to my feelings, but have lived active, thoughtful, seeking to be wise.  Yet I have long days and weeks of heartache; and at those times, though I am busy every moment, and cultivate every pleasant feeling, and look always upwards to the pure ideal region, yet this ache is like a bodily wound, whose pain haunts even when it is not attended to, and disturbs the dreams of the patient who has fallen asleep from exhaustion.

’There is a German in Boston, who has a wound in his breast, received in battle long ago.  It never troubles him, except when he sings, and then, if he gives out his voice with much expression, it opens, and cannot, for a long time, be stanched again.  So with me:  when I rise into one of those rapturous moods of thought, such as I had a day or two since, my wound opens again, and all I can do is to be patient, and let it take its own time to skin over.  I see it will never do more.  Some time ago I thought the barb was fairly out; but no, the fragments rankle there still, and will, while there is any earth attached to my spirit.  Is it not because, in my pride, I held the mantle close, and let the weapon, which some friendly physician might have extracted, splinter in the wound?’

* * * * *

’Sunday, July, 1838.—­I partook, for the first time, of the Lord’s Supper.  I had often wished to do so, but had not been able to find a clergyman,—­from whom I could be willing to receive it,—­willing to admit me on my own terms.  Mr. H——­ did so; and I shall ever respect and value him, if only for the liberality he displayed on this occasion.  It was the Sunday after the death of his wife, a lady whom I truly honored, and should, probably, had we known one another longer, have also loved.  She was the soul of truth and honor; her mind was strong, her reverence for the noble and beautiful fervent, her energy in promoting the best interests of those who came under her influence unusual.  She was as full of wit and playfulness as of goodness.  Her union with her husband was really one of mind and heart, of mutual respect and tenderness; likeness in unlikeness made it strong.  I wished particularly to share in this rite on an occasion so suited to bring out its due significance.’

FAREWELL TO SUMMER.

  ’The Sun, the Moon, the Waters, and the Air,
  The hopeful, holy, terrible, and fair,
    All that is ever speaking, never spoken,
    Spells that are ever breaking, never broken,
  Have played upon my soul; and every string
  Confessed the touch, which once could make it ring
    Celestial notes.  And still, though changed the tone,
    Though damp and jarring fall the lyre hath known
  It would, if fitly played, its deep notes wove
  Into one tissue of belief and love,
    Yield melodies for angel audience meet,
    And paeans fit Creative Power to greet. 
  O injured lyre! thy golden frame is marred,