endearment, expressive of the general love for her, and her affectionate activity for all.
I sat one evening in her little room, listening to the simple and affecting history of her former inward struggle and her present happiness. That little room was not larger than an ordinary prison cell, it had bare, white-washed walls, but a large window which afforded light and air; we sat upon a very comfortable sofa, and the cornice and angles of the room were covered from floor to ceiling with rich sheaves of beautiful grasses, grouped with the most exquisite taste. The inmate of the room did not know their names; she had never had an opportunity of becoming acquainted with nature and its productions, but every one of these grasses had been gathered by her with love, had been contemplated with admiration, and so bound up together, so that the peculiar beauty of each was made availing to the whole. That fantastic moulding of yellow grasses was richer than one of gilding.
My conversation in this little room was interrupted before I wished it by my being called away to see one of the sweetest young girls dance the Scottish hornpipe.
On Sunday, Channing gave a public discourse on the relationship of religion and social life, on the relationship between the inward and the outward laws; a discourse rich in Christian consciousness, and in which nothing was wanting but that prominence should have been given to the constant point of this consciousness, the need of mercy, and of the communication of the Divine Spirit, and of prayer, that wonderful speaking tube between earth and heaven.
In the evening, which was beautiful, I ascended with Marcus and Eddie a green hill at some distance from the Phalanstery, which is called from its shape the Sugar-Loaf Hill. We had an extensive prospect from the summit, and saw in the golden light of the setting sun
