cherish my memory, but it is only one generation, and no one will exist who ever looked upon my face.
But why art thou disquieted, O my soul! So is the life of the human kind—a day of sunshine—a week of storms—a cup of bitter, with only a drop of sweet,—and yet some lives seem beautiful from the beginning to the end. Some hearts seem to throb unhaunted by trouble, and the years glide on. I have reared many a castle in the air, and stood breathless while they tumbled down to earth, bringing my fondest hopes to the mire and clay.
"Man's inhumanity to man makes countless millions mourn," and the crushing sense of poverty loads down many a soul which might aspire to the very sun.
I think sometimes, when this is over, if I could only take my children away from the world's influance, and live and die in some lodge in the vast wilderness, I would be content; but that would forestall God's purpose—the prayer should not be, Lead us not into temptation, but, O Lord, keep us through temptation.
I have just answered a letter, which, if not too late, will take me when this is over into new scenes of love. I have accepted the Matronship of the Asylum for Orphans at Washington, and if that is my sphere henceforth, I will try to be happy.
Still sad and gloomy, and yet denied the privilege of giving vent to my feelings. I feel the need of
