To me in gentle tone:

"Be kind to the children of others

And thus deserve thine own!"

When, in the spring of 1844, she left Rome with husband, sister, and baby, it seemed, she says, "like returning to the living world after a long separation from it."

Journeying by way of Naples, Marseilles, Avignon, they came at length to Paris.

Here Julia first saw Rachel, and Taglioni, the greatest of all dancers; here, too, she tried to persuade the Chevalier to wear his Greek decorations to Guizot's reception, but tried in vain, he considering such ornaments unfitting a republican.

The autumn found them again in England, this time to learn the delights of country visiting. Their first visit was to Atherstone, the seat of Charles Nolte Bracebridge, a descendant of Lady Godiva, a most cultivated and delightful man. He and his charming wife made the party welcome, and showed them everything of interest except the family ghost, which remained invisible.

Another interesting visit was to the Nightingales of Embley. Florence Nightingale was at this time a young woman of twenty-four. A warm friendship sprang up between her and our parents, and she felt moved to consult the Doctor on the matter which then chiefly occupied her thoughts. Would it, she asked, be unsuitable or unbecoming for a young Englishwoman to devote herself to works of charity, in hospitals and elsewhere, as the Catholic Sisters did?

The Doctor replied: "My dear Miss Florence, it would be unusual, and in England whatever is unusual is apt to be thought unsuitable; but I say to you, go forward, if you have a vocation for that way of life; act up to your inspiration, and you will find that there is never anything unbecoming or unladylike in doing your duty for the good of others. Choose your path, go on with it, wherever it may lead you, and God be with you!"

Among the people they met in the autumn of 1844 was Professor Fowler, the phrenologist. This gentleman examined Julia's head, and made the following pronunciamento:—

"You're a deep one! it takes a Yankee to find you out. The intellectual temperament predominates in your character. You will be a central character like Henry Clay and Silas Wright, and people will group themselves around you."

Now Julia could not abide Professor Fowler.

"Oh, yes!" she snapped out angrily. "They've always been my models!"

"The best things you do," he went on, "will be done on the spur of the moment. You have enough love of order to enjoy it, but you will not take the trouble to produce it. You have more religion than morality. You have genius, but no music in you by nature."

Fifty years later these words were fresh in her memory.

"I disliked Mr. Fowler extremely," she said, "and believed nothing of what he said; nevertheless, most of his predictions were verified. I had at the time no leading in any of the directions he indicated. I had been much shut up in personal and family life; was a person rather of antipathies than sympathies. His remarks made no impression. Yet," she added, "I always had a sense of relation to the public, but thought the connection would come through writing."

Apropos of Mr. Fowler's "more religion than morality," she said: "Morality is a thing of the will; we may think differently of such matters at different times. What he said may have been true."

Then the twinkle came into her eyes: "When Mr. William Astor heard of my engagement, he said, 'Why, Miss Julia, I am surprised! I thought you were too intellectual to marry!'"

Another acquaintance of this autumn was the late Arthur Mills, who was through life one of our parents' most valued friends. He came to America with them; in his honor, during the voyage, Julia composed "The Milsiad," scribbling the lines day by day in a little note-book, still carefully preserved in the Mills family.

The first and last stanzas give an idea of this poem, which, though never printed, was always a favorite with its author.

My heart fills

With the bare thought of the illustrious Mills:

That man of eyes and nose,

Of legs and arms, of fingers and of toes.

*        *        *        *        *        *

To lands devoid of tax

Goeth he not, armed with axe?

Trees shall he cut down,

And forests ever?

Tame cataracts with a frown?

Grin all the fish from Mississippi River?

(My style is grandiose,

Quite in the tone of Mills's nose.)

*        *        *        *        *        *

Harp of the West, through wind and foggy weather

We've sung our passage to our native land,

Now I have reached the terminus of tether,

And I must lay thee trembling from my hand.

That hand must ply the ignominious needle,

This mind brood o'er the salutary dish,

I must grow sober as a parish beadle,

And having fish to fry, must fry my fish.

Some happier muse than mine shall wake thy spell,

Harp of the West, oh Gemini! farewell!

CHAPTER VI

SOUTH BOSTON

1844-1851; aet. 25-32

THE ROUGH SKETCH

A great grieved heart, an iron will,

As fearless blood as ever ran;

A form elate with nervous strength

And fibrous vigor,—all a man.

A gallant rein, a restless spur,

The hand to wield a biting scourge;

Small patience for the tasks of Time,

Unmeasured power to speed and urge.

He rides the errands of the hour,

But sends no herald on his ways;

The world would thank the service done,

He cannot stay for gold or praise.

Not lavishly he casts abroad

The glances of an eye intense,

And did he smile but once a year,

It were a Christmas recompense.

I thank a poet for his name,

The "Down of Darkness," this should be;

A child, who knows no risk it runs,