Are divers charms combining.
 
 220 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 The iris, gay and proud, is hero, 
 Whose petals fairies meet on, 
 
 And pink and mignionette appear, 
 The coronal to sweeten. 
 
 The myrtle, with its leaf of green, 
 From month to month unfailing; 
 
 And patient violets are seen, 
 Their incense-breath exhaling. 
 
 The woodbine and the jasmine wind, 
 Their wish to climb resigning, 
 
 In lowlier flowers, companion* find, 
 And think not of repining. 
 
 The arbor vitse with its stem 
 Supports the blossoms tender ; 
 
 The pale star-flowers of Bethlehem 
 Their tithe of beauty render. 
 
 The roses, some with wealth of red, 
 Full opened to their centres, 
 
 And some, more pale, whose sheltered bed 
 The sunlight rarely enters. 
 
 Just in the center of the wreath 
 
 There blooms a lily royal, 
 And every flower her rule beneath 
 
 Is to our Helen loyal. 
 
 A CENTENNIAL HYMN.* 
 
 1 
 A HUNDRED YEARS of Time have rolled 
 
 On, toward Eternity's vast sea, 
 Since the first members of this fold 
 
 Gathered, O Lord, to worship thee. 
 
 * Sung at the Centennial Commemoration of the First Church in Avon, Ct.
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 221 
 
 2 
 
 He who then led thy people's prayer 
 
 A crown of life is wearing now ; 
 And they, who sang in spirit there, 
 
 Before the tlirone in glory bow. 
 
 3 
 
 All who within thy temple met, 
 
 And heard the message of thy grace, 
 Have their eternal portion set ; 
 
 Each fills his own appointed place. 
 
 4 
 
 Thou, God, in wisdom dost arrange 
 
 The lot of every living thing ; 
 Thou, God, alone dost never change, 
 
 The fleeing ages own theo King. 
 
 5 
 Within the hollow of thy hand 
 
 Thy people ever dwell secure; 
 In Thee, their mighty foes withstand, 
 
 And find a refuge strong and sure. 
 
 Through all the swiftly passing years, 
 In darkest hours of sorrow's night, 
 
 His children's cry our Father hears, 
 And sends them beams of heavenly light. 
 
 7 
 Thy name, O Lord, we bless to-day, 
 
 Thou art thy Church's constant trust; 
 Guide us wilhin the narrow way, 
 Till dust shall be returned to dust. 
 19*
 
 222 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 8 
 Then may we join the choir above, 
 
 Their wondrous anthem learn to know, 
 And the full glory of that love 
 
 We see reflected here below. 
 
 9 
 As years depart, and centuries flee, 
 
 Glad praises still thy people pay; 
 An incense-cloud we waft to thee, 
 
 Grace, mercy, peace, we ask to-day. 
 
 A JULY AFTERNOON AT COLD SPRING. 
 
 OUT from the dusty town, away, 
 Where creeps the fevered light of day 
 Through shady vistas, golden green, 
 And cools itself before 'tis seen ; 
 Beside a river, winding still, 
 As up some deeply-wooded hill, 
 Cloud-shadows glide; or in the night 
 Through all her sea of starry light 
 Sails on serene the poet's moon, 
 There, one long summer afternoon, 
 I missed a while the toil and pain, 
 Each day of life renewed again. 
 
 Before me lifted up its crest 
 
 The rocky cliff, its forehead drest 
 
 With evergreen, worn like a crown, 
 
 To blazon all its old renown, 
 
 And prophesy undying fame, 
 
 While earth shall give her mountains name. 
 
 When my poor memory shall rust, 
 
 My spirit's temple turn to dust,
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. ' 223 
 
 Proud watcher! thou shall sentinel the spot 
 
 Where I have lived, and loved, and been forgot. 
 
 Poor heart ! why art thou shrinking back 
 
 From following on the well-worn track 
 
 So many feet before have trod ? 
 
 One shall remember thee THY GOD. 
 
 The rock and river, as my look 
 
 Studied these leaves in Nature's book, 
 
 I read a world of pleasant thought; 
 
 Some lessons sober, as I ought, 
 
 And some less grave, though not less true. 
 
 O, hours like these, the bright, the few, 
 
 Why fly upon so fleet a wing? 
 
 Why shako your sand-glass while we sing? 
 
 Ah! then I felt a very child, 
 
 Not laughing, frolicsome, and wild; 
 
 Not such does real childhood seem 
 
 To me. It is a long, sweet dream, 
 
 Half-sad, half-joyous, beautiful 
 
 As some old painting, where the- light 
 
 And shade are blent to witch the sight. 
 
 I thought I was a child, and they 
 
 Who sat beside me on that day 
 
 Were children, too. A while we walked 
 
 With sauntering step, then sat and talked 
 
 Beneath some deeper shade, wise words, 
 
 And trifling, just the very words 
 
 Which dwelt upon the tongue 
 
 With easy grace, and laughed and sung. 
 
 My sister's dark eyes brightly shone, 
 
 And in her smile and in her tone 
 
 Out flashed the buoyant joy of heart, 
 
 Which made my own pulse quicker start;
 
 224 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 And in my brother's eye of blue 
 The happiness was glowing, too. 
 One moment, then, a vain regret 
 That this day's sun must ever set, 
 Reigned in my heart. The very next, 
 A little sermon from a text, 
 Which bids us evermore "rejoice," 
 Fell on my ear in gentle voice : 
 "Back to the hillside track of life! 
 Gird on the armor, meet the strife, 
 But in thy heart of hearts, O keep 
 The freshnesg of thy youth, O keep 
 Its fervor and its. gladness free 
 'From all the dust that stains thee outwardly. 
 
 The last dear, slanting, golden line 
 
 Bounded that pleasant day's decline; 
 
 And we, O ! shall we e'er again 
 
 Be happy as we three were then? 
 
 Perchance the future hath in store 
 
 For us the pleasant meeting still, 
 
 The social converse, and the fill 
 
 Of quiet pleasure; yet the years 
 
 Must work their changes, and the tears 
 
 Will follow smiles ; so shadowy fears 
 
 Press on my heart. But, come what may, 
 
 There is a bright eternal day, 
 
 Where clouds and tempests never rise, 
 
 There is a rest beyond the skies, 
 
 Thank God ! at last, a Paradise.
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 225 
 
 LOVE'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 " Let my IOTC follow after and abide with you, for it will wing its way to you of 
 its own accord." From a dear friend, personally unknown. 
 
 THE night is starry in the sky, 
 
 And gray upon the river, 
 Save where on high the moonbeams lie, 
 
 Or in the Avatcrs quiver. 
 
 0, see ! our boat is riding bravo, 
 
 Along her pathway foaming; 
 But I, alas ! with every wave, 
 
 Farther from home am roaming. 
 
 No blessed voices in my ear 
 "Good-night" are softly saying; 
 Upon my check, where lies a tear, 
 No lips the kiss arc laying. 
 
 God's angels are around mo still, 
 
 His arms beneath me reaching, 
 But ! my human spirit will 
 
 Keep human love beseeching. 
 
 Father above! ah, now I feel 
 
 My inner vision waking; 
 Thou sendest ministers to heal 
 
 The heart so sore with aching. 
 
 They come, these winged shapes of love, 
 
 From those I leave behind mo 5 
 True as the olive-bearing dove, 
 
 They rest not till they find mo. 
 
 Silent with happiness, I bow 
 
 To meet their touch caressing; 
 Some hover close above me now, 
 
 Some to my arms are pressing.
 
 226 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 One nestles to my very heart, 
 Ah, wing of silver whiteness ! 
 
 I know whose messenger thou art, 
 
 Whose smile hath lent thee brightness. 
 
 Thou, too, dear bird, whose patient flight 
 Hath borne a promised token, 
 
 Come near, and tell me all, to-night, 
 Those far-off lips have spoken : 
 
 Come, tell me if a dark eye flashed 
 In thine, this eve, at parting ; 
 
 Or from an azure, clear, was dashed 
 One blessed tear-drop starting. 
 
 Come, and unlade thy burden rare, 
 "Love following, love abiding"; 
 Thy freight shall rest, a life's dear care, 
 My heart the treasure hiding. 
 
 ! round the giver's unknown face, 
 With tenderness of longing, 
 
 My yearning thoughts do speed apace, 
 My gladsome dreams are thronging. 
 
 And welcome, all ye loving wings, 
 That soothe my hour of sorrow; 
 
 Your song to-night a blessing brings, 
 And leaves one for the morrow. 
 
 Thanks to the distant and the dear, 
 Who sent you on your mission, 
 
 And thanks to Him who sped you here, 
 To do his blest volition.
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 227 
 
 TO POESY. 
 
 POESY, my love, am I beloved of thee? 
 
 Bend thy proud eyes a moment down, and answer me. 
 The tiniest bloom wins color from the regal sun, 
 Hast thou no beam to tinge my paleness, shining one? 
 The moon, for whom ten thousand starry vigils wake, 
 Stoops her imperial brow to kiss the humblest lake: 
 Wilt thou not touch the cold lips of my soul, that show 
 Ilcnv her poor life, in watching thee, forgets to flow ? 
 Thy voice enwrapped me in the dreams of infant days, 
 I, wakening in my darkened cradle, heard thy lays; 
 And, wandering through the lilies of my childhood years, 
 
 1 sought thee everywhere, with passion-breathing tears : 
 I ran upon the spicy hills where orchards grow, 
 
 I chased the shallow waters dancing far below, 
 
 I softly stole to hear thine organ in the woods, 
 
 And held my breath, as drowning in thy music-floods. 
 
 When the replenished wine flowed full in summer veins, 
 
 When morning turned to gold the winter's frozen rains, 
 
 When primal flowers sat bashful by the coaxing streams, 
 
 Or autumn held me in her lap, bound soft with dreams, 
 
 Thy call was floating to me from the upper air. 
 
 I rose in haste to follow thee, J knew not where, 
 
 Or weary laid me in the long embracing grass, 
 
 Trusting in yon fair azure I might see thee pass ; 
 
 But life led early from that playful idleness, 
 
 And Sorrow deepened all its springs with her caress, 
 
 And Gladness rarer swelled her tide in breast and brain ; 
 
 While, in the newness of a fuller joy or pain, 
 
 Thy wondrous voice descending nigh me spake so clear, 
 
 My heart, with trembling, answered, " Spirit, thou art here ! " 
 
 And slowly, as before the greatness of the sun, 
 
 Jlctiirning newly where the eastern mountains run,
 
 228 
 
 The clouds roll up their purple front with golden hem, 
 
 Till blaze the jewels of the royal diadem, 
 
 So rose thy veil, and on me burst thy presence bright. 
 
 I fell in dazzled trance, and slid from noon to night; 
 
 Awaking, quick I lifted doubting lids and spied 
 
 Thy softened lustre cast in rainbows at my side, 
 
 While close above me, in the still, transparent air, 
 
 Thy beauteous wings of strength lay poised like moonbeams fair. 
 
 There still abiding, grave and sweet, -I see thee stand, 
 
 Yet seek in vain to touch the radiance of thy hand, 
 
 And vainly seek to win the glances of thine eyes, 
 
 That, ever turning upward, pierce the distant skies. 
 
 Why didst thou draw me with that old mysterious call ? 
 
 Why teach me, waiting now, before thy feet to fall, 
 
 And bid me crave of thee my bravest earthly good, 
 
 Above the fond hopes that crown sweet maidenhood, 
 
 If thou wilt never clasp to thine my beating heart, 
 
 And make me of thy grand immortal soul a part ? 
 
 Bend thy proud eyes a moment down, and answer me, 
 
 O, Poesy, my love, am I bclovtd of thee 1 
 
 IN MEMORY OF MARY E. YALE, 
 
 Daughter of Rev. CYRUS YAIE, of New Hartford, Ct., who died suddenly, soon after 
 the marriage of her Twin Sister. 
 
 THE earth hath opened, and on her warm breast 
 Ta,ken her child to slumber soft and deep; 
 
 The heaven hath opened, and its bowers of rest 
 
 Have robbed the hearth where weary mourners weep. 
 
 The hearth which rang but now with marriage-lays, 
 When lightsome tones, that linked the wishes fair, 
 
 Were silver prophecies of happy days, 
 And all the distance seemed a summer air.
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER 229 
 
 When those sweet lips, unclosing never more, 
 Gave out rich notes of music, and those eyes, 
 
 No more on us their violet light to pour, 
 Shed tenderness already of the skies. 
 
 When that dear heart, which never more shall beat, 
 Swelled with a sister's tender love and pride, 
 
 Heaved with its load of hopes and yearnings sweet, 
 Melted in tears of parting o'er the bride. 
 
 Twin lives, that in one hour began to live, 
 Played with the same gay butterflies and flowers, 
 
 Drank the clear waters girlhood pleasures give, 
 
 Shared holy thoughts, and griefs, and sunlight hours. 
 
 These Autumn winds have parted, like two leaves 
 Hung by one stem, when Spring smiled on the trees ; 
 
 Now, one lies low and withered 'neath the eaves, 
 The other, rose and gold, floats in the breeze. 
 
 One heart hath wed with life and noble love, 
 One heart with death, the messenger of God ; 
 
 She hath put on her festal robe above, 
 And left her earthly dress beneath the clod. 
 
 So early on that fairest orange flower 
 We twine the cypress, in our blinding tears; 
 
 Beside the altar and the bridal dower, 
 
 The grave, the bier, the funeral wreath appears. 
 
 O ye, whoso love had nurtured her from ill, 
 
 To blossom into gentlest womanhood, 
 Her angel-presence shall o'erlook you still ; 
 
 God will not all take back his gift of good. 
 
 Within your happy house one vacant place 
 
 Shall sadden those that gather, morn and night, 
 
 And, day by day, the old familiar ways 
 Recall a vanished smile, a lost delight. 
 20
 
 230 1HE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 But God hath comfortings, and your dark grief 
 In time shall brighten with the rise of stars, 
 
 Unlike the day-dawn, yet a calm relief 
 
 To eyes with which the gayer sunshine wars. 
 
 Years shall roll on with others, Age shall come 
 To frost the glossy auburn tress with white, 
 
 And Change shall lay her fingers on your home, 
 And touch the child bestowed in bridal rite; 
 
 But o'er our lost one, God hath early breathed 
 The youth eternal that his angels wear: 
 
 Forever in her morning beauty wreathed, 
 He gave her no chill eventide to bear. 
 
 And in all hearts that loved her buried face, 
 The mighty stereotype of Death hath set 
 
 A fadeless vision of that girlhood grace 
 
 And woman-bloom, in one soft picture met. 
 
 All things that are of heaven do not change, 
 All things of earth are rolling like the wave, 
 
 All that our eye embraces in its range 
 Melts at our touch into a waiting grave. 
 
 Our flowers, rejoicing with the morning sun, 
 Sigh out their sweet life when the noon is high ; 
 
 Our oaks, the glory of their greenness on, 
 In the night thunder-tempest fallen lie; 
 
 Our bird, that sang so spiritually clear, 
 
 Grows still and droops, in our caressing hands ; 
 
 Our rock, whereon we leaned without a fear, 
 Before our eyes sinks in the desert sands. 
 
 , And, God be praised ! we shall have done ere long 
 
 "With this kaleidoscope we turn in tears; 
 In the alone Immutable and Strong, 
 
 We tnist our gladness for the endless years.
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 231 
 
 Soon ITo shall give us sleep as he hath her, 
 
 And, waking glad with His beatified, 
 And heaven's diviner life in us shall stir, 
 
 "When mortal lips but say that we have "died/ 
 
 WITH AN AUTOGRAPH. TO LEILA. 
 
 LIKE the valley-lily's bloom, 
 Fragrant, pure, and passing fair, 
 
 Is thy presence, love, to me, 
 Shedding sweetness everywhere. 
 
 Like the morning, stepping o'er 
 Eastern hills, with dewy feet, 
 
 Is thy welcome, love, to me, 
 In its freshness, when we meet. 
 
 Like the starry light above 
 
 To the eyes that watch it here, 
 
 Shines thy truth, my love, on me, 
 Changeless, perfect, silver-clear. 
 
 Like the harp, whose richest tone 
 Answers every breath of air, 
 
 Thine affection is to me, 
 Wealth of music, deep and rare. 
 
 Like the rainbow, all complete, 
 
 "Wreath of heaven, to earth let down, 
 
 Is thy prayer, my love, for me, 
 Arch of hope, and promise-crown.
 
 232 THE MEMORIAL OP , 
 
 As their leaves the lily-bells, 
 
 So my heart enfoldeth thine ; 
 
 So round my very soul I twine 
 
 Thy precious love, O clinging vine. 
 
 As our world unto the star 
 
 Shineth back with faithful light, 
 
 So, faithful to thee, day and night, 
 
 My spirit's truth keeps starry bright. 
 
 As the harp to sister-harp 
 
 Giveth back the faintest lay, 
 
 So trembleth on my lip alway 
 
 An echo to thy chords at play. 
 
 As the holy arch of peace 
 
 Tells the heart its fears are vain, 
 
 So, when my hope is on the wane, 
 
 Does my thought, in weakness, reaching 
 
 To thy clasped hands, beseeching, 
 
 Nerve me for life's work again ! 
 
 TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 A HUSH of sweetness falls upon my soul, 
 
 As when great 'organ-waves of music roll 
 
 Across the ear, and all that sea of sound, 
 
 At once in deeper sea of silence drowned, 
 
 There breaks one heavenly voice, serene and calm, 
 
 Chanting the clear words of a holy psalm : 
 
 For in the stillness of my heart I hear 
 
 Thy name, dear mother, and I feel thee near. 
 
 Hast noted on a darkened sky at night 
 
 Some pitying star in solitude shine bright ? 
 
 Hast heard a bird-note wafted to the sky 
 
 When coldly on the branches snow-leaves lie ?
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 233 
 
 Ilast seen the frost with silver pencil weave 
 Fair shapes of beauty, on a bitter eve ? 
 Then may'st thou guess how, in eacli hour of ill, 
 Thy love can lighten, cheer, embellish, still. 
 Thy love, that fondly clasps me everywhere, 
 And follows on my step like vital air ; 
 That with my maddest fault or folly bears, 
 And in reproof a tender halo wears. 
 
 "With rapid wing my eager memory speeds 
 Along our past of life, and easy reads 
 The story of my walk from childhood up, 
 Quaffing, each day, this blessed nectar-cup. 
 Even in infancy, my step had flown, 
 With baby secrets, to thy arms alone : 
 And, later, to thine open ear I brought 
 The student's pride of new-awakened thought; 
 The subtle reasoning, hard to understand ; 
 The petty wound, gashed by a careless hand ; 
 The hope indulged in vain; the nervous fear; 
 The dim aspiring for a future year, 
 All these, and thousands unremembcrcd yet, 
 To thee I bore, full oft with eyelid wet, 
 And thou didst never hear with idle smile, 
 Or turn impatient from my lip, the while. 
 But, in thine eye's beloved hazel light, 
 I saw reflect my rule of wrong and right, 
 Saw always sympathy, nor ever found 
 A feeling or a thought thou couldst not sound. 
 
 Girlhood begun, still on thy heart I lean, 
 Nor would I ever hence my spirit wean. 
 Restless, from all the shifting world I see, 
 I turn, content, to trust anew in thee. 
 Thy school hath taught an early dreamer how 
 To bend a cheerful shoulder to the plough. 
 20*
 
 234 THE MEMOKIAL OF 
 
 Thy care, a step too quick and proud hath led 
 
 To seek a gentler and a humbler tread ; 
 
 Thy counsel, armed against the rougher touch 
 
 A nature that still daily feels too much. 
 
 Thy blest appreciation to this hour 
 
 A hope hath nursed, that, somewhere, yet shall flower. 
 
 Thy prayer, I know, at rise and set of day 
 
 Procures me angel-guardians on my way. 
 
 A sister's equal love I never knew; 
 
 Thou hast been mother, thou my sister, too. 
 
 Above one book together we have bent; 
 
 In walk at eve, upon each other leant. 
 
 I in thine ear have whispered little tales, 
 
 Maidens to maidens speak, when daylight pales. 
 
 With thine, my pulses sad or joyful beat ; 
 
 With thee, I bow before the mercy-seat. 
 
 Afar from thee, the weary months move on, 
 
 With half their beauty and their freshness gone. 
 
 I miss thy presence through the altered day: 
 
 Thine eyes, responsive to whate'er I say, 
 
 Thine eyes, that answer mine, and need no speech, 
 
 But read me, deeper than the lips can reach ; 
 
 Thy touch upon the curls above my brow, 
 
 That wander unearessed by any now ; 
 
 Thy voice, softening to music in my ear, 
 
 The name, the household name, I never hear. 
 
 O tell mo not that I must love thee less, 
 
 To shun an idolizing tenderness ! 
 
 As well command the lily, that it make 
 
 Less low obeisance to the parent lake ; 
 
 As well forbid the dcwdrop on the grass, 
 
 So bright to sparkle when the sunbeams pass ! 
 
 Thou art my summer, thou my rose of life, 
 
 And every hour with thoughts of thee is rife.
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 235 
 
 Within the lovo that circleth all in all, 
 
 A mother's is the outer-ring. I fall 
 
 Before my God, and, on my bended knee, 
 
 Mother, with happy tears, I bless his name for thee ! 
 
 THE LAST TIME. 
 
 O, STRANGE Omegas of the human heart ! 
 Goals of the past, whence altered futures start, 
 Ye shed a moonlight on our perished bliss, 
 More tender than possession's sunny kiss ; 
 Yc lift to grandeur what was dull before, 
 And glorify the life that is no more. 
 Naught is so trivial, in our careless eyes, 
 But wears a something sacred when it dies; 
 Wliatc'er is beautiful, whate'er is great, 
 Departing, gathers richer bloom and state. 
 Like trembling balances of vesper-bells, 
 When the cool night-wind every echo swells, 
 Falls on my car, in soft yet solemn chime, 
 The music of that time, the last dear time. 
 The last, the last ! O, words whose very tone 
 Blends a full choir of memories deep, in one, 
 How are yo fragrant with fair blossoms dead, 
 And dewy with sad tears, baptismal shed! 
 
 We go from out the place where once we dwelt, 
 From those old altars where our childhood knelt, 
 From that safe roof which, full a score of years, 
 Shut out this world of struggles and of fears. 
 With lingering steps we pass the chambers through, 
 With earnest looks, to take the final view; -
 
 236 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 Pausing beside each window long, 
 Humming unconscious the familiar song, 
 Till some loud footstep in the empty halls 
 Recalls the sense to these ungarnished walls ; 
 And slowly, with the exile's sinking heart, 
 Room after room we traverse, and depart. 
 The vines are massy o'er the closing door; 
 Our maples grander than the spring before ; 
 The roses set the garden in a glow; 
 The little brook runs singing just below; 
 Down the wide street a single spire shows white 
 In the dark trees that wrap the church from sight; 
 . And, on yon mountain, all the sloping length 
 Of woods are waving in their summer strength ; 
 And the smooth stretch of fields that lie between 
 Is wrought in blocks of golden-brown and green. 
 Adieu, adieu! the year is in its prime, 
 Yet look -we on thce so, the last sweet time. 
 
 We, who love well, doth Providence divide 
 
 By deeps of distance, swelling ocean-wide. 
 
 They leave us, with whose spirits, thread by thread, 
 
 Ourselves are woven ; we must learn to tread 
 
 Our separate paths, with desolated feet, 
 
 Up to that land where all the pilgrims meet; 
 
 To yearn for absent lips and eyes in vain ; 
 
 To wait till Heaven shall give them back again. 
 
 Once more, around the dear and faithful hearth 
 
 That echoed voices of a buried mirth, 
 
 We meet, our human hearts all inly stirred 
 
 By tears, to hallow each the parting word. 
 
 The last- sweet time O ! mighty plunge of sound, 
 
 That whirls the current of our life around, 
 
 And drives along the gulf of years before, 
 
 A .wave to break upon th' eternal shore ! .
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 237 
 
 We shut great drops of sorrow from our eyes, 
 
 And crush the breath that rises thick with sighs, 
 
 And win faint smiles to flit upon the lip, 
 
 As light on streams where swinging willows dip, 
 
 Sweet as the glory of a dying day, 
 
 And farewells, floating exquisitely calm, 
 
 Go down the distance, like a tender psalm. 
 
 Some bird of Paradise within our breast 
 Is struggling, fluttering, rising from its nest. 
 We dream of fame, and every glory-blast 
 Deceitful sounds, to mock us when 'tis past. 
 We dream of happiness, and lo ! the cloud 
 Of sorrow mantles o'er us like a shroud ; 
 While bright and fair upon the days before 
 Shine out our prophecies of joy no more ; 
 But cold and gray, adown the waiting years, 
 The shadow of our hastening grief appears. 
 We dream of love, and spirits dark as night 
 Bend o'er us whitened in her stolen light. 
 The soul is worthless where we thought to trust; 
 The past has come for burial, dust to dust, 
 Sweet fancies, tones of harmony, and bloom 
 That leaves a desert in its vacant room. 
 Yet, waking from this dream, whate'er its name, 
 We wonder whence the dear illusion came, 
 And vainly clasp it fast, with moistened eyes, 
 To call it true a moment, ere it flies. 
 One last sad moment, there are hours of bliss 
 We linger on less eagerly than this. 
 
 Years roll their changes with a rapid wheel, 
 New features on the olden landscape steal. 
 Life is a drama, and each separate act 
 Distinctly closes with a tragic tact !
 
 238 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 Life is a poem, and each chapter o'er, 
 
 Scaled once, can never be reopened more ! 
 
 Silent and solemn at the pause we stand, 
 
 And turn the leaf with an unsteady hand. 
 
 To-day, about us hangs u memory vast, 
 
 Familiar joys and duties, flying fast ; 
 
 Old griefs, whose depth the spirit has explored, 
 
 And round whose wounds the heavenly balm is poured ; 
 
 Dear walks and pleasant scenes, the love of youth, 
 
 And circling friends, unsullied in their truth. 
 
 To-morrow turns us on the common wide, 
 
 And brings a thousand chances, all untried; 
 
 A stranger life, a thought of homelessness, 
 
 An ache which only God can soothe and bless. 
 
 Ye flitting moments, linger as ye go, 
 
 And onward pass, with thoughtful step and slow; 
 
 Press closer yet, thou dear, thou blessed Past ! 
 
 One more farewell embrace, it is the last. 
 
 The last ! brief words, that gather back the pain 
 Of many a sadness on the heart again ; 
 The seal of all most bright and fair below, 
 The murmur of life's waters as they flow, 
 The mortal curse, reflected everywhere. 
 In heaven alone there is some blessed air 
 "Which shuts out change, and, with its holy kiss, 
 Insures an immortality of bliss. 
 
 A WEDDING LAY. 
 
 THE morning of the year has come, 
 And violets ope their dreaming eyes 
 To gaze upon awaking skies, 
 
 And hear the bees' returning hum.
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 239 
 
 The lily-buds have burst apart, 
 
 The roses feel their life renew ; 
 
 Thinking thou wert a lily, too, 
 The vital breath has touched thy heart. 
 
 And, like to quaint and fairy flowers, 
 
 A sudden miracle of sweet, 
 
 Thy bud and bloom together meet 
 Beneath an April sun and showers. 
 
 Thy love is loved of nature, so 
 
 That all the gladness of her tone 
 
 Echoes the gladness of thine own, 
 And all her waters smoother flow. 
 
 And on this day, thy bridal day, 
 
 The happy robins do but care 
 
 To wheel together, in the air, 
 And purely trill a marriage-lay. 
 
 Yet on the meadows waxing green, 
 
 The tears lay, quiet, yester-eve, 
 
 And such compelling cause to grieve 
 Beneath our joy, there works unseen. 
 
 I should be with thec, dearest, now, 
 
 To fold thy trembling hand in mine, 
 
 Ere yet we seek the solemn shrine, 
 To drop my tears upon thy brow. 
 
 Yet, though my tears arc dropped afar, 
 
 My spirit wanders where thou art; 
 
 True soul, from thco I never part, 
 Whatever wave of distance bar. 
 
 I see the golden afternoon 
 
 Lie softly on the feathery leaves, 
 
 Unfolding whcro the sacred caves 
 Shine with the slow-declining sun.
 
 240 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 I see, within that temple old, 
 From whence my steps have wandered wide, 
 Just where the holy aisles divide, 
 
 There falls a slanting ray of gold. 
 
 It falls aslant the waiting twain, 
 Who tremble with their bridal vow; 
 And on the humble altar now 
 
 It lays the costly, burnished stain. 
 
 A hush is in the solemn room, 
 
 And fainter grows the golden light, 
 And silence ends the sacred rite, 
 
 And over all there comes a gloom. 
 
 I know that priestly lips have blessed ; 
 
 I know that friends are crowding nigh; 
 
 I know the bridegroom standeth by, 
 With moistened look, and swelling breast. 
 
 Yet now mine eye through dimming tears 
 Sees one, alone, of all the band : 
 I only feel where thou dost stand 
 
 And look into the coming years. 
 
 I hear no other sound beside 
 The fuller beating of thy heart ; 
 All thoughts from out one centre start, 
 
 I only feel, thou art a bride! 
 
 My darling, take my spirit-kiss, 
 The first upon thy wedded cheek ; 
 And let thine eyes' deep azure speak 
 
 The promise of an after-bliss. 
 
 O, let me know thy full content, 
 And I will hold thce back no more, 
 Divinely called from that far shore 
 
 Whereon thy heavenly eyes are bent.
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 241 
 
 I 
 
 My heart with tears is filling, love: 
 
 God give an angel, ,-trong and calm, 
 
 To take thce on hi.s radiant arm, 
 And keep thee till we meet above! 
 
 A RHYMING LETTER TO ALICE, FROM COUSIN DEL. 
 
 [WRITTEN FOR "THE LITTLE PILGRIM."] 
 
 Mr DEAR COUSIN ALICE, The sunshine is gay, 
 And Charlie and "Willie are out at their play ; 
 Our nice little parlor is cosy and still, 
 Dear Mother sits hemming my pretty new frill ; 
 E'en my little gray kitten, with running ahout 
 In the wildest of frolics, has tired herself out, 
 And she lies on the hearth, all cunningly curled, 
 As grave as the quietest puss in the world. 
 So indulge, dearest Alice, a chattering strain, 
 For I've nothing to trouMe my pen or my brain. 
 O, my heart is glad for the bright winter-time, 
 And the musical swell of the sleigh-bells' chime, 
 Such a gleeful meaning in every sound, 
 And the silver fairness that covers the ground. 
 
 The tiny Frost-wi/.ani was out all last night, 
 And varni.-heil the snow !>v the white moon's light. 
 I saw him, as he peeped o'er the broad low sill, 
 With bis wonderful look, so cheery and chill, 
 When he slid down my window, and left the stain, 
 Of his mischievous lingers on every pane. 
 And many a notion he put in my head, 
 'Twas queer to lie waking and thinking in bed, 
 But the beautiful moon looked in where I lay, 
 And made my snug chamber as brilliant as day; 
 21
 
 242 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 * 
 
 And of "Willie's new sled and the morrow I thought, 
 And the tricks and the pleasures the Frost-king had brought, 
 Till, sleeping unconscious, as now it would seem, 
 I kept the same wonders all night in r^ dream. 
 
 This morning, I rose with the rise of the sun, 
 
 And, hastily wrapped, I stole out for a run. 
 
 O Alice! I never can tell you 'how fine 
 
 "Was every white thing, in the golden sunshine. 
 
 Like a fringe of rainbows the icicles hung 
 
 To the stately trees and the bushes, and clung 
 
 To each beggarly rail of the old fences brown, 
 
 And close covered them all with a diamond gown; 
 
 And the brook in the meadow was darkly seen 
 
 Through the roof of its prison of crystal sheen. 
 
 All round was a glory you never could meet 
 
 In the crowd and the show of your proud city's street. 
 
 Now the fun and the frolic will be at its height; 
 
 We shall coast down the hills in the morning's gay light, 
 
 And sail on our skates o'er the stiff frozen streams, 
 
 Or, bundled in furs, by the moonlight's broad beams, 
 
 Whirl fleetly along to the timing of bells, 
 
 And catch the wild joy of their merriest swells. 
 
 come, my dear Alice, and share in our mirth ; 
 Come, widen the circle that draws round the hearth. 
 If you were my sister, if you were but here, 
 
 1 could wish for a winter to last all the year. 
 
 Do not say, you must wait for the ice and the snow 
 To melt from the hills, and the flowers to blow, 
 But soon let me hold your dear hand in my own, 
 And be sharing with you all I joy in alone. 
 If your Hero with Birdie and Puss can agree, 
 I say, bring him along, and we'll pet all the three; 
 Though, Alice, dear Alice, indeed I must say, 
 That, if lie's a dog of a quarrelsome way,
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 243 
 
 And meddles with kittens, or barks in the night, 
 He might set us here in a terrible fright; 
 And, thinking of all that could chance to tqkc place, 
 On the whole, I wish Hero were out of the case ! 
 
 Impatient, dear coz, I shall wait till you tell 
 How soon you will come to your own loving DEL. 
 
 TO L. T. B., ON HER PASSAGE TO INDIA, 
 
 O, MY beloved ! on the deep 
 I watch for thce, I cannot sleep. 
 The moon shines on yon silver cloud, 
 Soft as she gilds thy vessel's shroud ; 
 Wrapped in the wild and restless breeze, 
 Thou rockest o'er the Indian seas, 
 While every billow's crest, of foam 
 But drives thec farther from thy home. 
 
 O, my beloved ! on the deep 
 
 I watch for thce, and, watching, weep ; 
 
 I miss the sweetness of thy face, 
 
 The quiet of thy dear embrace ; 
 
 I miss thy fond lips' earnest praise, 
 
 Indulgent to my en-ing ways; 
 
 I feel the fresh, the deepening pain, 
 
 Thou wilt not come to me again. 
 
 O, my beloved ! on the deep 
 I watch for thce, and vespers keep. 
 Father, who sittest on thy throne 
 Above the stars of yonder zone, 
 Forget not one who, at thy call, 
 Hi-signed a precious earthly all; 
 O, .hear my prayer before I sleep, 
 'ss my beloved on the deep.
 
 244 THE MEMORIAL 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 To wither in my glad young spring, 
 
 When life is full of song, 
 O, is it not a mournful thing 
 
 That this may be, ere long ? 
 That, in the roses of the morn, 
 
 The wings of Death may wait so nigb, 
 To snatch me, ere my day is born, 
 
 Beyond the changes of the sky? 
 
 O, coming Summer, grand and fair, 
 
 When all my flowers unfold 
 Within the magic of thine air, 
 
 Shall I those flowers behold? 
 If stricken in the bud with me, 
 
 They, too, may never bloom; 
 Or, kindly spared of God and thee, 
 
 May grow upon my tomb. 
 
 LINES, 
 
 Written hastily in the Album of one almost a Stranger, opposite an extract from 
 Tennyson's " St. Agnes." 
 
 HALF heedless, o'er these leaves of thino 
 
 My hand at nightfall idly strayed, 
 While to my heart her mellow tunes, 
 
 Now sad, now gay, sweet Mem'ry played; 
 My hand upon the open leaves, 
 
 My heart far down the vanished years, 
 Till, aimless, on the album-page 
 
 My glances fell, through sudden tears,
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 245 
 
 And met, as one who greets a friend, 
 
 The laureate-poet's wondrous line, 
 To draw mo near to his deep heart, 
 
 And make his loving patience mine. 
 Then, with a thrill, to memory camo 
 
 Those sweetest lays of mortal grief 
 That ever human poet sung, 
 
 Too sweet, unto my soul's belief, 
 For human poet's lips alone, 
 
 Some echo from the songs above, 
 Grown sorrowful in floating down, 
 
 Yet whoso dear essence still is love. 
 And I a warmer hand can reach 
 
 To one who loves his noblo verse, 
 For instincts, deep as reason, teach 4fe 
 
 Decisions time will not reverse". 
 
 TO "MY LITTLE JENNIE." 
 
 O ! OUR golden years of girlhood, 
 Like the life of flower and leaf, 
 Like to all earth knows of beauty 
 And of sweetness, they are brief. 
 
 Let us garner up their riches, 
 Ardors of our brilliant sun, 
 Blooms that freshen all the pathway, 
 Silver streams that laugh and run. 
 
 For the Future to the Present 
 M;iy outstretch its eager palms, 
 And, recalling former treasures, 
 In its poverty ask alms. 
 21*
 
 246 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 Then, if we have kept unwasted 
 All the true romance of youth, 
 All its deep and happy music, 
 All its earnest faith in truth, 
 
 We may stand serene and smiling 
 When life's lesser troubles crowd; 
 And, God helping, throw a rainbow 
 Over many a darker cloud. 
 
 can frost the brownest tresses, 
 Age can dim the proudest eye; 
 But the spoiler cannot enter 
 Where our choicest graces lie. 
 
 If we only know the secret, 
 Wo may have them all as fair, 
 When the evening twilight deepens, 
 AS in this sweet morning air. 
 
 0, the heart need never wrinkle, 
 Underneath the touch of years ; 
 It may grander grow in straggles, 
 And more beautiful in tears ! 
 
 THE EYES IN MY VISION. 
 
 WHEN the clearest sun is setting 
 On the flush of hectic leaves, 
 
 And a touch of soft regretting, 
 Nature in her music weaves ; 
 
 When the clouds are waxing golden, 
 Where the low horizon lies, 
 
 With a thrill, like mem'rics olden, 
 On me beam those wondrous eyes !
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 247 
 
 Shining on my rcv'rent vision, 
 
 As if they had caught afar 
 Rays that play in fields Elysian, 
 
 Where the crystal glories are ; 
 
 Reflex of the heavenly splendor, 
 
 Softened in the earthly mould, 
 Angel-bright, yet human-tender, 
 
 Are the eyes that I behold. 
 
 When my heart is gay and gentle, 
 
 Clear and glad the glance they send; 
 Wistful, as the look parental, 
 
 Kindly, as an equal friend. 
 
 When my life seems brief and dreary, 
 
 If I read their meaning sweet, 
 'Rest eternal waits the weary" 
 Is the promise they repeat. 
 
 Straggling toward my great ideal, 
 
 They flash out upon mo clear, 
 Like a spirit, brave and leal, 
 
 Watching from a distant sphere. 
 
 Sometimes, when my heart is glowing 
 
 With a vague, delicious dream, 
 Suddenly, with love o'erflowing, 
 
 Those strange eyes upon mo beam ; 
 
 Till my own, beneath such glances, 
 
 Veil them with their lashes dun, 
 For they blend my thousand fancies, 
 
 Floating idly, into one. 
 
 In my hours of earnest musing, 
 
 Wheresoever I may be, 
 Ere my heart hath room for choosing, 
 
 Breaks this vision oft on me.
 
 248 THE MEMOEIAL OF 
 
 In the still and sweet revealing 
 Of the holy, mystic night, 
 
 Stirring all the subtler feeling 
 That has slumbered through the light; 
 
 Mid the soft and murmured beauty 
 Of the woodpaths, lone and dim, 
 
 On the dusty track of duty, 
 In some old and plaintive hymn; 
 
 In a thousand scenes and places, 
 Where I could not think them near, 
 
 Like beloved and absent faces 
 In wild dreams, those eyes appear. 
 
 Were they real, in my childhood ? 
 
 Doth some memory bring them here, 
 Like a blossom from the wildwood, 
 
 The rough pilgrim-road to cheer ? 
 
 No, my spirit answers clearly, 
 Never, but in visions fleet, 
 
 Looked they into mine so nearly, 
 Made my pulse so swiftly beat. 
 
 Yet I know they shine unchanging 
 Somewhere, keeping watch for me, 
 
 While God's sweet and wise arranging 
 Comprehends the mystery. 
 
 If. this side the River, never, 
 Then on the eternal shore 
 
 I. shall know them ; I shall sever 
 From 'their company no more.
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 219 
 
 "A CHEEKY HOPE LIES IN WAIT FOR ME." 
 
 Li KB the light of love in an azure eye, 
 
 The sunshine lies in the happy sky, 
 
 And the breeze comes bounding from the sea, 
 
 O ! a cheery hope lies in wait for mo. 
 
 The fair young trees on the distant hill 
 Are tossing their gentle heads at will ; 
 They dance to the song of bird and bee, 
 O ! a cheery hope lies in wait for me. 
 
 The butterflies thicken the soft, sweet air, 
 And the brownest wings in the sun are fair ; 
 The brook trippcth over the stones in glee, 
 ! a cheery hope lies in wait for me. 
 
 The Angfl of Sickness hath spread his wing, 
 Yet still in its shadow I softly sing ; 
 While such fulness of life in earth I see, 
 ! a cheery hope lies in wait for inc. 
 
 CLOUDS IN SUMMKK. 
 
 ACROSS the merry morning blue, 
 
 Pule ghosts ofjjouds have wedded hands, 
 And spread on all these summer lands 
 A gloom sad Autumn never knew. 
 
 The lonely maple on the hill 
 
 Stands silent, like a settled grief; 
 And, down the field, the willow-leaf 
 Is drooping o'er the sleepy rill.
 
 250 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 Yon giant rock, that, brave -and fair, 
 Wore on his crest the rising sun, 
 His purple robe of state undone, 
 
 Sits naked in the cheerless air. 
 
 The lulling speech of honey-bees, 
 The chirps of singers in the grass, 
 These with the sunshine seem to pass, 
 
 And with the voices of the breeze. 
 
 On velvet foot the saddened light 
 Is creeping o'er my silent room, 
 As creep the shadows of the tomb 
 
 O'er them whose dying hopes are bright. 
 
 The dreary quiet in the day, 
 The quiet in my weary frame, 
 Where restless fevers went and came, - 
 
 What these forecast, I cannot say. 
 
 This weakened flesh that girds my soul 
 Has shut the future out from me ; 
 While I, as in a mist at sea, 
 
 Know but the magnet and the pole. 
 
 But o'er the years that once were mine, 
 Beneath the sun, above the flowers, 
 Divinely chastened by the showers, 
 
 No cypress wreath can ever twine. 
 
 TO THEE. 
 [Placed silently in her Mother's room.] 
 
 To part with thee ! Behold, the bright Death- Angel 
 Stands doubtful on the horizon of my sky ; 
 
 His broad plumes tremble with uncertain motion, 
 Shaking my spirit with this bitter cry.
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 251 
 
 To part with thee ! O I could leave my morning, 
 
 And gladly greet the fair eternal day ; 
 I could resign, for bud-.? in Eden blooming, 
 
 The slender flowers that make my spring-time gay. 
 
 To part with thee ! the notes of human singing, 
 
 The sweetest voices that the poets raise, 
 Sick with the faintness of my own dim echoes, 
 
 I could forget in the grand seraph-lays. 
 
 To part with thee ! O what true lives and tender, 
 For whom the greatness of my love o'crflows, 
 
 I could divide from mine, and wait quiescent 
 Till their appointed years of absence close. 
 
 To part with thee ! all other tics, beloved, 
 
 My soul in resignation sad might part ; 
 But, with this wondrous love around me clinging, 
 
 I yearn, I yearn to linger where thou art ! 
 
 How can I leave thee, when life's gladdest current 
 
 Is pouring from my full cup into thine .' 
 How can I leave thee, when fame's thorny garlands 
 
 Round thy reluctant brow profusely twine? 
 
 How can I leave tlieo when such sweet and bitter 
 Mix in the cup thy cherished lips must drink 1 
 
 "\Vouldst thou not mi.ss the buoy of my caresses, 
 When thy brave spirit droops, and (ears to sink? 
 
 How can I leave thee, when our love has rounded 
 
 Succeeding heights to harmony complete? 
 How leave thee when that matchless love has sounded 
 
 Depths where the subtlest shades of feeling meet? 
 
 To part from thee! Death will have launched the sorest 
 
 Of all the arrows kept in store for me, 
 When to my heart he gives the chilling token 
 
 That I must part, my best beloved, from TIII:I;!
 
 252 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 IN COMMEMORATION OF THE C. C. C.* 
 
 [UNFINISHED.] 
 
 WE four Avcve buoyant, glad, and strong; 
 
 Our life was fresh and sweet; 
 And, in the measure of a song, 
 
 Our fervent pulses beat, 
 "When, hand in hand devoutly clasping, 
 
 "\Vc pledged our love with maiden zeal; 
 And on each heart's unfolded pages 
 The promise set its shining seal. 
 
 We vowed in God's most holy sight; 
 
 He blessed us where we stood; 
 His blessing on our love shone bright, 
 
 And swelled the germ of good, 
 Till what in worldly eyes was little 
 
 Grew taller than the world could hold, 
 And, branching in the heights of Eden, 
 Its topmost boughs bore fruit of gold ! 
 
 We wandered through the summer noon, 
 
 Plucked roses by the -way; 
 Our eyes, undazzled, saw how soon 
 Lights fade, and blooms decay. 
 But, like the bee, we turned to honey 
 The rounded ripeness of the flower, 
 And kept in store for bitterness 
 The essence of the sweetest hour. 
 
 Years rich with thrills of life are gone ; 
 No longer, hand in hand, 
 
 *A poem commemorating the " C. C. C." (a quartette of loving companions asso 
 ciated under this mystical title) was a favorite project of the Author, and was several 
 times attempted. This (the last effort) was made a few weeks before death arrested her 
 pen, and was left unfinished; or, rather, but just opened. ED.
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 253 
 
 Benc.ath the noon we wander on. 
 
 One, in a tropic land, 
 The cross unto her bosom pressing, 
 
 Treads meekly where Immanuel trod, 
 Thorns at her feet, but on her forehead 
 White lilies from the heaven of God. 
 ***** * 
 
 A STATESMAN. WHO IS HE? 
 
 WHERE Columbia hails her freemen, 
 Gathered on her council-floor, 
 
 Where her wide, colossal Future 
 Looks and listens evermore ; 
 
 Where the crown of wisdom lieth 
 
 (Relic of an ancient date), 
 Overlaid with passion-cinders, 
 
 And the dust of fierce debate ; 
 
 Where bright Honor's shield of silver 
 Gleamcth faint through rust and stain, 
 
 Where sweet Peace, on weary pinion, 
 Seeks her olive-brunch in vain ; 
 
 'Mid the thunders of the discord, 
 And the gloom of party hale, 
 
 Ami ilie babbling prate of Folly, 
 Idling while Archangels wait, 
 
 Lo ! he rises, like a planet 
 Bright and steady in its roll, 
 
 Stirs the calm, magnetic waters 
 Lying deep in every soul, 
 22
 
 254 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 Till, like Ocean's crested billow, 
 Mounting toward the moon, its bride, 
 
 They beneath his ardent splendors 
 Surge and swell in eager tide, 
 
 Till the hydra of Injustice 
 
 Through the triple mail of gold 
 
 Feels the holy blade of judgment 
 Scathing every horrid fold. 
 
 For the stern and radiant Angel, 
 Set to guard the wrong and weak, 
 
 At his right hand stoops to teach him 
 What his flame-touched lips shall speak 
 
 And he pauses not to question 
 Who will censure, who applaud, 
 
 Sworn unto the law sublimest, 
 Issued from the Father, God. 
 
 Fearless, when the lips of evil 
 Breathe their blackness on his name, 
 
 Trusting in a noble lifetime 
 For a spotless after-fame, 
 
 His deep heart no storms can ruffle, 
 Calm as the unfathomed seas 
 
 s 
 
 His great soul secure reposes 
 In the upper air of peace. 
 
 Ye who love to doubt and cavil, 
 Follow in his homeward tread, 
 
 Hear the singing of the orphans 
 Whom he feeds with daily bread; 
 
 Hear the stricken widow name him 
 In her prayers, with blessings deep, 
 
 Can your tares in such a garden 
 Choke the har^t he shall reap 1 ?
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 255 
 
 Watch the eyes serene and earnest 
 
 Gladdening his with tender light; 
 Ask of ivoman's clearer vision 
 
 If he keep liis manhood bright. 
 
 Seek him in the secret chamber, 
 
 Where, in wise humility, 
 With the Infinite communing, 
 
 Morn by. morn, he bows the knee. 
 
 Thence the strength of God receiving, 
 
 New anointed, from the place 
 Goes he forth to toil and struggle 
 
 For the freedom of the race ; 
 
 For that freedom, grand and holy, 
 
 Whose high pecans angels sung, 
 Dower of Eden, blessed birthright, 
 
 Squandered when the world was young. 
 
 Lo ! ho stands, with prophet-finger 
 
 Pointing toward the, blest to be, 
 When, beneath the spread of heaven, 
 
 Every creature shall be free. 
 
 Where Columbia hails her freemen, 
 
 Gathered on her council-floor, 
 
 
 Wakes his voice the wondrous echo 
 
 That shall slumber nevermore. 
 
 MORS MORAS NECTENS. 
 
 WHERE on thy kindly pinions tarriest thou, 
 
 O soft celestial lircath? 
 Sent to my spirit from the Infinite, 
 
 Why should I call tlicc Death?
 
 256 THE MEMOKIAL OP 
 
 On my white couch all day I wait for thee, 
 
 And through the dewy night; 
 Hath He commissioned thee to wing so slow 
 
 And calm thy solemn flight? 
 
 In velvet fields I know the lambkins play, 
 
 And infant violets peep; 
 Come swifter, ere my almost parted heart 
 
 Return for these to weep. 
 
 Where, still and pale, I fade from hour to hour, 
 Eyes, keeping watch like stars, 
 
 Make earth so dear, that still my spirit rests 
 "Without the crystal bars. 
 
 Should I repine, while here in arms I love, 
 Just under heaven's bright gate, 
 
 Until the angel of the Lord come down, 
 Alittle while I wait? 
 
 This lower sky is gloriously fair, 
 
 I am not tired of earth; 
 From other spheres I shall look love to thee, 
 
 Land of my mortal birth. 
 
 But I have caught a vision^of the palms 
 Around the mount of God, 
 
 That mystic tree, whose branches spread the way 
 Which Christ, the prophet, trod; 
 
 And underneath their shade my soul must dwell 
 
 With souls beatified; 
 I heard it whispered in the holy night, 
 
 By angels at my side. 
 
 Then where on thy slow pinions tarriest thou, 
 
 O. soft, celestial breath? 
 Sent to my spirit from the Infinite, 
 
 Why should I call thee Death?
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 257 
 
 THE CLOSING STEADY. 
 
 Written hastily with a pencil, fourteen hours before the Summons hence. 
 
 SOUL of mine, 
 
 Mourning in darkness thicker than the night, 
 With clasped hands, before an empty shrine, 
 
 Give thanks ; the heaven hath opened ; there is light ! 
 
 Rich and fair, 
 
 Glories of Nature home return to me: 
 The calm serene that fills the violet air, 
 The wondrous shading of the distant sea. 
 
 Full and sweet, 
 
 On wings more light than ever spanned the air, 
 That wondrous incense, for the altar meet, 
 Descends once more unto my poet-share. 
 
 Bright and grand, 
 
 Old pictures show, which, in my sad despair, 
 I said, with aching heart and nerveless hand, 
 God had denied to my beseeching prayer. 
 
 Soft and slow, 
 
 Through all the chambers of my weary soul, 
 I hear the blessed MUSIC come and go, 
 
 And the low measures thrill me as they roll. 
 
 Soul of mine, 
 
 Shine in the light that breaks upon thee pure; 
 Give back an answering flash ! the gem is thine ; 
 Sing, and thy song shall teach thee to endure! 
 22*
 
 PROSE SKETCHES. 
 
 (259)
 
 PROSE SKETCHES. 
 
 A SKETCH. 
 
 A BRIGHT April morning had dawned upon the little 
 village of S . In a little parlor of one of its neat cot 
 tages, sat three young girls, waiting the arrival of the car 
 riages which were to bear them away from the home where 
 they had spent four happy years together. Their thoughts 
 reverted to the day when they first became members of Mrs. 
 L.'s boarding-school; and, though with joyous smiles and 
 bounding hearts they looked forward to a return to their early 
 homes, yet, ever and anon, a recollection of the happiness 
 enjoyed in that quiet retreat would dim for a moment their 
 bright eyes, and hush their glee. 
 
 Their companionship was about to be dissolved. They, 
 who so long had shared the same apartment, participated in 
 the same studies and pastimes, were to be severed. Memory 
 was busy with each, and they relapsed into silence. 
 
 Who does not know the tediousness of waiting for public 
 conveyances ? How slow the minutes wear away, and every 
 one seems lengthened to au hour, especially when, from 
 urgent business or anticipated pleasure, we long to be on the 
 wing. At length, one of the schoolmates broke the silence by 
 
 an impatient exclamation at the long delay, and begged a com- 
 
 (261)
 
 262 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 panion to devise some plan for whiling away the tedious mo 
 ments. Lottie, (for such was the name of her addressed) sat 
 for a moment in thought; then, with a bright smile, she 
 exclaimed : 
 
 "I have found it! Let each one choose the course of life 
 she most desires for the future, and narrate her wishes for 
 the amusement of the rest." 
 
 At the request of her mates, she commenced: 
 
 " Do not smile at me for repeating an oft-told tale, when I 
 wish for literary honors. May the Goddess of Fame twine 
 her laurels about my brow, may she give me power to waken 
 the deep and hidden chords of the soul, and make them vibrate 
 to my touch, may I breathe the loftiest and sublimest strains 
 of poesy, may I melt the heart with its softest, most hal 
 lowed lays. I would wish to see Genius bending low at my 
 shrine, and to hear my name repeated by the learned and 
 honored." 
 
 She ceased; and those who heard knew that the poetic 
 flame was already kindled in her breas.t, and felt it possible for 
 her to attain the summit at which she aimed. The second, 
 Gertrude, spoke : 
 
 " Give me," said she, " to mingle in the delightful whirl of 
 fashion and gaiety, to be admired and envied by the throng, 
 to reign in the ball-room and the gay levee, to be courted 
 and wooed and flattered, to lose myself in a perpetual round 
 of festivity and mirth." 
 
 And the picture seemed to absorb her mind, for the last 
 words died away in a low murmur, and she sat as one in a 
 trance ; till, rousing from her reverie, she joined with Lottie in 
 calling upon Alice, the remaining one of the trio, to follow
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 263 
 
 their example. A light stole from the depths of her azure 
 eye, and a shadow rested on her sweet face, as she replied : 
 
 " Let me live for Him who died for me." 
 
 She would have said more, but her low, earnest tones were 
 interrupted by the tramp of horses and the sound of wheels. 
 
 Their conversation was forgotten. They rushed to the 
 door. A hasty kiss was imprinted on cheek and lip, a hur 
 ried farewell spoken, and they parted forever. 
 
 Again, six years have rolled away. To some they have 
 brought trial and sorrow. Some frail barks they have 
 launched into the boundless ocean of eternity. But to Lottie, 
 Gertrude, and Alice, they have spared life, health, and joy.; 
 and, unlike the frequent experience of mortals, to them have 
 been realized the dreams of their girlhood. The first is wor 
 shipped and honored in the literary world. Her name is 
 everywhere known and admired. Thousands do homage to 
 her genius, and the power of her song thrills in cottage and 
 palace. But, amid it all, she sighs for kindred hearts, for the 
 Avarm tones of true affection, which nowhere greet her ear. 
 There is a thorn among her roses, a drop of gall mingled with 
 her cup of joy. 
 
 In a lower walk of life the fair Gertrude moves, yet the 
 belle of her circle. She shines brightest amid the beautiful, 
 gayest amid the gay. The praises of her throng of admirers 
 wait on her every step. All are conquered by her magic 
 sway. But Gertrude has quaffed deep the intoxicating 
 draught of flattery. She has become dead to all but self, and 
 the hearts with which she has trifled understand too well the 
 idolatry ; yet, in better moments, her heart yearns for some 
 nobler object to fill the aching void which sinful pleasures have 
 left in her breast. Had she known the delight of living for
 
 264 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 others, perchance selfish joys would have grown less in her 
 esteem. 
 
 In a church of the city of B is assembled a vast 
 
 crowd, to witness the marriage of one who is about to leave 
 his native land, to bear the glad tidings of salvation to a 
 heathen world. The young missionary leads to the altar a 
 bride exquisitely fair, in whose form and features we cannot 
 but recognize our beloved Alice. Yes, that short wish of 
 hers was full of meaning. Her lip quivers as she takes the 
 solemn marriage-vow, which involves a rending of all the ties 
 that bind to home and country ; but the light of faith glows 
 in her earnest eye, and the firmness of high resolve is written 
 on her calm brow. She, too, has realized the beautiful aspi 
 ration of her early youth, " Let me live for Him who died 
 for me." 
 
 ONLY A GOVERNESS. 
 
 DEAR reader, fancy to yourself a rainy day in capricious 
 April, and I will spare you a description of the ill-tempered 
 sky, the shifting clouds, the chilling atmosphere, the swift 
 gusts of wind, and the falling torrents. It was just as day 
 light and rain-fall simultaneously terminated, that a handsome 
 carriage, drawn by a pair of beautiful bays, made its way 
 through the muddy streets of the ancient and aristocratic 
 town of "W . The equipage paused before a noble man 
 sion, which, in the season of foliage, lay completely embow 
 ered. The occupant of the carriage alighted, and walked 
 hastily up the avenue, shaking the sparkling drops from the
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 265 
 
 hedge, and turning an eager eye up lo the old architectural 
 pile and down each spiral walk. 
 
 A lew moments more, and he was ushered into an elegantly 
 furnished drawing-room. Could he have peered up the stairs, 
 as he stepped over the threshold, he might have s^n two 'girls 
 at a half-opened door, exclaiming, in the same Wreath, ""Wal 
 lace Grosvenor, as I live ! " While they are preparing td 
 descend, let us take a closer look at the object of their curi 
 osity. 
 
 A form qui^F above the medium height, a forehead broad 
 and full, from which the chestnut hair was carelessly brushed, 
 an eye which changed from a deep blue to a clear hazel when 
 lighted by any sudden excitement, and a manner revealing at 
 once the scholar and the gentleman, represent the outward 
 man. With the inner life our acquaintance must be more 
 gradual. A brief interval elapsed, and a trio of ladies en 
 tered the parlor, one a fashionably drest woman in the prime 
 of life ; the other two, her daughters, numbering eighteen 
 and twenty summers. The young man advanced to salute 
 them, offering one hand to each sister, and in a tone whose 
 slight tinge of sadness seemed habitual, said, " I am most 
 happy to meet you, fair cousins." Then, with a bearing some 
 what less familiar, but not less cordial, he exchanged greetings 
 with the mother, to whom he was formally presented. And 
 now, the first salutations over, let us go back some years, and 
 inquire a little into the history of the parties thus brought 
 together. 
 
 Wallace Grosvenor was now in the second year of his 
 orphanage. When very young, he had been sent to Europe 
 to receive his education, and, having commenced a course of 
 liberal study at Geneva, which was completed at Gottingeii, 
 
 23
 
 266 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 he travelled with his tutor over the continent, and added to 
 his fine education that ease and polish of manners, and 
 thorough acquaintance with modern languages, which such 
 advantages are fitted to impart. During this interval, first 
 his mother afid then his father were called to the spirit-land ; 
 and never dW revered and idolized parents leave a truer 
 mourner. The heir of a respectable fortune, the possessor of 
 poetical genius united to a highly cultivated intellect, chas 
 tened by a warm and ardent piety, which seemed to many all 
 the requisites for happiness, yet with an acMhg void at his 
 heart, and a sensation of desolateness quite new to him, Wal 
 lace embarked for his native America. On his arrival at New 
 York, he found a cordial welcome to the circle in which his 
 parents had so lately moved. His reputation had preceded 
 him, and many strangecs were ready to urge upon him their 
 hospitality. But when most courted and flattered he missed, 
 O ! how sadly, those warm hearts which had bestowed on him 
 at parting their parental benedictions, and he carried every 
 where a lonely and aching breast. A few weeks after his 
 return, as he was sauntering through the brilliant saloons of 
 
 Mrs. C , and passing compliments with the many who 
 
 watched for a word or a smile, his attention was attracted by 
 two pretty, Saxon-looking girls, who were evidently making 
 him the subject of a close conversation. He inquired their 
 names of his hostess, who replied : " Do you mean those sis 
 ters in blue? They are the Clevelands; they have just left 
 boarding-school, and my daughter Ellen has brought them 
 home, to spend a few days with her before their departure from 
 the city." An introduction followed, and Wallace found Kate 
 and Fannie Cleveland consigned to him for the remainder of 
 the evening. As he looked oftener in their faces, an indistinct
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 267 
 
 recollection crossed his mind of having seen them before ; and 
 when he ventured to inquire their place of residence, and 
 learned that it was the same beautiful retired town where his 
 father once owned a country-seat, his suspicions were con 
 firmed, his interest deepened, and he asked eagerly, "Pray, 
 pardon me, but is not your mother a niece of Judge Gros- 
 venor ? " " Yes, indeed," was the reply (and the sisters col 
 ored as they spoke). " Mother has often mentioned her 
 uncle's visit to her, years ago, with his son. We were then 
 both very young, and do not remember it distinctly." Wal 
 lace remembered it well; and, as he recalled that humble 
 cottage in the suburbs of Waterford, with two rude little girls 
 swinging on the brown gate that opened into the dusty thor 
 oughfare, he saw at once that fortune must have smiled on the 
 Clevelands since those days. Destitute as he was of near 
 kindred, lie congratulated himself on this newly found relation 
 ship, and entered his claim to their cousinly regards with a 
 warmth which brought an ill-concealed expression of flattered 
 vanity to the countenances of 'the two sisters. Anxious to 
 retain his favor, they were not slow to inform him that their 
 father had purchased the old Grosvenor mansion, and that 
 they had for three or four years occupied that honored dwell 
 ing. Ere the evening closed, our young friend had naturally 
 enough been invited to pay a visit to his cousins at AY. ; and 
 had just fulfilled his promise to come, as we introduced him to 
 our readers. 
 
 After tea, on the evening of his arrival, as the trio returned 
 to the parlor, the moonbeams looked invitingly in at the ca-e- 
 ment, giving promise of a glorious evening to succeed the 
 storm; and Wallace, approaching the window, gazed with a fond 
 yet pensive air on those old grounds, hallowed by a thousand
 
 268 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 recollections of childhood. Perceiving that his thoughts were 
 without, his companions spoke of the garden, and regretted 
 that the recent rain prevented an evening's promenade. But 
 Kate, seeing that this topic interested him, suddenly changed 
 her mind, and, notwithstanding his remonstrances, insisted that 
 it would be perfectly safe to take one turn down the walk; so, 
 immediately leading the way, she opened the door of the 
 library to pass out into the veranda. Pausing a moment as 
 she reached the outer door, she slightly turned her head, and 
 said, in a careless tone, "Emily Morris, Mr. Grosvenor." 
 Wallace, who had not noticed a new face in the dimly lighted 
 library, now turned his gaze in the direction of cousin Kate's 
 eyes, and perceived a young lady in one of the window-seats, 
 attired in deep sable. He bowed profoundly, and hastened 
 after the sisters, Fannie remarking, as the door closed behind 
 them, " Only the children's governess." 
 
 " Where our heart is, there our " pen loves to linger : for 
 this reason we will talk of Emily Morris, and leave the walk 
 undescribed. True, she was " the children's governess," but 
 she was also the orphan child of Mr. Cleveland's sister. 
 Though her daily toil entitled her to a generous support, she 
 was regarded as a poor, dependent relative, under vast obliga 
 tions for her daily bread. Little did her honored father 
 anticipate such a fate for his daughter. He was suddenly 
 summoned away, in the midst of a distinguished and lucrative 
 career, leaving with his business partner an ample fortune in 
 trust for his only child. Alas ! for frail humanity ; scarce six 
 months elapsed, ere the orphan, defrauded of her patrimony, 
 with a scanty pittance offered her, as all that remained of a 
 princely estate, was obliged to surrender the privileges of an 
 eminent boarding-school, and accept a home where she was
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 2G9 
 
 expected to earn a support. Her uncle indeed was an honor 
 able man of the world, who regarded the claims of kindred, 
 and entertained real affection for the only child of his de 
 parted sister. But Mrs. C. was a calculating woman. In 
 seconding her husl>and's proposal, she was influenced by the 
 advantages afforded her younger children, in having so compe 
 tent a teacher at their own dwelling. It was not till her older 
 daughters returned from school, and Emily's superiority to 
 them in every grace, natural and acquired, became strikingly 
 manifest, that she repented the step she had taken in intro 
 ducing to their home so dangerous a rival. The poor girl was 
 now constantly remised that she must not claim equality with 
 her cousins, and ever and anon she was made to feel that 
 she was " only a governess." The visit of Wallace Gros- 
 venor proved the occasion of fresh annoyance. That very 
 evening her artful aunt had contrived to effect her absence 
 from the tea-table, to delay her introduction to their distin 
 guished guest. Such was the position of Emily Morris. Do 
 you wonder, now, at her being found alone in the library, or 
 left there still to her solitary musings, with no invitation to 
 join the merry group in the moonlight ? Their returning foot 
 steps soon broke her reverie, and she hastened from the room; 
 not, however, till she heard cousin Kate express her raptures 
 over a full-blown tulip, and a rich low voice remonstrate 
 against her preference of this gaudy flower to the heart's-ease 
 and snowdrop, which she had crushed and thrown away. 
 Emily gained her chamber, to soothe her troubled spirit by 
 communing with the oracles of peace and the God of consola 
 tion. The spirits of the dear departed seemed to encircle her 
 with their blessing. She sought her pillow, by good angels 
 
 23*
 
 270 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 guarded, and was refreshed and strengthened for the morrow's 
 tasks. 
 
 Several days passed away, and found Wallace still at 
 Waterford, impatient with himself for the feeling of dissatis 
 faction with his young relatives, which daily increased. 
 "What was the fault?" he asked himself, again and again. 
 They were pretty; always amiable, except when cousin Emily 
 was alluded to ; evidently delighted with his attentions ; and 
 yet, with all their flattery, did not succeed in winning his 
 regard. He had in his soul an ideal of goodness and beauty 
 and consistency of character, made up from recollections of 
 his sainted mother; and it was in vai%he tried to persuade 
 himself that Kate and Fannie Cleveland were modelled after 
 it. They lacked depth and purity, and all their external 
 professions failed to supply the deficiency. 
 
 One morning, as Wallace was in the library, he noticed that 
 an elegantly bound volume of his own poems had been 
 abstracted from the parlor table, and was lying there. He 
 carelessly took it up, and found it open at a little piece of 
 blank verse, entitled " The Orphan," and remarked the delicate 
 tracings of a pencil along the margin. " Is this Kate's 
 work ? " thought he. " No, extravagant as are her praises 
 of my efforts, she has not enough genuine love of poetry in 
 her nature to reconcile her to pass a half-hour alone in read 
 ing the most exquisite production of the muses. But see, 
 here is a mark with initials E. M. It is, as I suspected, 
 jEmily Morris." He turned to pay his devoirs to the ladies 
 who had just entered. Fannie, spying the book which he had 
 laid down, said: 
 
 " So, Mr. Grosvenor, you stole away here to read your own
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 271 
 
 musings. No wonder you found yourself on enchanted 
 ground." 
 
 " Indeed, you are mistaken," replied Wallace, slightly smil 
 ing : " the book must have been deposited here by another 
 hand than mine. I encountered it accidentally," and he stole 
 a glance at Emily. Kate turned to her quickly, saying, in a 
 bitter tone : 
 
 " Have you not often been requested not to disturb these 
 volumes? I have been looking for this very book all the 
 morning. Indeed, Miss Morris, I did not know that you were 
 so devoted to Mr. G.'s poetry." 
 
 Emily's cheek flushed for an instant, then with quiet dignity 
 she took the book in silence and returned it to the parlor. A 
 glance at Grosvenor's face told the girls that they had over 
 stepped their mark. They strove to make amends by donning 
 their sweetest smiles, but our hero was grave and unsocial the 
 remainder of the morning. At eve the family assembled in 
 the drawing-room again; the harp and guitar were drawn 
 from their resting-places, and preparation made for a musical 
 entertainment. Emily was there, too, with an unwonted glow 
 on her cheek. The music began ; performance succeeded 
 performance ; the Clevelands did their best ; but Wallaee 
 saw more imperfections than*ever in their shallow, rapid style. 
 "NVlu'ii Kate and Fannie had finished, he inquired if Miss 
 Morris played on either of the instruments. No one an 
 swered. He directed the question to her: "Will you plav 
 and sing ? " She took her seat at the piano without speaking, 
 and commenced a sweetly wild and mournful air, with an 
 extemporaneous accompaniment. When she finished, Wal 
 lace uttered a simple " Thank you," whose want of emphasis 
 the Clevelands interpreted as a sure mark of indifference.
 
 272 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 But the music entered his heart. Mrs. C., who felt quite 
 assured by Mr. Grosvenor's silence, remarked condescend 
 ingly : 
 
 " Do not feel abashed, Emily ; that little song appeared 
 much more becoming for you than the girls' brilliant sym 
 phonies. We cannot expect you to sing gay songs at present, 
 we know you don't feel like it." 
 
 The conversation next turned upon German music, and 
 from that naturally to the German language and literature. 
 Grosvenor undertook to repeat a passage from Schiller, but 
 partly failed. 
 
 " Prompt me, cousin Fannie," said he. " I believe you are 
 a student of that author." 
 
 " O yes," said Kate, "she's been at it this three years. 
 Goodness, Fan, can't you recollect it ? " 
 
 But Fanny Avas still at fault. "Wallace was astonished at 
 the coarse expression which escaped his cousin's lips. Mrs. 
 Cleveland offered to bring a copy of Schiller from the library, 
 but Mr. G., as if struck by a sudden thought, detained her 
 with the words : 
 
 " Perhaps Miss Morris can save us that trouble." 
 
 " ! ah ! " began the cousins. 
 
 " I'll step to the library," but Emmie paid no heed to their 
 exclamations. 
 
 "Is this the passage to which you refer?" said she, and 
 gave the exact quotation with a richness of tone and enthusi 
 asm of manner which charmed one of her listeners and vexed 
 the rest. Kate, who had been considered by all the family as 
 clearly in possession of the gentleman's heart, grew daily more 
 uneasy, as numberless little scenes like those already narrated 
 lessened the cords of her influence, and drew Wallace with a
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 273 
 
 fascination (to her inexplicable) toward that unpretending 
 Emily Morris. 
 
 " What was the spell ? " the Clevelands asked one another. 
 Emily wasn't as beautiful as they O, no! for brunettes 
 never pretend to be beautiful. She certainly was not as 
 accomplished, for she was acquainted with but two foreign 
 languages, Latin and German, while they had a knowledge of 
 Italian and French beside. She could paint only in water 
 colors, while they understood the use of oils and Indian ink. 
 Then just think of her plain black dresses, compared with the 
 rich fabrics and bright colors with which they adorned them 
 selves. But, to crown all, Emily was poor, and "only a gov- 
 
 
 erness." They knew the high value which Wallace Grosvenor 
 
 placed on rank and fortune. Poor human nature cannot be 
 perfect, an undue estimate of station was one of our hero's 
 failings. But his eyes were beginning to be opened. He 
 knew the Clevelands were once in humble life, but he was gen 
 erous, or, what is better, just enough to overlook that. Here 
 lay the difficulty : their refinement, their amiability, their 
 knowledge even, was not a part of their growth, but something 
 superaddcd to a character already formed. Every now and 
 then he obtained a glimpse at the background of the picture. 
 They were living illustrations of the truth that deficiencies of 
 character and training in early life are sure to make themselves 
 visible through all the gloss and polish and showy accomplish 
 ments of later years. It was impossible for one like Wallace 
 Grosvenor not to mark the contrast between such a character, 
 and a nature deep, unostentatious, and true, that he should 
 not find pleasure in studying a character, which every day 
 revealed some new page in its hidden volume. And did 
 Emily perceive and rejoice in the changed position of affairs ?
 
 274 THE MEMOEUL OF 
 
 Did she strive to bind the distinguished guest to her side ? 
 Did she wield well the weapons of fascination? Ah, no! 
 Emily was impenetrable. The same shade of sadness rested 
 on her brow ; she spoke in the same mournful, subdued 
 cadences ; the same sweet grace and dignity mingled in her 
 manner. The gentleman's society she neither sought nor 
 repelled ; she addressed him only when he questioned her ; 
 with a never-varying self-possession she accepted his fre 
 quent courtesies, and bore unmoved the scrutinizing watch of 
 her aunt and cousins. Even Mrs. Cleveland, ready and 
 anxious to reprimand her, could find no occasion for reproof. 
 
 It was now the middle of May, and Wallace was prolong 
 ing his stay, he knew not wherefore. His visit seemed likely 
 to close with little incident beyond the ordinary routine of 
 pleasure rides and calls and evening parties. A horseback 
 excursion had been more than once proposed by the sisters, 
 but as yet no time had been suggested, which met the appro 
 bation of their cavalier. Let me whisper the reason in your 
 ear, reader: the hour proposed was always one in which 
 cousin Emily was occupied with her little charge. 
 
 But a holiday arrived, the afternoon was bright and 
 beautiful, as fresh and blooming May alone can be. Wallace 
 now declared himself ready for the excursion, and, as there 
 could be no good excuse for leaving Emily behind, she was 
 included in the party. Mounted on beautiful steeds, and all 
 well skilled in horsemanship, they rode gaily along the trav 
 elled road for some distance, when Wallace espied a green 
 lane leading off from the dusty street, which he declared 
 looking too inviting to be passed by ; so thither they turned 
 their horse's steps, and rode leisurely on. 
 
 The green sward was decked with spring's earliest wild
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 275 
 
 flowers, which constantly tempted our knight to dismount, and 
 gather bouquets for the ladies, simple nosegays of violets and 
 cowslips and anemones, tied by a single spire of grass. A 
 shade of thoughtfulness succeeded the hilarity with which 
 the ride commenced, and they rode onward, conTCrsing little, 
 and seemingly regardless of time and distance. 
 
 Emily was the first to point to their lengthening shadows, 
 and suggest the wisdom of retracing their steps. They were 
 now at the summit of a hill, and Fannie declared her purpose 
 to descend, that she might have the pleasure of galloping up 
 again. As they slowly walked their horses down the steep 
 descent, two children emerged from a miserable hut by the 
 wayside, and looked curiously after them. No sooner did the 
 party reach the bottom, than they wheeled abruptly, and 
 Fannie, taking the lead, galloped full speed up the ascent. 
 
 One of the children screamed as if terror-stricken, and, in 
 her haste to escape, fell almost beneath the horse's feet. 
 Fannie looked back and laughed, but continued her race up 
 the hill. Kate also passed the children without stopping, 
 though she observed that the one which had fallen was sup 
 ported in its sister's arms. Wallace approached next, and 
 checked his steed, to utter a kind word, as his nature 
 prompted ; not supposing that any serious injury had been 
 received. As he was asking the elder girl why she did not 
 take her little sister into the house, Emily drew near, and, 
 being alarmed at once by the appearance of the child, quickly 
 dismounted, and was at the children's side; another moment, 
 and Wallace was on his feet. To their inquiries, the girl 
 replied : 
 
 " It's only one of Nell's fainting fits ; she is always so 
 from fright. Mother saw her, and has gone to the spring for
 
 276 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 water. There, she is coming now, the water always brings 
 her out." 
 
 By this time a poor woman, in homely but clean attire, 
 hurried to the spot, and, taking the little one in her arms, 
 sprinkled -water plentifully in its face and neck. It opened 
 its eyes heavily, but moaned without consciousness. The 
 mother now perceived a contusion on the back of its head, 
 occasioned by the fall. She wrung her hands in agony, while 
 Wallace tenderly lifted the unconscious little sufferer and 
 carried it into the house. Emily followed, and was quietly 
 laying aside her hat and gloves, as the Misses Cleveland rode 
 to the door, to inquire if the child was really hurt, or was only 
 stupefied by fear, and to say that they supposed they might as 
 well keep their saddles, as they could be of no use. What 
 was their surprise, to hear Emily announce her intention to 
 stay with the distressed mother till her companions could ride 
 back to the village and send out a physician. And, what 
 amazed them still more, she insisted that Mr. Grosvenor, after 
 securing her horse, should ride back with her cousins. He 
 hesitated to leave her at that hour in so lonely a place ; spoke 
 of her late ride homeward ; but yielded the point, as the poor 
 woman entreated them to hasten and procure medical help. 
 On their way back, Kate and Fannie in excited tones dis 
 cussed the accident, as also the propriety of cousin Emily's 
 stopping through the evening at that " out-of-the-way place." 
 Both agreed that it would not have done for them; mamma 
 would have been much displeased ; but perhaps it was well 
 enough for Emily ; and their tone and manner added, " as 
 she is only a governess." Wallace Grosvenor understood the 
 implication, and busied himself with his own thoughts. 
 
 In another hour he returned with Dr. Howard, who prom-
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 277 
 
 ised to do, his best for the little patient, and gave encourage 
 ment of a favorable issue. Emily did not have a lone ride 
 home that night, though she and "Wallace rode the distance 
 mostly in silence, reading each other's thoughts by the clear 
 moonbeams. 
 
 The next day, the imposing family coach was drawn up 
 before the door, to give the visitor one more ride, as he had 
 declared his purpose to leave on the morrow. A pic-nic was 
 in contemplation on the summit of an adjacent mountain. A 
 large basket of provisions was mounted on the driver's seat, 
 and the party were about ready to start, when a young school 
 mate of the Misses Cleveland arrived, with her brother, to 
 make a visit of a few days. What was now to be done ? To 
 give up the excursion would disappoint other friends already 
 on their way to the pic-nic. The carriage was full, and it was 
 too late to look about for another conveyance. Mrs. Cleve 
 land asked Emily to resign her seat to Miss Canfield. She 
 instantly complied ; that young lady expressing her great 
 unwillingness that any one should give up the party for her 
 sake, till Fannie whispered in her ear : 
 
 " Don't distress yourself; it's only the children's governess." 
 
 Wallace now offered his seat to Mr. Canfield, but this raised 
 such a storm of expostulations that he was obliged to desist, 
 and, by close sitting, that gentleman was safely stowed in with 
 the rest ; and the loaded vehicle moved slowly off toward the 
 place of destination. As they proceeded, the newly arrived 
 expressed their regret that one of the original company was 
 left behind ; saying, they could hardly give her credit for sin 
 cerity in resigning her place so cheerfully. 
 
 "O," said Kate, "it will make little difference with lier. 
 On the whole, she will enjoy the day best at home, for mamma 
 
 24
 
 278 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 will let her fix off a basket of provisions for a popr family, 
 with a sick child, that sister Fan came near riding over the 
 other day." 
 
 Here followed the history of the late adventure, duly am 
 plified and commented on. Was it this, or a sudden jolt of 
 the carriage, that heightened the glow on Wallace Grosvenor's 
 cheek, and compressed his lips so firmly ? 
 
 The day, like all others, wore away : it was now late in 
 the afternoon, and where was Emily Morris ? She had re 
 ceived a letter while walking in the garden, and was seated 
 in the arbor, intently perusing it, with that face (usually so 
 serene) betraying deep and changing emotion. She had 
 thrown off her bonnet, to enjoy the soft, fresh air ; her dark 
 curls were slightly confined by a bandalet of velvet. She had 
 never looked so beautiful as now, for Emily was beautiful, 
 dear reader, notwithstanding the assertions of the envious 
 Clev elands to the contrary, and so thought Wallace Gros- 
 venor, as he approached her unobserved, till he stood at the 
 entrance of the arbor. Her cheek and brow crimsoned as he 
 saluted her, and she expressed her surprise that the party 
 should have returned at so early an hour. 
 
 " They have not returned," he replied ; " but, as Mr. Can- 
 field seemed able to take care of the ladies, and the car 
 riage was overloaded, I begged the privilege of preceding 
 them on foot, agreeing to ride whenever they should over 
 take me. I am a good pedestrian, so, as I foresaw, have 
 reached home before them." 
 
 He took a seat by her side, and began to talk of things 
 which at that moment were farthest from his heart, of 
 mountain scenery, of foreign lands, of botany, and the clas 
 sics, and, finally (for the most natural subjects often have
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 279 
 
 last place), of poetry; and, as step by step they narrowed 
 the range of topics, "Wallace Ventured to ask if it were really 
 Emily who drew those marginal lines to mark " The Orphan." 
 A- she confessed without embarrassment, he proceeded to 
 speak of his own sad inheritance of orphanage, and of his 
 sense of utter desolateness, as he stepped on the shores of 
 his native land, and sought the graves of his parents. The 
 tears were in Emily's eyes, and there is no predicting how 
 lhi> conversation might have issued, had it not been suddenly 
 broken off by the irruption of a bevy of children, claiming 
 
 * 
 
 Miss Morris' promise to take them to a walk before tea. 
 
 " Yes, darlings," said Emily, " I will keep my promise. Mr. 
 Grosvenor will excuse me;" and, with less^composure than 
 usual in her voice and manner, she allowed the children, who 
 had already grasped both her hands, to hurry her away. 
 
 Wallace followed them with his eyes, and noticed, as 
 Emily turned to go down the avenue, that she paused, took 
 from her pocket the letter which he had seen her hastily 
 doju;.sit there, and refolded it more carefully. She was now 
 hid from his view; yet he recalled, with a sensation, as novel 
 as it was annoying, the unwonted illumination of those ex- 
 piv.-sive features, as that letter lay open before her. It was 
 evidently no ordinary missive of friendship. Yet, what was 
 it to him ? Why did his heart throb painfully at every sur 
 mise connected with it? As he questioned himself thus, he 
 was every moment gaining a deeper insight into the nature 
 of his own emotions. He became aware of the intensity of 
 feelings whose existence he had scarcely acknowledged even 
 to himself. He paced up and down the garden walks, enter 
 taining conjectures and dismissing them, forming plans and 
 abandoning them, indulging hopes and relinquishing them.
 
 280 
 
 One thing, however, he resolved upon : he would have an 
 interview and an explanation before he departed on the mor 
 row. He recalled the conversation in the arbor. As Emily 
 responded to the sentiments he uttered, there Avas surely a 
 something about her which made him feel that their hearts 
 were in unison. But then, that letter, that ominous letter. 
 Reader, do you feel curious about the document which has 
 raised such a commotion in the mind of Wallace Grosvenor ? 
 Well, you shall see the transcript. 
 
 "A Y, May 15th, 18. 
 
 " Miss EMILY MORRIS : 
 
 " Madam, I have the pleasant duty of informing you that the 
 frauds of the villaiti who has kept you out of your lawful estate have 
 been detected, and property recovered to the amount of $20,000. There 
 is more behind, which I am confident will come to light soon. I await 
 your orders in person or by letter. Allow me, madam, in consideration 
 of my former intimacy with, and regard for, your honored father, to offer 
 you my sincere congratulations. 
 
 " J N , Attorney at Law." 
 
 Emily kept her secret from her uncle Cleveland's ear; 
 but she enjoyed that night such a sense of freedom, such 
 elasticity of spirjt, as she had been a stranger to for many 
 weary months. In visions of the night she entered her old 
 ancestral home, and trod again its halls. 
 
 Morning came, the last of Wallace Grosvenor's stay at 
 Waterford. The moments flew on apace ; the hour of depar 
 ture drew near. He rose to take leave of the Clevelands. 
 They were reserved and formal : he was going, and unen 
 gaged, and, as far as they could judge, disenthralled. Their 
 polite adieus were far less cordial than their warm greet 
 ings three weeks before. He thanked them for their hos-
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 281 
 
 pitality, and said he should not soon forget this visit ; then, 
 addressing Mrs. C., inquired, " Shall I find Miss Morris in the 
 library ? " and, without waiting to hear the offer to summon 
 her, he hastily mode his way thither. 
 
 Poor Emily ! she was hardly herself this morning. Failing 
 of an interview with her uncle before he left the house, she 
 was now writing a note, to accompany the important communi 
 cation, to his office. That letter was open before her, and 
 Wallace saw how she was occupied the moment he entered. 
 Emily rose to meet him ; the second time he saw the warm 
 life-current rush to temple and cheek. If he had hitherto 
 lacked courage for his disclosure, the scene before him made 
 him resolute. He asked Emily to be seated, and opened all 
 his heart. She answered only with tears, for he proceeded 
 with a fervor which paused not for a word of response, till 
 he told her that he made this declaration rather as a relief to 
 his overcharged feelings than with much hope of success ; and, 
 with some hesitation and great delicacy, referred to the letter 
 whose perusal he had witnessed. Without a word of reply, 
 but with an arch look whose significance he could not inter 
 pret, she placed the open letter in his hand. He caught a 
 glimpse of the signature, and hesitated not to read it. With 
 its perusal all his eloquence vanished. How could he urge 
 his plea, just as he learned the accession of his lady-love to a 
 large estate? He did, however, retain sufficient self-posses 
 sion to ask permission to write her, and he was not refused. 
 His leave-taking was not eloquent, if we except the expres 
 sion of his eyes, which could speak when the lips moved not. 
 But the warm pressure of Emily's hand, and that speaking 
 face, which revealed the heart, sent him away a happy man. 
 
 Passing over the surprise of the Clevelands at Emily's 
 24*
 
 282 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 altered fortunes, and the particulars of her return to her native 
 city, let us follow Mr. Cleveland, as he enters the old man 
 sion at Waterford on a cold morning in December, with a 
 letter in his hand, to announce the intelligence that Emily 
 Morris and Wallace Grosvenor are to be married at New 
 Year's. Kate bit her lip with very vexation ; Fannie tossed 
 her head, and " didn't care ; " Mrs. C. declared that, " it was 
 money that allured him, otherwise, why did he ,not pay his 
 addresses to Emily last spring, when he had so good an oppor 
 tunity ? " and she gave vent to the mortification of her mater 
 nal vanity in strains of surpassing eloquence. When the 
 wordy torrent ceased, her good-natured husband, with a 
 roguish twinkle in his eye, observed: 
 
 " I shall not allow you to abuse my nephew thus. I have 
 known more of this affair than you wot of; and I can assure 
 you that Wallace loved Emily, and that he told he?' so, too, 
 when she was ' only a governess /' " 
 
 HOMELY DUTIES MADE BEAUTIFUL, 
 i. 
 
 " A thing is great or little only to a mortal's thinking , 
 But, abstracted from the body, all things are alike important. 
 The Ancient of Days noteth in His book the idle converse of a 
 
 creature, 
 And happy and wise is the man to whose thought existeth not 
 
 a trifle." 
 
 " I HAEDLY know how to pass away the time, mother, every 
 thing seems so tasteless, to-day."
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 283 
 
 " Do whatever you like, my dear Ellen ; but make choice 
 of some occupation, and adhere to it, if you wish to be happy." 
 
 This brief conversation, between Mrs. Howard and her 
 daughter, preceded a long silence. Ellen sat upon a low stool 
 before the window, her head resting upon her hand. Her 
 eyes were watching the eddying snow, which hid all the land 
 scape beyond. Hound and round it whirled with the capricious 
 wind, the white flakes now doing fierce battle with each 
 other, now uniting in a swift-breaking column, or wreathing in 
 proud arches, to fall to the earth at a moment's lull. 
 
 Ellen had involuntarily chosen the time and place for a 
 reverie : could she have made a better selection ? Does any 
 one wonder at her mood, and fail to understand the dangerous 
 pleasure fancy takes in outstripping the present and the actual ? 
 Grave reader, if you have passed the years of girlhood, and 
 know not what it is to indulge in reverie, I can scarcely hope 
 to win your sympathy for my unpretending story. You will 
 not be apt to appreciate the dreamy state of mind from which 
 Ellen was aroused by her brother's voice, as he threw aside 
 ' his Latin text-book, saying : 
 
 " Don't you wish something would happen, Ellie ? " 
 
 He stood beside her, and laid his hand caressingly on her 
 shoulder. Ellen slowly looked up, and encountered her moth 
 er's glance of quiet reproof. 
 
 She answered in a regretful tone : " 0, Willie, the day 
 wouldn't be dull, if we were only diligent and faithful. Do 
 not follow my bad example. I am not going to be idle any 
 longer." 
 
 " Take your book again, my son," said Mrs. Howard ; " it is 
 almost your hour for recitation."
 
 284 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 Willie resumed jhis studies, but with a weary air, and his 
 sister bent low over her needle-work. The little parlor was 
 still again. It was a busy thought-time for two of the trio 
 which occupied it. 
 
 Ellen's mind reviewed the months which had passed since 
 her return from* school. How many days had been misim- 
 proved, or selfishly devoted, while it had been her professed 
 purpose to live for others as for herself! Her heart was full 
 of sadness. How much had she wasted in idle wishing, or 
 vain dreaming ! How often had she indulged needless melan 
 choly and repining ! It was but a few days since her father, 
 busied as he was with professional cares, had noticed a cloud 
 on her brow, and asked, tenderly, " What makes our Ellie so 
 sad ? " 
 
 Alas ! she could give no sufficient reason to herself, for hers 
 was a happy lot, one in which the sunshine predominated. 
 She was surrounded by a loved and loving household, of which 
 she might be the centre and the joy. Her keen relish for lit 
 erary pursuits was encouraged and gratified. Her book, her 
 work, her music, her pen, and the intelligent society of a few 
 valued friends, were all at her service. Why should she have 
 one discontented hour ? This train of thought was interrupted 
 by the closing door, as her brother was summoned to his reci 
 tation. 
 
 " My dear, do you wish to know what I think is the cause 
 of your failure to make your life richer in usefulness, and more 
 satisfying to your own heart ? " 
 
 Ellen signified her assent, and Mrs. Howard continued : 
 
 " Are you not arranging a certain ideal situation, or train of 
 circumstances, in which to live nobly, or looking forward to the 
 future for opportunities to do good ? "
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 285 
 
 Mrs. Howard had been reading her daughter's expressivjB 
 face (a face she seldom read in vain), and when she spoke it 
 was in reply to Ellen's unexpressed thoughts ; yet this was so 
 visual an occurrence that it awakened no surprise. 
 
 There are some such mothers and daughters, between whom 
 there is a beautiful and perfect harmony of feeling; whose 
 sympathy is a deep and constant under-current of their lives, 
 unseen ofttimes, yet, like hidden waters, waiting but an outlet 
 to gush forth in a pure, sparkling spring. 
 
 Ellie drew closer to her mother, and said, with tears : " Yes, 
 mother, I often think, if there were only suffering poor in 
 father's parish, how I would visit and relieve them ; were I 
 only rich, what an almoner to the needy I would be ; were I 
 in circumstances of trial and sorrow, how patient and heroic I 
 could be, and so on. But you know these are vain, useless 
 thoughts. The people here are all wealthy farmers, with their 
 families, some of whom look with a little jealousy upon ' the 
 minister's children.' At any rate, none of them seem to need 
 the sympathy, much less the counsel, of a young girl like me. 
 
 " As for wealth, with our limited resources, we have none to 
 bestow upon any body. I know, if I give cheerfully of what I 
 have, it is enough. The other supposition which I made 
 seems too much like tempting Providence. I am afraid, after 
 all, if I were called to adversity, I should bear it as poorly as 
 I now do the little crosses and vexations of every day. 
 
 " But you see how it is, dear mother ; I have no great work 
 given me to do. I dreamt, a few nights since, that I was a 
 successful authoress, and my first laurels were in my hand (ah ! 
 it was only the copy of many a day-dream) ,- but I awoke, just as 
 I always do, and found myself here in a quiet country parsonage,
 
 286 THE MEMOKIAL OP 
 
 an unpretending girl of sixteen ; and, though the illusion was 
 sweet, I put it from me in disgust, because it was not a reality." 
 
 Mrs. Howard smiled; she kissed her daughter's flushed 
 cheek, fondly, and said : 
 
 " Well, my love, you can make some effort towards the ful 
 filment of this dream. I suspect " and she turned her 
 
 eyes toward an open portfolio which lay near ; but Ellen's 
 appealing look persuaded her to leave the sentence unfinished. 
 But she added : " My dear child, you have no right to com 
 plain that God has not given you a ' great work ' to do. Is it 
 not a ' great work ' to train and cultivate your own heart ; to 
 give a winning, Christian example to others ; to bless us all by 
 your unselfish and cheerful spirit ; to be the light of our house 
 hold, and its brightest ornament ? This is your vocation for 
 the present, my daughter ; will you not strive to fill it ? These 
 practical home duties are yours to perform, and you will never 
 be happy or useful until you enter upon them diligently and 
 hopefully." 
 
 Ellen sat serious and thoughtful for some moments. At 
 length she said, in her earnest way, " I will try." 
 
 She took her diary, as she finished speaking, to record the 
 history of the day, and its new resolves. Just then she heard 
 her brother's quick step in the hall. He came bounding into 
 the room, but stopped short when he saw Ellen. 
 
 "O! sis, won't you please help me a little about my 
 Virgil?" 
 
 Ellen cast a look at her journal-book, and asked if the even 
 ing Avould not do as well. He said " Yes," at first, then added 
 hesitatingly, " I don't like to interrupt you, but I have my 
 Greek lesson to learn to-night."
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 287 
 
 The writing was laid aside, and the brother and sister were 
 soon in the midst of an animated study. Willie's brightened 
 face was reward enough for the sacrifice. As day after day 
 came and went, Mrs. Howard had the satisfaction of perceiving 
 that Ellen had not resolved in vain. A new element seemed 
 to have been developed in her character. The tasks which 
 usually devolve upon one in her sphere were performed with 
 energy and willingness, nor were her intellectual pursuits and 
 social duties neglected. She became, indeed, 'what she had 
 once only wished to be, a constant blessing to those associated 
 with her. Nor was this easily attained. Each victory over 
 self, every reconciliation of the ideal with the real and prac 
 tical, cost her a hard struggle ; but she did not struggle 
 unaided, and she did not fail. The happiness she bestowed 
 was given back to her again. Her face wore a sunnier look, 
 her step was more elastic, and a deeper peace rested on her 
 heart, a benediction from Him. who "seeth in secret and 
 rewardcth openly." 
 
 II. 
 
 "He hath made every thing beautiful in his time." 
 
 THE winter passed quietly and quickly away. The time of 
 singing birds came again. One bright afternoon in April, 
 Ellen was occupying the little parlor alone. Her mother was 
 slowly recovering from violent illness, and for the first time in 
 many days she left her to sleep, under the watch of an attend 
 ant, and stole out of the sick-room. The sunlight in the west 
 was genial and mellow ; the breath of the wind was balmy ; 
 the pansies and the daffodils were bursting into bloom in the 
 garden-beds.
 
 288 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 As she sat by the half-opened window, a knock at the door 
 arrested her attention. She answered the summons, and found 
 herself vis-u-vis with a gentleman to whom she was an entire 
 stranger. His figure partially concealed the faces of two 
 ladies, which, on a little closer scrutiny, she recognized. They 
 were cousins of hers, whom she had not met since quite a 
 child. " Don't you know us, Ellen ? " said the elder sister. 
 
 " O yes, cousin Rachel, I 'remember you now, very well ; 
 but it is so long since you have been here, and I did not think 
 of meeting you. And Maria, too, I am happy to see you 
 both." 
 
 " This is our brother George ; I believe you have never 
 seen him before." 
 
 Ellen had not. A " Cousin George" 'was on her lips, but 
 something in the careless and confident air with which the 
 young man proffered his hand, and made his salutation, altered, 
 involuntarily, her -choice of address, and, in a tone cordial 
 though not familiar, she said : 
 
 " You are very welcome, sir." 
 
 The guests were seated in the parlor, and Ellen hastened to 
 summon her father. A gentle knock at his study-door, and 
 she was bidden to enter. 
 
 " Father, our Northwood cousins are here." 
 
 " What, Ellie, the Woodbridges ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; Rachel and Maria, and that stranger brother of 
 theirs, from New York." 
 
 " Well, they have not chosen a very favorable time for their 
 visit ; but we must make it as agreeable as we can. I regret, 
 for your sake, this additional care. You are looking pale and 
 worn to-day, Ellie."
 
 A-V ONLY DAUGHTER. 289 
 
 An expression of sadness was in Mr. Howard's glance, but 
 Ellen's bright, smile dissipated it. He left her side, and has 
 tened to greet his guests with that hospitable warmth which 
 ever made the stay at his house a delightful one, and the after 
 memory of it a lively pleasure to the visitor. 
 
 Ellen took the opportunity to steal to her mother's room, 
 and inform her Of the arrival. Mrs. IT. was evidently made 
 anxious by it. " What will you do, with so much care ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 " 0, never fear for me ; I have stores of latent energy 
 undeveloped yet." 
 
 " Yes, my dear ; but the strength I am afraid will fail you. 
 Besides, these cousins are not very congenial, and you will find 
 it hard work to entertain them." 
 
 "Do not let it worry you, dear mother. 1 shall find a way 
 of getting along, for I have the will ;" ari^^B kissed the inva 
 lid's pale cheek, and reluctantly left the^han 
 
 The poor child was weary, and a little heart-sick, despite her 
 cheerful words. But, as the feelings move the tongue, so do 
 the words sometimes react upon the feelings. As she descended 
 tin- stairs, the language of her lips soon became that of her 
 heart. A mother's silent and fervent prayer had not followed 
 her in vain. 
 
 " But, sir, in view of our aunt's illness, it is hardly best that 
 we should remain with you for a visit; there is still a train 
 leaving for Northford to-night." 
 
 Ellen entered just in time .to see the uneasy glances which 
 the sisters exchanged at this remark of their brother's. Mr. 
 Howard immediately set aside the suggestion of their depar 
 ture, as a thing not to be thought of. 
 
 " JSo, my dear nephew, you must not cheat us out of }-our 
 25
 
 290 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 stay in this way. It is long since we have seen your sisters, 
 and they leave home so seldom, that we cannot afford to lose 
 their company, now they are actually here. Your first visit 
 here, too, must not be so short a one. Ellen will be glad to 
 entertain you. Mrs. Howard is convalescent, and I hope will 
 be able to leave her room in a few days. You must feel your 
 selves quite at home." 
 
 While her father was speaking, Ellen had taken the liberty 
 of a more scrutinizing look at her cousin George. She saw a 
 clear, light complexion ; a deep blue eye, full of good nature ; 
 a mouth whose expression was a little egotistical, yet which 
 harmonized with the general symmetry of his features, and a 
 bearing which did not lack a certain indifferent grace. Ellen's 
 taste was a little peculiar. She acknowledged the face to be 
 handsome, but gave it no very warm admiration, it was vastly 
 different from li^^pau-ideal. But he could not read her opin 
 ion ; and, had Lierlone so, he might reasonably have fortified 
 himself against it by a glance at the mirror. 
 
 There was a pause in the conversation, and she excused 
 herself to order tea. The meal was a more prolonged one 
 than usual, and the evening which followed seemed short. 
 Ellen retired at an early hour to her mother's room, where, 
 since the dismissal of a regular night-watcher, she took sole 
 care, rising from her cot at intervals, and administering to the 
 sick one, the necessary drinks and medicine. 
 
 Morning came, and with its first rays the Misses Wood- 
 bridge arose ; and, having arranged the chamber, according to 
 their home-habits; came down stairs. The sitting-room, which 
 they entered, bore traces of an earlier visit. It was newly 
 swept and dusted, and, upon a little stand in one corner, stood 
 a vase of dewy violets. 

 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 291 
 
 "Aunt must have an uncommon smart girl," said Rachel. 
 " 'T would be as much as I could d^ to get the kitchen cleaned 
 ii] before breakfast." 
 
 " Perhaps Ellen has been at work here," replied Maria. 
 
 " Ellen, cousin Ellen, put her hands to housework? and 
 up at this time in the morning, too ? Nonsense. Why, the- 
 child has been trained to books all her days, and it's all she's 
 fit for. I'm glad aunt Howard has such good help, though ; if 
 it wasn't for that, I guess the house would go to ruin, while 
 she's sick. I think I'll step out into the kitchen after a glass 
 of fresh water, and get a sight of her. May be she won't be 
 above a little overseeing about her work." 
 
 So saying, she found her way through the hall to the 
 domain of Scotch Mary, who (entirely unconscious of the 
 high place she had won in Miss Rachel's regards), was pursu 
 ing her customary avocations. The kitchen-door stood slightly 
 ajar ; and, as she entered, what was her surprise to see Ellen 
 standing before the well-scoured table, with hands immersed in 
 biscuit-dough, which, in compliance with her skilful treatment, 
 ^Y:ls fast assuming a recognizable form. The fair cook started 
 a little at the sudden irruption of her visitor, but remarked 
 smilingly : 
 
 " I should have remembered what early risers you are at 
 Northford." 
 
 " Yes, we get our own breakfast there, and milk the cows 
 before we eat it ; but I didn't suppose you were brought up 
 SO, Ellen." 
 
 Ellen only smiled a reply. 
 
 "To tell the truth," added her cousin, a little more decidedly, 
 "I thought you were above such kind of work."
 
 292 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 " You must have indulged strange ideas of me." 
 
 By this time the glass of water was obtained, and Mary's 
 sensible comments were unfortunately lost upon the ear for 
 which they were designed : 
 
 " I've lived around a good deal, ma'am, an' I always re 
 marked, leddies as is leddies are no above ony thing." 
 
 Rachel returned to the parlor a moving exclamation point. 
 Maria, who, it must be said, stood a little in awe of her senior 
 sister, did not question, but watched her inquiringly. 
 
 " Why, as true as the world [a poor comparison, reader], 
 Ellen Howard is helping get the breakfast ; and I venture any 
 thing she swept this room herself. Who would have thought, 
 after all we heard of her father spoiling her Avith Greek and 
 Latin, and her mother teaching her to write poetry ? Well, 
 I guess aunt Selina has seen the folly of it, and put the girl 
 down to sensible things." 
 
 " Perhaps it was Ellen's own doing. It may be she had no 
 notion of being a scholar, but liked better the work about 
 house." 
 
 " Pooh ! I never saw a girl of her age that worked because 
 she liked to. I didn't use to ; but I made up my mind to be 
 as smart as Jane Allen, and, after a while, I began to take sat 
 isfaction in seeing how much I could do." 
 
 The speaker gazed out of the -^ndow for some minutes, in 
 silence. At length she said : 
 
 " What a heap of rose-bushes aunt has ! I wish ours grew 
 as well. We were poorly off for rose-water last year." 
 
 The breakfast bell rang, and Mr. Woodbridge came in only 
 in time to say "Good-morning," ere the family were seated 
 at the table.
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 293 
 
 III. 
 
 " For human life is as Chian wine, flavored unto him who drinketh it ; 
 Delicate fragrance, comforting the soul, as needful substance for tho 
 
 body: 
 
 Therefore, see thou art pure and guileless; so shall thy realities of life 
 Be sweetened, and tempered, and gladdened by the wholesome spirit of 
 
 romance." 
 
 Two or three days elapsed, each bringing to Ellen their 
 mingled burden of happiness and care, and to the sisters, her 
 guests, frequent renewals of their first surprise, as they saw 
 her quietly performing many a plain household duty, or wisely 
 and gently ministering in the chamber of sickness. They 
 wondered, too, to find that she had not relinquished her intel 
 lectual tastes and pursuits. Had they seen her in her usual 
 daily routine, they would have condemned many more hours 
 as misspent, because passed in eager interest over her book or 
 her writing-desk. But, of necessity, the presence of visitors 
 interrupted her indulgence in these favorite recreations. Still, 
 she bore to them a very inexplicable character. As Rachel 
 ' said : 
 
 " It must be that cousin Ellen is romantic. We have 
 always heard so, and her talk occasionally sounds like it ; but 
 I always supposed a romantic person was good for nothing. 
 Ellen is fond of some foolish thing?, to be sure ; but, for all 
 that, she is a real industrious girl. She wouldn't stand gazing 
 out of the window in an unswept room, or take to reading 
 when Mary was waiting for orders about the dinner. And, 
 indeed, I venture to say, if the child were put to it, she'd do 
 the whole work of the house herself." 
 
 Very likely, Miss Rachel, very likely. Whatever is given 
 Ler from above, to do, whether exalted or humble in itself, 
 
 25*
 
 204 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 seems to her a high and noble duty, worth doing, and worth 
 doing well. 
 
 As for brother George, he, too, regarded his fair cousin as 
 an anomaly, although he looked upon her from a different 
 stand-point. Had he been brought up with his sisters, upon 
 the secluded farm at Northford, he would still have been less 
 simple in tastes and plain in manners than they. Nature had 
 given him a more refined mind, and a quicker sense of fitness 
 and beauty. But, having been early adopted by an uncle in 
 the city, his training, intellectual and social, was widely dis 
 similar. His sisters, now his nearest living relatives, he saw 
 only during occasional visits, and felt little drawn towards them ; 
 so, although he demeaned himself with a kind and fraternal 
 courtesy, there was no deep, close intimacy between them. 
 When he consented to accompany them on this visit, it was with 
 inward reluctance. His high opinion of himself, and his low 
 estimate of all society beyond the precincts of city life, led 
 him to anticipate a week of ennui. He had just graduated at 
 the university of N., and was about entering the law-school. 
 A part of this interval of recreation, he knew, should be de-' 
 voted to his sisters, who, whatever their defects might be, had 
 a strong claim to his affection ; so, smothering his regret, he 
 acceded, with outward cheerfulness, to the plan arranged for 
 him. He had gathered, from the incidental remarks of Rachel 
 and Maria, that cousin Ellen had a pretty face, and had drawn 
 in his own mind a well-sketched portrait of rustic beauty, a 
 short figure, with a round, dimpled face ; blooming cheeks and 
 lips ; twinkling blue eyes, with their mingled expression of 
 mirth and bashfulness ; and the soft, golden hair parted 
 smoothly on the temples. 
 
 It was hardly his own design ; many a poet and novelist
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 295 
 
 had used it before him. As he went on in his reverie, he 
 thought complacently how he would dispel her embarrassment 
 by familiarity and condescension, and win from her a tribute 
 of admiration, such as he had often won before. He liud 
 mingled much in fashionable society, where the high position 
 of his uncle., and his own pleasing address, secured him an 
 attentive welcome. He had flirted with many a pretty girl, 
 not deliberately intending to trifle with anybody's heart (there 
 was too much of the generous in his nature for that), but 
 from that culpable thoughtlessness, in the exercise of which 
 he was by no means singular. He excused himself by saying, 
 and probably believing, that all young ladies were designing 
 and coquettish in their treatment of his sex ; and, if they 
 would make endeavors to catch every young man whom they 
 considered a desirable match, they must sometimes expect a 
 manosuvre in return. 
 
 But, happily for George "Woodbridge, this theory of his was 
 drained to receive a shock sufficient to injure it materially. 
 His first glance at his cousin, Ellen Howard, was to him the 
 commencement of a novel study. He saw a beautiful face, it 
 is true, but it was the beauty of expression rather than of 
 feature. Instead of the laughing, blushing, coy little country 
 maiden he had expected to meet, he found a refined and 
 highly-bred young girl, in whose manner a sweet and serious 
 dignity mingled with her naturally pensive grace. He had 
 the good sense at once to perceive that his meditated conde 
 scension would be quite out of place. The more he saw of 
 her, the more anxious he became to secure her regard, and the 
 more uncertain how to do it. lie had several times attempted 
 with her the gallant or light and sentimental talk which 
 pleases many a young lady's ear, and in which he was thor-
 
 296 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 oughly versed ; but some tone, or glance, or word from her 
 would irresistibly assure him how foolish was the effort, and 
 lead him to abandon it. As a guest, he could in no way com 
 plain of his entertainment. Her kind and true politeness 
 taxed itself to make his visit an agreeable one. He acknowl 
 edged to himself that the days were far from dull. As he 
 studied Ellen's character, he grew amazed at its nobility and 
 unselfishness in all the little exhibitions of every day. The 
 better and deeper feelings of his soul were touched. He felt 
 that his past life, especially his social life, had been very 
 unworthy of himself. What a trifler had he been ! how had 
 he wasted time, intellect, and heart ! This lesson had not 
 come to him in vain : new resolves struggled within him, des 
 tined to give birth to a new future. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " See thou livest whiles thou art ; for heart must live, and soul. 
 . But care, and sloth, and sin, and self combine to kill that life ! " 
 
 IT was the eve of the Woodbridges' departure. Mrs. How 
 ard's easy-chair had been moved for the first time to the 
 parlor, and all the hearts in that little household were made 
 glad to see her sitting in it there, with the faint flush of re 
 turning health on her cheek. Her nieces were busily engaged 
 in packing for the next day's journey. The parents and chil 
 dren had been alone together some moments, sitting almost 
 silently, for they were too happy in this reunion of the family 
 group to speak much to one another. 
 
 Ellen occupied a low seat at her mother's feet, so deeply 
 occupied with grateful thoughts that she did not heed the 
 opening door. At Willie's words, "Why, where have you
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 297 
 
 been all this time, cousin George ? " she turned quickly, and 
 smiled on the new-comer, with still moistened eye and trem 
 bling lip. * 
 
 " Ah ! cousin Ellen, I was about to ask your company for 
 a walk, but it seems hardly right to take you away from your 
 dear mother." 
 
 " O yes, George," said Mrs. H., " Ellie can go with you. 
 I shall be glad to have her breathe this fresh, mild air, and I 
 know she will enjoy it." 
 
 Ellen lingered to press the dear hand she held, and then 
 complied. The two left the long village-street, and wandered 
 into a green by-path. Although they maintained a continuous 
 chat upon various subjects, neither seemed to relish the con 
 versation. Ellen felt serious and subdued, more like weeping 
 than talking. There are times when it is so with us all. 
 George looked sad and troubled. At length, in answer to his 
 cousin's simple inquiry when he intended to commence his 
 professional studies, he replied : 
 
 " O, I don't know as I care to study a profession, at all, un 
 less I can find out the secret of living 2^^Kthan I have done. 
 Tell me, Ellen, you who seem to pettorm every irksome 
 duty as if it were a pleasure, what is your private recipe?" 
 
 Ellen was surprised, and still more so as he unfolded to her 
 the history of his past. He told her of his disinclination to 
 books, of his neglect of thorough application, because his nat 
 ural quickness enabled him, by superficial study, to maintain 
 a respectable standing in his class. He spoke of the future ; 
 of his aversion to the steady pursuit of any one calling ; of his 
 dislike to the petty drudgery which pertains to a lawyer's lite. 
 lie alluded to his disgust with the frivolities of fashionable 
 circles, and the difliculty of avoiding them ; to his struggles
 
 298 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 after something better than he had attained. All this he said 
 rapidly, and with the air of one who is hastening through a 
 disagreeable task, which is a necessary preliminary to some 
 thing more pleasant. lie finished with the words : 
 
 " But you will not understand this, cousin Ellen ; you seem 
 to find it so easy to do every duty and resist every temptation. 
 I wonder why some must have all the storms, and others all 
 the sunshine." 
 
 Ellen's sympathies were much moved. She was touched 
 by the young man's candid confessions, and felt that she had 
 not given him enough credit for depth and sincerity. She saw 
 in him a reaching forth of spirit after the good and the true ; 
 but she saw, likewise, so many false notions of men and things, 
 so many wrong and confused notions of life just shaken from 
 their firm hold, that she hardly knew what to say. His opin 
 ion of her own experience was so mistaken that she corrected 
 that at once. 
 
 " O no, George, indeed it is not easy for me to do right. 
 The greatest trial, the, deepest struggle I have ever known, has 
 been in consequen^^Bf my secret reluctance to go cheerfully 
 about the homelier outies of life." 
 
 " What, Ellen, those very duties which you do just as if 
 you loved to do them ? " 
 
 " O, I have not conquered all the disinclination yet, cousin 
 George ; you must not think so. But I am striving and 
 hoping." 
 
 " Well, what is the use, after all ? How can any refined 
 and intellectual woman take upon herself the performance, or 
 even the supervision, of domestic tasks, with the same relish 
 with which she would read a poem, or study a language, or 
 practise a song ? How can an educated man stoop to drudg-
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 299 
 
 cry for the sake of earning a little more bread to eat and 
 raiment to put on, as readily as he engages in the pursuits of 
 science ? You can't make it out, coz." 
 
 They both smiled, the contrast between the last playful 
 sentence and the earnest ones which preceded it was so strik 
 ing. 
 
 "I agree with you," said Ellen, quietly. 
 
 " You agree with me ! Why, I thought you maintained the 
 opposite opinion. Are you converted so soon?" 
 
 "You misunderstood me, sir. I have not said that one 
 class of employments can become, intrinsically, as congenial as 
 the other; but I do think we can find pleasure even in the 
 lca-t agreeable duties. We can engage in them from the 
 loftiest motives. Are they not a part of our preparation-life, 
 as truly a part as those which the world calls noble and ex 
 alted ? Is there not something heroic in the meanest service, 
 performed with singleness of heart, because God wills it? O, 
 do we see half the beauty we might in the most common and 
 trivial things?" 
 
 The speaker paused, as if her thoughts were impatient of 
 the restraint of words. Her glowing cheek and lustrous eye 
 showed the rapid current of feeling within. An involuntary 
 admiring exclamation rose to the lips of George, as he looked 
 at her. He said, half soliloqui/ing : 
 
 " It is too late for me to struggle after a nobler and more 
 earnest life." 
 
 While he was speaking, they turned their steps homeward. 
 Their walk was a slow one, and their talk long, and calmer 
 than before. When they reached the parsonage door, each 
 felt that the interview had been one not easily to be forgotten. 
 
 Ellen had learned that, beneath her cousin's gay and care-
 
 300 
 
 less exterior, lay a warm, frank, and generous spirit, somewhat 
 warped and chilled, but still there. She rejoiced that she had 
 been employed, by One who seeth all hearts, to touch its long 
 silent chords of right thought and feeling. She trembled lest 
 she had not used her influence wisely. She hoped all things 
 from his newly-formed resolves. 
 
 To George, the conversation had been one which stirred his 
 inmost soul, and roused many a high impulse dormant there- 
 Yet, amid all its salutary teachings, he had learned one dan 
 gerous lesson, inasmuch as it involved the risk of his happi 
 ness. 
 
 With the early gray of the next morning, the Howards bade 
 adieu to their departing guests ; and, the family being once 
 more all alone, each resumed his accustomed place. 
 
 Not many days after, while the mother and daughter sat 
 alone, " enjoying one of their old, dear talks," as Ellie said, 
 Mr. Howard entered the sitting-room with a package of letters 
 from the evening mail, one of which he handed to Ellen, while 
 he held another open in his hand, as if awaiting her perusal. 
 The mother's quick eye detected the changing color of Ellen's 
 cheek, and the compression of her lips, as she read ; and 
 guessed, with a mother's intuition, the cause. Ellen finished 
 the perusal of the sheet, and gave it to Mrs. Howard, with an 
 expression of unmingled regret on her face. Her father 
 placed his letter in her hand. 
 
 " It is but fair to show you Woodbridge's manly and feeling 
 note to me. I had not supposed him capable of writing thus. 
 The decision of the question he asks must, of course, rest with 
 you, my child. Your mother is your best counsellor." 
 
 Mr. Howard left the room. Ellen sat apparently absorbed 
 in thought.
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 301 
 
 Her mother watched her a little, then asked : 
 
 " Well, my love, is this ;i difficult mutter to decide?" 
 
 " O no, mother, no. I was not hesitating what an^er to 
 give, but dreading to inflict pain upon him. I regret this 
 doubly, on account of the conversation we had together, the 
 night before he left." 
 
 Ellen proceeded to narrate in substance, as we have done, 
 the discourse between herself and her cousin. 
 
 The surprise which she had felt was echoed by her mother, 
 and her father, too, who had joined them again during the re 
 cital. Mr. Howard was much moved by it, and it was evident 
 that he began to look more favorably upon Mr. Woodbridgc's 
 proposal. . 
 
 " Do not be too hasty in your reply, Ellie," said he. 
 
 " But, father, only one reply is possible for me. My cous 
 inly regard for George was never so strong as at this moment ; 
 but that is all I can give him." 
 
 The parents were too judicious to dwell upon the matter 
 when it was once decided, especially as they saw that any allu 
 sion to it was painful to the sensitive Ellen. Her reply to 
 Mi\ Wbodbtidge was worded in the kindest and gentlest man 
 ner, but it said at once, and frankly: "Love me always as 
 your cousin Ellen ;. or, if you will, as your sister ; but let us 
 think of no different relation." 
 
 v. 
 
 " A sister's love ! O brother, 'tis a golden chain 
 To bind thce fast to virtue and to truth." 
 
 A YKAU passed away, and Willis Howard was fitted to enter 
 college ; fitted, so far as the requisite knowledge of books was 
 
 concerned, although, in respect to pecuniary ability, he was 
 26
 
 302 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 pooi'ly prepared. His father's moderate salary comfortably 
 supported them all in their quiet home ; but the sending of a 
 son ft college would be a heavy tax on the scanty purse. 
 Ellen had for some months looked forward to this crisis, as the 
 time to divulge a secret plan she was cherishing, the plan 
 of becoming a teacher. She had fully counted the cost of 
 leaving the dear parental roof, and seeking a home among 
 strangers ; of abridging her choicest pleasures, and resigning 
 her ease and leisure, for the steady routine of school duty ; 
 and, after looking at it in every light, she had fully and freely 
 resolved to make the sacrifice. The results of her patient toil 
 would help her darling brother to a place among the educated 
 and honorable men of his country. Was not this reward 
 enough ? 
 
 But, when her wishes were first broached to the family, 
 they met with even more opposition than she had expected. 
 The quick tear-drops came to her mother's eyes ; her father 
 put his arms lovingly around her, and said : " Ah, Ellie, you 
 must not go out to cope with this hard world. My poor, sen 
 sitive child, you would be wounded a thousand times a day ! " 
 And Willie, the brave, the generous-hearted boy, indignantly 
 remonstrated, till his voice was too much choked with feeling 
 to utter more. 
 
 Mrs. Howard's clear judgment, and perhaps, also, her bet 
 ter knowledge of Ellen's inner self, made her the first to with 
 draw a decisive disapproval. 
 
 " I do not know but Ellen is right," said she ; " and, if this 
 measure is best, we must all consent to the sacrifice. The sal 
 ary which she would secure as a teacher, would, undoubtedly, 
 give us the necessary pecuniary aid ; and, if we can obtain it
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 303 
 
 in no better way, I think Ellen would be justly grieved by 
 the refusal of her offer." 
 
 ' Father, I wish that merchant brother of yours, in the 
 West Indies, would just fork over a thousand," said Willie. 
 
 "O, my boy, your uncle Frank will never forget his old 
 quarrel with inc. I fear ' A brother offended is harder to be 
 won than a strong city.' " 
 
 Ellen did not like the mention of uncle Frank very well 
 for she understood the story of his estrangement from their 
 father, belter than Willis. She seldom spoke of him, while 
 her brother was often characteristically projecting all sorts of 
 indefinite plans in respect to the wealth of his unknown rela 
 tive. Ellen interrupted, with the words : 
 
 " Hush, Willie ! I would not lay my hand on uncle Frank's 
 money, if he should give me his whole estate." 
 
 " But / would, though, quick enough. You should have a 
 fine house and a splendid piano; and O no ! these are not 
 the things you like best. Well, you should have a great 
 library, and a beautiful greenhouse; and you should travel 
 O yes, you should goto Europe, go to Europe! You'd 
 like (hat, I know ; for I've often heard you say so." 
 
 They all laughed at Willie's air-castles. It was a common 
 thing. They are built at a smile, and tumble down at a sigh. 
 His baseless palaces dissolved, as he listened to the conversa 
 tion of his parents, and heard their final decision in favor of 
 Ellen's plan. His proud spirit was sorely tried, and he said, 
 impetuously : 
 
 ' Well, sister Ellie, you won't do all this for noil tiny. 
 When I get rich, you shall let me pay you back, principal and 
 interest, besides all the presents I shall make you." 
 
 Ellen assented, and off he went, to spout poetry to the old
 
 304 THE MEMORIAL OP. 
 
 forest-trees on the hill, weaving for himself another gorgeous 
 web of dreams. 
 
 A few weeks of inquiry procured for Ellen a desirable situ 
 ation, and she was soon installed at her new post of duty. 
 Every thing was novel to her. She had never seen the inte 
 rior of a boarding-school before; for, during her own pupilage, 
 she was always a day-scholar. 
 
 Her task seemed less burdensome than sha expected. 
 She was not slow in winning the love of the little circle by 
 which she was surrounded. She was interested in the new 
 opportunity of studying character. She felt that the measured 
 routine of boarding-school existence did not shut her out from 
 the happiness and beauty, nor even the true romance, of life. 
 Why should it ? for those exist within the soul, and may still 
 be there when we are encompassed by the most adverse cir 
 cumstances. 
 
 Her separation from the loved ones at home was relieved by 
 frequent tidings, and the joyful vacation visits. She heard, 
 with all a sister's fond pride, of her brother's high reputation 
 as a scholar. Every word in his praise made her pulse throb 
 quicker, and seemed to her a glad omen of his final success. 
 She dreamed not of the little cloud which early began to cast 
 its shadow on his path. He had entered his Sophomore year 
 ere she began the sad Distrust that all was not well with him ; 
 and even then it was his own letters which excited the sad sus 
 picion. No vague rumors of evil came floating to her ear. All 
 who spake of her brother gave him an untarnished name; yet 
 her jealous affection detected, although he wrote to her long 
 and frequently as ever, a forced gayety, an unusual silence 
 about himself, and an evidently agitated mind. 
 
 Her fears were swift to take the alarm ; but she hesitated
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 305 
 
 \vhat course to pursue. At one time, she thought of consult 
 ing her parents ; but she dreaded lest she should excite in 
 them groundless apprehensions. At last, she concluded to 
 write freely and candidly to WilHs himself, and tell him her 
 anxiety, beseeching his pardon if it were unwarranted. 
 
 VI. 
 
 " It was good, it was kind, in the Wise One above, 
 
 To flint; destiny's veil o'er the face of our years, 
 That we dread not the blow which shall strike at our love, 
 And expect not the beams that shall dry up our tears." 
 
 AND now, my readers, let me change the scene, and take 
 you through the narrow entries and up the well-worn stairs of 
 an old college building. 
 
 In his solitary room sat Willis Howard, looking much 
 unlike the gay, happy boy whom we last saw castle-building at 
 the parsonage. His sister's open letter lay on the table before 
 him, and his hands were clasped upon it, while his whole face 
 showed the workings of a terrible mental struggle. Slowly, 
 one by one, the large tears dropped upon the paper, and as 
 they fell, his muscles relaxed, his features assumed a softer 
 expression, and he said, half audibly: "O! Ellie, sister 
 Ellie!" Then, rising, he impatiently put back the rich 
 chestnut hair, bathed his feverish temples, and Hurriedly left 
 the apartment. 
 
 Not many days after, a dark sorrow fell upon that parson 
 age home, into which we have looked so often. A letter was 
 received, addressed in Willie's well-known hand, but post 
 marked at New York. What could it mean ? The seal was 
 
 broken and the contents were rapidly devoured. It ran thus: 
 26*
 
 306 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 " DEAR PARENTS, It breaks my heart to grieve you, as I know my 
 sin and folly will do. What will you think of me, when I tell you I have 
 left college, left it because, if I staid a month longer, I should be a 
 ruined man ! I had fallen in with a band of gay, free-hearted associates, 
 who taught me to love the wine-cup. It has gained a terrible power over 
 me. I was beginning to neglect study, to disregard every thing for that 
 accursed indulgence. I thought the knowledge of this was not yet in 
 possession of the Faculty ; but I had overheard my comrades saying, 
 ' Howard is going a little too far.' I saw what disgrace was coming. I 
 tried to reform, tried with all my might; but my companions induced me 
 to break my pledges again and again. 
 
 " Just at this time, I received a letter from Ellie. Her love had 
 divined some change in me. I thought of her, toiling so nobly for me, 
 while I was preparing a bitter cup for her lips. All the heroism I have 
 was aroused within me. I resolved to leave college; for I knew I had not 
 the. strength to resist evil influences here. I went to Professor B., and 
 told him my whole story. He was as thunderstruck as you will be. He 
 begged me to remain ; but I succeeded in convincing him that it was im 
 possible for me to do so, and be a sober man. At length he offered me 
 a week's leave of absence, in which to go home, and consult my parents, 
 and promised, if they consented to my wishes, to give me an honorable 
 dismissal. I came down to New York yesterday. That Providence, in 
 which I am beginning to have a new and more devout belief, had in 
 store for me here a calming influence. As I stepped from the boat to 
 the wharf, I heard a familiar yoice at my side exclaim, ' Why, cousin 
 Willis, is it possible this is you ? ' and,' ere I had time to reply, I was 
 walking arm in arm with George W'oodbridgc. I presume I was too 
 agitated to talk coherently ; for we had taken but a few steps when he 
 asked me, abruptly, ' What is the matter ? ' 
 
 " On the impulse of the moment, hardly knowing what I did, I told 
 him all. He expressed the most earnest sympathy, and insisted that I 
 should come to his office and have a talk with him. I am sure he is 
 greatly changed since we knew him. I can never thank him enough for 
 his clear, kind, judicious reasoning. I told him that it was my purpose 
 to go to sea, if you approved. I was ready, in short, to enlist as a hand 
 on board a whaling ship. But he put a veto upon this at once. ' My
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 307 
 
 dear fellow/ said he, ' it is doubtless a good thing for you to get away 
 from the old scenes of temptation for a few months ; but, to go oil' as a 
 common sailor on a three years' voyage, why, it will not do at all, you 
 must not waste your time and energies so.' 
 
 "I yielded to his arguments. He told me that a friend of his, the 
 Captain of a vessel to sail next week for the "West India islands, was in 
 nccil of a clerk, and it was possible he could get the place for me. He 
 would try ; meanwhile I must go with him to his uncle's. I strongly 
 objected, stating that I was on my way home to throw myself upon your 
 forgiveness. He protested against my leaving the city, as by so doing I 
 might lose all chance of securing the clerkship. I thought it best to fol 
 low his advice. I have seen Captain Edwards to-day, and our contract 
 only awaits your sanction. And, now that I have given you this rapid 
 story, what will you say, what will you think, of me ? Do not cast 
 me off; I hope to be worthy yet of your love. Forgive your repentant 
 child. 
 
 Tell Ellic, she, under God, was the means of saving me. When I 
 spoke of it to George, hc.changnRolor, grasped my hand, and answered 
 hurriedly, ' You arc not the only one who can say that ! ' Write immedi 
 ately to your unworthy son, WILLIS HOWARD." 
 
 The father and mother mingled their tears of keen disap 
 pointment and sorrow with those of chastened gratitude, that 
 their dear boy had been thus early arrested in the fatal course 
 which he had entered. That night, the wrestling prayer of 
 strong parental love and holy faith went up to the ear of God. 
 
 The first impulse with both Mr. and Mrs. Howard had been 
 to send for Ellen ; and accordingly a letter was hastily dis 
 patched, containing her brother's epistle, and requesting her 
 immediate return home. 
 
 Poor Ellen ! it required all her fortitude and self-control, 
 yea, more than these, it required a borrowed strength, to enable 
 her judiciously and calmly to prepare for the journey, and 
 take leave of her pupils, who detained her to the very last 
 moment with their fond good-bys.
 
 308 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 But her presence came like a ray of sunlight to those sad 
 dened hearts in her own home. She spoke to them as hope 
 fully, and smiled as brightly, as if no load of crushed hopes 
 and harrowing fears lay upon her heart. 
 
 Mr. Howard saw his son set sail, and gave him a father's 
 parting benediction ; he also charged him to inquire after the 
 residence of uncle Frank, to see him, if possible, and convey 
 to him in person such friendly messages as had met no reply 
 when expressed by letter. 
 
 The earliest news from the absent one was awaited with 
 mingled hope and dread ; but it was destined to give joy. 
 He had had a prosperous passage, had eminently won the 
 favor of the captain, and felt strengthened in all his good re 
 solves. He had, moreover, discovered his uncle's place of 
 residence soon after he came into^ort. He found him pros 
 trated by a lingering disease, and apparently on the borders 
 of the grave. The dying man sent words of reconciliation 
 and affection to his distant brother, entreating that. Willis might 
 remain with him, that he might have at least one natural 
 mourner to follow him to the tomb. Mr. Howard was much 
 touched by these softened expressions, and wrote a cordial 
 consent to his brother's last request. But, ere the letter 
 reached its place of destination, the sick man no longer heeded 
 the ministries of love. 
 
 He died, rich in this world's goods, but he spoke not of " a 
 treasure laid up in heaven." His business companions 
 stopped the whirl of their cares a moment to look into his 
 open coffin, then went their way in forgetfulness. There were 
 no wife or children to mourn his loss, or to share the ample 
 inheritance he had left behind. His estates fell to his 
 brother's family, as his only legal heirs. Willis was made
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 300 
 
 
 very serious as he thought how his dreams had been fulfilled. 
 
 Alas ! he had learned a sad as well as salutary lesson of dis 
 trust in himself. Where were the bright visions of academic 
 honors which beckoned him on a year ago ? He had tarnished 
 them with his own hand. 
 
 Having arranged his business affairs as expeditiously as 
 possible, he hastened back to his expectant friends. Need we 
 say t-hat he received a warmer welcome than was ever given 
 him before ? No one questioned him as to the thoroughness 
 of his reformation, for his. first salutation- to his sister was : 
 " Ellie, I have not touched another drop of the deceitful drink, 
 and, God helping me, never shall ! " 
 
 The question of his future career was an anxious one with 
 them all. It was at length decided that he should accede to 
 George Woodbridge's proposal, and enter his office as a law- 
 student. Mr. Howard and Ellen were exceedingly desirous 
 that he should finish his collegiate course, but Willis himself 
 opposed it resolutely, and, as his mother tacitly encouraged 
 his resistance, the question was decided according to his judg 
 ment. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " There be few, O, child of sensibility ! who deserve to have thy confi 
 dence. 
 
 Yet weep not, for there arc some, and such some live for thee : 
 To them is the chilling world a drear and barren scene, 
 And gladly seek they such as thou art, for seldom find they the oc 
 casion ; 
 For, though no man excludeth himself from the high capability of 
 
 friendship, 
 Yet verily is the man a nrorvel whom truth can write a friend." 
 
 A VKW months elapsed, and Ellen received an urgent in 
 vitation to visit some friends in New York, with whom her
 
 310 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 
 
 brother had contracted a pleasant intimacy. " Don't refuse 
 us, Ellie," wrote Willis. " I have set my heart upon your 
 coming, and so has Rose." And Ellen had no wish to refuse. 
 She was quite as anxious to see Miss Rose Everton as her 
 brother was to have her. 
 
 As for Rose herself, although it was true that she had " set 
 her heart" upon the meeting, she looked forward to it with 
 some uneasiness. She had heard so highly of " Mr. Howard's 
 sister," both from that gentleman and his cousin, that she stood 
 a little in awe of her superiority. 
 
 It was with some heart-beatings, then, that she took her 
 station in the parlor on the morning in which she expected 
 her guest. Would she not be afraid of Miss Howard ? How 
 would she appear to Willis, when beside his noble, beautiful 
 sister ? The blushes chased away the thoughts at every ring 
 of the door-bell. At length the ring, she knew right well, 
 came. The brother and sister were ushered into the parlor. 
 Almost before the former spoke the simple introduction, " My 
 sister Ellen, Rose," the two girls had clasped each other's 
 hands. 
 
 Ellen felt that she should love this fair> gentle girl, and 
 that, if she were ever so happy as to have her for a sister, it 
 would be matter for real rejoicing. Rose wondered where all 
 her fears had fled to, at the first tones of Ellen's low, sweet 
 voice. A newly-awakened admiration and affection showed 
 itself so plainly in the candid face of Rose, that Ellen could 
 not but see it, though it was too open and child-like to embar 
 rass her. Willis looked on, delighted to see the two thus made 
 friends at once. In a few hours the* stranger felt herself at 
 home. Mr. Everton's kind courtesy, Rose's affectionate free 
 dom, and her mother's warm welcome, left no room for cold-
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 311 
 
 ness. The day pa-sod quickly and socially. In the evening 
 Mrs. Everton's drawing-room was filled with guests. The 
 .-i-ters, as Ellen and Rose already styled themselves, were 
 dressed similarly, which made the contrast between them the 
 more striking. 
 
 Rose was the lily. Her countenance was full of gentleness 
 and modesty. Her playful, quiet humor drew many to her 
 side. Ellen's beauty the beauty of the South was unu 
 sually animated. She felt the influence of a congenial group 
 which had gathered around her. She had unconsciously at 
 tracted the talent and brilliancy of the assemblage. 
 
 In one of the window recesses stood a gentleman, who had 
 recently entered the rooms. For a few moments he was 
 busily engaged in conversation with the hostess of the even 
 ing, and seemed to avoid the notice of the company. He was 
 not, however, entirely unobserved. Among those whose at 
 tention he attracted was'Elfen Howard. His fine face was 
 shaded from her view by the drapery curtains, but she was 
 struck with the air of nobility about his figure, and watched 
 an opportunity to satisfy her curiosity by questioning Rose. 
 Ere this was obtained, Mrs. Everton had taken the stranger's 
 arm. and they were making their way to the spot where her 
 daughter stood. Rose suddenly perceived them, and, start 
 ing with surprise, exclaimed : " Why, Uncle Sydney, is this 
 really you ? " 
 
 A warm greeting followed, and the gentleman exchanged 
 compliments with one and another, still retaining his sister at 
 his -ide. Ilis manner was marked by a polished refinement 
 and a lofty ease, which, until he spoke, gave one the impres 
 sion of coMness. When his countenance was in repose, an 
 expression in whose pcnsiveness a little hauteur was mingled
 
 312 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 rested upon it ; but in conversation, his rich, musical voice, 
 warm and truthful in its tones, convinced one that the face was 
 not a full index to the spirit. But we are anticipating. 
 
 While Ellen was marvelling at this novel addition to the 
 circle, Mrs. Everton drew near her, and said, with some em- 
 pressment, " My brother, Sydney Irving, Miss Howard." She 
 added, gaily: " His presence to-night is a very joyful surprise 
 to us. We have not seen him for two years, as he has been 
 absent on a European tour, and we did not so much as antici 
 pate his arrival at Boston yesterday. I suspect this abrupt 
 return to us was premeditated." 
 
 Mr. Irving smiled, and acknowledged the charge. He then 
 turned towards Ellen, and, with nonchalant courtesy, addressed 
 to her some light questions of the hour. She answered them 
 very much as they were asked. His delicate perceptions led 
 him to address her upon more elevated themes. She Avas soon 
 amazed to find herself talking so .freely and earnestly to a 
 stranger ; speaking out thoughts deep or fanciful, which she 
 usually hid in the recesses of her own mind. The eager in 
 terest with which she heard any allusion to what he had. seen 
 abroad, gradually drew from him so many stories of foreign 
 travel, so many outbursts of enthusiasm, and such frankly-ex 
 pressed opinions, that, had she known him better, she would 
 have wondered much. As it was, she thought it strange that 
 a face so grave and calm one instant could become so beau 
 tiful and spiritually lighted the next ; and, ere the evening 
 had passed, she felt that it would be a pleasant thing to 
 become better acquainted with this same brother of Mrs. 
 Everton. 
 
 When Rose and Ellie had retired to their room for the 
 night, the former, after chatting in a frank, confidential way
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 313 
 
 of one guest and another, asked : " And, Ellie, how did you 
 like my uncle Sydney ? He talked with you longer than I 
 ever saw him talhgrith any young lady before." 
 
 " I liked him very much," was the candid reply. 
 
 " What ! were you not afraid of him ? " 
 
 " Afraid of him, Rose ! why should I be ? " 
 
 " Because I am, I suppose ; and so are almost all young 
 girls. I don't know of any one except my mother who is 
 really familiar with him. She is his only sister, and I believe 
 he loves her better than all the rest of the world." 
 
 " But I don't see, after all, why you are afraid of Mr. 
 Irving ; pray tell me, Rose." 
 
 "O! he can be so distant and cool. To be sure, he is 
 exceedingly kind to me, but I do not feel that I come near him 
 at all ; besides, he has such odd notions of ladies. I once 
 heard him talk about it with mother. She was asking him 
 why he did not marry. *(Hc is over thirty now.) He told 
 her he had seen but three styles of women in the Avorld, the 
 intellectual, the practical, and the sentimental, he should call 
 them. The first he should not object to meet at a literary 
 soiree, the second he should like for his housekeeper, and with 
 the last he could walk on a moonlit evening ; but he didn't 
 want either of them for his wife. Those were his very words, 
 Ellie." 
 
 ' Well," said Ellen, who had been listening attentively, "how 
 did your mother answer him ? " 
 
 "O, she told him there were some who united all the qualities 
 he had described, and that she thought him a little unreason 
 able. He said he agreed with her entirely, but she must have 
 patience with him. He had pictured to himself a woman with 
 
 a highly cultivated mind, an ardent fancy, and a warm heart, 
 27
 
 314 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 who was nevertheless all the better fitted to preside over a 
 home ; but he had never happened to meet such a woman who 
 was unmarried. Mother answered, laug^hmgly, that perhaps, 
 if he should find such a prize, it might noWoe in his power to 
 secure it. I must confess I was glad to see uncle Sydney a 
 little teased for once. He colored a good deal, though he 
 answered pretty coolly, ' Perhaps not.' 
 
 " But what a long talk I have given you ! You must not 
 let this make you dislike my uncle, Ellen. I love him dearly, 
 after all, and I should feel sorry enough not to have you do the 
 same." 
 
 "0, no!" said Ellen, smiling, and flinging back her curls 
 with a quick motion peculiar to her when a little confused, " I 
 shall form my own opinion of him, I presume." 
 
 Rose had given a pretty true description of her uncle, so 
 far as it went. There are a few things which may as well be 
 added. lie was a man of talent and of learning. His incli 
 nation led him to desire every possible advantage for mental 
 culture, and his liberal resources allowed him the means of 
 gratifying that desire. Accordingly, he had studied much, 
 travelled much, and mingled freely with men of letters. His 
 mind was ri<$i in knowledge and refinement. His heart was 
 as rich in deep and warm affections, but these had never been 
 drawn out in all their power. He had early lost the tender, 
 changeless love of parents. His intercourse with the world 
 had taught him that bitter lesson of distrust, so easy to learn 
 and so hard to forget. He was not misanthropic; but he 
 judged, unwisely perhaps, that it is best to keep the heart 
 under lock and key. To his sister, and a few friends besides, 
 its treasures were open ; but for others lie allowed no deeper 
 feeling than that prompting the perfect courtesy of his man-
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 315 
 
 ncr. The large benevolence of his nature was not drawn out, 
 as it might have been, toward his kind. It Availed some elec 
 tric touch to set in motion its current?, the sympathy of a 
 more ardent and trustful soul. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 "Charity sittcth on a fair hill-top, blessing far and near; 
 But her garments, drop ambrosia, chic fly on the violets around her; 
 She gluddeneth, indeed, the map-like scene, stretching to the vcrgo 
 
 of the horizon, 
 
 For her face is lustrous and beloved, even as the moon in heaven ; 
 But the light of that beatific vision gloweth in scrcncr concentration, 
 The nearer to her heart, and nearer to her Lome that hill-top 
 
 where she sittcth." 
 
 THE Evertons' parlors had exchanged the brilliant gas-light 
 for the pure, warm rays of the morning sun, as George Wood- 
 bridge and Ellen Howard sat side by side upon one of the 
 luxuriant sofas. 
 
 Both had recovered from the slight discomposure of their 
 first meeting alone, and Ellen was earnestly expressing her 
 gratitude for his many services to Willis. Her cheek glowed, 
 and her voice trembled with feeling, as she spoke of the kind 
 nesses her brother had received. 
 
 Mr. Woodbridge disclaimed all title to her thanks, saying 
 he had only endeavored to pay in some little measure a debt 
 he owed to her. 
 
 .As she looked surprised, he added: 
 
 " You taught me what it is to live, cousin Ellen ; you first 
 showed me how, not only to perform duty, but to do it hap- 
 pily." 
 
 Ellen saw his agitation, and with the simple words, " You
 
 316 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 must thank a higher Friend than I, cousin George," she 
 changed the topic of conversation. 
 
 An hour passed in pleasant, animated talk, and George left, 
 reluctantly. The interview which he had desired, yet dreaded 
 to seek, was over. The frank affection of Ellen's " Good 
 bye," the warm, sisterly pressure of her hand, lingered with 
 him long after he had walked the busy streets, and was seated 
 by his dusty table, which was piled with ponderous law-tomes. 
 Yes, the beauty of her daily life had woven a charm for him 
 which was never to be broken. In long, after years, if we 
 prophesy aright, when weary of the world, its cares, and 
 pains, the memory or the presence of Ellen Howard will ani 
 mate him with fresh heroism to work, and to endure joyfully 
 until the end shall come. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " Many thoughts, many thoughts, who can catch them all ? 
 The best are even swiftest-winged, the duller lag behind." 
 
 THE further particulars of Ellen's happy visit at the Ever- 
 tons', and her return to the family circle at Hermon, it is not 
 our purpose to relate. Neither will we speak of the few quiet 
 months which succeeded ; but ere we pause finally in our 
 heroine's life-history, let us look in upon that tasteful city 
 home, to which Mr. Howard's enfeebled health and his son's 
 interests have induced the family to remove. A few years 
 ago this change would have been almost sure to spoil Ellen. 
 How is it now ? 
 
 She is surrounded by all that can please and interest her. 
 The reading she covets is within her reach. She has free 
 access to congenial society. The leisure she desires for study
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 317 
 
 or composition, is at her command. The reputation of which 
 sh" has dreamed, offers itself to her pen. A trip across the 
 Atlantic, a visit to the attractive portions of her own country, 
 are gratifications in which she may indulge if she chooses. 
 And is her time, therefore, all devoted to pursuits which best 
 please herself? No ; daily, her own fancies arc sacrificed to 
 the comfort or entertainment of others. The interesting book 
 is abandoned for a lively chat with the young attorney, who 
 comes in often, at the close of a day's hard study, with a fit of 
 " the blues," which nobody but sister Kllie can drive away. 
 The writing is laid aside that she may walk or ride with an 
 invalid father. The needle is busily plied to make garments 
 for the destitute ones whom her pity has sought out to relieve. 
 Many suffering poor bless that sweet, noble young face which 
 looks in upon them kindly. Many poverty-stricken sick, follow 
 with their grateful prayer, her who comes to their low bedside, 
 and not only gives them beautiful words of sympathy, but 
 smooths with her own hand the threadbare coverlet, and pre 
 pares skillfully some delicate nourishment. 
 
 Nor an; theirs the only benedictions which rest upon her. 
 Tin; fond hearts of her parents joy and delight in her. Willie 
 and George (her two brothers, as she calls them), regard 
 ter Ellie " as a perfectly invaluable treasure, and their opinion 
 is confirmed by gentle Kose Kverton, without a tinge of jeal 
 ousy. Mr. Irving, too, has not misimproved the opportunity 
 which a continued residence with his sister gives him, to study 
 Miss Howard's character. He confesses that he knows one 
 woman, at last, who is talented without being affected or cold- 
 hearted; imaginative, and even rnm-juln^ without being above 
 this every-day world ; in a word, who reconciles an elevated, 
 refined, and ardent nature with the cheerful pcriormance of
 
 318 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 homely and practical duties ; that she even makes these very 
 duties, in themselves humble and trivial, seem beautiful and 
 exalted, for she does not descend to them, but raises them to a 
 loftier level. 
 
 The gray twilight of an autumn evening is mingling with 
 the softened, dreamy glow of the anthracite in Mrs. Howard's 
 sitting-room. The apartment seems not like a strange one, 
 for we recognize the familiar furniture of the little parlor at 
 the parsonage, which the true delicacy of a loving memory 
 has grouped together here. 
 
 Mrs. Howard is seated in her own rocking-chair, and Ellen 
 in her old place at her mother's feet. Time has wrought 
 many changes since we saw her thus for the first time ; yet we 
 find her still in her free, happy girlhood. There are more 
 traces of the years in her heart than on her brow. Ah! there 
 are records there of happiness, of suffering, of struggle, and 
 of victory, which perhaps, she is reading to-night, as she sits 
 in that absent, musing attitude, while her dear mother's hand 
 rests in hers. 
 
 Perhaps she is talking with the future instead of the past. 
 But Avhy should we seek to penetrate the veil of thought? 
 The heat and burden of life are still before her. May she 
 bear the noon as well and nobly as the morning promises, 
 showing in her sphere what high-souled, earnest, practical, 
 womanhood can do. 
 
 A heartfelt " God bless you " is our good-bye to her and to 
 you, dear reader.
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 319 
 
 A CHAPTER* IN THE HISTORY OF A FREE 
 
 HEART. 
 
 
 THE evening, incense-crowned, was abroad ; the October 
 
 evening, which garners all our fairest thoughts of moonlight 
 glory. A few stars shone clear and pale, like lamps before 
 some high, far-off altar. The voice of the wind murmured low 
 to the trees, dressed in coronal robes, and told the gay leaves 
 a story of their frailty, which they kept answering in the same 
 sad, musical tone. The air had a holy clearness. Its heights 
 seemed, opened up, nearer the gate of heaven than is wont. 
 The quick eye of fancy almost caught sight of the wondrous 
 portal ; her quick ear listened for a strain of the seraphic mel 
 ody, was it not near enough to wander down ? 
 
 This evening, with its mellowest beauty, encircled the little 
 rural city of N., which nature and art have created to yield a 
 charm for all. By an open window in one of its pleasant par 
 lors, stood Grace Arland, the person, in this brief sketch, 
 toward whom, if we can, dear reader, we would draw your 
 chief interest and affection. 
 
 She was, in outward appearance, exceedingly attractive. 
 Her figure was slightly above the medium height of woman. 
 HIT face was not perfect in symmetry of feature, but rich in 
 changeful expression. Her eyes were dark, and lustrous, and 
 deep. Her forehead was not over high, but full and classic, 
 gracefully shaded by its bands of dark, brown hair. The 
 countenance bet raved a sensitive and an earnest nature, and 
 bore that rare impress of genius, which seldom fails, even at 
 first sight, to tinge our admiration with an involuntary respect. 
 Both figure and face revealed their youth, yet there was about 
 the latter, a depth of expression, belonging more often to the
 
 320 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 maturcr -woman, than to the girl of nineteen years. Grace 
 was habited in a thin, white muslin ; a choice knot of 
 flowers in her hand, and a delicate wreath twined about 
 her head. She was evidently dressed for some evening 
 gathering. Her attitude 'was one of reflection, and, as she 
 thought, she grew more and more serious, till with a sigh, 
 half sad, half impatient, she began to talk to herself: 
 
 " So I shall meet Edward Grey, to-night. Poor Jeanie ! 
 how could he treat her as he has done ? the heartless, good- 
 for-nothing trifler ! And he thinks he will flirt with Jeanie's 
 friend, does he? We shall see whether Grace Arland will 
 fall such an easy prey to his soft words." The eye of the so 
 liloquizing girl grew so bright, and its meaning so lofty, that 
 no one who saw her thus, would dare to trifle with her. Her 
 face gradually softened ; she murmured Jeanie's name again, 
 and said musingly and curiously, " I wonder." Just then, the 
 carriage, for which she was waiting, drove to the door, and her 
 fond father handed her in. In half an hour, she was passing 
 the first salutations in Mrs. Clarke's well-filled parlors. A 
 group of gentlemen soon clustered near her, and, foremost 
 among them, one Mr. Raymond, her openly-professed admirer. 
 After a few moments' conversation, he begged permission to 
 place her at the piano. His request was urged by others, and 
 Miss Arland consented to oblige them, without any of that 
 affected hesitation and delay, so common in such circum 
 stances. She was not skilled in the performance of difficult 
 instrumental music, but her style of singing was, like herself, 
 graceful, expressive, original. You recognized the same clear 
 sweetness of tone you had just remarked in conversation, 
 the same earnest undertone of feeling. You felt in both cases 
 that the spirit was breathing through the voice. She sang
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 321 
 
 two or three times, and declined further invitations. Those 
 who knew her, wore aware that her refusal, once expressed, 
 was decisive, and ceased to press further, 
 
 As she rose from the instrument, Mrs. Clarke was standing 
 by her side, with her hand upon the arm of a young man, 
 whom she immediately presented to Miss Arland, as Mr. K<1- 
 ward Grey. Miss Arland's eyes were turned upon the gentle 
 man with a very steady glance ; and her manner, polite, 
 though cool and reserved, made him feel at once that he was 
 conversing with no plaything. He was gay, handsome, and 
 agreeable. She* was surprised to find him so sensible and 
 refined ; for it is a frequent error, to paint a character, part of 
 which we disapprove, as entirely undesirable. Grace had 
 never seen Mr. Grey before. She had recently heard of him, 
 as one who trifled with the hearts of her own sex, and tin-; 
 roused all her indignation. Jeanic Waldron, an affectionate, 
 confiding, unsophisticated girl of eighteen, a friend of her 
 own, had met Edward Grey during a visit to the house of a 
 mutual relative. He had laid siege to her heart, and, with an 
 easy effort, won it. She was simple and yielding, and had not 
 the resolution to cast his love entirely from her, after it began 
 to grow inconstant. She suffered him to vascillate between 
 herself and another; to conciliate her, easily, when irritated ; 
 and to love or unlove, as his wayward fancy dictated. At this 
 stage of affairs, Jeanie made a confidant of her friend Grace, 
 to whom she looked up for guidance ; and Grace, imparting 
 :i spark of her own spirited nature to her companion, was the 
 means of procuring Mr. Grey a decided, and to him, very 
 surprising dismissal. By-and-by, the tenor of Miss Arland's 
 advice became known (as such things will), to the gentleman 
 of whom we speak. He was highly resentful, and vowed to
 
 322 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 have his revenge by flirting with Miss Arland herself, when 
 ever he could meet her. The opportunity which he had 
 sought, was this evening granted him. While Grace was 
 seated at the piano, his position had been such that her face 
 was not visible to him. He had been charmed by her songs, 
 and was waiting impatiently for an introduction, his other feel 
 ings having yielded place, for the nonce, to a strong curiosity. 
 
 When she rose from the instrument, and turned her face 
 
 
 
 toward his, he was astonished at its beauty. There was some 
 thing about it, too, which awed him. Each successive time he 
 looked, or heard her speak, his self-possession grew less, and 
 he became nervously anxious to impress her favorably. She 
 was sufficiently social, but he felt that an undefined something 
 in her manner forbade any of his usual gallantries of speech. 
 He tried several times during the evening to break through 
 this, and failed. Finally, as they were promenading upon the 
 verandah, he resolved upon a desperate effort to introduce a 
 spice of sentiment. 
 
 " How beautiful is this moonlight ! Miss Arland," he began 
 "is it not strange, that any can remain cold and emotionless, 
 on such a night as this ? " 
 
 " Perhaps it is strange," she responded ; " yet, such persons 
 are far more tolerable to me, than the many who affect an ap 
 preciation they do not feel ; who express in hackneyed phrase, 
 which you have no doubt heard, an admiration that is not 
 genuine." 
 
 He glanced at her doubtfully. Had her penetration read 
 him deeply enough to discern that his last remark was not the 
 simple tribute of a heart overflowing with its love for the 
 beautiful in nature ? He could not divine. Her face was 
 serious and composed. If she had suspected the truth, no
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 323 
 
 evidence of the fact appeared there. lie was reassured, and 
 continued : 
 
 "Do you not think the moonlight and the starlight a sweet 
 link between the absent, Miss Arland?" 
 
 " A holy link, Mr. Grey. They connect us, not only with 
 the living whom we love, but with the glorified. They, above; 
 we, beneath the calm moon and the pure stars. They, in per 
 fect light ; we, struggling yet with the shadows. They, in the 
 near presence of Him who owns the heavens as the work of 
 His hands ; we, beholding Him still, in a glass, darkly, waiting 
 until we shall see Him as He is." 
 
 The speaker's face was upturned, to meet the full lunar 
 light. There was upon it a sublime expression. She was 
 thinking of those blessed realities of eternity in which she be 
 lieved with all her heart ; of that meeting for which she 
 looked, with a tender mother and a fair young sister, who had 
 long been absent, in the country of the angels. She had for 
 gotten, for the moment, her companion. He could not com 
 prehend her mood ; but, to the lofty beauty of her i'ace he 
 paid, inwardly, a profound homage. It was vain to think of a 
 llirtation with Miss Arland ; he felt it was.. 
 
 She resinned, almost immediately, her usual manner, and 
 soon after took her leave. He placed her in the carriage, and 
 longed to press her hand to his lips, as he resigned it ; but, for 
 the first time in his life, dared not. 
 
 "Ah, well! I do not wonder Jeanie loves him," said Grace 
 to herself, when the evening was over. " He is very winning, 
 certainly, and just the person to captivate- her, poor child. As 
 for me, I do not believe he will quite break my heart ! I 
 wonder if he has not true affections in his soul, hidden some 
 where beneath the rubbish. If these could only be reached
 
 324 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 and touched; if /could only" and Grace wandered on 
 
 in a labyrinth of imaginings too complicated for us to try to 
 
 follow. 
 
 ********* 
 
 Weeks passed by ; weeks, during which Edward Grey was 
 Miss Arland's most devoted cavalier. As far as she could, 
 without rudeness, she discouraged his attentions. For a while, 
 she supposed him seeking to carry out his long-divulged plan, 
 but she soon perceived that his motive was one less blame 
 worthy. From the first evening he met Miss Grace, he had 
 lived in a fever of admiration. He was very much fascinated, 
 and he imagined the respect with which this feeling was tem 
 pered, a proof that this was something deeper than one of his 
 usual fancies. She read him well enough to know that his 
 passion would be brief, as it was ardent ; and, when he made 
 to her a declaration of affection, she told him, kindly and 
 plainly, that he had deceived his own heart ; that he did not 
 love her. He was amazed. That she should say she did not 
 love him, was scarce a surprise ; but, to dispute his own expe 
 rience, was a little too much. He spoke warmly and ear 
 nestly. She answered him with some feeling : 
 
 " I will not contradict you further, Mr. Grey. You leave 
 town to-morrow; you tell me you will be absent several 
 weeks. There will be nothing to remind you of me, except 
 your own thoughts. Now, prove yourself, and see if you do 
 not find this fever cooled, when you return. I should be sorry 
 to believe you had spent all your love, in six weeks, upon one 
 whom you had never before met. I hope it would be injustice 
 to you, to think thus. I cannot help believing, despite the re 
 port I hear of you, that you have a heart capable of a true 
 and lasting devotion. ' Nay," said she, in a low, kind tone, as
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 325 
 
 she saw him change color repeatedly, " do not be displeased 
 with me. You know that I am not ignorant of the past. 
 How could I wish to win to myself, that which might have 
 made a friend so happy ? O ! Mr. Grey, if you have, indeed, 
 any regard for me, promise, promise that you will never act a 
 triflcr's part again." 
 
 He was very much moved, and said, in a scarcely audible 
 voice, " I promise you." He felt that the interview had lasted 
 long enough. There was nothing more to say. A brief 
 " good-by " passed between them, and he left. Grace was 
 pained, but she prophesied he would come back from his three 
 month's trip with a bright face and a light heart. 
 
 About three months had passed away, when our wandering 
 knight reported himself by letter. Grace read smilingly^ as 
 perhaps you will do, the following : 
 
 " Mr DEAK Miss ARLAND, I believe you arc so generous as to bo 
 happy to hear that your prediction is fulfilled. For a time after I parted 
 from you, this did indeed seem an impossible future; but, away from all 
 familiar scones and faces, the pulse throbbed more calmly, and the eye of 
 tin 1 mind saw more clearly. I acknowledged to myself that my heart did 
 not rest where I had imagined it did. Earlier memories came to me from 
 the past, and filled my soul with a quiet and a sadness new to it. I trust 
 I am altered in some respects, Miss Arland, that the promise I gave you 
 will never be broken. Looking back reluctantly upon my own treat 
 ment of others in many instances, in only one do I look back with sdlish 
 regret, with a deep yearning that I might win again what I have lost. 
 Is that impossible 1 There is a name we have neither of us spoken, yet 
 which, I doubt not, has been sometimes, often, in our thoughts when to 
 gether. 
 
 " Is Jeanie still free? I could not ask from her such unconditional 
 
 trust as she gave me, without the asking, once ; but has she enough of 
 
 the old kindness in her heart still to put me on probation, to permit what 
 
 she cannot prevent, my love 1 These seem strange questions to ask of you, 
 
 28
 
 326 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 when I look back a few weeks. Because you have cured the madness 
 which possessed me, do not think you have dissolved an admiration, re 
 spect, and gratitude, which are as lasting as they are sincere. The words 
 you said to me at parting have probably effected more than you will ever 
 know, more than I know myself. One expression of confidence which 
 you gave me then, despite all my errors, encourages me now to ask you 
 to turn pleader for 
 
 Your unworthy friend, EDWARD GREY." 
 
 Grace trusted the sincerity of Mr. Grey's protestations, and 
 consented to favor his cause. She found, as might be antici 
 pated, that Jeanie Waldron's heart was not proof against her 
 first words of entreaty. It was necessary to advise against the 
 exercise of a too lenient and forgiving temper. Grace settled 
 the conditions. Mr. Grey was to correspond with Jeanie for 
 a four-month, and if, at the expiration of that time, they mu 
 tually desired it, he was to see her at Mr. Arland's, and renew 
 again the promise from which he had once been released. 
 
 The time went by swiftly. The rose-month came, and one 
 balmy afternoon, in that parlor to which our readers were first 
 introduced, sat a gentleman, whose quick breath, heightened 
 color, and nervous hand showed him not at all at ease. He 
 was in the attitude of listening impatiently, when the door 
 opened, and the young mistress of the mansion entered hand- 
 in-hand with a sweet, blushing blonde. 
 
 Jeanie and Edward were met again. 
 
 Grace exchanged a few words with Mr. Grey, and, leaving 
 the lovers alone, stepped out on the wide verandah which en 
 circled the house. The garden lay before her, dressed in 
 fresh verdure and the queenly blossoms of June. She saun 
 tered down one of its winding walks. The air was vocal with 
 the harmony of birds, and heavy with the breath of flowers. 
 The sun-setting was nigh at hand. A golden light was op
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 327 
 
 the bending willow and the evergreen. It streamed downward 
 through a graceful ash, and fell softly on the pebbled floor of 
 a little grotto, where Grace was standing. 
 
 Just such a golden light was in the young girl's heart, a 
 freshness pure as that white moss-bud, a warmth rich as 
 yonder velvet rose. Others not far distant were blessing her 
 with their grateful love, were wishing for her a happiness like 
 their own. Ah ! they need not wish it, for her heart, with its 
 possession of genius, beauty, and affection, with all its store of 
 happy memories and happy dreams, is rejoicing in its free- 
 dom! 
 
 O ! many bards their praise have sung, 
 
 Of love, the first, the true, 
 When summer suns shine on the heart, 
 
 And glistens morning dew : 
 
 
 But is it not a happy thing, 
 All fetterless and free, 
 
 Like any wild-bird on tho wing, 
 To carol Aerrily? 
 
 THE MEMORY OF OUR DEAD. 
 
 WHY does the soul, trembling on that mysterious step which 
 divides the finite from the infinite, linger so often with the 
 simple request, " a violet, love, a violet for my grave " ? Is it 
 not the natural yearning of the human to leave some me 
 mento in the land of its birth ? All feel alike. The poor 
 wretch, in his blind and reckless end, softens the curse into a 
 sigh, as he mutters, " no tear will be shed for me." The holy
 
 328 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 and patient ones, who go mpekly up to Paradise, look back 
 as the heavens open, and say, in the last tones akin to earth : 
 " Be faithful, O friends, be faithful." The wanderer, laying 
 him down to die on alien soil, or sinking in the roll of the sea, 
 prays but to reach a burial-place beneath watchful and weep 
 ing eyes. 
 
 To be loved and reverenced after death has often seemed to 
 me worth a little lifetime of sorrow. True genius, consecrated 
 to goodness, has this beautiful reward. Some who, living, 
 walked in humble and obscure paths, untroubled by the world's 
 notice, dying, have been taken, age after age, to the hearts of 
 thousands. And for us, who have no claim upon the thou 
 sands or the ages, there is a memory as sweet, if less enduring, 
 a memory whose strength the mourner best understands. In 
 
 j^HB 
 
 every sensitive soul arises the hope to be rememl||red us we 
 remember them, our beloved, our departed. 
 
 Yet, who does not sometimes doubt and sadden, when he 
 looks at the multitude, running their gay or busy way, forget 
 ful of the step once even-paced wfth theirs, the voice that 
 chorded in their tune of life, the eye out of which looked a 
 soul now disembodied ; a multitude who are content at least 
 with a brief sigh at their decorous visits to the tomb, about 
 whose daily existence breathes no softened fragrance from the 
 vanished life. The child dies, and other children, in the 
 bright activity of health, crowd into its little place, till by-and- 
 by it is missed no more. The young wife, in all the fairness 
 of bridehood, withers in some swift sickness, is laid, beneath 
 fresh flowers, in the cold, narrow coffin. The widowed hus 
 band changes soon to the smiling, accepted lover. The va 
 cant home brightens with a new choice. Another moves 
 cheerfully about in the place of the dead, and leans upon the
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 329 
 
 arm where once she leant in the happiness of her young love, 
 she who gave and took the forever of the heart's devotion, 
 who rests now under the clinging turf. And if the severed 
 tress of hair, the olden song, the well-worn book, or the faith 
 ful portrait throw a momentary shadow on the brow, a dim 
 ness in the eye of the twice-wedded man, the world saith, 
 "Ah, how faithfully he loved her!" Parents die, and the 
 quick-healing heart of the child grows oblivious in its eager 
 pursuit of novel interests and delights. Friends die, and the 
 men who paused to look sorrowfully in the closing grave, 
 plunge again in the great wave of toil, and forget. 
 
 Forget ; some because in them the present and the actual 
 overshadow always the ideal and the spiritual ; because, in 
 the withdrawal of glance, and touch, and speech, the link which 
 bound them to their love is broken. And some see in the 
 past only a ghost of wrong and unkindness, from which they 
 shrink with remorse ; or, in the images of death, an unwel 
 come foreboding of approaching gloom. Others forget, alas, 
 because it is the fashion of the vain world, which careth not 
 to sit down in the house of mourning. In such souls, the 
 streams of affection are dry at the fountain. They shake off 
 from themselves the companions of their life, as the trees do 
 the withered leaves ; like these, for the allotted season, they 
 wear the dress of mourners, and as early as may be, arc glad 
 to come out again in vernal robes. They remember not, be 
 cause they have never grieved. Ye hapless ones, to you, too, 
 will come a time when, your struggling fingers being unclasped 
 from earth, you shall beseech the tender recollections of those 
 who stay behind ! 
 
 All are not thus unfeeling who bear the one common char 
 acteristic. There are some, fond and true to the living, who 
 
 28*
 
 330 THE MEMOKIAL OP 
 
 recognize no faith which permits a serene constancy to the 
 dead. Where memory is only a wild yearning for what is 
 irrevocably lost, it is our nature, in time, either to cast off 
 memory or to despair. Only he who trusts in the Father in 
 finite, in the life immortal, in the reunions of the hereafter, can 
 bear about with him a clear and holy thought of the departed. 
 On such an one, sainted memories shine from heaven like the 
 unchanging stars, and draw him thither with a sweet, spiritual 
 magnetism. In the rush of noonday cares, in the sober rest 
 of twilight, in wakeful hours upon the lonely pillow, these 
 loving seraph-eyes look down upon us, showing us of what is 
 evil and false, comforting us under weary burdens, enlighten 
 ing our pathway with some rays from the upper glory. 
 
 There are lips which will read these lines quiveringly and 
 slow ; there are eyes which will look at them dimly through 
 tears, remembering what dear earthly ministries they have 
 exchanged for the heavenly; what precious sound of familiar 
 voices, what glad sight of cherished faces, what clasp of pro 
 tecting arms, what counsels, what sympathies, what com 
 munion, for this distant spiritual intercourse which can never 
 fill the vacant place, the lonely heart. The parent is gone, 
 and around the dark hearth gather no more happy groups ; 
 in the desolate house echo no more cheery songs. A brother 
 is gone ; one on whom life was opening in brightness, on whom 
 it shut with a long, slow-fading sunset, as if regretful to sink 
 into night. The sacred twilight ending, darkness fell on the 
 the wasted body, morning broke on the winged soul. A sister 
 is gone, in her young beauty, to stand among the angels. 
 Here are the books she read, the flowers she tended, the music 
 she sang, the favorite seat, but she is not here.
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 331 
 
 "Well done of God to halve the lot, 
 
 And give her all the sweetness : 
 To us the empty room and cot, 
 To her the heaven's completeness." 
 
 O that we were garnered safe in the eternal joy ! It is the 
 rejoicing hope of this which can make the memory of our 
 sainted dead blessed, and sometimes painless to us. Follow 
 ing in the way that leadeth up to life, we come nearer and 
 nearer to them every day, united still in Him " of whom the 
 whole family in heaven and earth is named." 
 
 "OUR JUNE." 
 
 IT was noon, the fervid, breezeless noon of a Southern 
 June, and the sun-tide, at its full, surged over the fair little 
 
 city of L . The streets were mostly abandoned to merely 
 
 necessary occupants, energetic tradesmen, and sweltering 
 errand-boys, and groaning porters, who still held their way 
 above the scorching bricks and under the powerful rays from 
 a shadowless sky. In rare exception, one elegant equipage 
 rolled up the avenue dedicated to rank and wraith, pausing 
 before a mansion whose rich front of dark stone contrasted well 
 with the white marble steps and colonnade opposite. The 
 heavy mahogany doors unclosed, and a gentleman, who had 
 apparently been upon watch, hastened to the carriage and 
 handed out two ladies, each in the iVe>hnes> of girlhood. 
 
 "Well, Annie, is the last < white favor' ready ?" was his 
 smiling question, answered as gaily by the elder of tho 
 maidens, who so reflected in her countenance every feature
 
 332 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 of his own that even a stranger might guess their relation 
 ship. 
 
 " Allen," said the sister, sobering, while a very becoming 
 blush sought her cheek, " have our guests arrived ? " 
 
 "Yes, sister mine, and are impatient, as a lover and a 
 lover's friend ought to be. Forgive the impertinence : Mr. 
 Harry Davidson ventures to wonder that Miss Annie Wilson 
 should be ' out,' and to doubt if she expected him." 
 
 " For shame, roguish boy," interrupted the lady. 
 
 " But," resumed her brother, " I informed him that you had 
 been drawn away against your will by a tyrannical adviser, to 
 help choose the all-essential ribbon, and with that he seemed 
 satisfied. Did I not speak the truth, Miss Edwards ? " 
 
 A bewitching assent sparkled in the dark, talking eyes of 
 the third member of the trio, beneath whose glance young 
 Wilson grew an instant silent, the next rallied to say : 
 
 " He took it far too easily, Annie. Depend upon it, /would 
 have made a picturesque little quarrel out of this ! " 
 
 The sound of pausing wheels, merry voices, and a bustling 
 entrance had fallen upon the watchful ears in the library, at 
 the extreme rear of the hall, and, before the ladies could 
 reach the staircase, they stood face to face with Lieutenant 
 Harry Davidson. Miss Edwards uttered a cordial exclama 
 tion, received a brotherly salute, and hurried away, leaving 
 Harry to seize the hands of his elected bride, and lead her 
 into the room he had just quitted, upon whose privacy we 
 prefer not to intrude. 
 
 An hour later finds a pleasure party gathered in the social 
 drawing-room. The kind master and the graceful mistress of 
 of the house ; Allen, the only son, gay and clever, and proud 
 of his two-and-twenty years ; Annie, the central charm, sweet,
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 333 
 
 violet-eyed child, vainly trying to conceal above a book of 
 engravings which she shared with Davidson, the color, varying 
 at every word of his, and consciously answering an occasional 
 glance from the opposite sofa, where sat Harry's friend, whose 
 presence had been asked for the approaching bridal. Harry's 
 "friend" did I say ? That, in Mr. Harland's own definition 
 of the word, is scarcely true. The two young men had pre 
 served the free intercourse of college classmates, but their 
 feeling for each other, though cordial, was not deep or sympa 
 thetic enough to be rightly styled a friendship. Harland had 
 been invited to officiate as groomsman at the marriage of the 
 young officer, and therefore we find him where he is now a 
 guest. Harry watched his companion's expressive eyes when 
 ever they rested upon his beloved one, and was warmly satis 
 fied with the frank admiration that shone in them. He exulted 
 a little, inwardly, it must be confessed, over his superior good 
 fortune; but the reader, who is always supposed to be "gen 
 tle," will not despise him for that ; it is a foible of our com 
 mon humanity. 
 
 Mrs. Wilson, addressing her daughter, interrupted the con 
 versation somewhat pointedly, with the inquiry 
 
 " Where is your June, my love ? " 
 
 "I how could I forget, mamma do excuse me, one mo 
 ment " and she rose with girlish shame on her cheek at 
 having betrayed the absorbing nature of her thoughts. 
 
 Upon one ear this question and reply had fallen most enig 
 matically. Mr. Ilarland became abstracted (that was one of 
 his follies, reader) in wondering why this serene and blooming 
 month should be holden to Annie's especial ownership, or how 
 it was connected with her sudden exit from the room. His 
 meditations were speedily interrupted by the return of the
 
 334: THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 truant, her hand resting in another, smaller and softer, if less 
 fair. 
 
 " Dear June, where have you been Aiding ? " said Harry 
 Davidson to that same young lady, who had left him so 
 abruptly in the hall awhile since. "Miss Edwards, let me 
 present to you my friend, Eugene Harland." 
 
 Mr. Harland had risen with the puzzle still in his mind, but 
 as he bowed low, and looking up with a smile which, though 
 serious, lit like a star the face that wore it, he said to himself, 
 silently, " This, then, is June" just as Mrs. Wilson said to 
 him aloud : " Mr. Harland, you and June should dismiss the 
 formalities of strangers, and be friends at once. This is the 
 lady with whom you are to share a very responsible duty, to 
 morrow." 
 
 " Is it so ? " responded he archly, and advancing with ready 
 grace, he took June's offered hand, bowed again above it, and 
 seated her. The next moment a cheerful bell summoned to 
 dinner. As the company rose, it did not escape his notice 
 that young Allen "Wilson had changed his position with need 
 less rapidity and offered an arm with devoted gallantry to his 
 sister's guest ; nor, although occupied with his hostess, did his 
 quick eye fail to read the heightened color and nervous action 
 of her son. 
 
 The grand meal of the day finished, our company dispersed 
 variously, Harland to his dressing-room ; Davidson and 
 Annie back to the deep window-seat of the library ; while 
 June, slightly weary of the state of wedding preparation 
 within doors, wandered into the garden, and sitting down upon 
 a shaded rustic bench, opened her portfolio in her lap, and 
 spread thereon what would seem to our fashionable mademoi 
 selle, a mammoth sheet of letter paper. As she sat in the
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 335 
 
 caressing arms of the honeysuckle, while the little breezes 
 tenderly coaxed her brown hair from its waves in the forehead, 
 she looked singularly in harmony with the birth-month whose 
 name (from a father's eccentric fancy) became hers. A beam 
 of sun, truant through the young leaves, peered into her deep 
 eyes. Rejecting the scrutiny, she made a slight movement, 
 took up her pen with a look of glad satisfaction, and in a hand 
 rapid, free and beautiful, traced the address of her page 
 " My mother, absent, yet best beloved ." There the sen 
 tence remained, still imperfect, an hour later, when the light 
 v/as retreating low down the west, and once more in her cham 
 ber, she was alone with Annie. Then, the pen resumed its 
 office, leaving a black space, emblematic of some intense 
 period between the opening and succeeding words. 
 
 " I cannot write you as I meant to do, for another mood and 
 
 a sadder comes between me and that. Something has hap- 
 
 
 pened to grieve me; I tell it to you because I want you 
 
 always to know all my heart ; yet I am doubtful what words 
 to take unto these thoughts. Were you only here, I could 
 speak them better in a glance. As I sat in the garden, prom 
 ising myself the dear pleasure of a long talk to you, I was 
 interrupted by an approaching footstep, and presently Mr. 
 Allen Wilson came between me and a small ray of sunshine 
 which had fallen to watching me a moment before. He -apolo 
 gized becomingly for his intrusion, and asked to share the 
 place of my retreat, being left to solitude, as he professed, by a 
 pair of selfish lovers. I bade him welcome, closed my portfo 
 lio with an inward sigh, and aroused myself to joyous talk, for 
 I saw a shadow on the f;ice of Annie's dear brother, and I 
 fancied I could drive it away. But it would not go, and the 
 color in his cheek rose and fell, like any girl's, till breaking
 
 336 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 the thread of our forced conversation, he said do you not 
 understand what he said ? I answered at length, and sadly. 
 He could not at once believe my earnestness in declining what 
 he had offered, but finding my second decision as clear as the 
 first, he gloomily left me. This is so, through no folly or 
 indiscretion of mine, dear mother. I have tried well to pre 
 vent the words which have just been spoken." 
 
 Annie stood before the mirror, dressing for evening. She 
 held a spray of flowers which she was vainly trying to secure 
 in her hair. At last, patience-exhausted, she said to June, 
 " Do have pity, and help me, dear." June looked up suddenly, 
 and on her face were visible traces of disturbed emotion. 
 Annie perceived them, and kneeling down, she placed her 
 head upon her friend's shoulder, asking softly, " Does any 
 thing trouble you, my sister ? " 
 
 The words, innocently spoken, touched the very chord that 
 was quivering newly. June averted her face a moment, then 
 answered 
 
 " Will you think me very strange and ungrateful if I say 
 that I cannot go with you upon your bridal trip ? " 
 
 " Not go, June ? " replied the listener, in amaze ; " of course 
 you will go ! " 
 
 " I cannot," persisted the other. 
 
 " This is so whimsical and unlike you, dear. "What is the 
 reason what is the matter ? " 
 
 " The reason is, that your brother Allen accompanies you ; 
 the matter is, that my presence would inflict useless pain on 
 him." 
 
 " Indeed, you mistake, June. What strange idea have you 
 adopted ? Your presence is a precious treasure to Allen, and 
 I suspect he means to tell you so, one day "
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 337 
 
 " But if he has already, and " 
 
 " You cannot be in earnest, June ! " 
 
 " Yes, in sad earnest, Annie." 
 
 The caressing arm was hastily withdrawn, and the sister, 
 struggling with wounded pride, arose, saying, " Foolish, foolish 
 Allen ! why could he not wait till he had made you like him 
 as every one does ? " 
 
 " I do like him, 'as every one does.'" 
 
 " Then you will repent, and be my own sweet sister, after 
 all O, June " the voice softened into entreaty. 
 
 " No, Annie, forgive me ; there is a vast difference be 
 tween likiay and loviny. I do not feel for any one in the sen 
 timent you mean, I am almost sure I never shall see *he 
 person who can excite it. Not that so imperfect, a child as I 
 must look for some model-hero, but, I believe my ideal is 
 reasonable, and yet I see it nowhere." 
 
 " But, June, I say, you like Allen why not learn to love, 
 as other people do ? You are a great deal too fastidious." 
 
 " Did you l learn to love ' Harry Davidson ? " 
 
 " I ? why yes no not exactly ! " 
 
 " Be lenient then ; I have a ' no, not exactly ' in my heart, 
 too. I firmly believe I am elected to life-maidenhood." 
 
 " O, miserable ! do not talk of it ! " cried the young girl on 
 the eve of wifehood. 
 
 " O, delightful, to be always one's own ! " was the answer 
 flung lightly back from a heart in love with its child-freedom. 
 
 " Delightful to knit away one's days in some solitary home, 
 unloving and unloved, or to be pointed out in society as ' an 
 old maid.' How can you, June ? " 
 
 June had a world of arguments ready to pour back, in glow 
 ing vindication of that much-abused vocation to which she 
 29
 
 338 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 looked forward, when Annie whispered sorrowfully " poor 
 Allen " and suddenly diverted her musings to another chan 
 nel. A shade of suffering crossed her face, and Annie per 
 ceiving it, impulsively kissed the lips which were more pale 
 than usual. " I might have added, ' poor June,' too," said she. 
 Tears started to the clear dark eyes " Thank you, Annie," 
 was the answer full of meaning. Their friendship, woman 
 like, had risen true and beautiful above the cloud that tempo 
 rarily obscured it. They left the chamber hand in hand. 
 
 It was late ; the gentlemen, those most punctual beings, 
 were already long in the parlor, with their hostess, ere the 
 young ladies entered. Harry had fretted, in secret., the last 
 haff hour, and made some absent replies to the good-natured 
 queries of his future mamma while listening to that impatient 
 inward whisper, " where is Annie ? " He half envied his 
 friend the quiet courtesy with which he adapted himself to the 
 easy flow of Mr. Wilson's talk. Mr. Harland understood the 
 charming art of listening well to the remarks of others, and it 
 was this part which he mostly sustained, until the conversation 
 turned upon the merits of his chosen profession, the law. 
 Here, our host drew forth longer and more animated replies. 
 Harry had relapsed into a genuine reverie, from which he was 
 roused by an earnest intonation of his friend's voice as he 
 uttered quickly that expressive little interrogative, "how, sir?" 
 
 " I remarked, that it is the trade of you lawyers to defend 
 the wrong side as stiffly as the right ; at least that course 
 seems necessary to success in the profession," answered Mr. 
 "Wilson, softening his tone as he saw the increasing seriousness 
 
 of his auditor. 
 
 
 
 " And this, sir, is why we need, now, at the bar, men of 
 noble principles, men who for God's sake, and truth's sake,
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 339 
 
 can withstand the temptations of fame and fortune ; whose 
 talent ami zeal are pledged to the aid of justice against oppres 
 sion, innocence against guilt. How, I ask, can any man with 
 a conscience go from the confessing lips of the criminal party, 
 to utter an artful lie, to urge the force of his eloquence and 
 tact against the acquittal of the man unjustly accused, and the 
 condemnation of the guilty ! And is all this ^ fair in trade? 
 as some dare to say ? No, sir, a man is still a man, responsi 
 ble to heaven, although he be a lawyer ! " 
 
 It was at this point in the conversation, that June and 
 Annie presented themselves. The latter young lady took that 
 reserved seat upon the sofa within reach of Harry's ann : 
 June paused a moment at the door, looking, with a fascimmon 
 surprising to herself, at Eugene Harland. Was this the grave, 
 calm gentleman she had seen at table ? His eye was lit and 
 his color heightened with the burst of feeling to which he had 
 just given utterance. One word expressed face and attitude, 
 it was eloquent. "Whence came the sudden rush of feeling 
 with which she gazed ? She knew not, but something was 
 apparent in him to which her soul responded as the sparkle of 
 the lake answers the smile of the sunbeam. He rose with 
 his usual quiet gallantry, placed her a chair, and drew his own 
 near it. 
 
 Mr. Wilson had been somewhat astonished at this sudden 
 waking of enthusiasm in his guest, and still revolving what 
 the young man had said, he observed, as if thinking aloud, 
 " Yet how many men of honor have done thus ! " 
 
 "And what the world calls honor, unsupported by Chris 
 tian principle, is at best a very insecure safeguard.'' 
 
 Harland turned to Miss Edwards, as if to address her with 
 some lighter speech, but her eye revealed so earnest a sym-
 
 340 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 pathy with his graver sentiments, that it suspended the words 
 upon his lips. From that moment a telegraphic link was 
 established and recognized between them. 
 
 The cheerful stream of talk flowed evenly on, but it re 
 quired all Miss Edwards' energetic self-control to bear her 
 part with her usual ease, for she every moment dreaded the 
 notice of Allen's absence from the circle, while her heart 
 smote her as the cause of his voluntary banishment. It was 
 almost time for tea to be brought in, as Mrs. Wilson remarked, 
 with a mother's care in her tone, " Where can Allen be ? have 
 you seen him since dinner, my daughter ? " 
 
 ^jo, mamma," and Annie's face grew alternately rosy and 
 pale, as if a lover, instead of her brother, were the theme of 
 inquiry. The mother's inapt discernment did not notice her 
 confusion, but Mr. Harland's quick glance involuntarily ob 
 served it. He followed the direction of her eye, and it rested 
 upon June, whose cheek was pale as usual, and her bearing 
 easy and calm. There was a moment's silence, and she said, 
 with her wonted sweetness : " I met Allen in the garden, a 
 little before we came to the parlor." 
 
 "O, well," added Mr. Wilson, "he has doubtless gone 
 down to his office. I think I heard him say he had a business 
 appointment this evening. Allen is really growing methodi 
 cal, of late." The father smiled a pleased, gratified smile, 
 and, ere it sobered, the unconscious cause entered. Harland 
 glanced again at Miss Edwards. She looked impenetrable as 
 before, but the hand which hung carelessly among the folds of 
 her dress near to him, trembled, so as to stir the gossamer silk 
 on which it rested. This, too, he perceived by that wonderful 
 habit of observation, which nothing escapes. Allen, flushed 
 and uneasy, made a general apology for his detention down
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 341 
 
 town, and, carefully avoiding his sister's eye, amplified his 
 excuse in lower tones to his mother. Tea was served, and, in 
 waiting upon the ladies, he unavoidably approached June. 
 He would have retreated instantly, but she kept him at her 
 side, adverting playfully to the most ordinary topics of conver 
 sation, and determined to restore the usual tone of their inter 
 course. The effort was partly successful. He gradually be 
 came composed, and recovered something of his natural 
 vivacity. Mr. Harland supposed at one time he had laid his 
 hand upon the key of these side-scenes, but the new develop 
 ment put him again at fault, just as it was intended to do. The 
 evening waned, and the family parted with many a gay wish 
 and mirthful allusion concerning the morrow. 
 
 The morrow dawned fair, to suit a bridal-day. Early, 
 June had kissed open those blue eyes, shining with love-light, 
 and tripped out to the flower-beds, to rob them while yet fresh 
 from the bath of the dew. Rosebuds, all white, with the 
 incense-heliothrope hid far down among the bright leaves, 
 were gathered into one rare bouquet, and laid in her wicker 
 basket. Other flowers, less fastidiously chosen, were arranged 
 in rich bunches for mantle ornaments. It only remained to 
 select a knot for herself. This must not be purely colorless as 
 Annie's ; and, in search of her favorites, she turned down a 
 winding path which led toward the house, and suddenly met 
 Mr. Harland. lie bowed his " good morning " with a very 
 winning deference, and possessed himself of her basket, while 
 admiring its beautiful burden. " These," said he, archly, point 
 ing to the white roses, " are to grace the hand of our bride." 
 \ i's sir, they are fair enough even for Annie." 
 "And what for the bridesmaid?" he asked, with a look to 
 
 which June never supposed his gravity could unbend. 
 29*
 
 342 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 "I have not yet selected for her." 
 
 " Then will you let me do so, Miss Edwards, premising you 
 need not honor my awkward arrangement ? " 
 
 " Certainly," said June, " you are very good to finish up my 
 work for me." 
 
 They sauntered up and down the alleys, he culling a flower, 
 or plucking a spray of leaves here and there, till the bouquet 
 had grown to please his original taste. It was composed of 
 fragrant blooms, mostly in the bud, nestled in redundant leaves. 
 June received it with one of her smiles, examined it admir 
 ingly, and said simply, " I Jike it very much, Mr. Harland." 
 The breakfast-bell sounded just as they reached the verandah. 
 June paused a little to have one more breath of the fragrant 
 cool air of the morning. Through the evergreens, the garden 
 showed a sea of colors. The canaries were trilling their 
 music in the window. The joyousness of the season pene 
 trated even to the caged birds of the city. " How beautiful it 
 is ! " said the young girl. 
 
 " Every thing is beautiful in June," answered Mr. Harland, 
 earnestly. 
 
 There was a delicate lingering upon the last word of his 
 sentence, which made it strike the ear of his auditor ambigu 
 ously. She glanced toward him, but he was not looking at 
 her ; he had turned to salute his smiling hostess, who stood in 
 the open door. June followed, thoughtfully. 
 
 A wedding ! who shall describe it ? It is easy enough to 
 tell of the dress, the entertainment, the guests, the ritual of 
 the occasion, but these are not the wedding. The scene of 
 that is within two plighted hearts. Who, then, shall lift the 
 veil, and reveal the sweet joys, and glad hopes, the solemn ex 
 change of love and fealty which make the soul of the bridal ?
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 343 
 
 We cannot do it, dear reader ; let one try who can dip the 
 pencil in the vivid coloring of experience. We can easier 
 look with you into the maiden heart of our June. The mar 
 riage guests are already assembled in the ample parlors. The 
 family too, are gathered, save the daughter of the house, who 
 is this day to resign her place in that indulgent home. In the 
 library are waiting the eager bridegroom and the friend whose 
 honor it is to serve him. Harry Davidson paces the room 
 with his quick military step, the brightest sunshine in his frank 
 face, and pushes back repeatedly the somewhat auburn curls 
 on his temples. He looks what he is, your very ideal of a 
 fine-spirited, gay, young Lieutenant. Eugene Harland stands 
 quietly, near the window that faces the garden, watching his 
 friend's evolutions with a slightly abstracted air. His face 
 does not attract you, like Harry's, with any marked beauty of 
 feature. The forehead is expansive enough to indicate mental 
 power, but it has not the bold prominence some admire, being 
 well shaded by black hair, as soft and rich as a child's. The 
 chief interest of his face lies concentrated in the dark, gray 
 eye, which always invites to study, which at will, pleases or 
 awes. His is one of those rare countenances which seem 
 vital with the indwelling spirit, like the indwelling blood. 
 There are times when, in such faces, as the sun behind the 
 nmber-clouds of the low west, so shines the soul behind the 
 thin veil of the corporeal. 
 
 The library door opens, and Harry receives upon his arm 
 the hand about to become his life-gift. Eugene starts from his 
 abstraction, and joins the waiting bridesmaid. He looks open 
 compliment into the eyes of Annie, who, in heavy white silk, 
 with orange wreath and veil, is beautiful and bride-like. He 
 glances at June, similarly attired, and says to himself, " all
 
 344 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 things become her" As they moved toward the door, her 
 radiant eyes suddenly swim with tears ; she draws her hand 
 from his arm, and, bending forward, quickly and silently 
 touches her lips to Annie's cheek. Harry turns to her with a 
 satisfied, prolonged smile, but as she replaces her hand upon 
 the groomsman's arm, for an instant his gloved hand rests 
 upon hers, only an instant, and she doubted if her senses 
 had not deceived her, as she glanced at his calm, grave face 
 when they entered the parlor. Then a deep hush fell upon 
 June's heart. Through the service that followed, she had but 
 one thought, and that was of her friend. Tremblingly she 
 estimated that gi-eat risk of the whole earthly happiness, as, 
 with wishes and with prayers, she anticipated Annie's future. 
 "Who, in her girlhood, has not felt-what it is to witness the 
 marriage of an intimate companion ? How the heart, unin- 
 structed in the mystery of love, finds it difficult to believe the 
 new life can be preferred to the old ! How jealously, almost 
 mournfully, it gathers up memories of the days that are no 
 more how wistfully it gazes into the days that are to come ! 
 Thus felt June, as the last words of the sacred ceremony 
 ceased, binding the twain in one. 
 
 The usual congratulations succeeded ; some tearful, others 
 mirthful ; some familiar, others formal ; all, if sincere, swell 
 ing to a vast wealth of good wishes. The bride did not claim 
 her privilege of shedding tears, yet once she came very near 
 it, when her brother, whose merry face had grown so grave 
 within a few hours, whispered, " I am losing all my comfort, 
 in losing you, Annie." He then turned to June, and, holding 
 her hand, said softly and half-inquiringly : 
 
 " I must bid you a final adieu this morning."
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 345 
 
 " I hope not," she answered; " when Annie is established in 
 her married home, perhaps we may meet there." 
 
 She spoke with winning kindness and cordiality, yet intend 
 ing her manner should leave not a doubt of the footing on 
 which she placed their further acquaintance. But his blindly 
 sanguine nature put its own construction upon the delicate 
 emphasis of her words ; and he chose to consider them as a 
 partial recall of her yesterday's decision. 
 
 The bountiful collation was served, the guests had departed, 
 and yet a half-hour remained ere the bridal party were to 
 leave the city. June and Annie stood arm-in-arm in a recess 
 of the breakfast-room, speaking last words. Thither David 
 son and Ilarland found their way, seeming to feel entitled to 
 follow where these ladies led. 
 
 " There is one prize, Mrs. Davidson," said the latter gentle 
 man, with an arch emphasis upon the new title, " which, amid 
 so much competition, I have failed to secure. I believe lib 
 erty to ' kiss the bride ' is the meed of my services." 
 
 The lady gaily submitted her fair cheek to his claim. 
 
 " Eugene," said Harry, roguishly, " you are not learned in 
 the law of the occasion. Blackstone, probably, is silent on 
 these matters. You do not know you are entitled to an equal 
 favor from the bridesmaid ! " 
 
 " I have been taught much that is new to me by this wed 
 ding-time," replied Mr. Ilarland, half gravely, half archly. 
 He stood beside June, and bending toward her, his lips met 
 her forehead with the lightest possible touch. The group 
 separated, and the ladies hastened to make their travelling 
 toilet. There was no lack of the multifold hindrances incident 
 to the occasion. When the carriages at length rolled away, 
 they had need of rapid driving to ensure a punctual arrival
 
 346 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 at the cars. Time just availed to seat the bridal party safely 
 in the "Western train. Mr. and Mrs. Wilson accompanied 
 their children for a part of the trip, so Harland and June 
 were the only friends to receive adieu. They stood exchang 
 ing parting words till the steam-horse, panting hoarsely, began 
 to move. Lieut. Davidson gave his final beatified smile, 
 Annie kissed her hand, Allen executed a low, cold bow, and 
 his father shouted through the sudden rush of smoke : " Drive 
 fast, or you'll lose the boat." 
 
 " Sound advice," said Mr. Harland, looking hurriedly at his 
 watch, as he placed his companion in the carriage, and cried 
 
 out to the coachman : " On/to the foot of st." Away 
 
 they rattled, through hot, dingy streets to the wharf, in season, 
 just in season, to watch the receding steamer ! A brief con 
 sultation was held as to the next step of procedure. An even 
 ing train of cars at seven o'clock, or delay till the meridian of 
 the next day, was the only alternative. June's quick thought 
 surveyed both sides of the embarrassed question, and finding 
 that Mr. H.'s engagement's, like her own, made a day's loss 
 very undesirable, she decided on the journey by night. Mean 
 while they drove leisurely back to the hospitable mansion 
 where they must still be guests. As they entered the for 
 saken rooms and made their explanations to the astonished 
 servants, each felt very sensibly the novelty of their position. 
 June sank down upon a sofa in the parlor, and Mr. Harland 
 stood before her, still hat in hand, meditating what he should 
 do with himself. Their glances met, and simultaneous laugh 
 ter opened their lips. " Come," said the lady, divesting her 
 self of veil and bonnet, " let us find the coolest sitting-room, 
 and make ourselves at ease. We have an odd, fairy-like day 
 to finish out." So ; forthwith, they wandered into the library,
 
 AN ON 7 LY DAUGHTER. 347 
 
 and ensconced themselves in two deep arm-chairs, which stood 
 face to face by the low verandah window. 
 
 " What next ? " asked Mr. II., smiling rather contentedly. 
 
 " You must talk," was the playful rejoinder. 
 
 He obeyed quite imperceptibly. Taking her words for his 
 text, he alluded to the difficulty of forcing the mind into action 
 by a mere effort of the will, and from this their rather philo 
 sophic conversation ran to many a kindred theme, till its 
 excursions widened and dipped into very diverse topics, every 
 where marked by a congeniality of sentiment, striking between 
 two strangers^ June was charmed with the depth and the 
 truth of her companion's ideas, and the manly grace with 
 which they were uttered. Mr. Harland wondered at length 
 to find how completely he had thrown away the reserve of 
 a new acquaintance. He said so, half apologetically, and in 
 the slight pause which succeeded, reached an open copy of 
 Byron lying near upon the disordered table. 
 
 " Who is growing misanthropic here ? " he asked, as his eye 
 fell on several fresh pencil-marks, rather indicative of the 
 render's state of mind. He turned and read aloud, " Allen 
 Wilson a dull book," written in an irregular, school-boy 
 hand, and dated some years before. June could not refrain a 
 smile at this fearless criticism of the great poet, but glancing 
 toward her vis h vis, she met a look so grave and earnest, that 
 she approximated to a state of embarrassment very unusual 
 with her. The gaze was instantly averted, and Mr. Harland 
 said, taking up a copy of " In Memoriam : " 
 
 " Is Tennyson a favorite of yours, Miss Edwards ? " 
 
 " I love Alfred Tennyson ; his poems are very beautiful to 
 me," was the quick answer. The poet's name had sent a 
 warm, bright glow over the young girl's face, and she had
 
 348 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 spoken very earnestly ; but, though perhaps inwardly regretful 
 to have discovered so much feeling to a new acquaintance, she 
 was too fearless to shrink after the first avowal was made. 
 She returned her companion's steady look, and said, coolly, 
 " You have tempted me into the betrayal of my enthusiasm." 
 
 " I am a friend to enthusiasms, I respect yours" was the 
 quick reply. 
 
 Miss Edwards watched the kindling look which accom 
 panied his words, and fancied there was some sympathy min 
 gled with the respect. 
 
 " There is in Tennyson's verse," he added, " an exquisite 
 expression of the subtler feelings, which voices the silent work 
 ings of many a heart. He has sung the sweetest hymns of 
 grief ever dropped from mortal lips. I 'love' him, too per 
 haps not just as you do." 
 
 The last clause was spoken with unmistakable emphasis, and 
 June responded a little haughtily : " I have the feeling for him 
 which is drawn out toward all embodiments of noble and beau 
 tiful ideas : besides, there is, I imagine, something closer, that 
 sympathy existing between the reader and a beloved author." 
 
 " Is that a general definition of love a feeling drawn out 
 toward all embodiments of noble and graceful thought ? " 
 
 " It is a definition of a certain sort of affection, is it not ? 
 Perhaps we oftener style it admiration." 
 
 " What then, Miss Edwards, do you call the feeling excited 
 by a handsome ball-room belle, in the mind of her dancing 
 partner, who declares himself ready to die in her service ? " 
 
 June answered with a flash of her eyes. Her questioner 
 smiled briefly, and resumed : 
 
 " The world calls that admiration, but I do not believe you
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 349 
 
 and the world very well agree. If it should outlaAV you for 
 heterodox opinions, would you feel distressed ? " 
 
 There was a plight curl on June's lip ; pardon her if 
 taught by experience, she distrusted her companion's generos 
 ity so far as to surmise that he drew out her opinions for the 
 gratification of his own curiosity. He instantly divined the ex 
 pression that shadowed her face, and dropping the arch manner 
 in which he had indulged, said, in his lower and graver tones : 
 
 " June, do you understand me so poorly ? " 
 
 She started in surprise at the quick interpretation of her 
 thoughts, and the new style of his address. For a moment he 
 was disturbed and silent, then, in his most composed manner, 
 he remarked : 
 
 <; Miss Edwards, I owe you a double apology ; first for ven 
 turing on the office of inquisitor, and now for my odd lapsus 
 lingua. The nature of our intercourse has been such as con 
 stantly to make me forget that I am not entitled to equal 
 liberties with your friends. As to the inquiries I made of 
 you, my object was to reach your idea of love, in its highest 
 sense, from a sincere desire for information on a subject of 
 which I am very ignorant." 
 
 The sentence closed in a fresh, careless laugh. It was in 
 fectious, and he obtained an answer in the same strain. 
 
 " You may call me June as wen as any other name, sir. It 
 is my universal title. For some reason strangers and friends 
 alike adopt it." 
 
 " It suits you better than any other." 
 
 " Very well, Mr. Ilarland, so be it. Now as to that mys 
 tery, which will remain one, for aught I know, evermore, you 
 are welcome to the few ideas I have upon it. According to 
 
 my impressions, love is not ripened in one day, or in many, or 
 30
 
 350 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 even in a human lifetime. Neither is it dependent on what is 
 external, though this may modify or grace it. It is the one 
 ness of soul with soul, in appreciative and perfect trust. To 
 be blessed, it must rest upon that faith in the Divine which 
 underlies and enwraps every other emotion. To be true, it 
 must be eternal as God himself." 
 
 She spoke in a serious and self-possessed way. Mr. Har- 
 land listened gravely and respectfully. Then both relapsed 
 into silence, not from awkwardness, for they had conversed 
 with an utter inattention to the fact that both were young and 
 single, but because each had more to think than to say. A 
 servant entered, announcing supper, which being more sub 
 stantial, in view of their journey, than the usual evening meal, 
 was served in the breakfast-room. They sat down at the 
 round mahogany table, reduced to its smallest dimensions to 
 suit the number of occupants. As June poured cups of tea 
 for Eugene Harland, she felt the thrill of several altogether 
 novel and exciting thoughts. She had never seen him look as 
 finely ; his eyes were darkened almost to the hue of her own ; 
 the flush on his cheek shifted with each change of utterance; 
 and with the ease of his manner blended a charm of earnest 
 ness more infrequent. 
 
 " I have been too happy to-day," said he, musingly, as the 
 meal was finished, and June sat playing carelessly with the 
 tea-leaves in her empty cup. 
 
 " The carriage is ready, ma'am," announced the footman, 
 respectfully, from the hall. 
 
 " "We must be early this time," answered June, smiling and 
 rising quickly. With little delay, she met her solitary cavalier 
 at the door, and once more they set out, now in abundant 
 season. Soon, the fretting locomotive whirled them away
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 351 
 
 northward, and in a few hours the city of L. lay far behind. 
 The night was not a weariness to our young travellers. It 
 was past the middle thereof, and their fellow.-passengers had 
 long been dreaming and nodding at angles various enough to 
 illustrate every proposition of mathematics, when Mr. Harland 
 said to his charge 
 
 " I advise you to take a taste of sleep, or you will lose your 
 identity to-morrow, that is to say, to-day," added he, turning 
 his watch toward her and showing the hour of two. June 
 professed her wideawake disposition in vain. He folded his 
 cloak, and disposed it across the seat with so kind and decisive 
 a look that she submitted, and rested her head on the comfort 
 able pillow. Sleep at length overpowered her, but the silent 
 watcher at her side had not closed his eyes when she opened 
 hers again in the first faint breath of morning. A glorious 
 sunrise began to send its heralds in the East over great, 
 drowsy New-York, and the first stage of Miss Edwards' jour 
 ney was ended. The carnage drive across the city was 
 mostly a silent one. Mr. Harland went on board the commo 
 dious steamboat where he was to leave his companion. It was 
 yet the cool of the dawn as they stood together on deck, 
 watching the smooth waves of the bay. 
 
 "How long it does seem since yesterday morning," remarked 
 June, with her peculiarly rich smile, which seemed to condense 
 two or three smiles in one. 
 
 " Yes," he answered abstractedly ; then, as if with a sudden 
 effort, " Adverting to yesterday, Miss Edwards, I recall a part 
 of our conversation, in which (if you noticed it at all) I con 
 veyed to you an incorrect impression. My words intimated 
 that I was experimentally ignorant of the sentiment we were 
 discussing. My heart convicted me at once, and I wish now 
 to retract the assertion."
 
 352 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 The tone in which he concluded was almost haughty, yet 
 his look softened somewhat in awaiting her reply. 
 
 " If you consider your sincerity tarnished by so playful a 
 denial of what you were free to conceal, then, sir, I honor 
 your frankness." 
 
 The cry of " All aboard " rang out authoritatively, and Mr. 
 Harland extended his hand to June. 
 
 " Good bye," said she, with more than her usual gravity and 
 sweetness. 
 
 " Good-bye," he responded, with the air of one who is 
 dreaming. " I hope to see you again," and so saying he 
 leaped upon the plank an instant before its removal. 
 
 Very plain parting words they were to the ear that listened, 
 meaning all too little. Hitherto, June had not inquired why 
 she anticipated the farewell of her new friend with so great 
 unrest. Now, in her disappointment, her heart began dimly 
 to recognize its cause. She lingered on deck a few moments, 
 and then slowly descended to the cabin and threw herself upon 
 a sofa in the attitude of sleep. The life without rested, but 
 the life within dashed on in troubled currents. It was an hour 
 of self-questioning, in which June exacted the truth rigidly of 
 her reluctant heart. When she confessed to herself the novel 
 nature of her interest, in one so recently a stranger, her first 
 anxious reflection was, " have I betrayed that interest?" Her 
 aroused pride answered hotly but justly in the negative. With 
 an admission of this fact, came a flattering belief that Mr. 
 Harland had not been equally guarded, that she had given 
 secretly nothing deeper than she might reasonably hope to 
 have received. But the remembrance of this common-place 
 farewell- chilled her confidence in these assumptions. Two 
 hours had passed away when June unclosed her eyes, and
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 353 
 
 rose with the paleness on her face which too intense feeling 
 had settled there. We will not follow minutely the few re 
 maining hours of her journey ; but satisfied that she reached in 
 safety the dear shelter of her home, let us return to our young 
 lawyer, and watch his steps as he winds through the mazes of 
 
 street, and enters his dusty office. His tread is slow and 
 
 thoughtful as it can be amid the jostling masses. 'Tis only as 
 he reaches the well-known steps that it quickens to its ordinary 
 elasticity. It is not unfair, dear reader, you being no common 
 friend, if we let you see in his mind the matured resolution to 
 send Miss Edwards a confession of his new, earnest love, so 
 soon as he reaches the protection of a father's roof. He 
 thinks it not at all certain, or even probable, that he will re 
 ceive more than a generous, friendly reply ; but, not being that 
 calculating or cowardly man, who waits to wring out, little by 
 little, the expression of a woman's feelings before he will 
 declare his own, this Mr. Harland thinks it honest and manly 
 to " put his fate to the touch " at once. 
 
 Ah ! if he had only done so. But he enters his office, and 
 breaks the seal of a note which his clerk hands him. He 
 stands with his face full in the light, and glances over the 
 punctilious white page. What makes his lip quiver with a 
 sudden spasm of pain ? This very direct and polite address, 
 which you can read if you like: 
 
 " MR. HARLAND, Dear Sir : Observing (as I trust you will pardon 
 me for doing) the interest with which you regard our mutual acquaint 
 ance, Miss E., I have felt it due to us all to intimate to you the near 
 relation contemplated between that lady and myself. It is not without 
 great hesitation, sir, that I make this allusion, and I beg you will not 
 attribute it to any other motive than my high esteem for yourself. 
 
 " Your very obedient, ALLEN WILSON." 
 
 30*
 
 354 THE MEMOKIAL OP 
 
 It was not without great misgivings that Allen Wilson took 
 this bold measure. His misinterpretation of Miss Edwards' 
 parting words had given him some hope that in the future he 
 might make himself acceptable to her. He jealously con 
 ceived the idea that Mr. Harland might stand in the way of 
 his success, and resolved effectually to forestall any such rival- 
 ship. The deception was complete. Mr. Harland was too 
 honorable for a single moment to doubt Wilson's candor, and 
 he even felt some sort of gratitude toward the well-meaning 
 fellow ; though his brow crimsoned, as he re-read the first line 
 of the note. " ' Observed,' " said he bitterly to himself, " ' ob 
 served' farewell then to the boast of a self-control that can 
 cover my choicest secrets." 
 
 It was weeks ere the pale serenity of Harland's face re 
 laxed, and the slight tinge of color began to play in his cheek 
 as formerly. His friends thought him ill, yet long after their 
 sympathy subsided, and he wore his usual face into the world, 
 the struggle and the bitterness of his heart were undiminished, 
 and his love broadened through it all, until, softened and chas 
 tened, he took his sorrow patiently and bravely to his breast. 
 Then that love which he had erringly tried to suppress and 
 eradicate, sprang to its place as a star in the heavens, to shine 
 tenderly and solemnly through the glooms of all coming years. 
 
 For many months after her return from that eventful visit, 
 June Edwards had daily hoped and waited for something that 
 did not come. None but a mother's eye saw the altered look 
 on the brow of the child, none but a mother's intuition 
 guessed why all the currents of thought and feeling had so 
 silently and suddenly deepened into the still, fathomless flow 
 of womanhood's nature. June went on with her quiet duties ; 
 her little round of cares, as the only child of the household ;
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 355 
 
 her gentle charities to the sorrowing and th^ppoor; her 
 pleasant visits in a small circle of acquaintance, her walks, her 
 rides, her gardening, her correspondence, nothing was 
 changed, and yet, O how much ! 
 
 Three summers glided by our June in her secluded home, 
 and one name was struck off from her list of correspondence, 
 one in her circle of cherished faces was laid under the early 
 fallen leaves. Death claimed fair Annie Davidson, the bride 
 of our story, and she faded like the summer roses in the 
 untimely frost. It was in an early October evening that June 
 received a letter from Allen Wilson, bearing the fresh black 
 seal and edgings. Side by side with the mournful tidings it 
 contained, was his old, twice-repeated entreaty for the love of 
 his sister's friend. June was standing by the window of her 
 room, grieved and agitated, when she felt her mother's arms 
 steal softly around her, and one hand drew away her open 
 letter. 
 
 Mrs. Edwards glanced over the sheet sorrowfully, merely 
 remarking, " "Well, my love, have you patience to answer 
 Allen, once more ? " June said nothing. Memory was busy, 
 and the whole scene of Annie's bridal was renewed to her in 
 the vivid light of yesterday. She remembered the proud, 
 happy parents, and their presuming yet warm-hearted son, and 
 the sweet face that smiled under its crown of flowers, and the 
 gay young husband, and another yes, another, who for a 
 moment made her forget all others, and press her hands closely 
 over her beating heart. 
 
 " That wedding time," said the mother sadly, as if she had 
 listened to her child's thought " that wedding time brought 
 no blessing to you, my darling ! I know that, although you 
 have never confided to me all that happened then."
 
 356 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 June's lipifctrembled ; a bright flush rose to her very brow, 
 and left her face unnaturally pale. She spoke in almost a 
 whisper, " How could I tell you my feeling ? it was all in 
 vain." 
 
 She laid her head upon her mother's shoulder, and said, 
 quietly and lovingly, "Do not be sorry; I shall be happy 
 with you always." 
 
 Year after year rolled by, till nine had gone their allotted 
 rounds, since Eugene Harland met and loved Miss Edwards. 
 During this time, her name had not once been spoken to him. 
 He had sought no tidings of her, unconsciously dreading to 
 hear what he supposed undoubtedly true, the news of her mar 
 riage. And yet, strange anomaly in the history of the 
 world, no face had grown fairer to him than hers, no smile 
 richer, no soul so dear through all these years. And he, better 
 than any other knew what a blessing this love had been to 
 him, keeping alive the fervor and the tenderness and the 
 poetry of his heart amid the coarseness and the sternness of 
 public life. June heard of him at the bar, and in the popular 
 assembly, speaking manfully against what is wrong and unjust. 
 Kind rumor told her, that the eloquent orator and skillful 
 pleader, was in private life a man of honor, of benevolence, of 
 true and vital charity. Moreover, that notwithstanding his 
 social graces, he kept himself much in solitude, and was still 
 unmarried. So, believing him more and more worthy, she 
 loved him more largely and more faithfully, in her true pride 
 and greatness of soul, giving, without hoping for recompense 
 again. 
 
 Nine years, I say, had passed, and the loveliness of eigh 
 teen had ripened to the graver and more spiritual beauty of
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 357 
 
 twenty-seven, and the manhood of Ilarland was -rounding to 
 its fullest prime, when it first became possible for him to 
 execute his long-cherished plan of a visit to the scenes of the 
 Old World's romance and history. He was not content to 
 take a steamer for Liverpool, like the whole world of trav 
 ellers, but to gratify a harmless caprice, ho took passage in a 
 sailing vessel for some port of the Mediterranean sea, whence 
 he wandered first into Italy, and seated himself in the shadows 
 of the seven hills, with a transport the ardent tourist well 
 understands. It was night when he caught his first sight of 
 Rome, and his first wanderings there were by the fair Italian 
 moon-shine. He had, all involuntarily, found his way at last 
 to the mighty Coliseum, and he stood in the shade of one of 
 its noble columns, under the spell of such rich and mournful 
 fancies as befitted the place,. when he heard the rustling of a 
 robe, and turning suddenly, saw a group of strangers in the 
 shadows behind him, silent, like himself, under the influences 
 of the hour. The gentleman, and one of the ladies who stood 
 nearest him, he judged by their dress and manner, to be 
 Americans ; but what was his surprise when, as the third 
 member of the party stepped forward into the open light, he 
 beheld June Edwards ! He looked once and again, with the 
 conviction that his eyes deceived him ; but no, it was none 
 other than her living elf. He could not mistake that per 
 fect head ; that low, Grecian brow, with its crown of dark 
 brown hair; those lips, proud and sensitive in their curve, 
 and the radiant eye, which, as she lifts it upward, is deeper 
 and purer jet than ever. He studies her face narrowly to 
 see how the soul has changed, and he detects there the old 
 mixture of ardor and thoughtfulness. spirit and gentleness, and 
 as she turns her face steadily in the direction where he stands,
 
 358 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 the soft, dreamy look he remembers once or twice to have 
 seen there before, and something more, yes, this is new, 
 a quiet calmness, not quite all made up of sadness, nor all of 
 patience, but partaking of both. He is certain, quite certain 
 lie sees it, ere he advances into the broad light, and places 
 himself where her eye will fall full upon him. She recog 
 nizes him without a start, and bows with the old, polite, impen 
 etrable grace, oh, how well he remembers it. 
 
 But he approaches her, and his first words send the crim 
 son flush of surprise and resentment to her cheek, for he says : 
 
 " I believe I address Mrs. Allen Wilson." 
 
 She recovers herself in an instant, and answers calmly and 
 kindly : 
 
 " No, sir ; you speak with June Edwards, and I, I believe, 
 to my former acquaintance, Mr. Harland." 
 
 He bows, and the proper introductions to her travelling 
 companions follow. They prove to be a Mr. and Mrs. Ham- 
 lin of Boston, Mass., under whose kind escort the young lady 
 has been placed by her parents. Miss Edwards reminds Mrs. 
 Hamlin that the hour is late, and she breaks up the brief 
 interview ; not, however, before her husband's cordial polite 
 ness has named the place and number of their lodgings to 
 Mr. Harland, and invited him to breakfast. The invitation, 
 after some indecision, was accepted, and Harland made his 
 appearance duly in the parlor of his American friends, at the 
 somewhat early hour which their home-habits induced them 
 to designate. He was received with great affability by his 
 host and hostess; quite undemonstratively by June, for the 
 utmost she dared show him, knowing the fullness of her own 
 heart, was a quiet, sincere cordiality. He directed his conver 
 sation principally to Mrs. Hamlin, and June had leisure and
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 359 
 
 opportunity to observe him well. As she watched him, she 
 gave over and again the verdict, "just the same" The ex 
 quisite modulations of his voice fell on her ear like old, remem 
 bered music. As its cadences sank and swelled, they recalled 
 
 to her the very sound of words listened to years ago. 
 
 ****** 
 
 It was in the soft evening of the same day, just as the 
 purple shadows began to darken, that two persons occupied 
 alone the little parlor of the Ilamlins, looking out upon the 
 sombre court, and the softly plashing fountain ; for Miss 
 Edwards had granted the private interview requested by Mr. 
 Ilarland. When Engine met so strangely the woman of 
 his love, and found her still bearing her maiden name, his 
 heart admitted a sudden thrill of pleasure, which after-reason 
 ing, although it moderated, could not quite destroy. That 
 she had once been the affianced bride of Mr. Wilson he knew 
 not how to doubt; that if she loved Allen once, she loved 
 him still, he felt sure. All suspicions of fickleness or false 
 hood, he charged elsewhere than upon her, in whose truth he 
 had the most unshaken belief. His love, that sanguine 
 dreamer, introduced now and then a hope which sober reason 
 discarded as a vanity of vanities. Weary of struggling with 
 conflicting theories, and charmed again, as it were, into the 
 society of one who caused them all, for the second time in his 
 life he resolved upon an open explanation. With this intent 
 it was that he sat pale and troubled in the presence of June. 
 
 " I hardly know," he began, " whether I ought to advert to 
 the mistaken title by which I addressed you last evening, even 
 to apologize." 
 
 June's cheek flushed as if he had repeated the error, and 
 she answered :
 
 360 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 " Indeed it was a singular mistake, sir, but your evident sin 
 cerity was sufficient excuse, although I am unaware how it 
 could have originated." 
 
 She would have added something more definite, but maid 
 enly pride forbade. Yet what was almost imperceptibly be 
 trayed in her manner gave Mr. Harland freedom to say what, 
 at another moment, his delicacy would have withheld. 
 
 "My information is years old, Miss Edwards, and merely 
 stated a contemplated relation, but I supposed it was from sure 
 authority." 
 
 He looked at her earnestly and meaningly. She seemed 
 more bewildered than at first. 
 
 " No such relation was ever contemplated by me" at length 
 she said, indignantly. " Will you be kind enough to tell me, 
 sir, exactly who was so much better informed ? " 
 
 Harland had averted his eyes from her flashing glance, but 
 he lifted them again, and they met hers clearly and sadly, as 
 he answered, with emphasis, 
 
 "Allen Wilson." 
 
 June started in anger and astonishment. There was a deep 
 silence, during which the truth, base as it seemed, flashed upon 
 Harland's mind. He saw that he must have been deceived, 
 and he guessed with what purpose. 
 
 " When did he dare tell you this, Mr. Harland ? " asked 
 June. 
 
 " The morning after his sister's wedding, by letter," was the 
 slow reply, a time too easily recalled for June's equanimity. 
 She rose to close the interview, saying, 
 
 " I thank you, sir, for this explanation, as it seems due to 
 me ; but I am shocked to find the brother of my dear Annie 
 BO destitute of common honesty."
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 3d 
 
 She turned toward the door, but Mr. Ilarland, in his lo\v- 
 csi and Bravest tones, arrested the movement. ' Let me speak 
 to you a moment longer," said he. rising and standing beside 
 her. "That rash young man, whom you last mentioned, let me 
 know that he divined and pitied ///>/ interest in you. You look 
 incredulous. It seems you did not then understand m so 
 readily as he. When I parted from you, nine years ago, I 
 knew very well that I loved June Edwards ; I have never 
 doubted it a moment since." 
 
 A faint color tinged her cheek, a.s she listened with her 
 forehead drooped and her eyes hidden behind their laches. 
 lie had spoken so quietly, that an ordinary observer would not 
 have guessed what he was saying, and now he added, in the 
 same tone, "I loved then, and I know yon believe love to 
 be eternal" June raised her eyes suddenly to his face, and 
 saw there the deep, fond tenderness she had dreamed of all 
 her girlhood through. Still she kept a wondering silence, and 
 he began to question. 
 
 "You remember your old definition of love, in the library 
 at L ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Do you hold to it now ? " 
 
 "j^yes," and the speaker's voice trembled a little. 
 
 "Such love as you defined is waiting lor you; ean you 
 accept it ? " 
 
 C), how grave, how true, how earnest was the voice that 
 thrilled June's heart in these words! She answered, slowly 
 and reverently, and bowing her crescent forehead beneath the 
 blessing words wherewith he blessed her, the new immortal 
 joy, like a sunshining, flooded every line of her face, as sin; 
 uttered the low confession of that love of hers which, faithful 
 
 31
 
 362 THE MEMOEIAL OP 
 
 through the long years, had brought at length its own glad 
 reward. 
 
 " Love is eternal," said those united souls. " Love is eter 
 nal," we repeat, as our record of their history closes ; and that 
 grosser and short-lived passion which rules its little daj^ and 
 flutters and dies, deserves not so holy a name. Destitute of 
 the immortal element, how dare it take the very name of the 
 Divine Essence! But afar from the multitude who follow 
 after their convenience, or fancy, or passion, under the protec 
 tion of a title so sacred, there is another multitude, let us 
 believe, who recognize and reverence the spirit they invite to 
 their tabernacle ; loving purely, loving fervently, loving ever 
 more, remembering their birthright as children of the Highest ! 
 
 PENCIL MARKS, NOW AND THEN. 
 
 To sit quietly in a soft-lighted- room, listening to the 
 voices of the early autumn winds, gazing into the amber 
 glow on the hearth, which breaks the faint chill of these first 
 cool days, is not this pleasant ? The cushions are soft 
 that press so closely, the very footstool is luxurious, aud the 
 atmosphere has that temperate, dreamy warmth most coaxing 
 to reveries. But, if the head that leans upon the pillowy chair 
 be heavy, and the flushed cheek rest upon a hotter hand, 
 and the fever-potion lie on the mantel, there comes a new 
 element into the thought of the quiet room, the soft light, the 
 gentle warmth, and the downy seat. The face that comes 
 often, and bends above me long, speaks of tenderness toward 
 suffering, and a sweet, unsleeping anxiety about the issue of
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 3G3 
 
 all this. So, after all, it is not quite free from sorrow, this 
 little nursery so, after all, there comes peeping in regrets 
 for tin 1 healthy bound of young blood and the activities of a 
 strong life. With the hope and the earnestness of nineteen 
 years, it is somewhat sad to meet a veil across the future, 
 the near future, I mean, for that which is uncertainly remote 
 may be always clear in sight, as it is fair, in the beauty of the 
 skies. But to exist from hour to hour, with no plans for to 
 morrow, and no employment for to-day, except to pet one's self; 
 to be as pleasantly idle as one can, this tests the slender 
 patience of the heart. The hardest work is none at all. Is 
 this pencil a complaining one? No, surely, it doesn't mean 
 to be, because, on its very tip, are some humble and grateful 
 words, waiting a command to fall. The will for the deed, 
 pencil, our arm is weary. 
 
 No day for an invalid to ride. The dull clouds are scud 
 ding across the skyey deep ; the sun looks out upon them now 
 and then, like the eye of a master on his workmen, and retires 
 again ; yet, in one of these little intervals, ive, a most ventur- 
 some pair, set forth for the daily airing. Careful hands cloak 
 and wrap the sick one, and, nestled in an easy carriage, be 
 hind a fine, swift steed, the sourness of nature is unminded; 
 only a lew minutes, however. With the sound of the pranc 
 ing feet comes the quicker prance of glistening raindrops. 
 What shall be done? We are in a place " where three roads 
 meet," and here in the open corner is a large, comfortable 
 farm-house. Too soon to admit of objection, the driver has 
 wheeled close before the broad door-stone, mottled with the 
 descending shower ; and this piece of mortality, concealed be 
 neath veils and wrappers, is deposited in a narrow old-fash-
 
 364 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 ioned " space," which conducts us to the family room, the 
 cosy kitchen, neat to a nicety. Here our eyes and ears are 
 novelly greeted. In the centre of the apartment looms up a 
 spinning-wheel, which, obedient to a pliant hand, gives forth 
 the rare old music in these days, lamented by our granddames, 
 who will say, " the former times were better than these." 
 
 The pleasant buzz ceases, and the mistress of the wheel and 
 house invites us to be seated, and bids us welcome to our 
 shelter. Such a woman ive (the invalid) did not think to meet 
 here. A tall, dignified person, united to the mildest and kind 
 est of faces. More than fifty years, some, as it seems, 
 heavy with sorrow, have failed to wrinkle deeply that 
 placid forehead ; and the eyes, almost a jet, still flash with 
 cheerfulness and shine with goodness. I feel this must be 
 more than a common woman. 
 
 In the corner of the room sits an aged man, who begins to 
 interrupt the courteous speech of the wife with a shrewd 
 word here and there, a little satirical, but not bitter, as the 
 wit of age sometimes is. We exchanged smiles through the 
 spokes of the great wheel, and presently comes from our 
 amusing speaker the query, " How far are you from home, sir, 
 now ? " Here is a leader, and the answer an expose. " We 
 
 are from M n " (for by that sorrowfully untasteful nomen 
 
 our little nook is more familiarly designated). " But," replies 
 the old man, " I thought I knew everybody there." " Per 
 haps you do not know the new minister, husband," is the quiet 
 response from the opposite corner, where the arch dark eyes 
 are located. So it comes out, and there is a civil confession 
 of nares, and we are an acquainted party. Talk flags, but 
 the rain, never ; on it drizzles, settled into a moping affair for 
 the afternoon. But lo, just as we are regaled with early
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 3G5 
 
 golden apples, the darkness gathers thick and suddenly, the 
 clouds dissolve in a hearty shower, and a shower has the 
 good-nature usually to come to an end, ours does, at last. 
 The weary look-out at the window is over. The bright round 
 drops spangle the peach-trees, and we are on the road again, 
 with hospitable invitations to repeat our call, and a huge bunch 
 of vari-colored dahlias in our basket. Another black cloud is 
 rolling up toward the zenith. But see, the church spire, and, 
 just by, the open parsonage-gate,, and up the hill the pretty 
 parsonage itself, all white and nude on the unturfed, unshaded 
 soil. Ifome, we are O, no, no ; word of the past, come not 
 in here. We are with our beloved ones, and all is safe, despite 
 the anxieties of the hour ; all is well, through the quiet, fire- 
 lit evening ; all is well, as the eyelids shut on the downy pil 
 low, aye, well, though they open not again beneath the 
 sun. 
 
 Live cheerfully yes, cheerfully, though life be narrowed 
 and darkened in the chamber of disease ; though the altered 
 look of the future, and the envied brightness of the past, con 
 spire against present contentment. Much still beautiful is left 
 to the sorest sufferer, while the glad sun shines, and the great 
 forests wave, and the brooks leap and run, much beautiful, 
 and joyful is left, while friends are tender and true, while home 
 is full of the air of love ; above all, while the heart knows 
 where to rest itself. Live cheerfully, then, by the help of 
 God. Let that face, paled and thinned by illness, be a liyht, 
 not a gloom, iiXthe midst of the household ; and whether it 
 blooms again with incoming health, or fades on day after day, 
 still let it be serene and smiling, casting never a cloud on the 
 gladness of surrounding faces. Would you have their eyes 
 
 31*
 
 3G6 THE MEMOKIAL OF 
 
 dim with sorrow caught from yours ? "Would you have their 
 lips quiver, because yours forget sweet and happy tones? But 
 the grave is in view, and death may be ready to reach forth 
 his hand, and put out this little spark of life. To be cheerful 
 in the face of this, is not easy, but quite possible. 
 
 What is death ? An angel, sti-ong and brave, an angel 
 kind, and loving ; the only one commissioned of the Father, 
 to bring His children home. The arms so dreaded, bear the 
 wanderer safe up to the paternal mansion. There is no need 
 of fear, there is no need of gloom. Live cheerfully then, 
 if there lacks but little of the end. 
 
 " This life of mortal breath 
 Is but a suburb to the life Elysian, 
 Whose portal we call death." 
 
 After weary days of pain and seclusion, how delicious to 
 face the out-door air, this Indian-summer air, whose breath 
 enters into the very soul, diffusing there a calm, pensive 
 enjoyment, more welcome than the richest gaiety. 
 
 Now, great Nature is bounteous of her gifts to those on 
 whom she has bestowed an October temperament. They have 
 but to go forth, and her serene sun, her sky blue and deep as 
 the Levant, her forests, gorgeous, delicate, grand, and melan 
 choly, stir the sensitive springs of thought and passion, till 
 they move swift as an unhooded falcon. 
 
 Even across these stony ridges, and steep hollows, divine 
 Autumn (Jirows a shadow of her glory. I find myself a wor 
 shipper, even here, where I miss so sadly the brilliant woods, 
 the great calm mountain, the musical waters of my home. 
 The sublime, the lovely, the picturesque, have each been
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 3G7 
 
 denied to these surroundings, yet one may find beauties of 
 color and of shade. Jlere, a singularly green pasture-ground; 
 there, a little amphitheatre of dazzling foliage; now, a sudden 
 turn in sight of a clear, shaded pool ; then a winding ascent 
 terminating in the clear, azure heaven, which, like the reality 
 above, changes not with the changing earth. These one 
 selects, as an artist the sweetest features of many faces, and 
 secretly unites them in a mental picture. Remembered ob 
 jects fill up what is wanting, and this creation of the heart, 
 rises between the eye and all distasteful images. 
 
 My ride in this way was full of sweetness, the fondest 
 arm encircled my poor feeble side, and every grateful happy 
 string of my heart made music. I too, would have my life 
 like the year's, richest, deepest, heavenliest, just before dying. 
 
 A Portrait I have a gallery of portrait?, which I visit 
 often. There is one picture there, before which I linger long 
 est, and always happen to kneel, that I think my pencil may 
 succeed in copying, at any rate, I would like to try. 
 
 The figure is that of a woman, nearing mid-life, yet retain 
 ing the slender and erect grace of youth. The face is one I 
 can never weary of looking at. Over a brow, patient and 
 thoughtful, wave clouds of rich, dark hair, and beneath shine 
 eyes of hazel, sparkling, yet tender, eyes, always bent on 
 me when I gaze, yet, as if they had just been lifted higher. 
 The lips have a touch of sorrow and care in their expression, 
 which it takes a smile to alter into cheerful gaity. In looking 
 at this picture, one feels the intensity of life which animates 
 it. It is a true poet's soul that beats beneath ; all its earnest 
 thoughts, and sweet fancies, its quick sense of beauty and
 
 368 THE MEMORIAL OP 
 
 deformity, its keen sensibility to suffering and enjoyment, its 
 sympathies and preferences, all are poetic, in the highest 
 degree. This soul does not express itself in measure, or 
 rhythm, but in a symmetric life, that higher style of poem, 
 unfettered by human tongues, whose grand cantos shall make 
 music eternally. 
 
 It is a true icoman's heart that glows within, a heart noble 
 to every living thing ; generous to forgive injuries, lofty to 
 scorn meannessess, brave to endure sufferings. To all, consid 
 erate and benevolent ; to the beloved, tender, faithful and 
 unchanging as an angel of the good God. 
 
 This is the portrait which I call number one, in my gal 
 lery. My poor crayon-work does it little justice; yet I love to 
 delineate as well as I am able, feature by feature, that which 
 is so dear to me. 
 
 What a different meaning to us, have the same expressions, 
 according as the heart interprets them. Truest is it of those 
 words appropriated to the polite usages of society. 
 
 This morning, a languid lady of fashion daintily laid her 
 richly-furred arm upon mine, and said, in her elegant way, 
 " How glad I am to see you." My heart, cool and untouched, 
 suffered a careless acknowledgment to rise to the lips. When 
 the brief ceremony of a call was over, I fell to dreaming of a 
 past pleasure, still so sweet as I recall it, that I seem to repeat 
 the original. I go over again the scene in which I met, in the 
 flush of her beautiful youth, a woman of genius, whom, 
 already, I dared call my friend. 
 
 It was early evening, in the princely hotel of a strange city, 
 that I hurried up broad stairways, and through long halls, till 
 I stood before her door, with a delicious trembling at my
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 369 
 
 heart. It opened quickly, and closed behind me, and there, 
 in the rich glow of the open fire, and the clear rays of the 
 lights on the mantle, I caught the first sight of that face whose 
 mingled sweetness and brightness have grown to be a familiar 
 picture. I heard the first melody of that loving voice in the 
 plain, simple words, " How glad I am to see you ! " 
 
 AY hat an electric thrill of pleasure they gave me then! 
 those very words Avhich, to-day, seemed dull and meaningless. 
 
 I remember indulging a similar train of thought weeks ago, 
 near the close of cousin Susie's annual visit here, a joyous 
 visit, almost too exciting for an invalid to bear. Her brother 
 joined her the last week of her stay, and brought with him 
 another guest, young Henry S , a fine fellow, frank, high 
 bred, and quite unspoiled by his collegiate course and tour of 
 foreign travel. There was frolic at all hours of the day, in 
 our little circle, and often, when I lay resting on my sofa, I 
 loved to hear the glad voices in the other parlor, and gave 
 thanks that their mirth was music to me. Still, I was oft con 
 tent to withdraw from so sprightly an atmosphere, and create 
 one more serious, more earnest, and to me, more natural. 
 But, where am I wandering ? there comes an end to every 
 holiday of life, and I caught myself saying this as I rose, most 
 unusually for me, in the gray of morning, to watch the young 
 men away. We had despatched our early breakfast, and 
 stood irresolutely around the newly-kindled fire, when the 
 warning of approaching wheels hastened our adieus. " I trust 
 wr shall meet again, soon," said young S., as he bowed over 
 Susie's little white hand ; and I saw her cheek quickly flush 
 and pale, and her lips slightly stir. He was in no lingering 
 mood, and, hurriedly turning to me, repeated the same expn s- 
 siou with equally easy grace and cordial tone. I responded
 
 370 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 with hearty friendliness, and an hour afterward, the parting 
 words dropped from my thought ; but, through all that exceed 
 ingly quiet day, they were sounding over in the heart of my 
 cousin Susie. What is a light, sweet song to one, may be to 
 another a passionate, inspiring harmony ; and the word that 
 one can say through smiles, is at the bottom of another's bit 
 terest tears. 
 
 Well do I remember another scene ; but even as I recall it, 
 my heart throbs with a sudden pain, and my hand grows 
 nerveless. Let me put the pencil into the hand of a warm 
 hearted spectator of that scene, and read her description : " It 
 was a gay day in June, full of sph'it and beauty, when, after 
 an imprisonment of months in the weary town, I started for 
 my country home. It was an easy thing to say farewell to 
 the group of associates whom I left ; the word was spoken in 
 a free, cheerful tone, more appropriate to hope than to regret. 
 I entered the ladies' saloon at the railroad station, some min 
 utes too promptly, and sat beguiling the time by observing 
 those who surrounded me. I soon perceived that other eyes 
 than mine, were watching a group of four young girls, who 
 occupied a sofa, opposite me. One of them, every little while, 
 let fall some quiet tears, and on two of the other faces was an 
 expression of mingled grief and resignation. They had not 
 on the garb of mourning, else I might have supposed them 
 suffering some recent and common bereavement. The fourth, 
 from her white trimmings, I thought might be a new-made 
 bride ; yet there was in her look the same sorrow displayed by 
 her companions. I have seldom seen a face so sweet as hers, 
 both in feature and expression. The very dove of peace 
 seemed to have brooded above her white brow, and its spirit 
 to have passed into the deep shining of her azure eyes. In
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 371 
 
 the lines of the mouth there was a rare mixture of softness 
 and submission, with firm resolve. There was unutterable 
 affection in her glance, as she turned to the friend nearest her, 
 who, pale and calm, looked as if, by a mighty struggle, she 
 were holding down the throbs of inward grief. Once or twice 
 they spoke ; I could not hear the words, but the tender, tear 
 ful tones thrilled me. The key to a scene like this could not 
 be far off; a plain old lady at my side, whom I noticed wiping 
 her eyes vigorously, solved for me the mystery. ' May be 
 you don't know,' she said kindly, 'that the dear young creature 
 yonder, with the white ribins on her bonnet, is ago in* way off 
 to Indy, to be a missioner to the heathen ?' I shook my head, 
 and felt the tears moistening my eyes also. ' Yes,' continued 
 she with a sigh, ' she was married to Mr. S., last Sunday, the 
 young minister that used to bring me tracts all last winter ; 
 and now they're goin\ and we shan't never see 'em again ; 
 the Lord bless 'em.' 
 
 " The sharp, shrill bell announced the departure of the train, 
 which was to convey the missionary-bride to her port of em 
 barkation. I felt a sudden pain at heart, for I knew the sound 
 was the knell of separation in the ears of the little group 
 in whom I was now deeply interested. I saw several gen 
 tlemen come in hurriedly and take out the party who were to 
 separate the next moment for a long life-time. I followed 
 with others to the open platform. The one was within the 
 car, the three just without. I saw that lovely face reach 
 through the window and press one more kiss, the last, 
 upon those upturned faces below ; and I saw the cruel motion 
 of the starting train unclasp the hold of those faithful hands 
 which seldom willingly were parted. As the smoke and steam 
 faded from view in the dim distance, the three girls, who
 
 372 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 seemed like sisters, turned to depart, and passing close by me, 
 I saw them trembling under tlie "weight of that farewell, and I 
 heard one of them whisper, ' it is like a burial.' 
 
 The shrill bell sounded again, and / was hurried away to 
 happy meetings and glad salutations, and an unspeakable joy. 
 They were left to that sad loneliness, that sore heart-aching, 
 which follow such a parting." 
 
 Thanksgiving-Day ! O what a new sound and sense were 
 in the woi'ds, this gray, unlovely, November morning, as I 
 uttered them, just wakened, on my pillow. A giving of 
 thanks, thought I, softly, and remembered the chasms bridged, 
 the wilderness threaded, the waters crossed, since one year ago. 
 A giving of thanks, thought I, and, in a setting of brilliants, 
 shone before me the sweet faces of my love, all fresh, and 
 living, and human ; and I knew that within the year not one 
 of these had grown pale in the cold of death. A giving 
 of thanks, thought I, again, and I pressed my fingers on 
 my calm pulse, and recollected the old hot, impatient throb. 
 I had slept and awaked, but I forgot not other nights, weary 
 and sleepless. Life was taking me by the hand, but I remem 
 bered the touch of death. My heart grew warm within me. 
 / yave thanks, not only here in the silence of my sick-room, 
 but yonder in the temple with the congregation. 
 
 We sat down to the feast, our little household all unbro 
 ken, not as we sat last together under the old roof, but here, 
 where all is new and strange, and the unfamiliar landscape 
 looks drearier than the beloved, in the dull light of this misan 
 thropic month. But it was a joyous time. There is an atmos 
 phere of the heart that is balmy always ; there are lights and 
 blooms of the heart, everywhere. Wit and tenderness and
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 373 
 
 sober thoughts all joined our evening circle, and we were glad 
 together, too happy to be gay. 
 
 There is rare luxury in solitude to any one who understands 
 how to use it ; and to be left alone many hours, for the first 
 time in months, makes a strange pleasure in the heart of the 
 invalid. This is the most inappropriate day possible to pre 
 cede the first of winter ; the softest, sunniest air, the mellow 
 sky, the gay gentle light, all make one's pulses beat in an 
 April tune. Nothing looks ugly to-day; the yellow brown 
 fields, the mossy stones, and the leafless forest on the horizon 
 yonder, give a quiet sort of pleasure. A stray bird perches 
 near the window, and sings in a sweet summer voice; and the 
 fowls crow and cackle, in those satisfied, domestic tones which 
 belong to the early Spring. It is a time for light, curious fan 
 cies, and all manner of dreams that launch out into the future, 
 or for tender recollections, which fit as well. One looks back 
 to recall the last day of solitude. It was in the glowing heart 
 of summer, when she makes green valley, and wooded moun 
 tain, and old flowery haunts, loveliest. That was a golden, 
 delicious day, as fresh at morning, as genial at noon, as glori 
 ous at evening, as any ever born. I remember a young girl, 
 who spent it dreamily, in wandering from room to room, in 
 long look-outs at favorite windows, in strolls by the hour 
 through the garden, up the course of the little brook, and in 
 the recesses of the grove of pines. I remember her, on that 
 day, for it shadowed forth a parting, too sad to be mourned 
 over aloud. 
 
 One dares not expect a dreamy day in the heart of the cold 
 season. Winter is too full of glorious energy to indulge in 
 
 reverie. Winter is wonderfully practical; he stirs the pulse 
 32
 
 374 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 briskly, and hastens the step, and sharpens the palate, and 
 rouses the saddest sluggard of a soul. Who does not feel the 
 inward stir, and exult in it, when his clear earnest air expands 
 the lungs and sets the cheek all aglow. Who that watches in 
 the morning the brave work of a single night, the illus 
 trated edition of Nature, ready and waiting, sits down with 
 folded hands to pass the day in idleness ? Winter urges the 
 spirit to achievement and triumph. Summer to rest and re 
 ward. Yet here in the opening of the year, is a holiday ; a 
 day from which all the severe and lofty soul of the season has 
 fled ; and the tender, winning heart of June has stolen into 
 it; beating, to be sure, beneath strange dress, but poorly dis 
 guised. There fell, three days ago, a luxuriant snow ; so 
 abundant as to bear this summer-like sunshine and still con 
 ceal all the brown nakedness of the ground. It stretches 
 before me in a wide field, beneath a sky pure and truth-like ; 
 blushing azure in the shadows, glistening silver in the sun. 
 Within doors, it is a great good to catch the light making pic 
 tures on the walls ; what do they mean ? There are trees 
 waving swiftly back and forth, and behind them one gets 
 glimpses of a great golden mansion ; are they Paradisean 
 trees ? No, there is a dome added to the mansion and a ' gate 
 beautiful.' Are they palms at the temple door ? But is that a 
 temple at all ? It looks now like a long winding street, and 
 the trees clasp their arms overhead like the elms of Connecti 
 cut's classic city. Elms, did I say ! why they have melted into 
 a floating gossamer veil, and through its folds shows a beauti 
 ful face, a dear face, in dim outline, yet an unmistakeable 
 likeness. These pictures are like the dreams of our lighted 
 slumbers, dissolving one into another, none complete, yet each 
 suggestive of a perfect thought to the waking mind.
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 375 
 
 Without doors, to sail over this snow and under this sun to 
 such plaintive melody of bells, as did I this morning, is a poem 
 delicious and fascinating, in the style of Lalla Rookh. This 
 day is beautiful to me as the glance and the smile of a chosen 
 friend, met unexpectedly in a great assembly of strangers. 
 'Tis a white day with a rainbow ending. 
 
 The Blues, what a sore disease it is, taking its run in 
 sheer disdain of all the Materia Medica; overcoming the 
 feeble defences now and then set up by the patient, eas: 
 the frost reaches my geraniums through the futile protecOTB 
 of the window-pane. "Reason against it" says my philo 
 sophic adviser Mr. S., looking at me with a cool triumphant air 
 which threatens the overturn of my good humor. Why didn't 
 you propose the same remedy, Sir, to my delicate Fuschia 
 who sat drooping her slender head in the gathering chill of 
 our first wintry night? If I remember, you prescribed for her 
 the generous breath of the furnace ; and justly, too, for she 
 iv\ivrd and smiled in the glow, beautiful as summer itself. 
 But if you had confidently observed to her, ' Reason, my dear 
 madam, reason against the influence that is creeping over you ; 
 'tis folly to employ any external means of relief," where would 
 have been the jewelled blossoms of to-day, which furnished 
 you a simile some five minutes ago? 
 
 A very weak parallelism you say ; you venture to remind 
 me that my internal resources are somewhat more extended 
 than the Fuschia's ; you have never been troubled with "the 
 blues," yourself. Ah, Mr. S., that last clause decides it is in 
 vaiii to argufy or illustrate! further. If you arc practically 
 ignorant of the malady, no representations of mine will con 
 vince you how dillicult it is to shake it off. I must wait till
 
 37G THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 your experience come, before I can hope for your sympathy. 
 Very slight causes produce this same complaint. We.do not 
 count among them any such as lead to thorough vexations or 
 grief. To the cook, her ill-managed dinner ; to the mistress, 
 her absent guests ; to the business-man, a scarcity of customers ; 
 to the student, an idea gone astray ; to the dreamer, a ruined 
 air-castle; to youth and maiden, an indifferent glance, a jealous 
 word, may bring the premonitory symptoms of an a'ttack. 
 
 Oftener still, the antecedent is vague and undefined, and 
 one is most defenceless. I pace the room silently, and my 
 Sfeps fall slow and soft within, as the snow falls slow and soft 
 without. Ashes are crusted over the glow of the coals in the 
 grate, and the fire burns smothered and dim. The shutters 
 are open, injudiciously, and I love not the light that pours in, 
 garishly reflected from the white gi'ound, and shows the rem 
 nants of Christmas wreaths over the mantel, disarranged and 
 rusty. The easy chair and the sofa are alike uncomfortable 
 to me. I will not sit or rest. I am tired even with prome 
 nading this same floor, and it is a drudgery to follow over and 
 over the brilliant, unmeaning figures of the carpet. That little 
 embroidered footstool with its cornu-copia? ever occupied in 
 the vain effort to scatter flowers which will not fall, is a nuis 
 ance, and the poor rose-bush on the stand, ragged and un 
 thrifty, reminds me of a life from which the fragrance and ful 
 ness have fled, leaving only the poor, bare frame-work. Do 
 not think I am angry or wretched. It is only the blues. 
 The green covers of the new monthly peep at me from the 
 table as if they were friends of mine, as if I hadn't a pre 
 cious wee bit of a quarrel with them. I take the delicious odor 
 of this pile of fresh books, as indifferently as my favorite kitten 
 snuffs her cup of milk when her puss-ship has Jbeen trifled
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 377 
 
 with, beyond bounds. Even the "Arabian Nights," that 
 brilliant wonder which the good genii reserved from my child 
 hood to bewitch my youth, cannot coax me with its broad illus 
 trated pages. / have the blues ! Yes, it is the severest attack 
 since one summer evening, months ago, when I was by no 
 means a solitary sufferer. That should have been a gay and 
 cheery circle, beneath one of the most hospitable roofs of a 
 charming New England capital and assembled to do homage 
 to the approaching festivities of the old university. It was 
 the evening before commencement day, a time when the fair 
 town of II. shines its brightest, and the rain-torrents on the 
 pavements certainly sounded in a malicious style. The dis 
 tinguished orator of the Society thought so, as he uttered 
 
 his elegant peroration in the faces of a scanty number of inde 
 fatigable admirers. Those who had their souls all wrought up 
 to the pitch of his voice thought so, as they sorrowfully doffed 
 the outer habiliments assumed in vain expectation that the 
 mighty shower would soon be over. And we thought so too, 
 we who were so un-literary as to stay at home in the vain 
 hope of receiving friends old or new, so presuming as to 
 imagine that our parlors could rival the magnificent hall, 
 where the great lecturer was on exhibition. 
 
 We thought so, I say, as we listened to the dash of the 
 storm against the window-glass, and saw by the light of the 
 gas upon the corner, the agitated pools lining the street, saw 
 the great boughs of the trees overhead, shaking their heavy 
 crystal deposits on the deluged sidewalks. Now and then, the 
 bright lamps of a carriage went flashing by, but we had not 
 spied a solitary footman. It was my cousin Susie's face that 
 pressed the pane next mine in this look-out. I heard her sigh 
 a little as we turned our eyes toward the group within, and I 
 
 32*
 
 378 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 saw that the general dissatisfaction reflected itself, eTen in her 
 beautiful, sunny eyes. We were blue, not only over the even 
 ing's disappointment, but the prospect of a rainy morrow. 
 Two boarding-school girls were venting their sorrows in 
 words. (X. B. A symptom that the disease had not reached its 
 most incurable stage with them.) " There will be no such 
 thing as wearing white muslins to-morrow," murmured one, 
 X .'' was the impatient reply, " and as for the gentlemen, we 
 shall not see a soul here to-night ; and Mason, you know, 
 leaves the city early in the morning." 
 
 ** What a pity ! " whispered Susie, who was listening with a 
 sort of mock gravity, and the cloud perceptibly lightened on 
 her fair face. I mistrusted she did not yearn after another 
 interview with the young Junior, who had been so regretfully 
 named. Susie and I were constraining ourselves to a polite 
 conversation with our hostess, when the surprise of a quick 
 step on the walk, and a sharp ring of the door-bell, sent a 
 thrill of curiosity through our foolish hearts. " Probably only 
 an errand boy," we reiterated to ourselves during the long in 
 terval which seemed to precede the opening of the door. The 
 parlor was very quiet, and we heard our names called dis 
 tinctly ; then, footsteps advancing unmistakeably through the 
 hall, and, the next instant, Henry Sherwood stood before us. 
 Susie started, in her dear, quick way, and made a low excla 
 mation of pleasure, and I was heartily glad. Henry threw 
 himself on the sofa beside us, and, in his own peculiar, joyous 
 way, rattled on as to how he had arrived in time that after 
 noon ; had just incidentally learned where we were, and could 
 not forbear finding us immediately. 
 
 "But, in this terrible rain, you must be thoroughly 
 drenched, said Susie."
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 379 
 
 We laughed, as he replied, with the coolness of one who 
 cared little for the stormy elements, " Yes, we have quite a 
 pretty shower without. I left two or three old classmates 
 snugly housed, who were too craven-hearted to pay their 
 respects, either to the lecturer or the ladies, the two reigning 
 powers of the evening, but " Sherwood smiled a sudden, 
 brilliant smile, more satisfying to our vanity than the most fin 
 ished compliment with which he could have ended his sen 
 tence. An hour slipped merrily and rapidly by, and, when 
 our visitor rose to go, we were sanguine enough to believe his 
 good-humored predictions of fair weather. Happily, they 
 proved very correct; for, on the morrow, the sun shone as 
 rich and golden as the Valedictorian of the graduating class 
 himself could have requested. The leafy arches above were 
 brighter and fresher green for the last night's watering, and, if 
 the paved walks beneath were not altogether friendly to white 
 muslins and paper slippers, nobody wasted time in lamenting 
 it. Commencement-day at H. is a glorious day. No one can 
 live it in the ordinary calm, quiescent habitude. Old men feel 
 their pulses grow young again, meeting where, years and years 
 ago, they stood, in the fresh student-ranks, as now the new 
 generation stands. Young men, with young glories and young 
 hopes brightening before them, press the pure cup of the wine 
 of life to their lips. Mothers look on the brave faces of their 
 boys, flushed with academic honors, and rejoice in honest 
 pride. Maidens garner the joy, and the poetry, and the hom 
 age of the day, in their eager hearts. Even the unapprecia- 
 tive lookers on, are wondering and amazed, and " dare say 'tis 
 all very fine." At an early summons, the large and commo 
 dious edifice devoted to the public exe-rcises of the anniver-
 
 380 THE MEMORIAL OF 
 
 sary, is everywhere crowded. Below, the changing faces of 
 the graduating class ; the cooler, and more curious under 
 graduates ; the composed and attentive Alumni ; and the re 
 spectful numbers of guests, who have come to bow at the 
 shrine of the venerable university, occupy the seats in well- 
 ordered rank. Upon the stage, sits the urbane and dignified 
 president, with his crescent of college dignitaries about him ; 
 and, farther up, the deep galleries stir, and flutter, and blaze, 
 with the motion and the loveliness of countless beautiful wo 
 men. In those seats below are the aspirants for, or the re 
 cipients of, those bows and smiles one sees occasionally floating 
 downwards. And the spirited music, which every now and 
 then rouses to their feet that vast company, nowhere else j 
 sounds more exhilarating, or stirs a prouder throb in the heart. 
 That was a wonderful commencement-day to cousin Susie 
 and to me ; to me, chiefly for her sake. Beside the universal 
 romance, it was full of a quiet,' private romance of our own ; 
 and, when far into that night we lay down to sleep, we 
 dreamed a dream, each of us the same dream, which has since 
 become a waking reality. 
 
 In that incomplete month, which is woven out of the " odds 
 and ends " of the year, at the close of winter, there comes, 
 now and then, a day on which rests the prophetic spirit of the 
 spring. The misty morning has dawned soft and mild ; and, 
 long after almanacs assure us that the sun has risen, we see 
 him lazily parting the curtains of his bed-chamber, and look 
 ing out with a dreamy eye upon the moist earth. The sky 
 gathers a rich summer blue in its centre, and, all around the 
 horizon, pales away, into colorless clouds. Under the hills,
 
 AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 381 
 
 and beside the rambling stone fences, skulk narrow patches of 
 snow, looking sorry and ashamed, like spies caught in the 
 enemy's country. Down in the deep ravine, the swollen 
 waters spread around the tiny islets of alder bushes, and 
 sparkle in diamond points where the sun strikes their surface, 
 while dark slices of ice float about in the shadows. On the 
 mellow brown of the meadows, and the dark purple of the 
 forest hills, there is laid a something one cannot name ; not a 
 coloring, for it has no hue ; not a haze, for yonder, over the 
 farthest wood, you can see the speck of a solitary bird, wheel 
 ing in steady circles upward through the clear air; nor the 
 royal halo of the sun, for to-day, the heavens have no magic 
 reflection upon the earth. It is that untitled shadow of the 
 coming resurrection, forecast upon the calm, dead face of 
 Nature. It is the invisible breath of the new life, hovering 
 o'er the tomb of the old, and waiting to enter into its forsaken 
 tabernacle. Under the silent touch of the unseen power, we 
 pass into the mood of the visible creation. The moveless 
 trees of the forest are waiting the word, to wrap themselves in 
 a multitude of leaves, and the stately shrubs of the garden, 
 and the .starry flowers of the brook-side and by-path, are wait 
 ing to burst into ten thousand blooms. They all wait patiently 
 and speechlessly, shutting away from our sight their instinctive 
 faith. And so waitcth many a human heart, some heart 
 perhaps, that will communicate with mine through these sim 
 ple words, waiteth, with its great hope humbly suppressed, 
 for the influx. of the heaven-sent vitality which shall expand 
 it into leaf and bloom ; waitetli, through the chilling frost and 
 encrusting ice, nursing the soul-germ deep beneath, till the 
 Divine spring shall breathe upon it and set it free. Wait on,
 
 382 THE MEMORIAL OF AN ONLY DAUGHTER. 
 
 and believe on, patient heart. Give not up thy great purpose, 
 or thy earnest hope, if it be worthy of thee ; for He who re 
 members the dumb faith of the soulless earth, giving summer 
 and winter, seed-time and harvest, in their season, will not for 
 get such as thou. He will make thine aspiration or thine en 
 deavor " beautiful in its time."
 
 INDEX TO POEMS AND PROSE SKETCHES. 
 
 POEMS. Pg 
 
 Shadows 207 
 
 My Heart, 208 
 
 A New Year's Greeting, ...... 209 
 
 To Lottie, with an Autograph, 210 
 
 For the C. C. C." 211 
 
 The First Time, 214 
 
 To Emmie, with an Autograph, . . . . 216 
 
 The Bouquet, 217 
 
 An After-Strain, 218 
 
 Our Wreath 219 
 
 A Centennial Hymn, 220 
 
 Afternoon at Cold Spring, 222 
 
 Love's Messengers, ....... 225 
 
 To Poesy, 227 
 
 In ^TOiory of Mary E. Yale, 228 
 
 To Leila, with an Autograph, 231 
 
 To my Mother 232 
 
 The Last Time, 235 
 
 A Wedding Lay 238 
 
 A Rhyming Letter, 241 
 
 To L. T. 13., on her passage to India, .... 2-13 
 
 A Fragment, ........ 2-14 
 
 Lines for an Album, ....... 244 
 
 For my Little Jennie, 245 
 
 (383)
 
 384 INDEX. 
 
 Page 
 
 The Eyes in my Vision, 246 
 
 A Cheery Hope lies in wait for me, .... 249 
 
 Clouds in Summer, . . . . . . . 249 
 
 To Thee, 250 
 
 In Commemoration of the " C. C. C." . . . .252 
 
 A Statesman who is He ?..... 253 
 
 Mors Moras Nectens, 255 
 
 The Closing Strain, 257 
 
 PEOSE SKETCHES. 
 
 A Sketch, 261 
 
 Only a Governess, ....... 264 
 
 Homely Duties made Beautiful, 282 
 
 A Chapter in the History of a Free Heart, , . 319 
 
 The Memory of our Dead, 327 
 
 Our June, 331 
 
 Pencil Marks Now and Then, ...... 362
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 Form L9 Series 444
 
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