ears at Concord, Mass. Here her mind seemed to
have found its true level, and I cannot think of the sittings of the
school without a vision of the rapt expression of her face as she sat
and listened to the various speakers. Something of this pleasure found
expression in a slender volume named "Philosophiae Quaestor," in which she
has preserved some features of the school, now, alas! a thing of remote
remembrance. The impressions of it also took shape in a club which she
gathered about her, and to which she gave the name of the Metaphysical
Club. It was beautiful to see her seated in the midst of this thoughtful
circle, which she seemed to rule with a staff of lilies. The club was
one in which diversity of opinion sometimes brought individuals into
sharp contrast with each other, but her gentle government was able to
bring harmony out of discord, and to subdue alike the crudeness of
skepticism and the fierceness of intolerance.

Her interest in her father's pupils was unremitting. A friend said to me
not long ago, "It was one of the sights of Boston in the days of the
Harvard musical concerts to see your Julia's radiant face as she would
come into Music Hall, leading a blind pupil by either hand."

In December, 1869, she became the wife of Michael Anagnos, who was then
my husband's assistant, and who succeeded him as principal of the
Institution at South Boston. After fifteen years of happy wedlock, she
suffered a long and painful illness which terminated fatally. Almost her
last thought was of her beloved club, and she asked that a valued friend
might be summoned, that she might consult with him, no doubt, as to its
future management. To her husband she said, "Be kind to the little blind
children, for they are papa's children." These parting words of hers are
inscribed on the wall of the Kindergarten for the Blind at Jamaica
Plain. Beautiful in life, and most beautiful in death, her sainted
memory has a glory beyond that of worldly fame.

* * * * *

A writer of my own sex, years ago, desiring to do me some pen-service,
wrote to me asking for particulars of my life, and emphasizing her
wishes with these words: "I wish to hear not of your literary work, but
of your social successes." I could not at the time remember that I had
had any, and so did not respond to her request. But let us ask what are
social successes? A climb from obscurity to public notice? An abiding
place on the stage of