so that I am not obliged to suppress my feelings when it is best to yield to them. Thus, having more calmness, I feel often that a sweet serenity is breathed through every trifling duty. I am truly grateful for being enabled to fulfil obligations which to some might seem humble, but which to me are sacred.’
And in mid-summer comes this pleasant picture: —
‘Every day, I rose and attended to the many little calls which are always on me, and which have been more of late. Then, about eleven, I would sit down to write, at my window, close to which is the apple-tree, lately full of blossoms, and now of yellow birds. Opposite me was Del Sarto’s Madonna; behind me Silenus, holding in his arms the infant Pan. I felt very content with my pen, my daily bouquet, and my yellow birds. About five I would go out and walk till dark; then would arrive my proofs, like crabbed old guardians, coming to tea every night. So passed each day. The 23d of May, my birth-day, about one o'clock, I wrote the last line of my little book;[1] then I went to Mount Auburn, and walked gently among the graves.’
As the brothers had now left college, and had entered
or were entering upon professional and commercial life,
while the sister was married, and the mother felt calls
to visit in turn her scattered children, it was determined
to break up the “Home.” ‘As a family,’ Margaret
writes, ‘we are henceforth to be parted. But though
for months I had been preparing for this separation, the
last moments were very sad. Such tears are childish
tears, I know, and belie a deeper wisdom. It is foolish
