Irishman came to see me to-day, who is endeavoring to get his family out to this New World. He rises at half past four, milks twenty-eight cows (which has swollen the joints of his fingers), and eats his breakfast, without any milk in his tea or coffee, before six; and so on, day after day, for six and a half dollars a month; and thus he keeps his virtue in him, if he does not add to it; and he regards me as a gentleman able to assist him; but if I ever get to be a gentleman, it will be by working after my fashion harder than he does. If my joints are not swollen, it must be because I deal with the teats of celestial cows before breakfast (and the milker in this case is always allowed some of the milk for his breakfast), to say nothing of the flocks and herds of Admetus afterward.

It is the art of mankind to polish the world, and every one who works is scrubbing in some part.

If the work is high and far,

You must not only aim aright,

But draw the bow with all your might.

You must qualify yourself to use a bow which no humbler archer can bend.

Who shall know it for a bow? It is not of yew tree. It is straighter than a ray of light; flexibility is not known for one of its qualities.

December 22

So far I had got when I was called off to survey.

Those Brahmins "put it through." They come off, or rather stand still, conquerors, with some withered arms or legs at least to show; and they are said to have cultivated the faculty of abstraction to a degree unknown to EuroIf we cannot sing of faith and triumph, we will sing our despair. We will be that kind of bird. There

peans.

Go Ahead

are day owls, and there are night owls, and each is beautiful and even musical while about its business.

Might you not find some positive work to do with your back to Church and State, letting your back do all the rejection of them? Can you not go upon your pilgrimage, Peter, along the winding mountain path whither you face? A step more will make those funeral church bells over your shoulder sound far and sweet as a natural sound.

Why not make a very large mud pie and bake it in the sun! Only put no Church nor State into it, nor upset any other pepper-box that way. Dig out a woodchuck, —- for that has nothing to do with rotting institutions. ahead.

Go

You said that you were writing on Immortality. I wish you would communicate to me what you know about that. You are sure to live while that is your theme.

Thus I write on some text which a sentence of your letters may have furnished.

I think of coming to see you as soon as I get a new coat, if I have money enough left. I will write to you again about it. . . .

Erreur bien douloureuse

(Edwin Lawrence Godkin to Miss Tuckerman)

Y DEAR EMILY:

MY

NEW YORK, Oct. 13, 1897

I have sent the extract for publication, and it will appear on Saturday. But I hesitate to promise a bloodcurdling editorial so soon.

I wish, I must confess that you were more interested in men and less in trees. As far as I can see, the great interests of civilization in this country are being left pretty

much to women. The men have thrown themselves pretty much into simple money-making. You have no idea how they shirk everything which interferes with this, how cowardly they have grown about everything which threatens pecuniary loss. It is the women who are caring for the things which most distinguish civilized men from savages. But the best women are leaving no descendants. They train no men. The best I know do not marry, so that society gets but little from them. I know a dozen who will pass away leaving nothing but gracious memories. You are one of them. You think apparently that you are serving the State sufficiently by attention to forests and infant schools. Erreur, erreur bien douloureuse! I do do not know what the future of our modern civilization is to be. But I stumble where I firmly trod. I do not think things are going well with us in spite of our railroads and bridges. Among the male sex something is wanting, something tremendous.

"The hour of peaceful rest"

MY

(Theodore Parker to Miss Hunt)

BOSTON, Saturday Night, Oct. 31, 1857

Y DEAR LITTLE MITE O' SARAH, away off at Florence, It is All Saints' Eve to-night, and my sermon has been long since ended, the last word added at the end, and I have had a little time to gather up my soul for the coming Sunday. I don't like to rush from a week of hard work into the prayers. and hymns of the Sunday without a little breathing time of devotion, so I walk about the study, and hum over bits of hymns, or recall various little tender emotions, and feel the beating of that great Heart of the Universe which warms us all with the life that never dies. I don't know that these are not the richest

Prisms and Rainbows

hours of my life; certainly they have always been the happiest.

An antidote for age

(Lydia Maria Child to Mrs. S. B. Shaw.

I

1868)

READ only "chipper" books. I hang prisms in my windows to fill the room with rainbows; I gaze at all the bright pictures in shop windows; I cultivate the gayest flowers; I seek cheerfulness in every possible way. This is my "necessity in being old."

I

(From Mrs. Caroline C. Briggs)

June 24, 1883

THINK of you very often, and wish that you could get out more freely into the beautiful world, so full of bloom and fragrance. Perhaps it never seemed to me so full of charm. I think my little trouble, which has shut me out from some other things because I have not been very strong, has left my heart very free for all the beauty of nature. Every morning when I open my eyes to the gladsomeness of it all, when the birds are so joyful, and all is so dewy and fresh, I have a feeling of thanksgiving. The days pass quickly, not much work done, nor even the desire for it. After dinner a lying off, half undressed, with a book of some sort; late in the afternoon a charming drive with my friend, with dear old Dom, with his patient recognition of all one's moods, and always offering for acceptance the best that is in him in his meek fashion. The whole world is clothed in blossoms and full of song and sweetness; beautiful butterflies, yellow and black, of the richest browns, or black and blue;

dragon-flies, bees, chirping crickets, brooks that babble in the meadows or sing softly in the woods; fields all sprinkled with daisies and buttercups; the roadsides a tangle of tenderest green and sweet vines; all and everything in the full tide of beauty; life for all and to spare; the cows and calves; goats with their little kids; stealthy, graceful cats stealing through the grass; blossoming clover, and the pretty spring flowers creeping away till the sight of one is a variety.

One is so grateful for it all, so thankful that it comes to them so joyfully, — age, care, pain, and regret banished, so has it come to me, and I have accepted it almost as my right. What do I accomplish for my fellow-creatures? Nothing; yet I am content in a strange way which I don't half understand. It is not quite self-indulgence, but it is like sitting in the twilight with the day's work done, with folded hands, listening to the psalm which is going up from the whole world, and looking at the beautiful vision of earth, sky, and pictured water, all rejoicing in the smile of the eternal. I feel myself in a strange mood, almost like another person, but I do not struggle. While I trust the day will come for me for more and better work, somehow it seems meet to rest now, and I rest and am thankful.

The dominant will

(Charles Godfrey Leland to Mrs. Elizabeth Robins

I

Pennell)

HOTEL VICTORIA, FLORENCE, Dec. 11th, 1897

NEVER knew nor heard of any human being who lives so secluded as I do. I am in love with — absorbed and buried in work. I am, if anything, rather better or stronger than I was a year ago, and keep