ly named the names, for it is
impossible to convey an idea of the delight and importance of this trip,
"a crescendo of enjoyment," as she herself calls it. Long after, in
strange, dark hours of suffering, these pictures of travel arose before
her, vivid and tragic even in their hold and spell upon her.

The winter of 1883-84 was not especially productive. She wrote a few
reminiscences of her journey and occasional poems on the Jewish themes,
which appeared in the "American Hebrew;" but for the most part gave
herself up to quiet retrospect and enjoyment with her friends of the
life she had had a glimpse of, and the experience she had stored,--a
restful, happy period. In August of the same year she was stricken with
a severe and dangerous malady, from which she slowly recovered, only to
go through a terrible ordeal and affliction. Her father's health, which
had long been failing, now broke down completely, and the whole winter
was one long strain of acute anxiety, which culminated in his death,
in March, 1885. The blow was a crushing one for Emma. Truly, the silver
cord was loosed, and the golden bowl broken. Life lost its meaning and
charm. Her father's sympathy and pride in her work had been her chief
incentive and ambition, and had spurred her on when her own confidence
and spirit failed. Never afterwards did she find complete and
spontaneous expression. She decided to go abroad as the best means
of regaining composure and strength and sailed once more in May for
England, where she was welcomed now by the friends she had made, almost
as to another home. She spent the summer very quietly at Richmond,an
ideally beautiful spot in Yorkshire, where she soon felt the beneficial
influence of her peaceful surroundings. "The very air seems to rest one
here," she writes; and inspired by the romantic loveliness of the place,
she even composed the first few chapters of a novel, begun with a good
deal of dash and vigor, but soon abandoned, for she was still struggling
with depression and gloom.

"I have neither ability, energy, nor purpose," she writes. "It is
impossible to do anything, so I am forced to set it aside for the
present; whether to take it up again or not in the future remains to be
seen."

In the autumn she goes on the Continent, visiting the Hague, which
"completely fascinates" her, and where she feels "stronger and more
cheerful" than she has "for many a day." Then Paris, which this time
amazes her "with its sple