ved 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 gr