How little she knew of
all that has been done and thought in the world! and yet the
burden of it all was, in a way, laid upon her. The seriousness
of Revolutionary times, out of which came her father and mother,
was no doubt reflected in her own serious disposition. As I have
said, her happiness was always shaded, never in a strong light; and
the sadness which motherhood, and the care of a large family, and a
yearning heart beget was upon her. I see myself in her perpetually.
A longing which nothing can satisfy I share with her. Whatever is
most valuable in my books comes from her--the background of feeling,
of pity, of love comes from her.
She was of a very different temperament from Father--much more
self-conscious, of a more breeding, inarticulate nature. She was
richly endowed with all the womanly instincts and affections. She
had a decided preference for Abigail and me among her children,
wanted me to go to school, and was always interceding with Father
to get me books. She never read one of my books. She died in 1880,
at the age of seventy-three. I had published four of my books then.
She had had a stroke of apoplexy in the fall of 1879, but lived till
December of the following year, dying on father's seventy-seventh
birthday. (He lived four years more.
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